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Misty had always been a light sleeper, even before the wilderness. Listening for the feather-light footsteps of her mother, who’d crack the door and stare for far too long, while Misty pretended to be asleep, or worse, the heavy, thunking footsteps of her father, who. Well.
So the first musical chiming of the doorbell wakes her easily. She sits up, dazedly, and plucks her glasses from where they rest on the side table, situates the frames on her face so she can see the clock at her bedside. The yellow yawn of the street lights, streaming through the gap in her curtains, is just enough for her to make out the time on the little analog clock on her bedside table.
Three forty-five in the morning, the hands read. Just a few hours before her alarm was set to go off, anyway. Misty blinks blearily, head foggy from deep sleep, and pushes the bedding away to swing her legs to hang over the side of the mattress, hovering over the floor, as the doorbell chimes again.
Nothing great could be waiting at her door at this hour, urgently and insistently, and with a thrill of anxiety, a pulse of excitement, she pulls open the drawer of her nightstand, shuffles through the various pill bottles and the velvet pouch that contains her vibrator, until she grasps and finds what she was looking for, her pink taser.
You can never be too careful. Misty hides some form of self defense in every room of the house. Just in case. It’s dangerous to be a woman living alone, and the blonde may be tiny, but she’s never unprepared.
She pulls herself off of the mattress, and as she’s sliding her feet into slippers, the doorbell rings again. Jeez, she thinks.
Misty makes her way out of the bedroom and down the stairs, the chill of the night air making goosebumps prickle along her bare legs. She really should’ve chosen warmer pajamas, she thinks, as she glances down at the little nighty she’s wearing, some light purple chiffon thing that only hits her mid thigh, sleeveless, a low neckline with a satin bow at the center of it.
It used to be her mother’s. She came back, and it was hanging in that yellow closet, dusty and smelling like a church rummage sale, but in it, she could pretend.
She briefly wonders if she should’ve shrugged into the robe hanging off the back of her bedroom door, and thinks about her phone, still resting on her nightstand, and how in her urgency she didn’t check the app she has, connected to her Ring doorbell, so she could’ve seen who was at the door, waiting for her.
While Misty’s a light sleeper, her brain was still foggy, she’d been out for hours, and had found herself in the middle of a familiar, fond dream, deep yawning woods surrounding her, the scent of the fire and the flesh and-
The doorbell rings again, shattering her longing reverie, and Misty shifts in her spot before the door, questions her wardrobe choice yet again, and tightens her grip on the taser clutched in her fist.
She unlocks the door slowly, bolt sliding out of place, and cracks the door open, just enough so she can peek around the opening. The sight before her smacks her square in the chest, so hard that she barely notices the sharp bite of the autumn night air.
It’s Natalie.
A thrill runs through her, pulses up from her feet to her scalp, tingling hot. Misty resists the urge to pinch herself to prove that she isn’t still dreaming. She hangs the taser on the doorknob. Then, she takes in the woman before her fully.
Nat is hunched over, bent at the middle, leaning with one arm heavily against the door frame. Her other arm is wrapped around her side, clutching tight, and her face is drawn tighter than usual, all pinched, mouth puckered. She looks slightly agonized, and Misty swallows back the delighted rush of glee, that she’s here, that she came to her, and then she smells it, the blood.
“Took you long enough,” Nat slurs, words low and leaden with pain. The brunette drags her scrunched gaze up Misty’s form, and despite the evident hurt radiating from her, she smirks easily, purrs, seductively, sort of, maybe, “What are you wearing?”
Misty flushes from head to toe, and opens her mouth to retort, I wasn’t exactly expecting company, but Natalie’s head lolls back on her shoulders, like she’s nodding off a bit, and in the pallid yellow light of the hall, Misty notices how ashen she looks.
She doesn’t think, really. She lurches forward, door swinging open so wide that it smacks loudly against the coat rack and wall behind it, taser knocking against wood. Misty grips against Nat’s waist, steadying her, and Natalie yelps in pain, a sound that sucks the blonde backward, twenty-five years.
She loosens her grip a bit, always too eager, too harsh, and guides Natalie backward, into the house. Nat stumbles as she goes, moving like liquid, tripping over her own boots, and she groans, long and low, rumbling outward from her chest.
Misty holds her up easily, the muscles in her arms having been built up somewhat, from years of turning bedridden patients, assisting others into wheelchairs what feels like a million times over, and suddenly, that thrill appears again, like this is what all that fussing was meant for, to help her.
Settling one arm more firmly, slung low around Nat’s hips, since whatever injury the brunette is sporting seems to be higher up on her ribs, she uses her free hand to slam the door shut, locking it, then, with some restraint, gentle, she reminds herself, she settles it back at Natalie’s shoulder. Nat feels like a sack of potatoes, barely holding herself up, and her hands flail around uselessly, gripping for something.
“What happened?” Misty asks, voice urgent, letting slight worry eclipse the rush she feels, as blood coats the hand around Nat’s waist. She leads her slowly backward, toward the kitchen where her first aid kit sits, tucked away in a cabinet.
It takes Nat a little too long to reply, her mouth opening a few times, eyes rolling back as her hands finally settle on Misty’s shoulders, allowing herself to be guided, feet dragging. Misty tries, and fails, to tamp down the glittering spark that slices through her with the intentional contact.
“Bar fight,” the brunette finally mumbles, and that’s all she offers.
Misty rolls her eyes, typical of her, she thinks, to be so vague, even in what seems like an at least slightly dire situation. She says nothing in reply, and when they finally stumble together, intertwined, into the kitchen, she very sloppily settles Natalie into a dining chair, propