celestialmilfs

[celestialmilfs]

Update

Hi everyone! I'm currently in the middle of a move and life's been very busy. Wanted to thank all of you for your patience -- I AM working on your requests, I swear, it's just that time's a bit tight right now :') Thank you so much for sending your asks to me, I love you guys so much <3

[celestialmilfs]

Feast

Character: Nadja of Antipaxos Word Count: 6,079 Warnings: Blood, Vampire-typical violence, death Rating: M (for violence -- no smut today) Description: Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue. -- There's no worse (or better) day to work a night shift than when Nadja of Antipaxos arrives in London. She is bound to be angry, and very, very hungry. A/N: Happy season 5 countdown!! Here’s a bit of Nadja to ease the wait.

The cigarette tastes bitter and stale as you take a drag and blow out a puff of smoke. You quit a year ago. And then again, two months later. One more time, at the end of June. It never did quite stick.

“You alright, mate?”

One of your co-workers, a man in his late fifties dressed in grimy company overalls and a worn blue cap comes to stand beside you. He seems to be enjoying his smoke significantly more than you.

You never did remember his name. Cal? Cap? Cam? It definitely started with a C.

“Yeah,” you say. “Just savoring it.” You gesture at the dirty midnight streets of Hackney. Nothing quite like working the nights to figure a new place out, to find the heart of it.

Someone pukes a few corners down, and you throw out the remaining half of your cigarette, no longer interested.

Cam laughs. “Nice night for sure. You been here long?”

“Arrived a month back.” You breathe in the stinging air, savoring the bite of Cam’s cigarette smoke.

“London’s all right.” Cam leans his hand over the paint can acting as an ashtray and flicks his cigarette. The burnt remains fall like little snowflakes. “It’s not like films or nothing, but it’s all right. Could be worse.”

“Oh, yeah?” you ask him just as a man, presumably the same one who emptied his stomach just moments ago, stumbles into view and passes you by, careening first towards you, and then back into the opposing wall. You can smell the piss on him all the way from here. “What qualifies as worse?”

Cam coughs and smiles for the first time. His teeth are yellow, and one of them is chipped.

“Let’s just leave it at that, eh?” he says, drains the rest of his cigarette, and throws the remains into the can. He clears his throat wetly, and spits a ball of phlegm into the gutter.

“Time to go?” you ask. He nods quietly, and you follow him back inside.

The warehouse is massive compared to any you’d worked in before. Black splotches crawl from floor to ceiling in a mixture of shadows and spilled engine oil. Yellow support beams reach all the way to the top, stained and worn from holding the place up since the day it was built. The walls are solid concrete, save for the huge shutter doors that open into the chilly night like windows into a different dimension.

The place is bustling — people swarm it like bees loading and unloading, shouting for assistance or barking orders, driving heavy, wheezing trucks and whizzing by on forklifts. The noise is immense.

“There you are!” A gruff male voice calls a few feet away, muffled by the crowd. Your head whips in his direction as he pushes past a group of men with clipboards and hardhats.

Your boss, Tomas, is hard to forget — thick, wild eyebrows constantly bent in disappointment, gaunt cheeks covered in greying stubble, and the constant, pungent stench of sweat poorly disguised by cheap cologne. He’s huffing heavily by the time he reaches you. “Where the fuck have you been, eh?”

Sorry,” you say, tongue thick and dry in your mouth as you try to speak. “I didn’t know we’d already—”

“Bull-fucking-shit, I say.” His hands are for once out of his pockets, and he points his dirt-stained finger towards a Barrington Freight truck that had just entered the building. “Get to work or you’re out — both of you.”

Without another word, you scurry to the truck with Cam on your tail. Cam, who is entirely unbothered by getting chewed out by the boss. He digs something out of his teeth with his little finger and shakes his head as he approaches.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says and pulls you out of the way as the truck’s rear doors swing open. He pats your shoulder, much like you imagine a father would. “He pulls that shit every time you take a break. You get used to it.”

You glance back at Tomas, currently busy shouting at a truck driver with so much force you can see spit all the way from here.

“Come on,” Cam says. He climbs inside the cargo space and then offers you a hand that you gratefully take.

Multiple hours pass by in chunks of wrapping and piling and driving and avoiding the wrathful eye of Tomas. It’s monotonous work, work that will remind you of its price the following morning when you roll out of bed only to realize that your back is permanently bent in the shape of an S. But it pays the bills. Parts of them, anyway.

The truck empties slowly, and it seems to be matching up with your lunch break quite nicely. You can’t say you look that forward to fifteen minutes in the front seat of your car with a sandwich and a water bottle, but it’s still a little bit of breathing room.

Just a little further.

There are two crates left, both of them shoddily thrown together and just a bit taller than you, and if you weren’t a little bit superstitious, you might have even said they look like coffins.

You go to push one of them towards the forklift, currently operated by Cam, but stop as soon as you’re close enough to put your hands on the fractured surface.

The edge of the lid is slightly open, the nails still trying to keep it shut completely bent out of shape. Some of them are missing altogether. A thin crack runs down from the corner of the lid and ends right in the middle.

“Hey, Cam?” You chance a quick glance at him, just to make sure his half-open eyes are looking at you. “What do we do about this?”

He doesn’t ask what this is, doesn’t say anything at all, and instead clambers into the truck, absentmindedly scratching at the bald patch hidden beneath his cap.

“Ah, shit,” he says and wipes his forehead. “We gotta check for damage, make sure the goods are still good. If everything’s okay we just seal it back up and let it find its owner like any other package. Got it?”

“Got it.”

You don’t know if he’s talking protocol or if he’s pulling this out of his ass to cover for you, but you appreciate it all the same. Cam looks around for a moment and then hops back out of the truck. He returns with a banged up crowbar, nicked and stained by countless doors and boxes. Maybe even a burglary, who knows.

He turns around, looks both ways, and closes the rear doors behind him.

“You got a light?” he asks, and you quickly fish your phone from your pocket to guide him with its flashlight.

Cam dips the crowbar under the lid of the strange crate and places his foot carefully at the other end.

“Cover your ears,” he says, and you do as you’re told.

The wood cracks as the lid breaks into two. You watch the broken piece ricochet off the wall and clatter to the floor, right by your feet.

“What the fuck?” Cam whispers. He takes a cautious step back, the crowbar held tightly in his hands, pointed toward the crate like a knife.

You frown from your position a few feet away. When he doesn’t say anything further, you approach him, steps loud and heavy, heart fluttering with curiosity and a healthy dose of fear. You’ve known Cam for all of five hours, but you get the feeling that he usually doesn’t rattle easily.

You look inside the crate, and breath runs from you like a pheasant in the burning woods.

A corpse. Inside an obsidian coffin with a broken lid lies a beautiful woman, perfectly preserved. Her nose is straight and sharp, and the curve of it leads down to thick lips, painted dark crimson. Her skin is dry and cracked around her knuckles, and there are splinters under her long nails. Black hair cascades down her shoulders onto her preposterously detailed dress — an incredibly well-kept antique by the looks of it. Early 19th century, maybe? If it weren’t for the dried mascara on her cheeks, she might as well be a porcelain doll, posed and painted to perfection.

“Do you mind?”

Something shuffles beneath the wood, and small childlike hands reach for the splintered edge. Some far off place in your brain wants to warn her to not touch it, but you’ve long since lost contact with your mouth.

A doll nearly identical to the dead woman crawls into sight, its face twisted in frustration.

“Well, what are you staring at?” it asks. “How about a little help?”

You scream and lose your footing as you try to back away. Pain flares in your spine as your back hits steel. Your phone falls from your hand but the light stays on to coldly illuminate the insanity in front of you. By your side, Cam is like a statue of stone, with the crowbar now pointed at the little doll.

Beneath it, the woman creaks to life. A thin layer of dust billows forth as her hand rises slowly, reaching for Cam. Cam, who’s offered her a helping hand in return.

You can’t look away. You’ve never been the type.

The woman’s fingers curl around Cam’s wrist and she snatches a grown man off his feet like he’s made of thin air. A snarl tears from her throat when she opens her mouth and crushes his throat between her jaws. He doesn’t even have time to scream before his neck snaps, the crack soft compared to the moist crunch of the woman’s teeth — fangs sinking into him. The second he is dead, she pulls her head back, and slowly, as if she’s savoring the feeling, she rips off a piece of flesh and suckles it, her cheeks hollowing, and then spits it across the cargo space. In a flash, she’s back at Cam’s neck to nuzzle the spraying arteries, the mangled flesh, the red bone – almost like in prayer, like this is a holy gift sent from the gods and the only thing she can do is accept.

She licks his exposed jugular, dips her jaw into the crevasse of his destroyed throat, and drinks.

Cam empties of fluid in seconds, and his husk of a body falls to the floor with a hollow thud.

The woman lets go with a thin gasp. She wipes her eyes, wipes her mouth. Her hair is soaked, as is her entire face, and she leaves a dripping trail as she climbs out of the crate, red handprints sharp against its pale wood.

She smacks her lips and coughs, mouth downturned in disgust.

“Oh, ugh,” she says. “Anemia.” She blows a raspberry and shakes her head. “Fuck me.”

“Been there, done that,” the doll says, its plastic face dyed a deep, dark red. “You made a hell of a mess, there.”

The woman turns to the doll and makes a face — apparently one of offense, because the doll flips her off in return.

“You try doing this shit,” the woman says, and kicks Cam’s body to emphasize her point. A twitch shakes you from head to toe. “I haven’t gone this hungry since I had to flee the country in 1857.”

The doll imitates her voice mockingly, and the woman curses potently in return. She grabs a bunch of her soaked hair and twists it; a small puddle of blood forms by Cam’s corpse.

“Wait,” the doll says. “What about that one?”

She points at you with a tiny pale hand, and all heat escapes your body. Your fingers feel like blocks of ice as you try to crawl toward the rear doors. Pressure builds in your throat and your mouth opens in an involuntary, instinctual scream of terror, but before a single squeak escapes, the woman rushes you at unprecedented speed and slams your back to the floor. Air explodes from your lungs, and if it wasn’t for the woman’s hand firmly over your mouth, you’d be left gasping.

“I’m not sure,” she says. You whimper and try to free yourself, but her grip is like iron. You can only watch her, desperate, like a pleading mouse in the claws of a hawk.

She purses her lips and looks at you like yesterday’s leftovers. “I’m still a little hungry. But I don’t know if I want to finish this one so quickly.”

A hoarse wail slips past your lips despite the woman’s best attempts at keeping you quiet.

“Let’s take it with us, then,” the doll says, flipping its hair. “I’m down for some fun.”

“Maybe.” The woman turns your head from side to side, appraising. She lowers her face to your neck and your pulse picks up. Your breath quickens. Panic makes lights up inside of you like a flash fire. The woman drags her nose up your neck and places a sloppy kiss on your jaw, as if your fear only enhances her hunt. “I could go for a little snack, still.”

Tears burn your eyes and fall down your temples. The woman catches one, brushes it into your skin and then puts the finger in her mouth, her tongue peeking out to savor your fear.

“Don’t worry, little morsel,” she says, and boops your nose with her manicured nail. “You’re going to a good cause.”

You try to shriek past her hand but her hold only grows stronger as she bends over you and, despite your thrashing limbs, your punches and kicks and scratching fingernails,  she plunges her teeth into the side of your neck.

It stings, sharp as a needle, and then the rest of her teeth dig in, like a vice lined with rows of broken glass. What follows is the strangest of sensations. You’ve had hickies from past lovers, even been bitten by your best friend’s niece, but it’s nothing like this feeling of being drained, emptied like pulling guts out of a fish.

Your fingers claw at her face out of pure instinct, nothing more. She swats you away like a fly and continues, uninterested in your distress.

Your flailing weakens when your limbs grow heavy, like they’ve been replaced with brick. The woman’s hair is in your face, thick and wet and suffocating, and the only thing you can see is neverending black, like staring into a dead void.

You begin to grow still, only twitching when the woman’s teeth dig deeper for just a few more drops.

Wood cracks behind you. The woman pulls back with a deep breath, heady and broken, and turns to look at the commotion along with you.

The other crate, the identical one; its lid is in shambles on the floor, and a man climbs out.

He is short, with a stubbled chin and a pale brown coat, stained with sweat. You smell something acrid as he comes closer, pushing his cracked glasses up his nose.

“H—Help,” you whine through a mouthful of blood. You can barely lift your arm to reach for him. “Please.”

The man looks at you, looks at the woman, and curses in Spanish.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he says to the woman.

Darkness finally claims you.

—

You awaken, every muscle in your body sore and aching, in a beautifully decorated living room.

It is dimly lit with candles of wildly different shape and size, freely leaking wax onto the floor, the mantle of the fireplace and the coffee table. The walls are old and wooden, decorated with portraits of the people who must live here: a rich-looking family, blond except for the youngest son and the dog. Beside the paintings are thick curtains, their beautiful silk stapled shut to keep out the sun.

The sun.

How long has it been? What even happened?

You sit up with a groan, your head immediately protesting via a sharp blast of pain behind your eyes. The world flashes to white, then to black, and then finally fades back into view. Another pain bursts forth, this time on your neck, and you cover the spot with your hand, only to be met with a thick layer of bandaging.

You breathe in as deep as you can, and your throat burns, seethes like fire reduced to coals.

Thirsty.

So, so thirsty.

You swallow several times, but it brings forth the taste of vomit and inflames the pain in your mouth — in your teeth. Your canines ache like you’ve badly chipped them, but when you feel the tips with your tongue, they’re unharmed, if a little sore. And much sharper than you remember.

Something tickles the corner of your eye and you gently rub your lower eyelid. Whatever it is flakes off onto your finger. You blink away the spots in your vision and try to inspect the stain despite the dim lighting.

Blood. Long since dried, but impossible not to recognize.

You knead your whole cheek with the flesh of your palm and manage to scrape off a long stain that runs down from the corner of your eye to the top of your upper lip. Strangely, you can’t find the source of it. There’s no cut – you can’t even feel a bruise.

Something clatters in the distance, beyond a door to your right. You strain your ears for more, for footsteps or muffled words, but can’t hear anything but the ringing in your ears.

As gently as you can, you set your feet down on the carpet, soft and plush, and probably worth more than your yearly salary. You test your legs, put a little bit of weight on both of them. A twinge of pain, an echo of severe strain, as if you’d just fought off an intense fever, but other than that, you manage to stand up fine with the assistance of a decorative floor lamp.

You place your palm against the wall, firm and steady, and take a step, just to test the waters. Though your knees wobble and every moment of it hurts, you manage to get moving.

The doorknob is old and made of brass. Your heart is in your throat as you turn it, only to meet no objection. It turns smooth as butter, and the door clicks open, inviting you further.

Beyond, you arrive into a dining room. A massive table stands in the middle of the room, laden with plates and trays of food, all of it half-eaten, like the occupants had stood and left in the middle of dinner. Their forks are still buried in potatoes and steak.

The smell is a crooked kind of heavenly. You know meat, remember it. Your uncle standing at the grill, turning sausages; shepherd’s pie right out of the oven; chicken wings, covered in barbecue sauce. But the smell is off, as if you’d forgotten the fine details of it and could only sense a hazy memory.

Your nose leads you to the spot at the head of the table, furthest from the door you entered. The veal on this plate is half-pink, the way you’d never eaten it.

You don’t need a fork or a knife. You take hold of the nearest chair for support, snatch the meat from the plate with your bare hands and take a bite.

It goes down quickly, and you expect the satisfaction of a meal well prepared, but instead your stomach cramps and you heave, overtaken by nausea. The meager morsel comes up to stain the hardwood floor along with a splash of stomach acid, burning your esophagus like molten magma.

You stare at the mess, brows furrowed and your mouth open, drool still dripping off your lower lip.

Thirst strikes you as if you’re stranded at sea and you pick up a glass, half-full of wine. Usually, it’s not your drink of choice, but at this point you would drink gasoline straight from the pump if you could.

Your fingers tremble and the glass is at your lips, but your stomach turns — enough for you to gag and let the glass slip from your hand to shatter against the floor.

The sound, at least, is satisfying.

Another door to your right opens. You try to hide behind the chair, but your vision fills with dark spots again, and you sway, eyes barely open as you stare at the man standing in the doorway.

It comes back, then. Maybe it’s his cracked glasses, or the smell of viscera enveloping him, but you remember nevertheless.

A late night shift.

A crate.

Cam.

Sick burns the back of your throat all over again as you remember his bloodied corpse on the floor of the truck, staring at you with pale blue eyes, red-rimmed and frightened.

You finally fall to your knees, unable to keep yourself standing a second longer.

The side of your neck burns, and this time you tear at the bandage until it shreds to pieces. There, right where you remember the woman’s cold lips, is a bumpy scar in the shape of her teeth. It’s not as rough as you imagined it would be.

“That’ll be gone in a week or two,” the man says, nonchalantly. “You’ll be good as new.”

He sounds almost derisive. Like you aren’t worth his time. Like you’re beneath him.

A growl rises from your throat, deep and guttural. The tremble in your larynx is simultaneously foreign, like suddenly breathing fire, and as natural as breathing.

“You,” you croak, your shaking finger pointing at his out-of-season sweater. He looks mildly amused, and not even vaguely threatened.

“Oh, boy,” he says.

You leap over the table, dishes and decorations alike crashing to the floor as you clear the room in one single jump without an inch of wind-up. The man doesn’t even take a step back. You snarl and circle him, taking in his scent, the sweet ambrosia staining his plastic apron.

“Where am I?” you ask him. “What did you do to me?”

“I just wanted to take a bath,” he mutters to himself in a voice that should be far too quiet for you to hear. He reaches for his pocket slowly. Whatever weapon he has, you will not give him the chance to draw it.

You leap again with the full strength of your weakened legs, and hurtle right into the wall with a sharp crack as the man dances out of your way like water. He pulls a string of beads out of his pocket — to strangle you, perhaps? It doesn’t matter. He won’t live long enough to lift his arms.

You curl your fingers, claws at the ready, and soar towards him again with a hiss. He dodges, an infuriating smirk on his lips – one that makes you want to break his nose. He slaps something into your back: cold metal that instantly turns searing. You shriek, your hands flying to cover the injury. Your knees buckle, and you bang your forehead into the corner of the table as you go down.

The man comes to stand in front of you and lets the beads dangle by his knees. There’s a beautiful cross between the rosary beads. He must have stabbed you with it — but there’s no blood to prove it.

You pull your hand away from the wound, only to find no wound at all. Your fingers brush the bumpy ridges of a burn scar that’s already beginning to fade.

You look up at the man, confused.

“What’s happening to me?” you ask him. In return, he looks at you like you're an animal too fragile to put down. A chick that got under his skin before he could lop the head off. The man rubs his temple and pockets the rosary.

“Come on,” he says, and puts his hand around your arm.

“What?”

He painfully lifts you to your feet, and you growl in protest.

The man rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

You’re shown through a variety of rooms: a library, a sitting room, a music room, and then up the stairs and through a long, dark hall lit with more candles. Every curtain in the house has been drawn, and some of the windows are covered with newspaper.

You arrive at a door that’s identical to all the other ones: dark, wooden, and with an ornate brass handle. It’s the smell that’s different; sweet and rich and delicious, and it makes you fidget in anticipation as the man fixes his glasses on his nose and knocks twice, his knuckles sharp against the wood. The sound feels like an ice pick driven through your skull, hammered a good two inches in with each rap.

Muffled groans slip past the door, but no one answers. The man knocks again with a bothered sigh. When no one turns up, he opens it himself.

“Nadja?” he says, annoyed.

Your jaw falls open at the sight on the other side.

On the floor are three bodies, mangled and dried up like raisins. A middle-aged man, tall and lanky, by the upended desk and its former contents. Another man, shorter and stockier, spread on the stained satin couch. A woman, no older than twenty, in front of the massive bookshelf by the farthest wall.

In the middle of the twisted formation is the woman, the one who murdered Cam.

Nadja.

Her face is buried in another victim, a woman in her forties with red hair and a ripped safety-vest. Her glasses fall off her nose as you watch.

The man next to you takes a look at your face and scoffs. “Well, we couldn’t leave witnesses, could we?”

You wait for horror, for nausea and fright and all the things that come with seeing real dead people strewn on the floor of someone’s personal library.

It never comes, though. None of it.

You don’t faint in shock. You don’t scream. You barely feel grief as a thick, pungent veil overwhelms you, like the perfumed kiss of a lover pressed to your forehead. The corners of your lips lift, and you feel a little laugh bubbling in your throat, just like after two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

Nadja finally notices you two, and rolls her eyes. With a smack she releases the woman on her lap, who drops to the floor and begins to bleed freely into the ornate rug. It feels like a waste. You want to cup your hands beneath the tooth marks on her neck to save what you can.

“What the fuck, Guillermo?” Nadja says.

Guillermo points at you. “This guy finally woke up.”

Nadja licks her teeth, digging at a bit of skin stuck between her incisors. “Why is it my problem?”

“You’re the sire.” His voice is deadpan, like he’s stating the obvious. “You deal with it. I have my hands full with the shit you pulled back at the warehouse.”

Nadja groans like there’s a knife caught between her ribs. You wait silently, lost in the strange haze caused by the smell – and the faint taste – of the room. Nadja worries at her teeth for one more moment and then finally gets up.

“Fine. But just the basics.”

You feel her stare at you, but you can’t take your eyes off the woman slowly bleeding to death in the middle of the room. The burning in your throat grows stronger, brighter, and butterflies take off in your belly when Nadja comes closer and brings the smell of death with her.

She snaps her fingers in front of your face, and you return to your body. She sighs.

“You’re hungry, dumb-dumb.” She grabs the collar of your shirt to drag you into the room. The smell intensifies and you can’t help drawing in a breath so deep you feel your lungs might burst. Nadja stops and turns to Guillermo, who is still standing in the doorway. “What the fuck are you still here for?”

Guillermo looks like he wants to say something along the lines of fuck you and your mother too, but instead he offers Nadja a smile that doesn’t even remotely reach his eyes and closes the door.

“Good.” Nadja lets go of you and you stumble, still unsteady on your feet. “Now, how are you feeling?”

“What?” you ask her through the smell invading the rest of your senses. The burnt orange light from the candles fades into a vivid maroon, casting the room into pulsing shadows, the strongest of which keeps pulling you towards the syrupy fragrance stuck to the woman discarded by Nadja.

Nadja laughs, and you marvel at the sound. It’s harsh, like a swarm of bees or the screech of a cat.

“Weak in the knees? Little human tummy all upset? Feel like someone put you in one of those blendy things and drank you and shit you out?”

You tick every box on her list, slightly perturbed as to how she knew each one. She then looks at the drained bodies at your feet, specifically at the woman still gurgling only a foot and a half away from you.

“Thirsty?” she asks with a honeyed voice.

You nod, too much and too fast, and regret it immediately when lightning strikes behind your eyelids.

“I thought so,” Nadja says and walks to the dying woman. She drags her to you by her arms, and her pained moans sound like sirens beckoning you into the dark depths of the sea. Nadja appraises you for a moment, takes careful inventory of your clothes, your hair, and then purses her lips. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

Some semblance of fear finally seeps into you, and you watch Nadja carefully, measuring the distance between you. “No.”

“Shame. You look like you’d be good at it.”

Nadja crouches and grabs the woman’s chin to turn her head and expose the neck. It isn’t like in the movies, with two tiny round holes to mark the canines. The woman’s skin is rough and torn where Nadja’s jaws were locked before, both rows of teeth firmly sunk into the flesh. She’s beginning to empty; the tide of blood grows slower on her neck and her wet gasps for air are fewer and far between. Based on the gently rueful expression on her face, she knows the end is near as well.

It twists the tight coil of panic in your gut.

She’s going to waste.

Nadja rises to her feet with a grunt.

“I’ll help you, but only because you’re cute and it’s your first time,” she says. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you reply weakly through your trance. Nadja’s hands encircle yours and she presses her thumbs into your palms to pull you down to your knees with her.

Watching the dying woman’s slowly rising chest, with your hands upturned on your thighs, you vaguely feel like you’ve been sat at an altar of worship, to take part in communion of a different kind – the kind that Nadja beside you knows as well as a dead man’s flesh on her tongue.

Nadja takes your hand and places it behind the woman’s neck, slick with blood.

“Hold on tight,” she says and waits as you tangle your fingers into the woman’s hair. “The first time is the most intense — you’ll need the support. Don’t be afraid to break a few bones.”

Your mouth opens. The woman’s scent hits you like a mirror shattering, and you take a shuddering breath as you bend yourself over her. She coughs and wheezes, blood splashing from her lips, and she looks straight at you. Her eyes are the same shade of green as the calathea on your windowsill.

Nadja sighs. “Look, she’s going to die anyway,” she says. “Make use of her or don’t. I don’t mind a bit of dessert.”

But you can’t move. The woman is staring at you like a drowning mutt, and under her severe watch you can’t make yourself take the leap.

Nadja slides herself behind you and presses into your back, her whalebone corset pronounced against your thin, sweat-soaked shirt. The beads of her dress prick at you, but her breast is soft on your shoulder blade.

She grabs a fistful of your hair and pushes your head down. You inhale slowly, let the enticing scent of iron, of cypress and cherries reach the back of your mouth, and nuzzle the woman’s neck. Nadja’s fingers curl tighter against your scalp, and you finally feast.

The taste is inexplicable. Exquisite beyond your wildest hunger-ridden dreams. It reminds you of a hot summer day, at dusk when the sun has set but the air is still so humid you can feel it move on your skin; of the first autumn evening, when you get to dig candles from the back of your kitchen cabinet and put them by the window; of a winter morning spent indoors with your friends, bundled up by the radiator with a cup of coffee that’s too bitter to drink.

It is relief. It is frenzy. It is peace of mind. It is hysteria.

The accursed burning in your throat ebbs at last, and you hear yourself laughing around the human flesh in your mouth. Something tears, splits, and you move deeper in search of more, more; you bite, you suckle, you drink like it’s your last day on earth until your lips are wrapped around an empty, sunken shell devoid of life, and more importantly, of sustenance.

You finally let go, gasping for air as the woman’s body falls from your hands and onto the floor, her head thumping as it hits the carpet. You lick the remains from your fingers, tongue dipping under the nail so you don’t miss a single drop.

Nadja’s hand untangles from your hair, and her head falls on your shoulder.

“Good, right?” she asks with a sigh. “I still remember my first time. The 1600’s were something else.” She cranes her neck to see your face and slips her arm around you to wipe something off your cheek. Her fingertip comes away bloody, and you open your mouth, but she quickly dips it between her own lips instead. She laughs, softer and more languid this time, and shakes her head. “Someone’s eager. But you’re lucky — this one was the best of the batch.”

“Thank you,” you whisper. She looks at you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“So you do have manners.” She huffs another laugh, and runs her eyes down your face slowly, from the arch of your brow to the curve of your chin. “Feel any better?”

“Yes.” The churning growl in your belly has been sated and replaced with a soft, heavy weight, a warmth that spreads all the way to the tips of your fingers. Your head has been filled with cotton and you have trouble keeping your eyes open anymore. “Warm. Good.”

Nadja smiles, wide enough for the tips of her fangs to peek from under her lip. “Sleepy?”

You nod, leaning too hard into the movement, and find yourself approaching the floor at an alarming rate. Nadja’s arm tightens around you, and she pulls you back until you’re off your knees and sagging against her instead. Engulfed by her sea of hair and the abundant layers of her dress, you wait for a reprimand with bated breath, but she lets you lie right where you are without a word. When you make the effort to look up, you’re met with her face, curiously watching you with a small and devious smile. Drops of blood are coagulating on her eyelashes, glittering like gemstones under the light.

“You’re beautiful,” you say, drawing your thumb slowly across her cheekbone. Nadja’s smile widens into a mischievous grin.

“I knew you’d be good at murder,” she says. “A little messy, but first kill is always like that. We’ll fine-tune your technique later.”

You finally let that champagne-laugh bubble over and it spills from your mouth like birdsong, bright and borderline hysteric. Nadja joins your laughter, and you both fall over to the squishy, bloodied carpet.

Your eyelids grow heavy as you float in the euphoria of feeling truly satisfied for the first time in your life.

"We're going to have so much fun," Nadja whispers. She brushes her hair off your face and kisses the curve of your jaw.

In the strong hold of her arms you let yourself sink into oblivion. Your dreams are filled with the sting of her knife-sharp teeth at your neck.

#Nadja/Reader #Nadja x Reader #Nadja of Antipaxos #Reader #Nadja #WWDITS

[celestialmilfs]

Can I request a Melissa x fem!reader fic where Mel has a praise kink. Maybe reader starts noticing her getting hot and bothered at work when she gets specific praise and starts teasing her with it.

Hi! Thank you so much for your patience💖I had a lot of trouble getting this one off the ground but now it's finally done!

Posted here!

[celestialmilfs]

Break Me Down and Hold Me ‘Til the Dawn

Character: Melissa Schemmenti

Word count: 3,708

Warnings: Praise Kink

Genre: Smut, Comfort, Fluff

Rating: E

Description: “When you say stuff like that,” she says, slower than usual, like she’s figuring out the words as she goes, “I… I like it.”

It’s an admission of the obvious, the most basic instinct of any person: to desire approval, and she makes it sound like she’s turning herself in for manslaughter.

You take care to keep your voice calm as you say, “Why would I think that’s stupid?”

“I mean,” she says and then pauses for a breath, “I mean I really, really like it.”

---

Melissa has a secret and you crash right into her confession.

A/N: Strap in for the most emotional smut i’ve written to date. It’s so sugary you should probably brush your teeth afterwards. Title pulled from Spiritbox’s The Summit

---

The door slams shut at 7:30 sharp.

You rise from your downward dog on the living room floor and scramble down the hall, head rush be damned.

“Melissa?” you ask, but only hear the rustling of her leather jacket and the thump of heels ill-suited for the weather being angrily dumped by the door. Weary and barely standing, Melissa leans against the wall, her shirt damp, hair dripping and her eyes furiously staring at the umbrella she forgot to grab in her hurry.

You kiss her cheek and she slumps against you, face buried in your shoulder.

“Long day?” you ask.

“Understatement of the year.”

She pulls back and you notice the circles under her eyes, much darker than they had been last night. You put your hand on the small of her back and inch her towards the kitchen.

“Come on, I made dinner.”

Melissa looks at you like you’re made of cotton candy or fire trucks and presses a wet kiss to your forehead before letting her heavy feet drag her towards the smell of sweet potatoes.

She collapses into a chair by the kitchen table and you dash to the covered pot on the stove, still simmering on low heat. The second you lift the lid, the kitchen is filled with the scent of vegetable soup, rich and creamy. You fill a bowl and grab the leftovers of the ciabatta Melissa had made two nights back.

“I added extra pepper for you,” you say as you sit down next to her. The bowl clinks against the table and a few drops flow over the edge into a small puddle. “And there’s a bit of bread left.”

“You’re a godsend,” Melissa says. She pulls the bowl closer and sighs; her first smile of the night, and what a sweet little thing it is. Her eyes flutter closed as she tries a spoonful and doesn’t speak for the following five minutes, which she instead dedicates to inhaling her first meal since lunch.

“What were you doing so late?” you ask once she’s emptied the bowl down to a fifth.

“Grading.” Melissa tears off a piece of bread and dips it into the soup. She takes a bite, barely chews before swallowing, and continues, “Setting up next month’s lesson plan, looking for a math textbook for Amir because the little dip lost his copy, replying to emails.” She sighs. “So many fucking emails.”

“Well, I’m happy you’re home now,” you say. A strand of Melissa’s hair threatens to fall into her bowl and you tuck it back behind her ear, where it belongs. Melissa smiles faintly, even though her shoulders are heavy with exhaustion and her eyes can barely stay open.

She finishes her meal in silence and once she’s done, rises with a grumble to drop her dishes in the sink next to yours; the ones you’d meant to put in the dishwasher an hour ago.

Melissa turns and opens the cabinet only to groan at the sight; breakfast cereals and spices and your growing collection of baking supplies, all stuffed inside with little thought as to how you’re supposed to get anything out.

“Do we have any tea?” Melissa asks and starts to remove things one by one, her left hand held above her head in case something comes tumbling down.

“I think I saw chamomile behind the cake tins.” You get up and drag your chair with you. Sure enough, behind the heart-shaped mold and the powdered sugar is a bag of loose chamomile, still good to go. You hand it to her, and Melissa nods a silent thank you.

The kettle sits by the sink, freshly washed after you’d made yourself a cup of milky oolong earlier today. Melissa fills it with water while you hop down and put the chair back by the table.

The running water mixes with the pouring rain outside and you relish the quiet; the type of silence that Melissa always brings home with her, the kind that feels like its own form of music.

You wrap your arms around her waist as she turns on the stove and bury your nose in her hair.

“I’m so proud of you,” you say, almost kissing the words into the back of her neck. Melissa laughs, hushed and short.

“What for?”

“You do so much for those kids.” You inhale her perfume; the scent is heady and sharp, like ground cinnamon. “They’re everything to you. I love you for it.”

“Come on,” Melissa says. “Everybody does it.”

You turn her around by the hips and press your palms into the counter.

“No, they don’t. There’s plenty of terrible teachers out there and we both know it. You just love doing a really good job.”

Melissa braces herself against the edge of the stove, her fingernails clicking a nervous ta-ta-ta-tap into the ceramic.

“Don’t most people? I mean I just—“

“No.” You kiss the tip of her nose. “You’re brilliant. Incredible. My wonderful Melissa who does the most thankless job in the world for peanuts. You should be on a tropical island somewhere with six hundred free mai tais lined up. And a private pool. You deserve nothing less.”

Melissa averts her eyes and slips past you to the sink. She fishes a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water. She doesn’t drink; only watches the surface without saying a word.

“Melissa?” you ask.

Her cheeks are thinly flushed and she won’t look at you.

“Hey,” you say and take a step to close the distance. “Are you okay? Did I say something?”

“No,” Melissa says weakly. Her eyes flit from you to every corner of the room and then back again. “That’s not it, I’m sorry.”

You close the distance, your hips bumping together, and take her hand into yours. “What’s going on?”

Melissa watches you, conflict carved into her teeth as they gnaw at her lower lip. She puts the glass down and takes a deep breath.

“You’ll think it’s stupid,” she says, and there’s the faint tremor of a laugh in her voice, an attempt at levity to keep the long claws of something serious away from the conversation.

“Why?”

“Because it is.”

You frown. “I highly doubt that.”

Melissa stands in silence for a moment and you wait, nearly breathless, until she finally looks up; right past you and out the window into the brewing storm.

“When you say stuff like that,” she says, slower than usual, like she’s figuring out the words as she goes, “I… I like it.”

It’s an admission of the obvious, the most basic instinct of any person: to desire approval, and she makes it sound like she’s turning herself in for manslaughter.

You take care to keep your voice calm as you say, “Why would I think that’s stupid?”

“I mean,” she says and then pauses for a breath, “I mean I really, really like it.”

You stare at her, confused. The gears in your head turn and turn, and her words roll themselves over, back to front and inside out, until finally, like striking a match, it hits you.

“Oh.”

You remember, then, a moment from two weeks ago, when you were picking Melissa up from work.

You had been standing by the door with your phone in hand, waiting while she packed up, when someone had knocked and gone in; a woman of around 30, probably a parent to one of the students.

You really tried not to eavesdrop, but you were curious; it would be interesting to see Melissa in action instead of hearing a story over dinner, afterwards.

Besides, your stomach was growling and Melissa had promised you a double halloumi burger on the way back and you really just wanted to get going. They wouldn’t take long, right? Better that you’re close by.

The conversation had, luckily, been short, and mostly concerned a Jenna — how she’d be needing a little help catching up once she got back to school after her grandmother’s funeral.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Schemmenti,” the woman had said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

“Really, it’s all right. Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean it.” There’d been rustling, and a slightly panicked grunt. Melissa must’ve been caught in a hug. “Good girls like you are few and far between. We’re lucky you happen to be so close by.”

After that the woman had left, even nodded you goodbye as she went. A few minutes later, Melissa had appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath and her eyes out of focus.

She’d dragged you to your car by the wrist and fucked you silly in the Burger King bathroom.

The kettle’s whistle rips you back into the present like an air raid siren.

Melissa watches you, shoulders squared with tension, an anxious frown strewn across her face. She clears her throat and takes an unsteady step back.

“I knew this was a shit idea,” she says and drops her gaze to the floor. She retreats further, unsure of where to put her hands as they card through her hair, skim her pockets and then finally settle, crossed in front of her like a door slammed into your face. “Forget it, okay. We can pretend this never happened and—“

“No, wait.”

She freezes, one foot over the threshold. You take the screaming kettle off the stove calmly, walk to her in silence and take her face in your hands, your grip firm enough to keep her from looking away.

“You are gorgeous,” you whisper. Melissa follows as you lead her back into the kitchen, one clumsy step at a time. “Every time you smile I think ‘This is it, this is how I’m going to go’. My heart stops and then you laugh, and it starts right back up again.”

Melissa’s back hits the fridge door, and you hear a souvenir magnet clatter against the floor.

“You are a goddess in leather, okay? The jacket and the pants together — Jesus Christ, Melissa.”

She’s very quiet and very still, save for her breathing, short and nearly panicked. The way she stares at you briefly makes you wonder if you’re doing the right thing, if you’re stepping over a line she wasn’t fully ready to cross, but then the corners of her mouth tip slightly upwards, and you know you have to keep going.

“You’re doing so well, honey. This is new to you and you’re scared and a little embarrassed, but you’re being so brave, so attentive and so, so good.”

You kiss her lips once, quick and soft as a feather.

“You’re my good girl, Melissa.”

The earth might as well have split in half with how rapidly the atmosphere changes; something invisible snaps as Melissa takes you by the hair and kisses you breathless.

Her lips are ravenous as she trails a line of sharp, hungry kisses down your neck and with one swift twist it’s your back against the fridge, your head bumping against holiday photos and last week’s grocery list, her leg nudged between yours.

“Please don’t stop,” Melissa whispers and then her teeth pierce the skin right above your collarbone, straddling the edge of just enough and too much. It pulls a thin whine from you, a sound she knows and translates into please dear god keep going.

“You’re being so good, honey.” It’s a struggle, getting a single word out while her hand tears at the buttons of your shirt. “I can’t wait to feel you inside me.”

Melissa’s breath hitches like she’s choking, and the shirt flies open. Your bra is easily pulled out of the way and without warning, Melissa’s lips close around your nipple to gently nibble at it.

She approaches you the same way she would an old recipe; with fierce, familiar warmth, her hands lost in her profound knowledge of your every curve and crevice. She draws a host of gasps from you, hidden into the top of her head as you kiss her hair and hold her even tighter.

Melissa releases your nipple and gives it a slow kiss goodbye, only to nip a line of stinging marks down your ribs, all the way to the top of your jeans. She pauses to dig through her back pocket and pulls out a small, threadbare hair tie.

“Just a second,” she whispers, and sweeps her hair up into a frenzied ponytail. “You ready?”

You smile down at her and brush her cheek with the backs of your fingers. “For you? Always.”

The button of your jeans pops open, the zipper is unzipped, and Melissa pulls everything down with two firm tugs. She rubs her nose against the soft inside of your thigh, breathing slowly and deliberately as she draws out every second to its limit, until you’re close to begging for something, anything.

She looks up and the light hits her eyes just right, makes them come alive like a forest pool dappled with afternoon sunlight, and you’re left breathless.

“I love you,” you say.

Melissa smiles and leans in.

A sob breaks free of your throat and echoes around the room, seeps so deep into the walls that you know you’ll still hear it two weeks from now. Melissa doesn’t treat you to anything but the tip of her tongue, light and barely there, and it is too little and too much at the same time, an impossible sensation she burns right into your nerves.

Melissa presses her hands against the fridge for support and shoves a row of magnets out of the way; the pictures they were holding fly to the floor in a chaotic flurry. She cranes her neck and presses the flat of her tongue against you, and it hits you like a brick, so much after so little.

“You feel so good, honey,” you say between rough breaths. “So, so good.”

Like she’s waiting for it, the tips of her fingers go scaling past your knee and up your thigh, until they’re resting lightly on your pubic bone. She draws a thin line down, down, down until her index finger is gently pressed against velvety heat, and then stops, her head tilted upwards to watch you, patiently waiting.

“Please,” you sigh, “I need—“

Melissa slips two fingers inside, knuckle by knuckle, and drags your trembling whine out, inch by inch. Her rhythm is slow, almost nonexistent as she savors each twitch, each swallowed curse and burdened breath. She leans against you languidly, as if it’s Sunday and she’s leafing through the morning paper, eyes closed and her cheek pressed against your hipbone.

She keeps you rooted to that feeling of home where you don’t have to keep watch over how you sound or look, where the only thing that matters is that you feel safe and loved and good. The pressure of her palm on your waist, her lips, whispering affections like little prayers, her body leaning into yours like this is where you were always both meant to be; it’s all almost too much, like trying to fit lightning in a bottle.

Melissa bends her wrist and beckons. Your knees nearly buckle but she keeps you standing, her hand firmly on the curve of your hip, enough to keep you from tumbling.

“Christ,” you whisper, fuel to the fire. Melissa’s fingers sink until her palm is flush against your skin and she settles into a steady beat, a tempo she reads from your disjointed cries and frantic gasps.

Her hair is slipping out of the tie and you notice a strip of gray, missed by her hairdresser, slide down the slope of her neck and settle on her shoulder. It’s like an ornament, a spot of moss growing on the side of a tree, a flourish bestowed for a life well lived.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” slips out of your mouth before you’ve fully even finished thinking it. Melissa flushes down to the tips of her ears and dips her head back between your thighs, her tongue deft and eager. A shudder shakes your body and you feel yourself drip; you can already imagine Melissa’s hand slick, the sleeve of her shirt soaked.

She pushes deeper and you groan, a garbled, ecstatic sound. Words are almost beyond you at this point, scattered into the wind like leaves in winter, but you still manage to say, “Melissa, my Melissa. You feel so—“ A breath, starving and coarse. “Jesus.”

You can hear Melissa’s unsaid ‘Just me’, can imagine yourself swatting her arm because it is stupid and silly and it makes you laugh in a way that very few things ever have.

Melissa opens her eyes and looks at you, a sloppy smile on her lips and her mascara stained on the left side. She thrusts, pulls you apart like a spool of string even when her wrist must be burning, her jaw sore and strained, but she gives you that small sacrifice in exchange for this, for you, unfurling under her touch.

“Honey, I’m going to—“ Her fingers curl and you feel the twitch all the way in your spine. “Melissa—“

She pulls her face back an inch, jaw glistening and lipstick staining her chin. Wind brushes against the windows with a gentle rumble that clatters the windows in their panes. Melissa catches her breath for only a moment, and then says, “I love you too.”

It’s almost enough on its own.

She falls back into you like she’s drawn by gravity and pushes you to a point where you can’t even think anymore. Her movements are fidgety, impatient; she loses herself in the what, where and how of you, and leaves any notions of composure rotting in the dust.

You grind into her palm right as Melissa tips her head and twists her tongue, gives you everything she possibly has to give and the world disappears into a spinning black hole with you at the center, the solitary singularity that ruptures like a thousand dying suns. You arch your spine and dig in your heels, begging the universe for something to hold onto, and there she is: Melissa Ann Schemmenti with her hand persisting in yours, exactly where you need her.

“I love you,” you cry and the tears come falling, and you let them, despite the tide of embarrassment that follows. “Melissa, I love you, I love you, I love you, you—“

Your knees finally give out and you nearly crash to the floor, but she holds you tight and firm the whole way down. She checks that your back is safely laid against the fridge before pulling her fingers out, drawing out one last shiver from your depleted body.

You notice a faint sheen of tears in her eyes as well, and of all things, a laugh bubbles up from your throat, a wobbly titter that seems to be the only way your body can attempt to parse the tidal wave of emotion still swirling inside.

Melissa smiles at you and then gets off her knees with a hefty ‘Ow’. With her back against the drawers, she pats her open lap and you slump onto her thighs.

Thunder rolls somewhere far above, and the rain falls thicker. You exhale, let your eyelids grow heavy, and you listen. The sky roars and under its boundless weight the trees bow and creak, the wooden swing in the backyard groans in its attempts to stay in its place, and the neighbor’s dog barks ferociously until it’s dragged inside. Above it all is Melissa’s breathing, still slightly labored. It feels like home at its most exposed: the same as her soft snores in the middle of the night, a peal of laughter from the living room, the smell of breakfast when you’re barely awake yet.

Melissa pulls your hair out of your face and starts brushing her fingers through it, tenderly untangling any knots she finds. She sniffs once, and you kiss the top of her thigh.

“What just happened?” she asks, almost childishly, honestly lost.

You turn your head to look at her. “I would say the best sex of my life, but I think you still have a few surprises in you.”

Melissa laughs softly under her breath. “Thanks for listenin’ to me.”

“Of course,” you say. “Thank you for talking to me. I’m so proud of you.”

Her jovial expression very quickly turns a little sour, and she purses her lips.

“You need to tone it down because I can’t go again yet.” She whistles between her teeth. “I haven’t wanted a smoke in six years, but honestly, now would be a really good time.”

“Don’t you dare,” you mutter.

“I’m just sayin’.”

You chuckle and put your head back down. Your eye is drawn to the mess on the floor: the magnets, the pictures, the wood that’s going to get sticky soon.

“We should probably clean up,” you say. Melissa sighs.

“Yeah.” She pats your shoulder and you pull your jeans back up. The zipper gives you some trouble, trembling fingers and all, but you manage to get yourself clothed in a reasonable amount of time. You rise from the floor and your right knee lets out a little pop as you get back on your feet.

Melissa, however, braces her hands against the floor, and then stops with a sharp hiss and a hand on her spine.

“Shit, my back, can you—“

“Of course,” you say, and slide your arms under hers. “Ready?”

You hold her by the shoulders while she wraps herself around you.

“One, two, three.”

You heave yourselves to your feet, but even when she’s securely standing, she doesn’t let go. Her hand is twisted into the back of your shirt and her face lies in the crook of your neck. You feel her lips softly trembling, her breathing coming in and out in small uneven hiccups.

“I love you so much,” she whispers.

You kiss the top of her head. “I love you too.”

You haven’t asked the universe for much, and have received even less; but for this one thing you will keep thanking the powers that be, for as long as you possibly can.

#Melissa Schemmenti x Reader #Melissa Schemmenti/Reader #Melissa Schemmenti #Abbott Elementary #Reader

[celestialmilfs]

Lost

Character: 13th Doctor  Word count: 3,571 Warnings: Mild violence, Big insects Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: T

Description: The sky is darkening. Around you the trees only seem to grow taller as their oppressive shadows stretch over frost-covered grass. The forest is as silent as can be when a storm is coming: animals looking for holes to crawl back to, branches brushing against each other in the wind, and your own stuttering breath as the air thickens with the promise of rain.

--

No Doctor and no TARDIS, you find yourself lost in the middle of nowhere with nothing and no one to turn to. Pray the Doctor finds you in time.

A/N: This was originally posted on my DW blog a few years ago so I gave it a new coat of paint and here we are!

---------

There are three things, the Doctor had said, that you ought to remember about Paroxus V. One: the food isn’t fit for a human. You eat it, you die. Hands to yourself. Two: it is infinitely easy to get lost. Stay together. Three: at night, it gets very, very cold.

The sky is darkening. Around you the trees only seem to grow taller as their oppressive shadows stretch over frost-covered grass. The forest is as silent as can be when a storm is coming: animals looking for holes to crawl back to, branches brushing against each other in the wind, and your own stuttering breath as the air thickens with the promise of rain.

Cold sneaks through your light jacket and you shiver. The tree you huddle up against is thick enough to pass for shelter; at least when you drag your knees to your chest and curl up into a ball. It’s better than nothing. You flex your trembling fingers and the skin over your knuckles breaks, revealing tiny beads of blood. You blow into your palms and rub them together. The relief is brief, and is immediately taken away by a chilling gust of wind.

It’s been hours now. Seconds of gasping, frightened breaths had stretched into minutes, into hours, and now the sky was turning black. No sign of the Doctor, no wheezing groan from the TARDIS, nothing. Not even a peep. She might be terrible at parking but this is pushing it.

Admittedly, it was you who had let go of her hand, you who ran off in a panic, you who had wandered further into the dark and brooding trees because you swore you’d seen her coat in the distance. Explicit instruction, as it turns out, means very little when your amygdala is screaming at you to run.

Something cracks in the distance.

You force yourself to stay very, very still, and turn your head to peek past the tree sheltering you. Something stirs the tall grass and the trampled wildflowers a good ten feet away from you. An acrid stench floats in your direction, and nearly sends you into a violent coughing fit. You gag at the sharp, acidic stench, and swiftly wipe your watering eyes. The wind carries heavy, skittering footsteps to your ears, like dozens of legs crawling in the foliage.

A long, arching back, covered in faintly glimmering plating, rises from the grass and stretches into its full height. Hundreds of feet line the body on both sides. On top of its head are two antennae, both the size of your arm.

Your stomach lurches, and acid rises into the back of your mouth. Your hands, placed on the trunk for stability, claw into the bark hard enough to leave small crescent-shaped dents. That thing is massive, big enough to eat you whole.

What would the Doctor do?

Be benevolent. Be kind. Things she keeps telling you and the unfortunate souls you run into; both easier said after a frightening adventure, instead of right now, deep into the hunting grounds of a monstrous centipede.

But in the end it doesn’t matter, because you’re not the Doctor. You’re a human, average in most aspects, equipped with one human heart and one human brain, both of which are on their knees, pleading at you to run or hide.

So far, that’s just instinct. Paleolithic age knowledge overriding your brain to keep you safe. The centipede has made no move to hurt you. It might not even be carnivorous, for all you know.

Out of your view, scampering steps pound against hard dirt, and something emerges from the long grass. A furry animal, quite like a rabbit, shoots into view. The centipede flies into action. It rises further up and arches forward, spewing a foul, pulpy mucus that coats the rabbit, trapping it where it stands. It shrieks in pain, but the sound is drowned out by hundreds of feet approaching, a whine when the centipede throws the rabbit into the air, and a revolting crunch of bones cracking as it finishes its meal. It only takes a moment; ten, fifteen seconds at most.

Bile burns your throat, and you fear you’ll retch; sounds and motions you cannot afford right now. You sneak back behind the tree and you breathe, in and out, silent and slow as you can. Your eyes keep watering but you don’t dare even blink.

Grass shudders, and the centipede crawls to your right. Your heart seizes in your chest, and vivid images of your arms being torn from your person attack your vision.

The sound recedes. Further and further, until you can barely hear it anymore. You look up, and catch a glimpse of the first stars of the night through criss-crossing tree branches.

You count to twenty, savor each number like one of them might magic you away from here, and stop on your favorite one for a good long while. Maybe it has some luck left in it, who knows.

Silence.

You sigh in relief, and the sound is unsteady, jittery, like a butterfly struggling to take flight. It jerks in your chest, a persistent hiccup that threatens to transform into panicked hyperventilation, but you don’t have the time. You squeeze your eyes shut and wipe the tears that come falling. One long, grounding breath, and then you finally dare to take a peek past the tree.

Empty, as far as the eye can see. Night has finally fallen, and everything past fifteen feet turns into a dark, dangerous jumble of unidentifiable, vaguely threatening shapes. You crane your neck to look past the long grass, in the direction of the centipede, but you can’t see anything. The creature could be hiding, biding its time until you make a run for it to gobble you up like a sausage puff, but you have to take that chance. It’s now or never.

You bite into your own cheek hard enough to draw blood, and take your first step. You wait; a moment of anticipatory stillness as your shoe settles firmly into the dirt.

The woods remain silent.

You take another step, and another, each one heavier and more hurried than the last, until you settle into a jog; light enough to hopefully keep you unheard, but quick enough to get you the hell out of here. Branches snag on your clothes, your hair, as if the forest is trying to keep you in its clutches.

Fifteen minutes you trudge through the dark until the eerie silence finally breaks. You freeze, eyes darting over your surroundings in search of a rock, a tree, anything to hide behind. Before you can find any such thing, though, the sound repeats itself.

A voice. This far away, you can’t recognize the owner, but god, it doesn’t matter; there’s someone out here beside you and you’d rather die than let that miracle go. You stand on your toes and strain your ears, praying silently for that someone to wait, to please just wait; you’re here, right here, and they can’t be too far off, if they’d only just—

There it is again. Faint, but growing closer. You laugh, unable to entirely contain the sound and keep it under your breath. The call comes one more time, and you turn to its direction: off the path and even deeper into the woods.

You step over the bushes and push your way past the thicket, ripping handfuls of leaves off their branches in your desperation to move, move, move. Your feet pound against the ground as you finally let yourself run. The trees grow thicker the further you go, but even they can’t muffle the sound: a woman, calling for... for you?

With every step the call gets closer, gets clearer, and it is your name; they’ve finally found you, she’s found you, the Doctor is here and if you could just move faster in this blasted forest, you might catch her before she thinks you’re gone, and then you’re really, properly dead.

You want to call her name, scream for help, but the image of the rabbit disappearing down the centipede’s throat keeps your mouth firmly shut. You can’t risk it. If only there was a faster way to get to—

Your foot doesn’t bounce off the ground. It plunges into the foliage and you follow suit. You roll down the hill face first, sharp stones tearing your clothes and biting into skin, the smaller ones lodging themselves into your flesh. The landing is hard; the grass covering the ground offers very little in the sense of cushioning. When the world stops spinning, your hands fly to your knee to ease the sharp pain crackling there. Sand glitters in the wound right under your kneecap, and sticky, fresh blood lingers on your fingers when you pry them away.

You gently try to move your leg, but cry out, tears stinging your eyes. There’s no way you’re going anywhere like this. You try to even your breath, ears strained again as you try to listen past your heart hammering in your chest.

The voice has gone quiet, but in its stead the earth groans above you. You hear crawling; hundreds of little feet carrying a thick, armored body across frosty grass that crackles and snaps like clacking teeth. The tall grass shifts above you and antennae peek through, followed by a head, and you finally get a glimpse at the centipede’s open maw.

Rows of miniscule, needle-sharp teeth ring its circular mouth as deep as you can see. It’s like the creature has several round jaws that all open and close in their own perplexing rhythm. It’s almost hypnotizing.

Dirt and grass rain down as the centipede crawls down the hill and stops right at your feet. You heave panicked breaths as it rises to its full height and shrieks; a high-pitched, serrated sound, followed by dark spittle that splashes in all directions. You throw your arms in front of your face and howl as it burns through your jacket, your shirt, and leaves a sizzling patch of scorched skin. You gasp and struggle to wrap your head around the feeling of dead nerves and bubbling, weeping skin.

The centipede crawls closer, draws itself further up, and you know what’s coming. A heave, a brief moment of flight, and your flesh torn and rended between thousands of little teeth.

You sink further into the ground, a last ditch effort to hide, to disappear and turn up back home, on asphalt and a city too well-populated and polluted to house anything like the creature in front of you. You look up; one final glimpse of the stars that lured the lot of you on this planet in the first place, and sure enough, you see them. Constellations the local children could name in their sleep, lone planets shining brighter than the rest, and satellites lazily circling the planet on their calculated courses. It’s shocking how little empty space there is on this foreign sky.

You close your eyes.

A high-pitched mechanical whine; a screwdriver pushed past its limit. Panicked voices. Shouting. The centipede’s screech, and a long, heavy body escaping into the thicket. Hurried boots on loose dirt.

A light shines over your face, and you wince. Too bright. Someone tries to pull your arms away from your face but you cry out, and the touch is swiftly withdrawn.

“Christ,” someone whispers, further away.

A hand caresses your cheek and a soft line is drawn across your cheekbone.

“It’s all right.” Northern accent. “The Mexvogel is gone. Off to find easier prey. You’re safe.”

You pry your eyes open. Golden hair, hazel eyes, and a brow drawn in worry; there’s that crease between them, the one Yaz always teases her about. The Doctor’s whole face sheens with sweat and dirt, and her clothes are speckled with grime.

Your gaze is drawn to movement in your periphery: Yaz, Graham and Ryan, all rushing towards you.

“Did you see the size of that thing?” Graham asks. “I’ve only ever seen one in my mate’s flat, in Bristol. It were the size of my finger, though. Not my whole house.”

“Can you sit?” The Doctor offers you her hand as she speaks. You try to take it, but moving only elicits a shock of pain, universally felt. The Doctor’s fingers press against your cheek, and when she draws back, they’re stained with blood.

 “Took a nasty fall, you did. I could’a sworn Mexvogel were extinct by now, especially after the hunt in 3319, but I guess there’s still stragglers. Nasty buggers.”

She takes something from her pocket: a small flashlight, clicked awake to shine directly into your eyes. You try to look away, but the Doctor holds your jaw tightly in her hand. No escape.

“Looks alright,” she mutters, and to your relief, puts the light back in her pocket. “Say something.”

It takes a moment to make sense of the words, the sentences, to parse each one from the next and assign bouncing, meaningless letters meaning; your thoughts are simultaneously scattered in the wind and one big, coagulated jumble.

The Doctor’s face falls.

“Could be concussion,” she says. “Best get you to the TARDIS. Try to stand, if you can.”

You lean forwards and try to shift weight into your legs, but the second you put pressure on your knee you yelp and fall back to the ground. The Doctor frowns, and shares a concerned look with Yaz. They crouch beside you, and your arms are carefully placed over their shoulders.

“Ready?” The Doctor asks, and there’s a small smile on her face, a wrinkle at the corner of her eye; you will be okay. She’ll take care of it. It’s what she does. They heave you to your feet, hands pressed against your back, support to take weight away from your arms. You take a small step, barely move your foot at all, but grind your teeth like whetstone all the same.

“I…” you start, but the words are too far, too much of a mess.

“Shit,” Yaz says under her breath. “What do we do?”

The Doctor looks at you quietly for a moment, and then turns to Yaz. “Let go.” Yaz’s brow shoots to her hairline, but the look the Doctor gives keeps her from questioning orders.

“Alright, alright,” Yaz says, and delicately lets you lean fully against the Doctor. She bends down, puts one arm behind your knees and slides the other around your back.

“On three,” she mutters, and takes a breath. “One, two—“

You wail when she lifts you off your feet, every scrape, burn and bruise begging you to stop, to lie down and die so they can find peace.

The Doctor waits for a moment, and eventually your breath calms, a tear rolls down your cheek, and your head lolls against her chest. The beat of her hearts is fast but steady, their b-bmp b-bmp a sturdy enough anchor to keep you in this world for a small while yet.

“This won’t be entirely painless,” she warns you. “I’ll be jostling you around a bit. But the TARDIS isn’t parked far. You ready?”

She looks you in the eyes, watches for a moment, and there’s that wrinkle again; right between her eyebrows, deep like a crevasse, and probably with just as many worries buried inside.

You nod.

Logically, the trek can’t have been more than a few hundred feet at most, but god, if it doesn’t feel like hours, days of aching muscles and lacerated skin. The Doctor holds you close to her chest, and you take solace in her warmth, try to focus on her heart, her breath, anything to take you away from the misery of your body.

By the time you see the TARDIS, more worn than the time you’d left — her paint chipped and her wood scratched — you’re barely conscious anymore. The dots in your vision grow into a dark expanse that encompasses most of your vision, and Ryan and Yaz sound like they’re bickering beyond a thick, padded wall.

The moment The Doctor crosses the threshold, you’re out.

You wake up to a great, throbbing headache. Your eyelids feel like they’re stuffed with cotton as you open them to the soft lamplight of your bedroom. You’re stuffed under every blanket in the house, built up to an impressive stack. Music is playing, though you don’t recognize the song.

You take a deep breath, and try to move. A groan and a wave of nausea warn you against making a second attempt.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

You slowly turn your head despite the soft ache beneath your temples and find the Doctor sitting by your bedside in your rickety yellow chair, the one with the torn cushion. She’s cross-legged and in her hands are a cup of tea and a book you haven’t seen before. She’s frowning.

“Sorry,” you say, and try to catch her eye. She is determined to only stare at the yellowed, worn down page.

“You’re lucky, you know,” she says. There’s an edge in her voice, a silent anger she seems reluctant to voice. She takes a sip, and turns the page. “Most people end up in shreds if they run into a Mexvogel.”

Your lip curls. “I didn’t exactly intend for this to happen, thanks.”

The Doctor’s grip around the cup tightens. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Your mouth drops open, and you scoff. “You could at least look at me if you’re going to say something like that.”

The Doctor takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and sighs. She snaps the book shut and drops it on the floor next to her. The thud is soft against your ragged carpet.

This time she looks you deep in the eye, unblinking and unflinching as she says, “You could have died.”

“I didn’t,” you say, and find your eye-contact slipping despite your best efforts. The Doctor’s face thunders with the storm gathering inside her, and you’re on a direct course into the middle.

“You have no idea,” The Doctor says, her voice growing tighter, louder. “We got back to the TARDIS and you were gone, couldn’t find you anywhere. We asked everyone, ran around for hours, and finally some kids had seen you stumble into the bloody woods.”

Tears threaten to blur your vision, and you can’t even lift your arms enough to wipe them away.

“Thank the stars I have your biopattern saved in the TARDIS’s memory or we would’ve never found you in there.” Her voice thickens and wavers. “Why would you go in there?”

You unclench your jaw and sniff. “Thought I saw you.” “Where?” she asks, and rests her forehead against her palms.

“Just… There. Running. Do you think I’d just wander in there for the sake of it? See the sights?”

It’s the Doctor’s turn to go quiet, to look away and rub her temples as she grimaces. “No, I—“

“You’re an arse,” you say. The Doctor breathes for a few quiet moments and looks out the window. A group of teens is passing by, horribly drunk. One of them stumbles, and almost falls over, but her friend catches her by the waist. “I’m sorry,” the Doctor whispers. “You don’t deserve this, I— I was so worried. You humans can be so unpredictable; centuries I’ve spent on this planet and I still can’t figure out what the lot of you are thinking, sometimes.” “I’m here,” you say. “I’m safe.” “You could’ve—“ “I didn’t.” She watches you, curiously. Her eyes are red-rimmed and the bags underneath are so purple they look painted on. She heaves a sigh, and places her hand by your cheek on the pillow. “May I—“ “Yes,” you whisper, and she cradles your face in her palm. Her hand is warm where it held the teacup, and you smile softly into it. “How long until I get to leave the bed?” “If it were up to me? A week.” The Doctor sighs. “But you’re too stubborn. Three days.” You groan. “Minimum. No strenuous activity of any kind, you hear me? Yaz will stay here with you.” Sadness pinches your heart. “Are you going somewhere?”

The Doctor looks exhausted. The way her eyes are half-closed, her mouth drawn into a tight line, she should be stuck in bed just as much as you.

“I have to,” she says, her voice crackling as if she’d just woken. “It’s personal.”

You wish she didn’t do this. The secrets, the vague destinations, the places she’s not ready to show you yet. This is the anxious Doctor, the one that needs to keep her heart to herself.

“You’ll come visit me, at least?” you ask her, hopeful. “If I have to be stuck here, at least come show your face a few times. Make it worth it.”

She smiles, and her eyes glow in the soft light, their color shifting into a luscious light brown as she leans forward, her hair casting a shadow over her face. “’Course,” she murmurs and picks up the book. This time you get a good look at the cover: two women embracing, topless, on a ship. One of them is wearing a big, poofy gown, and the other is dressed in gaudy pirate apparel. “What’s that you’re reading?” you ask her, and she lights up like an industrial grade flashlight. “Now this,” she says, and lifts the book up so you can see properly, “is the height of Delos VI literature. Top seller round their galaxy. Can’t go anywhere without seeing at least one.” “What’s it about?” The Doctor stops, her mouth slightly open. She bites her tongue and scans the room with excessive detail, eyes flitting from corner to lamp to desk to corner. “It’s, uh.” She drums her fingers on the cover. “Yeah?” “See, I’m not sure you’ll appreciate it the way you’re supposed to,” she starts, “because erotica with telekinetic themes and multiple realities isn’t a thing on Earth yet, and you’ll get there, I know, but see, it’s not happening right now, so you don’t have the perspective of a multiversal encounter to really give it the depth that—“ “It’s porn?” “Well, technically yes, but—“ “Read it for me?” She stops, entirely, down to the tips of her fidgety fingers. Her eyes slowly drift to you. “You want me to read it?” “I do,” you croak, too worn out to speak anymore. She gives you a look, the kind that suspicious dog owners have if their beloved pets have something in their mouths. “Alright then,” she says, and cracks the book open. “In the previous chapter…” You try to listen. You really, really do, but the Doctor narrates so softly, and the beginning paragraph is so abysmally bad you automatically tune her out. The last thing you remember before nodding off is her hand reaching under the blankets to take yours, her thumb running over your bruised knuckles slowly, taking in every ridge and bump of bone. You wonder how you ever got this lucky.

#13th Doctor x Reader #13 x Reader #Doctor Who x Reader #Doctor Who #Reader Insert #13th Doctor

[celestialmilfs]

Melissa cuddle headcanons?🥺

First request!! Hi!!

Here you go💖

[celestialmilfs]

Morning Glow

Melissa is the first to wake up.

She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and gives her shoulders a roll, good enough to make her upper back pop

Once she’s sure she won’t dip right back to sleep, she turns to face you.

She marvels at your face for a second in the dawn light, at the strip of sun sneaking past the curtains and onto the curve of your jaw.

Gorgeous.

She brushes an eyelash off your cheek and kisses your forehead.

Your particularly potent snoring makes Melissa instinctually look into the camera, only for her to pause. They’re not there.

For once she has a moment of peace, far away from under the lens.

Work calls, regardless.

“C’mon,” she says. “We gotta get going.”

You bat her off and turn to face the other way.

“Okay,” she mutters, and snatches you into a bear-hug, nearly sweeping both of you clean off the bed.

You finally wake up, your heart racing, fingers curled around the bedframe in a death grip.

“Morning,” Melissa says into your ear. She kisses your temple and then lays her head back on the pillow.

“Did I miss the alarm?” you ask.

“No.” Melissa rubs her nose into the back of your neck, hoping she’ll still remember the feeling, the scent, the morning softness of you all the way to the afternoon.

“Why the near-death experience, then?”

Melissa scoffs. “I did not come even close to killing you. You’d know if I tried.”

You groan and try to turn, but she’s holding you like a bowl of her mother’s ziti, tight and snug.

“I thought we were supposed to get going.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Melissa says. “Just a couple minutes.”

She brushes your hair with her fingers, nails scraping against your scalp.

You sink deeper into her and try to imprint every curve and crevice into memory.

Though you can’t move an inch, you manage to reach your hand to brush the side of her thigh, the skin soft and adorned with stretch marks.

Scars and blemishes; the imperfections that make up Melissa Schemmenti.

Beyond beautiful.

Another alarm rings, the one you asked her to set up precisely if this happened.

“Do we really have to go?” you ask, half-lost in the feeling of her.

Melissa sighs into your back, and gives your neck one last kiss.

“Yeah.”

She peels herself off you and you moan softly at the loss of contact.

Melissa pauses.

“You keep those noises to yourself, honey.”

You crane your neck to look at her, lazily posed in front of the window like she’s Virgin Mary, blazing hair outlined by the sun in a glorious halo.

Breathtaking.

“Why?” you ask.

She kisses the corner of your mouth.

“We are definitely not getting to work otherwise.”

She’s cast in shadow again as she slips out of bed. The sheets already feel colder.

You watch silently as she stretches her back, gives you a pointed look, and heads out into the hall.

The house comes to life with her footsteps on the parquet, the soft, enticing gurgling of the coffee maker, and the clink of dishes against her loved and worn kitchen table.

There is nowhere else you would rather be.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #reader #melissa x reader #abbott elementary

[celestialmilfs]

Classroom Blues

Character: Melissa Schemmenti Word count: 3,310 Warnings: Car accidents, panic attacks, PTSD Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: T

Description: Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters. Every single kid stops what they’re doing. --- It’s never been so frightening to look out the window

“That’s looking great, Noah!”

You smile over his shoulder, and he beams back at you before returning to his crayons.

Second graders are so easy to please.

You walk past him to get a look at everybody else’s paper plate dinosaurs. Nathan’s is breathing fire. Tyrone gave his a little princess crown. When you asked, Jamila said hers is ‘a apatopasaurus’ and that she refuses any further comment.

Fantastic work, overall.

It’s looking mighty fine outside too; the day is stretching into afternoon, and the sun blazes into the art room, etching on the walls the shadows of the easter bunnies the first graders had made last week.

The clock is slowly ticking towards two, and you’re only fifteen minutes away from a hot McVegan — no tomato, and two hours of the Good Place. Jamila lifts her hand as high as she can and speaks before you can even get to her.

“I’m all done,” she says. Her apatopasaurus is made of three plates instead of one, and the legs have pink pipe cleaners for both claws and a tongue. There’s a little tear drawn beneath its googly eye.

“Oh, wow.” You turn it around and smile at the glitter glue spots drawn on the other side. “This is really great, Jamila. You wanna help me put it on the—“

Tires screech against pavement, shrill and cruel. Aluminum crunches. Glass shatters.

Every single kid stops what they’re doing.

“Look!” Samantha yells and runs to the window. Half the class follows her, crowding in a line to catch a glimpse. God’s mercy that most of them are too short to see past the supply shelf. It offers you no such protection, though.

Just by the crossing outside, a black car is crushed against a DHL truck. Must have been going way outside the speed limit; you’re barely allowed to hit 40 out there because of the kids. The left side is completely collapsed around the truck’s hood, but you can see the driver just fine from here.

Dead.

He’s dead.

You snap into action.

“Hey, come on,” you say and start herding them away from the windows. “The ambulance guys will handle it, okay? Let’s get back to work.”

Your voice sounds distant to your own ears, like you’re speaking into a bottomless tunnel. The kids don’t seem to hear you either. More likely they’re just not listening because they’re eight-year-olds and most of them haven’t had time to even think about death yet.

They haven’t been to a funeral on a perfectly sunny day, just like this one.

Haven’t hung upside down by their seatbelt in a upended car.

Or seen how broken glass mangles a face.

Stop.

You blink yourself back into the here-and-now. Your knees are already beginning to feel weak, ready to buckle under the slightest strain.

Just breathe. Ten years of practiced technique, honed to perfection. Breathe.

For the kids, if not for yourself.

The minute hand on the clock ticks over to fifty-three. A few kids, the same ones who always put the watercolors back where they belong once they’re done, were kind enough to head back to their seats, but that still leaves you with eight children glued to the glass, watching the driver get dragged out of the car. He’s dropped onto the pavement. Someone’s trying to resuscitate. You can tell from here that it won’t work.

“Okay, I mean it this time.” You try to cover your trembling voice, to apply the gentle authority you’d seen Barbara pull a thousand times. They don’t move an inch. Maybe it’s the gulf of difference in experience, maybe it’s just Barbara being Barbara, or maybe they can tell that you’re afraid.

You sigh and peel the kids off the window one by one and escort them into their seats. Inelegant. Methodical. Your limbs function outside your jurisdiction in a world entirely of their own. When you bring your hand to hover in front of your face, it feels lightyears away, a limb puppeted without its master.

You can still feel crumbled glass embedded between the creases of your palm.

Breathe, damn it.

“Who was that guy?” Jamila asks even after you’ve sat her back down by her dinosaur.

“I don’t know, buddy.” You brush cardboard clippings off her shorts and onto the floor. The fabric is void of feeling under your prickling fingers. “But I’m sure they’ve called an ambulance. They’ll take care of it.”

Sure enough, when you glance at the road, Janine is buzzing around the truck driver, her phone already glued to her ear.

The bell rings at last. The kids yell out in joy and their wave of conversation washes you back ashore for a second. They grab their bags, forget their plates and stickers and markers, and are out the door in record time. They’re so excited.

You can’t tell them to slow down, to stop, even, until the commotion outside is finished. You can’t do anything but stand still and listen as their voices ebb away into just an echo.

Pills. Where are your pills.

You stumble to your bag and search it with trembling, unsure hands, like fingers against a jammed car door, dipping into the seams to tear the whole thing off if you have to. You throw your keys on the table, same as your wallet, your planner, your lighter, and a handful of stray pens; all of them in a heap that slips over the edge and to the floor. You turn the whole bag inside out, but can’t find the pill bottle.

Your chest is getting tighter, heavier, like the spaces between your ribs are stuffed with cotton, like you’re trapped under a ten ton truck careening off the highway uncaring of casualties.

Breathe. Remember to breathe.

You can’t breathe, that’s the whole fucking problem.

The room is empty. Your only companion is the sun, and even she’s about to dip behind the buildings on the other side of the street.

You fall to your knees, grasping at the collar of your shirt, your fingers far too stiff, too jittery to undo one single button. You tear them open anyway. One flies under the shelf, like a body clean through the windshield. He said he didn’t need the seatbelt; it was such a short trip anyway. His legs were bent wrong six times over down in the ditch.

The world becomes muffled, stuffs your ears with ringing to keep you from hearing your own scratchy, frightened heaves for air. To save you the fear. The shame. You claw at your throat, at your chest, hoping you might dig out the chunk obstructing your windpipe.

You want to scream. So much. You’re mentally holding yourself by the shoulders, begging yourself to keep quiet. You’re in a position of authority. A child sees you like this, it’ll go down to the parents and you’re in trouble. Abbott’s in trouble. You can’t afford that.

You remember the mud staining your shirt when you’d crawled out, your leg broken and your face dripping with blood. You still don’t know if it was yours. Sirens, nearby. A broken airbag. A broken neck.

Blood.

You back up against the wall and your head bangs into the bricks with a sudden jerk, though the pain is nothing, nothing compared to—

A hand lands on your shoulder. You jump back in fright, your other arm flying to shield your face. Something hot drips down your cheek, but you can’t bring your fingers up to check, can’t trap yourself in that knowledge.

“Whoa, okay,” someone says. “No sudden touching. Gotcha.” The voice sinks like a rock into deep, dark water, far off and twisted. You can’t move to see who it is, who’s come to watch you in your weakest, most undignified moment.

“I’m gonna take your hand,” they say. “That okay?”

You nod, but the movement is stiff and thick with tension, just like the neckbrace they’d given you, after everything. You had a rash for weeks.

Your hand is enveloped by another, the touch soft, the fingers a little cold. There are rings right above the knuckles: two of them plain bands and one with a big, sharp stone on it. You squeeze the hand hard, hard enough to make the other person groan a thick, hefty ‘ow’.

“Okay. Think you could try and breathe with me? Doesn’t have to be perfect.”

The person doesn’t wait this time. They take a deep breath, exaggerated enough for even you to hear, and then exhale, like wind in the trees on a stormy night when nobody should’ve been driving in the first place.

Your attempt in following them is sad and broken. The air remains trapped in your throat, refusing to flow all the way into your lungs, no matter how you try to wheeze it in or out.

“Good, keep going.”

It’s not even remotely good, not even passable, but you keep it up anyway. In and out, but it’s more like i-i-i-i-in-in-in and ooo-out-o-ooout. This doesn’t deter the person sitting next to you, though. They keep their breathing even and deep, and you follow them, out of pace and rhythm in a one-sided dance where you keep crushing your mystery partner’s toes.

“You’re doin’ real good,” they say, and a thumb is drawn across your knuckles, soft and soothing, free of crusted blood or thick, soupy mud. “Just keep going.

Ain’t no point in rushin’ it, right?”

You do as you’re told. In and out. Your pained attempts slowly start to resemble what the other person is doing, more of a mirror than a reflection in disturbed water. The locked knots in your muscles start unwinding themselves open one by one, and you suddenly find yourself sagging forwards without control.

Arms wrap around your torso and your head knocks into someone’s clavicle instead of the floor. You’re shifted like a living doll into a more comfortable position and your nose buries itself into the nook between the person’s neck and shoulders. You inhale a lungful of syrupy perfume and papaya shampoo.

The clock keeps ticking. The rhythm anchors you, keeps you safely here on the classroom floor where there’s no cars, no highways, no forgotten seatbelts.

“That any better?”

Melissa Schemmenti moves her hand to your back to draw big, smooth circles into your shirt. You manage a dazed, exhausted nod.

The classroom is swimming back into view, bit by bit, color by color. Chairs abandoned where their occupants leapt out of them, craft supplies all over the floor. Tamir forgot his backpack.

“The kids—“

“Are fine,” Melissa says. Her arm slides off your back and around your shoulder instead. She squeezes you tight. “Janine and Gregory were on herding duty.”

“Ok,” you whisper. The clock ticks on, and your stomach dips when you read the face: ten past three.

“You wanna talk about it?” Melissa asks.

The scenery fades in and out, transforms into the woods by the highway and back into an elementary art class in disarray. A mess, both ways. You press your knuckles into your eyes and watch the sparks.

“I’m not sure,” you say.

Melissa nods and clicks open her phone. She shoots someone a text, though you only realize to look away by the time she’s about to write something to Janine.

“Thanks, though” you mumble into the crook of her neck. Your body is dipping straight past relaxed all the way into half-dead. Your fingers feel like spaghetti noodles.

Melissa huffs a laugh. “It’s no trouble.”

You sniff and wipe your cheeks. Apparently you were crying after all.

“How did you find me?”

Melissa puts her phone back in her pocket and you can feel her jaw tighten. She’s thinking.

“I was coming to check on the kids because, well. You know.” She waves her free hand toward the window. “I saw you go down. Fell right off your feet. Scared me to hell, you know.”

You grimace. “Sorry.”

“Pssh,” she says. “Like I said. It’s no trouble.”

You watch the splotch of sunlight, still persistently on the wall. Another hour and it’ll be gone.

You start to peel yourself off of Melissa, pausing mid-movement to wait for the ringing in your ears to ease up, and lean against the wall instead. Melissa, thankfully, keeps her arm around you for support.

“I was in a car accident,” you say.

Melissa’s brow shoots to her hairline when her head whips around.

“It was bad.” You rub your fingers together; a feeble attempt to get some feeling back into them. “I was sitting in the back and my best friend was driving. Her boyfriend was in the passenger seat.”

Deep breaths. In and out.

“They both died.”

“Jesus,” Melissa says, spits the lord’s name in a way that would make Barbara send both of you to sunday school. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Still.”

“Yeah.” You clear your throat, hoping to buy yourself a second of time to stave off any further admission; words you know you can’t keep to yourself right now but ones you’re embarrassed to admit regardless. “I can’t even watch tv shows about that stuff ever since. Of course it would find me in the front yard.” You scoff. “Figures.”

Melissa sighs, soft and smooth, so unlike your own strained, barely calmed breathing. “Shit.”

You can’t help the smile. “Yeah.”

“You feeling any better?” she asks.

You give your neck a little roll, wiggle your fingers and your toes. “I think so. I don’t think I can walk just yet, though.”

“That’s all right. My dinner plans can wait a couple minutes.”

Footsteps draw your attention to the hall. Barbara appears in the doorway in her light brown jacket, her and Melissa’s purses both slung over her shoulder. She takes a quick look at you and then stares meaningfully at Melissa, posing a silent question.

Heat floods into your cheeks, your neck, your ears. It could’ve been Janine, could’ve been Gregory, even Jacob, but of course it has to be Barbara Howard, the singlemost composed person in the whole world, who stumbles in on you crying into Melissa’s shoulder.

Her divorce papers were recently filed, though, so if anything, she’s probably very familiar with the feeling.

Melissa mimes ‘five more minutes’ at Barbara, and there’s a silent battle of wills between them, a conversation you couldn’t even begin to understand, after which Barbara sighs with a smile on her face, bows her head and disappears back into the hall.

“You gonna get home okay?” Melissa asks you when the sound of Barbara’s heels has faded.

“Yeah. Usually I bike, but I think I’ll walk home today. I’ll be fine.” Melissa’s face dips into a frown as she very seriously doubts you. There’s no escaping that look, and it only takes you a second to start sweating. You wonder how people actually trying to fight Melissa Schemmenti aren’t immediately recuded to cinders.

“I swear,” you say, and draw a cross over your heart. Melissa smacks her lips and tilts her head as she assesses your woozy, bulldozed self. Apparently you aren’t shaking that bad, because when she straightens herself, she says, “Okay. But.”

You want to groan. A good sign. Your feet are a little closer to ground again.

“You text both me and Barb when ya get home. Is that clear?”

You lift your hand in a salute. “Crystal.”

Melissa laughs, a smoke-worn, throaty sound that pulls you another inch closer to reality.

“Keep that up and no Schemmenti leftovers for you,” she says. “Cheeky little shit.”

She somehow drags a laugh out of you, short and genuine and good, and it’s not like none of this happened, but it lets you put a band-aid on the wound at least.

“I think I could try getting up now.” You try putting a little pressure on your foot, and though your leg doesn’t immediately smack right back to the floor, it does tremble a significant amount. Heat crawls down your neck again as you ask,

“Could you, uh…”

“’Course.”

Melissa gets to her feet with a strained groan and a ‘fuck my fucking knees’, but manages to get herself standing. She offers you her hand and you take it, keeping your free palm firmly against the wall as she pulls you to your feet. It’s an unsteady operation, one that leaves you dizzy and winded, and nearly back on your ass more than once.

Once you’re safely standing, Melissa gathers up the contents of your bag and hands it to you, but only once she’s made sure that you can actually carry it. She holds you by the shoulders all the way to the hall, and doesn’t let go until the door has safely clicked shut. You still keep your hand by the wall, though. Just in case.

“I’ll have to come in early tomorrow to clean up,” you say with a sigh.

“Don’t even think about it.”

When you look at her, Melissa is staring you down with the intensity of three suns. Whole solar systems, even. You put your hands up in surrender.

“Only if you’re sure,” you say. It is a relief, you have to admit. Especially if you still have to run to the pharmacy to get your prescription refilled.

“Don’t you worry your li’l head about it.”

She walks you all the way to the entrance, where Barbara is still waiting with a paperback book propped on Melissa’s bag.

“All cleared up, then?” she asks.

“Yup,” Melissa says. Short and sweet. Barbara doesn’t ask any further question, though you doubt it’s from lack of interest. At least Melissa has a dinner story to share, if nothing else.

You all slip out the door, but Melissa stops you there. She looks you over, head to toe, her lips pursed and her hands fiddling with the strap of her purse.

“You sure about this?” she asks. “I could give you a ride.”

You fish your keys from your bag and close your fingers around the one meant for the lock on your bike.

“I’ll be okay. And I’ll text you.”

Melissa raises her brow.

“Both of you.”

The idea of sending Barbara Howard a text of any kind outside a professional environment feels like some kind of a breach of protocol, but Barbara herself doesn’t seem phased. Outward, at least.

Janine is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this.

A cool breeze slides under your thin shirt, and your arms erupt in goosebumps.

“I better get going,” you say, but can’t get yourself to walk over to the bike rack just yet. Your fingernail digs into the notches of the key, and you try to figure out something to say, anything that could put into words just how much Melissa has done for you in one afternoon. In the end, you decide to go with something simple.

“Thank you, Melissa.”

She looks amused, truly like she’s done what anybody else would have. Like it’s nothing. You wonder if she’ll ever know how much it means, even if you tried to tell her.

“Eh.” She shrugs. “It was no trouble.”

How perfectly Melissa of her.

“See you tomorrow,” you say, and with one final wave and a smile goodbye, you start heading for home.

Behind you, once you’re definitely out of range, Barbara turns to Melissa.

“What happened?” she asks.

Melissa watches you clear the crosswalk and waits until you disappear behind the Subway.

“I’ll tell you later, hon.” She presses a kiss to Barbara’s cheek. “First we need to eat. I am too fucking hungry to talk.”

“Melissa Ann Schemmenti,” Barbara gasps, “you watch that tongue of yours.”

“Don’t you worry about that, Barb.”

“Incorrigible,” Barbara mutters and heads for the car. Melissa doesn’t miss the smile on her face.

“Love you too.”

#Melissa Schemmenti #Reader #Melissa Schemmenti x Reader #Melissa x Reader #Abbott Elementary #Reader Insert

[celestialmilfs]

For You Alone

Character: Rhea Word Count: 3,332 Warnings: Magical injury, descriptions of pain Genre: Hurt/Comfort Rating: T Description: It’s a beautiful spring morning, though a smidge too early. Lady Rhea is receiving visitors, but trouble seems to have snuck in along with them. An unexpected hero rises to fight a plot to assassinate the Archbishop, willing to throw themselves on the line, their own life be damned.

A/N: i have no clue if archbishop is supposed to be capitalized or not so i just said yes and went with it. Lots of fluff at the end because I need Rhea to hold me gently

Foreign visitors again, today.

You hide your yawn behind your palm and take a good look at the people standing in the audience chamber. Guests from Arianrhod aren’t all too common, and while you’re excited to see people from the farther reaches of Fodlan, the timing could’ve been better. Morning shifts were never really your thing.

Two men dressed in white and blue exchange words with Seteth, murmuring under their breaths to make sure their conversation doesn’t reach unwanted ears. Despite their best attempts to hide it, their frustration comes across as obvious, rather than discreet.

The Archbishop is late.

It is well past nine o’ clock and the sun has long since risen, and yet she’s nowhere to be seen. What could be keeping her?

Seteth looks entirely unperturbed by the situation, although to his credit, it is his job to remain calm regardless of the nature of the catastrophe. You take note of the dark circles under his eyes. It can’t be easy work, keeping people, important people, on their best behavior when something goes wrong.

”We’ve travelled a long way, sir,” one of the men, the one with long hair slicked back and an oiled moustache decorating his upper lip, speaks up. His eyes look hard and unforgiving, the morning sun doing nothing to soften them.

”I’m sure you understand why we’re disappointed,” the other one says. He’s equally dressed up, but his hair is shaved, only a short bristle covering his scalp. Seteth sighs.

”Of course, good sirs,” he says, and you can almost hear him grinding his teeth all the way from here. ”I only ask for a bit of patience. The Archbishop has run into unexpected difficulties this morning, but she will be arriving any moment now.”

You frown. Unexpected difficulties? You share a look with the guard standing next to you, your superior officer, a man in his late thirties with a faint, scraggly beard, but he only shrugs.

The men huff impatiently, and make it very clear that they have no interest in being understanding. In the following silence your attention is caught by a stray sunbeam, sneaking into the room through the open window behind you, and you wonder if anyone would notice if you snuck a few inches to the left so it could warm your back instead of the stone floor.

”Ah!” The man with the moustache exclaims and your head shoots up. ”Archbishop, how wonderful!”

He’s right. Lady Rhea is standing in the doorway in all her glory, the gold of her headpiece glinting in the sun like a halo. Half her face is shines with rich, brilliant yellows and oranges. Her eyes, though weighed down by exhaustion, drink up the light, absorbing the life of a brand new day, and you could almost swear she’s glowing.

You can hear several people in the room sigh. You aren’t an exception.

The Archbishop walks up to the visitors and offers Seteth a discreet nod of thanks. He bows his head in acknowledgement and takes a step back to stand beside her. The men take a deep bow.

”I thank you for your patience, my lords,” Lady Rhea says with well practiced ease, her tone a blade, honed sharp solely for the purpose of slashing at the building tension in the room. ”I ask for your forgiveness; Unfortunate difficulties presented themselves prior to my arrival, but the issue has been taken care of.”

”Of course, Archbishop,” the moustached one speaks up. His oily expression makes your skin crawl. ”Might we inquire about the nature of the issue?”

You can’t see it, but you would swear on your life that you can hear Seteth grinding his teeth again.

”A staff problem within the castle,” Lady Rhea says smoothly, without a moment of hesitation. ”Nothing you need to concern yourselves with, I’m sure.”

The men look at each other, thinly veiled excitement on their faces.

”Are you sure you don’t need any assistance?” The short-haired one asks, and though the words themselves could be interpreted as innocent enough, it’s the way he says it; the sarcasm, the slippery suggestion that Lady Rhea can’t be trusted to take care of things, that really makes you want to punch his teeth in.

”It is very kind of you to ask,” Lady Rhea replies, though a well trained ear can easily pick up the tightness in her tone. She rubs her temple briefly, before returning her hand to rest in her lap. ”But the issue is under control. There is no need to worry.” She clears her expression and smiles at the men, her withering patience brushed under the carpet as easily as a dust bunny. ”Now, what kind of business brings you to Garreg Mach?”

You zone out the second their discussion begins. Your attention is instead drawn to a bird outside on the windowsill, hopping from one edge to the other. It’s a bird of summer, you note with delight, probably returning home after a long winter spent somewhere warm. It gives the window a few pecks, before suddenly taking flight and disappearing out of your view, leaving behind only clear blue sky. There’s not a cloud in sight, only the rising sun that beckons the rest of Garreg Mach to come admire its glory.

It’s going to be a beautiful day.

A round of laughter pulls you back into the audience chamber. You turn your gaze forwards, blankly staring ahead at the balustrade on the upper floor, when movement catches your eye.

A guard, nervously fiddling with a satchel.

You frown. There’s no bag included in your uniform. Trying to get a better look at his face you squint, but from this distance it’s impossible to tell who it is.

A heavy, uncomfortable weight settles over your shoulders. You nudge your superior and when he glares at you, mouth open and ready to offer you a reprimand, you gesture at the man on the second floor. With a roll of his eyes he turns to look at the stranger, and you pray to Sothis that he’ll just sigh and tell you to get back to work.

No such thing happens, though.

He watches the stranger with knitted brows and slowly, very, very slowly places his hand over the pommel of his sword.

”I take it he’s no new recruit?” you ask him in a whisper, and he grimly shakes his head.

”Never seen this guy in my life,” he murmurs. You take a shaky breath.

”What should we do?”

”Not alert him for starters,” he hisses at you, and you snap your mouth shut. He lifts two fingers to his brow and whips them to the direction of the suspicious man, while holding eye contact with the other guard positioned on the second floor. You can barely see her nod her head.

The stranger finishes fiddling with the bag, and pulls out a tome in plain sight, clearly visible to anyone who happens to chance a glance in his direction.

”This guy is a terrible assassin,” you whisper to your superior, and though he looks at you disapprovingly, there is a slight twist to the corner of his mouth. He nods at the guard posted on the upper floor, and she slowly starts to sidle towards the suspicious stranger, who is having an awful lot of trouble opening the book.

”Better be safe than sorry,” your superior says, before pretending to sneeze. You frown at him in confusion, but realize quickly that he’s got the full, undivided attention of Seteth, who is currently watching you from across the room, strategically standing so he can face you directly. Your superior nods twice, and Seteth turns towards Lady Rhea.

”Archbishop,” he says, ”perhaps we ought to continue this in the advisory chamber?”

Lady Rhea doesn’t falter for a second. ”Of course.”

The guests, on the other hand, open their mouths to disagree, but Seteth manages to get a word in before they can start to argue.

”I’m sure your feet could use a moment of respite after such a long and arduous travel all the way from Arianrhod. Please, let us get more comfortable before proceeding.” He quiets them quickly and effectively, earning a few amicable mutters in return.

The group begins to move away at a steady pace, not too slow, but not fast enough to earn suspicion. You take a peek at the upper floor again and, to your relief, see the threat has been neutralized. Two guards have surrounded the stranger without much fuss, and the tome has been confiscated. You almost allow yourself a sigh of relief. The eyes of the entire guard in the room are glued to the silent removal of the intruder, yours included. He doesn’t seem to be making much of a fuss, though.

Your brows knit together as you watch him. There’s no real reason for him to stay quiet, especially now that he’s been caught, so what-

Oh.

Your head whips to the direction of the advisory chamber, and the second you spot movement, your vision makes a beeline towards the stained-glass window.

A shadow moves on the other side.

You don’t even stop to think. You run.

”Lady Rhea!” you shout, pure instinct taking over. You know that any warning you might give is already too late, two steps behind a simple distraction that anyone should have seen coming. Your feet thunder against the floor in slow-motion, gaze frozen in horror as the window shatters, revealing a second mage with black, oozing dark energy dripping from her hands. Seteth is turning, hand reaching for a dagger but he’s too slow, Sothis, there’s no way he’ll make it. With a flick of her fingers, the assassin sends the dark spike flying towards Lady Rhea, and you pray for speed as you leap, feet taking off the ground. Your outstretched arms find purchase on Lady Rhea’s shoulders and with all your strength you push, sending her crashing to the ground along with you. The dark mass of energy pierces your shoulder, sinking into flesh like a knife into butter, and sends a wave of pulsing – no,  crawling – agony through your body. Your mouth is open in a silent scream as you land on your side, incapable of moving. The dark energy tears into you like an invisible beast, fangs sinking into muscle and bone like they’re paper.

Someone’s bent over you, but your vision is going purple, a burning haze eating into your very ability to see as the magic steals its way into your brain. You breathe in gasps; terrified, high pitched whines for help that’s not coming. A voice, severe and commanding speaks, but the words sound muddled, as if spoken from the other side of a wall. You feel stretched thin, tearing apart at the seams as holes rip into your self, your very being, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ll just turn into smoke, disintegrate into thin air without the chance to say goodbye. The world outside feels freezing cold, but inside there’s a warmth, sweet and enticing that asks you to follow it into the dark. With every heartbeat you feel like you’re being turned inside out, like your organs have been spread for show, like you’ve been thrown to the wolves and they’re fighting for the pieces of meat that still, somehow, are connected to your body.

You beg for sweet release and let yourself fade.

A light dances somewhere beyond your vision. It’s pale: a mix of light yellows and greens, with a core of hot, unbearably bright white. The heat that you expect to be searing is only a comforting warmth, soft and gentle. For a moment you feel like you’re floating, every inch of your skin tingling slightly as the light pulses inside you, silky and smooth, like holding the hand of someone you dearly love. Something knits together, and you open your eyes.

You gasp, an inhale so deep it sends you into a coughing fit harsh enough to leave you gasping for breath. Whoever is standing by your side takes a step back, and once your breathing is even again, you take a better look at your surroundings.

Beds, dressed in white linens, cupboards brimming with herbs and potions, and shelves lining the walls, all full of medical equipment.

The infirmary.

”Welcome back.”

The voice shakes you out of your reverie and you snap your head towards it, only to immediately regret it when white-hot pain flashes behind your eyes.

”Careful.” Hands are placed on your temples, and the pain ebbs away, leaving behind only a dull echo, foggy and distant. You open your eyes again, slower this time, and thank Sothis for the dim lighting. Someone places a cup of water in your hands and you crane your neck to offer a word of thanks, only to pause, mouth open in shock.

”Archbishop!” Your voice is hoarse, creaky like an old and forgotten door. You stare at Lady Rhea, wide eyed and confused. She laughs softly.

”Good morning,” she says, and feels your forehead. ”You seem to be recovering well.”

”I– ” you start, but Lady Rhea lifts the cup in your hands to your lips before you can continue.

”Drink.” She follows her command with a stern look that you don’t dare defy. The water feels heavenly as it goes down your throat, and you heave a satisfied sigh when you’re done.

”Thank you,” you say. ”But - with all due respect - my lady, what are doing here?”

Lady Rhea sets the cup on the nightstand and places her hands over your shoulder, hovering only inches above your skin. She radiates warmth, like a fire in the hearth after a long, rainy day.

”You saved my life.” Her hands begin to glow with the same light you felt before, and the ache settled in your shoulder abates, fading into a mere memory. ”I felt it only fitting that I do the same for you.”

”Oh,” you say, color pooling in your cheeks. Lady Rhea shines the light over your bicep, your elbow, your forearm, and finally the back of your hand. You think back to the events of the morning, the fake intruder, the assassin, and-

”Wait!”

Lady Rhea immediately withdraws her hands and examines you, eyes flitting from one place to the next with dizzying speed. ”Did I hurt you?”

Your blush deepens, and you clear your throat. ”I– I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. I just– What happened to the attacker?”

”Ah,” Lady Rhea says, her shoulders relaxing, and resumes her ministrations. ”After you interrupted her plan, she was swiftly caught and taken in. She’s currently in the dungeons.” She takes your hand in hers and checks that your fingers work properly, bending each knuckle one by one. ”You’re perfectly safe now.”

You let yourself sit back and observe as she feels your palm, making sure there’s no damage on the inside either. Her hands are so soft, like the wings of a dove. You wish she didn’t have to stop.

Your whole face takes on the color of a beet. Lady Rhea glances at you, curious, but keeps working.

”You seem flustered by my presence,” Lady Rhea says, keeping her eyes focused on your fingers. You briefly wonder what it would feel like if she kissed one of them.

You clear your throat, hoping it will clear your head as well. ”I think anybody would be, my lady. It’s not everyday the Archbishop herself spends an afternoon by your bedside.”

Lady Rhea chuckles. You can see little crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes when she smiles, small reminders of all the laughter in her life. You find yourself wishing there could be more of it. If only you could just pluck joy from the heavens and offer it to her, the world would be a better place.

”I suppose not,” she says. Her hands stop moving, and she looks at you suddenly, brow furrowed in concern. ”You’re not uncomfortable, are you?”

”With you being here?” you ask. You can’t quite meet her eyes. ”It’s not that, my lady. I’m just nervous. You’re the Archbishop, after all.”

You expect Lady Rhea to relax, for some of the tension to leave her face, but instead she almost seems to deflate. She absentmindedly rubs her thumb over your knuckles, lost in thought, somewhere far away. ”I see.” Rhea sits there for a good moment before she shakes her head gently and lets go of your hand. ”I’m sorry. I did not mean to overwhelm you.”

”It’s alright,” you say, and resist the impulse to touch her, to rest your palm on her shoulder, to softly brush your fingers against hers. Instead, you nervously thumb at the sheets with your uninjured hand, and lean towards her, trying to get her attention without startling her. ”It must get lonely, being someone like you.”

You see her mask slip for a second, just one second, but it’s one too many. The faint shadow of a grimace crosses her face, and compared to her usual calm restraint, it’s like she’s been slapped across the face. The difference is so jarring you fear you might’ve overstepped, but as soon as it appeared, it’s gone, like shifting sand. The gentle smile is back, if a little somber.

”It is,” she admits quietly, with a vulnerable tremor in her voice. You don’t dare even breathe. ”But that’s my burden to bear. It’s a small price to pay for all I do.”

Lady Rhea falls silent, and after a moment, finishes treating your arm. She touches the tips of your fingers with hers, and then presses her palm against yours. The light grows brighter and then fades, until it disappears.

”Alright, try moving your arm.”

You do as you’re told and give your shoulder a roll. You lift your arm and curl your fingers into a fist, and then open them as wide as you can. Your mouth falls open in awe. Potent dark magic punched right through you at close range, Sothis knows you should at least need a sling for a few weeks, and yet you seem to have gotten off with a headache.

”It’s– It’s good as new, your ladyship,” you say, and move your awestruck gaze from your arm to look Lady Rhea directly in the eye. ”Thank you.” You search her face for a moment, looking for a trace of that deep sadness from before. You clear your throat, and continue: ”I mean it. It means a lot to me that you would take time out of your day to tend to my injury. I…” you trail off, and rub the back of your neck, nervous fingers searching for something to fidget with. ”I’m very happy that you’re here.”

Lady Rhea’s eyes widen briefly, until her expression flowers into a smile that glows with such rich brilliance that it takes your breath away.

”You are most welcome,” she says, and carefully lays her hand on your cheek. ”But I believe I should be thanking you.”

Heat crawls all the way to the tips of your ears and your mouth goes dry as you can only helplessly stare at Lady Rhea, so close and so impossibly kind. You return her smile and bow your head, knowing you can’t speak if she keeps looking at you like that. ”I wouldn’t have had it any other way, my lady.”

Lady Rhea chuckles. The sound sends your heart racing like a comet rushing to meet the ground. She lets go of your cheek and stands up, straightening her robes and brushing off imaginary dust. She turns to the door, her hand placed over the handle, but she pauses.

”I hope we will meet again,” she says, ”my hero.”

The door closes behind her with a thud. You stare after her, sitting in silence as the seconds tick by.

Sothis, how beautiful she is.

#Rhea x reader #Lady Rhea x Reader #Fire Emblem x Reader #Three Houses #Rhea #Lady Rhea #Fire Emblem Imagine #hurt/comfort

[celestialmilfs]

Divine Glory

Song: The Husk │ Rings of Saturn Lyrics

Character: Mother Miranda Word Count: 2,659 Warnings: Medical experimentation, lab whump, body horror, unhealthy relationships (though with Mother Miranda i think that’s like. a given) Genre: Whump, Hurt/Comfort

Description: ”We are going to be the harbingers of a new world, my love. An Eden of our own making.” Her words drip fanaticism, utter lunacy, but the way she stares at you, certain as a rock, unmoving even in the raging waves of the sea – It’s enough to make you believe her. --- It’s time for you to receive a Cadou parasite of your very own.

A/N: I took some high key creative liberties with both the surgery and the Cadou for reasons of a) gross and b) fun. Enjoy! (There really is comfort at the end, I promise, it’s just going to be a bit of a rough ride first)

”It is time, my love.”

The words chill you to the bone, uttered in the cold morning light as easily as asking for sugar. The food in your mouth turns to ash. A tension seeps into your shoulders, a pressure so deep and unrelenting it makes your spine go ramrod straight.

Miranda sniffs at the change in your demeanor and tuts. ”Now, now, darling. We’ve talked about this.” She places her hand on your arm, the soft affection of the act rendered meaningless by what she’s asking. ”I know you have your reservations, but we are serving a greater purpose. It requires sacrifice.”

You nod, but can’t bear to look at her. You can already feel cold sweat beginning to gather on the back of your neck. ”It still frightens me.”

”My dear,” she whispers, and places a kiss in the middle of your forehead. ”That’s perfectly understandable. I do not judge you, and neither does our god. But if we are to ever become greater than ourselves, we have to take the risk. You know this.”

”I do,” you say, though the fear turning your legs into jelly doesn’t think the same. ”You will be there the whole time?”

”Of course.” Miranda croons, and reaches across the table to hold your chin in her fingers. ”I would never abandon you at your time of need, my love.”

The words flood you with heat, and you try to ignore the pressure building in your abdomen. Now’s not the time. Miranda chuckles, tilting your head to the side to expose your neck. ”Needy?”

Your cheeks turn an embarrassing red as you nod. Miranda laughs; a dark, velvety sound that only further increases the heat in the room. She presses her face into your neck and inhales. The whimper escapes you before you can stop it.

”Perhaps once we’re finished. A success will be ample enough reason for celebration, don’t you think?”

You nod, and forget to breathe again.

”We are going to be the harbingers of a new world, my love. An Eden of our own making.”

Her words drip fanaticism, utter lunacy, but the way she stares at you, certain as a rock, unmoving even in the raging waves of the sea – It’s enough to make you believe her.

That’s her real power, supernatural abilities aside.

She stands up.

”Let us go,” she whispers, and offers you her hand.

You take it.

Miranda finishes strapping you to the table and crosses the room, nervously talking to herself as she gathers everything she needs. Your wrists and ankles are bound with leather and even though they’re pulled tight, tight enough for the edges to dig into your skin, you take comfort in the fact that it could’ve been worse. It would have been, if you were anyone else.

You can see various implements shine in the light as Miranda places them on a steel tray, arranged in a straight line, not an inch out of place. The lump in your throat grows.

”Is there truly no chance for an anesthetic?” you ask, feeble hope flickering in your chest despite your best attempts to stomp it to death.

”We’ve been over this, darling,” Miranda says with a sigh, her tone flat like she’s talking to a petulant child. ”Your chances of survival are substantially higher if you remain awake through the process. The divine gift will enter both your body and mind, and you must be aware to accept it.”

You shiver, though whether it’s the cool temperature of the room or your building nerves, you aren’t sure. Miranda slips her hands into a pair of rubber gloves and places the tray, now neat and in perfect order, on a trolley sitting right by your head. Pressure settles in your chest, slipping inside with ease, and your pulse starts to beat increasingly louder in your ears. You involuntarily twitch, wrists fighting against their bindings.

”How much will it hurt?” Your voice is small, pathetic compared to Miranda, resolute and firm, unwaveringly sure of her ability to see her mission through. She smiles to herself and places a hand on your cheek. The rubber of the glove feels uncanny, eerie even. Her thumb caresses the top of your cheekbone, soft as a feather.

”Very much.” Miranda says the words like a prayer. Your breath hitches, and her pupils grow just a little bit wider as her gaze slithers over you, top to bottom, taking you in with a ravenous hunger. She brushes hair away from your eyes and takes a shuddering breath. ”How beautiful you will be.”

You lean into her touch eagerly, desperate to drink up her affection. Something to think of while.. Well. Miranda smiles and removes herself from you to leave the room – only for a moment – before she returns with a curious jar in her hands. Inside is a black mass, twitching in clear liquid. It almost looks like it’s trying to get through the lid. You can’t help shivering. Miranda’s fingers glide across the smooth glass adoringly, her nails dragging against its surface like a lover’s touch. You can feel bile rising in the back of your throat, bitter and burning.

Miranda places the jar on the trolley gently enough for it to barely make any noise. You watch the creature inside spasm erratically and when your stomach roils, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to keep your breathing even. When you dare to take another peek, Miranda is looking down at you from above, standing still as a statue as she takes in your frightened image. She lowers herself down to you, bringing her forehead to rest against yours, and kisses you gently, like the fragile little thing that you are.

”It will be over soon, my love,” she whispers, ”I swear to be quick.”

You nod, and one traitorous tear slides down your cheek. Miranda wipes it away, and offers you one final smile.

”Are you ready?”

You doubt you could ever really be.

”Yes.”

Miranda’s lips spread into a smile. She grabs something from the tray: a dark blue rubber object, that she uses to nudge your mouth open. ”So you won’t bite your tongue,” she explains, and you let her place it between your teeth. You instinctually swallow a few times, trying to get used to the feeling.

Miranda stands still for a moment, taking deep breaths, her eyes intently set on you. She’s praying, you realize. Praying for you. You wish you could reach over and sink your fingers into her hair, tell her that you’ll be okay, that you’ve been through worse, that you’re stronger than this. In the end, you can just watch as she rapidly mutters words of protection under her breath. After a good few minutes she relaxes, and her expression turns into cold, unfeeling steel.

”Let us begin.”

She reaches for the tray and picks up a dark green bottle. Clear liquid comes pouring out into a cotton swab – disinfectant, you assume. Miranda wipes your arm with it, all the way from your wrist to your elbow. The smell is so intense it makes your eyes sting.

She picks up the scalpel and without hesitation, without a word of warning or comfort, slices into your arm.

You scream around the gag as the blade cuts deep, drawing blood like water from a drenched towel. You can feel it pouring down your arm and dripping to the floor, hot and sticky and thick like tar. You beg, no, you pray that you remember as little of this as possible. God, let there be nothing left in your memory when all is done.

Miranda doesn’t bother soaking up the blood, and switches the scalpel for the jar. It opens with little resistance. The thing inside latches to her hand with tiny little tendrils that weave their way around her fingers, the mass of the creature’s body curling into her palm like a helpless animal seeking safety. The back of your throat is burning with the taste of sick, but you swallow it down.

Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.

She brings it closer, fingers running lovingly across its back like it’s a – a rabbit, or a tiny little mouse, a harmless creature of a very different god than the one about to devour you. You start to fight your bindings, thrashing against the unyielding leather, and a litany of muffled, nonsensical pleas slips past your gagged lips as Miranda approaches. She either doesn’t bother listening or doesn’t hear you at all as she lowers the creature to you. It trembles, as if excited, and slides out of her gloved hand and under your skin.

You finally vomit.

Sick coats your mouth and nearly slips down your windpipe, sending you into a fit of wet, choked coughs. Miranda glances at you, eyes honing in on your mouth – a quick check on your breathing – before she returns her attention to the incision, and the moving mass inside it, completely unfazed.

”Please!” you cry past the gag, but your begs for mercy are met with silence. High pitched and feverish, your breath rushes out of you in terrified hyperventilation. Something thick, something pulsating slides and shifts within you, slips inside your veins, settles around sinew and finds a home in the empty spaces between your cells.

It burns.

God, how it burns.

The edges of your vision blur, dotted with black. Something divinely alive courses through you with such fervor that it’s going to burn you to ash. The world around you spins like a carousel, the ceiling of the lab turning into a cloudy puddle of unidentifiable colour. Your heart races in your chest, so fast you’re sure it’s going to explode and leave behind a black hole, a hungry portal of something unspeakably wicked. Sudden surges of energy send convulsion after convulsion through you, throwing your body into seizures, shock after shock after shock.

The world is on fire and you’re about to be reduced to ashes. You’re nothing but a speck of dust in a house fire, a singed stain in the ceiling. Not even nearly enough to contain the sheer power attempting to find a home inside you.

Every single beat of your heart ruptures something inside you, small bursts of magma melting you, eating through you, feasting. You beg for it to stop. You can’t breathe. There’s nothing left to breathe with, you think, except bloodied pulp, a wet mass of flesh.

”..me back..”

A voice, somewhere beyond the thick cotton walls of your anguish says, though you’ve long since forgotten who it could be.

Your head snaps back when your spine cracks. Tiny needles prick and poke, ripping from the inside out, trying to dig their way through and out into the sunlight. The world is consumed in overwhelming heat, so hot you can’t begin to fathom it, and oh, how it burns you. Everything you know is fire, scorching, sizzling fire, and it hurts, god, how it hurts-

Silence.

Your eyes open, sharp as ever, and you take in Miranda’s underground lab; the smell of disinfectant mixed with the iron tang of blood, instruments thrown across the room in panic, the sounds of sniffles and ragged breathing.

”Come on!”

Miranda is towering above you, hands held over your chest as she slams them down with all her strength. You expect to feel your ribs break, but instead it’s like a firm handshake, a bit of light pressure.

A cough rattles out of you, weak and broken. Miranda’s head whips around to look at you, and you can’t help noticing the tear tracks under her eyes. You go to touch her cheek, but to your confused dismay, the leather strap is still covering your wrist.

”My god,” Miranda whispers, and scrambles over to you. She pulls on your jaw until you open your mouth, and pulls out the gag before rushing to open the restraints. Her fingers tremble so hard that she can barely get the buckles open.

You brace yourself, and try to turn your head. You could swear the bone had been crushed, smashed to pieces, but it moves without issue. You look down at your arm, but there’s no wound in sight. All that’s left is a faint scar that could be weeks old by the looks of it.

Miranda gets the final strap open with a curse and immediately pulls you into her embrace, her hands clinging to the fabric of your soaked shirt like a lifeline. The way she’s trembling makes you want to take her hand, to tell her that you’re here, that you’re alright.

”I thought I’d lost you,” she mutters with a whimper, and holds you even tighter. You let your head rest on her shoulder. Miranda sniffles and continues: ”You were so incredibly brave.”

Your face crumples.

”I know, my darling,” Miranda says, her fingers – ungloved fingers, soft and tender – running through your hair. ”It’s alright. You’re safe.”

It’s really over.

The sob tears through you with such force that it would knock you over if Miranda didn’t have such a firm hold on you. Your already sore body protests with every exhausted cry, shockwaves coursing through you like the tide. Miranda presses your head back into her shoulder, and you nuzzle against her neck, trying to convince yourself that you’re here, she’s here with you, that you survived.

”It’s all over now,” Miranda whispers and gently rocks you back and forth. ”I couldn’t be more proud of you.” She presses a kiss to the crown of your head, and you whine, wordlessly begging for more. She laughs gently and obliges, letting her nose rest in your hair. ”You did it.”

A wet laugh runs free, a disbelieving joy as you’re faced with the impossible truth that you lived, that you actually came out the other side still breathing. You can barely believe it. Miranda takes your face in her hands and looks at you, really looks at you.

”How could any god refuse someone like you?” she asks, and kisses your nose, your cheeks, your chin, and your forehead, peppering you with her devotion, her care, making sure that you’re short of drowning in it. No less would ever suffice. ”My love, there is no force strong enough to stop us now. We are undying. Immortal. Eternal.”

You want to agree, you want nothing more than to show her what this new power of yours can do, but your head is so heavy, and the lights are so bright. Your attempts at movement are only met with an exhaustion so deep it’s about to swallow you whole.

”But first, I think,” she says, when your head droops. ”Rest.” She slides one arm under your knees, and another beneath your back, and picks you up as if you weigh no less than a sack of flour. You squeak, startled at how easily she lifts you, pounds of pure deadweight. Miranda laughs softly. ”Did you really think I’d let you walk?”

You consider shaking your head in reply, but the fabric of her robe, bloodsoaked and filthy, calls you towards it like a siren song, so you follow it and let your head rest against her chest. Miranda coos at you and kisses the top of your head before letting you rest. She takes a few tentative steps onwards, and when you don’t display signs of discomfort, she settles into a steady pace in the direction of your shared bedroom. The bright lights are replaced by flickering candles and lamps lit with oil, easier on your recovering eyes. You glance upwards to see Miranda watching you, her eyes shining with adoration.

”The things we will do, my love,” she says, and kisses you carefully, as if the slightest bit of pressure could break you. Her lips are chapped and torn, but right now they feel as much like home as anything. ”They will be unspeakable.”

You smile.

#Mother Miranda x Reader #Whump #Resident Evil 8 #Hurt/Comfort #Resident Evil Imagine #Reader #Mother Miranda #Mother Miranda/Reader

[celestialmilfs]

Unstoppable Force, Meet Immovable Object

Wanda Maximoff/Reader

Word count: 1569

I imagine that having a person around with the ability to make you see what she wants would be pretty beneficial for your mind if it has a tendency to trap itself into an unending loop. (I tried to keep it pretty generic for maximum relatability™)

TW: Graphic depictions of obsessive intrusive thoughts, ocd relapse and panic attack

* * *

It's like a match, sitting in a puddle of gasoline. All it takes is one tiny spark, just one thing out of place, and it's off. The flame has turned into a wildfire and there's no stopping it now.

You can feel it. That shift in perspective, as if the world's suddenly upside down and you just didn't notice it. You glance at the room, watch everyone talking to each other, but Tony's words are muffled as the wheel starts turning, and as for Natasha, you can't hear what she says at all.

Your stomach flips, over and over again, while your limbs go numb, and you launch yourself into a dimension of your own personal hell, served to you by yours truly, no less.

Okay, we've been through this. Many times. Just breathe.

Isolation is a bad idea. You're much better off not being by yourself, but god, the sheer humiliation of showing someone - anyone - the vulnerability that's about to hit you makes you want to vomit. Leaving is a decision born out of anxiety, and you shouldn't follow through with decisions born out of anxiety. It's a shitty idea. The shittiest.

"I'm going to get some air," you say, stumbling over your words as your tongue, as if glued in place, does it's best to twist it's way into forming the required syllables. You watch your own body get up and leave the room without asking for your input, and though you want to kick and scream and not leave, you're already out the door and under the dim lights of the hallway.

It's an intrusive thought, based on obsession. It's not founded on anything true.

Nausea makes your stomach roil, forcing your breath to rush in and out faster, harsher, in an effort to not display your breakfast on the carpet. It's not really working.

It's not true.

Your steps are slower, but you're so goddamn close to your room. The stinging in your eyes is starting to get unbearable, and even though you keep telling yourself no, your sight still grows blurry. A high pitched breath in, quick and erratic, followed by a slow, controlled exhale that's fueled by the rational part of your brain attempting to keep control.

It's not true. It's not. It's not true.

You're not being aware. You're not thinking rationally. You know. But the cycle starts anyway, even with you fighting it tooth and nail.

It's not true, it's not true, it's not true, it's not true.

The shit-filled carousel of your mind turns, faster and faster, but you find a sliver of comfort in the pattern, the repetition, the familiarity of it. Its very nature of being an immediate reaction, a response coded so deep into your brain that it feels like it's part of you, lets you breathe for just a moment.

You know you can't be that far away from your room, but you don't want to risk walking in case your legs decide to quit without warning. You slide down the wall, trying to breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out. Just like that. Your fingers dig into the carpet, and you can feel dirt crawling under your nails.

It's not true it's not true it's not true it's not true it's not true it's not true

Images flash in your mind as you desperately try to remember what's real, what you actually feel, how you've felt before. It's got to be in here somewhere, right? And what if you change the thought? How does that feel? Is it better? Or worse? Why is it like that? And what about another memory?

Something bad is going to happen and you should leave, you need to be alone and think this through, because the only thing happening here is logic, and logic means that there's an answer, and there's proof of that answer, and you know you can find it, you just need to find the right thing, the right image, the right idea, and then you'll be fine, you'll know for sure, and if you don't, you can always just find the stairs that lead to the roof and jump, because you deserve to-

It stops.

You see a beach. A long stretch of golden sand glittering under the unrelenting sun, interrupted by a strip of grass flourishing beneath apple trees. The sky is blue, and unmarred by clouds.

Everyone's there. Steve and Natasha are wrestling in the shallows with Bucky and Bruce as their audience, Tony stands by the grill with Pepper and Clint, while Vision seems to be fascinated by the fish that come close to the water's surface.

"You know," Wanda says from her spot right next to you and lets her book rest on her crossed legs. "When they said recreational team building day, this isn't exactly what I imagined."

You smile, amused, but you can't deny her sentiment. Usually team building included beating each other to shit, or beating someone else to shit, but together. Beach party wasn't very high on the list of possibilities.

"I'm not complaining though." Wanda stretches, her arms reaching for the low hanging branches of the trees above you, before she settles on her back, red hair contrasted against the grass so strongly that it looks like Wanda's on fire.

"Do you think they'll manage to make us something edible?" you ask, nodding towards the grill, where Tony is currently debating Pepper over something.

"I wouldn't put too much faith into it," Wanda replies, the corner of her mouth drawing up into a crooked smile. "I saw Clint pack sandwiches for us, though, in case they set everything on fire."

"Sneaky," you reply, grinning. Wanda watches you for a second, and you feel your face heating up, warmth crawling across your neck all the way down to your shoulders. You avoid her gaze, and focus on Natasha and Steve's match instead.

"I think I'd like to get to know you better," Wanda says, her voice slightly quieter than before. Your eyes find hers immediately, and your brows are drawn in confusion as you try to really register what she just said.

"I, um," you start, and inwardly congratulate yourself for your eloquence. "Thank you?"

Wanda snorts, and her laugh makes something stir in your chest. It's like a bell, twinkly and light. "This is the first time we're talking like this. Just you and me. I like it."

Your flush grows deeper. You just know it. You smile, nevertheless. "I like it too."

Wanda grins at you one more time, before picking her book back up. You focus on the horizon, Wanda's words spinning themselves over and over in your head, settling in like a bird entering its nest. It feels good. A rare moment, unclouded by fear and anxiety. It feels safe.

Wanda feels safe.

"Remember that?" her voice sneaks into your ear, but it's not coming from the memory. The illusion, to be more precise. You turn your head to face her, kneeling in front of you, hands hovering over your temples. You nod feebly. "You told me that if this happened I should ask you questions. Can I do that?"

You nod again.

"Alright," Wanda says, gently rolling the r. "What are you experiencing right now?"

"In-" you start, but are interrupted by a panicked intake of breath. Exhale. Slowly. In and out. "Intrusive thoughts."

"Good, very good. Because of what?"

Another few breaths. "Obsession."

"And you trying to figure it out is?"

"A compulsion born out of that obsession."

Wanda smiles, and just the sight of it is enough to make you burst into tears. No one should have the right to look so kind. You feel the corners of your mouth trembling, attempting to mirror her, but it probably looks more like a grimace than a smile.

"They don't reflect how I actually feel. I'm safe, and I'm okay. Nothing bad is going to happen."

"There we go," Wanda whispers, and gathers you up into her arms. Her sweater smells like spices, like she's just been cooking. You can see her working in the kitchen, but your stomach lurches. How does it make you feel? How does it actually make you feel? Why? Why doesn't it ever stop? "Hey. Hey, don't go disappearing on me, dear."

You blink, harsher than normal, and try to feel the threads of Wanda's sweater under your palms, the breath moving in your lungs, the weight of her arms around your shoulders.

Intrusive thoughts. Obsession. You're safe.

You're safe.

For a fraction of a second, it feels like there's a small ray of light peeking through unpenetrable darkness, slipping past all the shit and the garbage, reminding you that it's okay. It will be okay.

"What do you say we have a movie night?"

A weak laugh passes your lips, and it makes Wanda smile all the brighter.

"I'll even let you pick this time," she whispers, her tone conspiratorial as if she's letting you in on the worlds greatest secrets. "Should we invite Natasha?"

You nod, more enthusiastic this time, and feel the tight coil in your stomach unwinding a little. Wanda comes closer, and her lips press against your temple so softly you're uncertain as to whether they were there at all.

It'll be okay.

It's scary. So scary you're scared it might kill you, but it'll be okay.

You're safe.

#can yall tell im having a bad ocd time #Wanda Maximoff x Reader #Avengers #Marvel #Scarlet Witch x Reader #Wandavision #Wanda x Reader

[celestialmilfs]

Requests: OPEN

Currently working on: Nadja/Reader

Hello! Before requesting something, please have a quick look at my rules and my character list💖

Minors please don't interact :(

I also beta read! Just dm me if you're interested

[celestialmilfs]

Rules

Please give these a quick read before requesting!

I will only write for the characters in my list so I can get the characterization right!

If you want Reader to be a specific gender then please mention it in your request!!

Things I will write:

-Every genre except angst without a happy ending (this is mostly because I’m very averse to tragedy because i mean. we’re here for escapism, my real life is already full of bad things, I’d prefer not to put them into my writing)

-Poly pairings (let’s keep a limit of reader x 2 people in a single relationship, so I won’t get overwhelmed while writing)

-If you have squicks or other dislikes of any kind you definitely don’t want to see in your request, please don’t hesitate to say so!

-I’ll do headcanons too!

-Kink list below

Praise Kink Shibari Choking Blood Kink Dubcon (this one really depends?? if you’re unsure just send me an ask and we’ll see what we can do!) Dom/Sub Bondage Master/Pet Master/Servant Overstimulation

(I might have forgotten something, so feel free to ask for things that aren’t here too. Just be prepared for me turning them down :(  )

-Potentially triggering content I’ll cover (skip past the *** if you don’t want to see them)

Mental health issues Suicidal thoughts/tendencies Physical (NOT sexual) violence Abuse Homophobia Anxiety & Panic Attacks Shutdowns & Meltdowns Flashbacks Intrusive Thoughts

[celestialmilfs]

Character List

The following list includes all the characters I’ll write for!

COMICS

DC:

Harley Quinn Poison Ivy

Marvel:

Scarlet Witch Black Widow Agatha Harkness

GAMES

Resident Evil:

The Dimitrescus Donna Beneviento Mother Miranda Mia Winters

Fire Emblem:

Rhea Shamir Edelgard Von Hresvelg Dorothea Arnault Miriel Tharja Reina Camilla

*Note!! The 3H gang will only be written post-Garreg Mach!! (With the exception of Rhea and Shamir bc you know, they’re not teenagers)

Witcher:

Yennefer of Vengerberg Philippa Eilhart

Dragon Age

Leliana Morrigan Merrill Isabela Josephine Montilyet Cassandra Pentaghast Sera Vivienne De Fer

Kingdom Hearts

Aqua

Final Fantasy

Tifa Lockhart Aerith Gainsborough Lightning Farron Oerba Yun Fang

SHOWS

Doctor Who:

13th Doctor Missy Clara Oswald River Song Bill Potts Rose Tyler Donna Noble Martha Jones Yasmin Khan

Wednesday

Larissa Weems Morticia Addams

Abbott Elementary

Barbara Howard Melissa Schemmenti

What We Do In The Shadows

Nadja of Antipaxos

Star Trek:

Seven of Nine Deanna Troi Lwaxana Troi Jadzia Dax Kira Nerys Philippa Georgiou Michael Burnham Nyota Uhura Christine Chapel

Critical Role:

Keyleth Vex’ahlia Pike Laudna Imogen Temult Fearne Calloway

*(I haven’t seen the second campaign at all so I won’t be adding Beau, Yasha or Jester just yet!)

Steven Universe:

White Diamond Yellow Diamond Blue Diamond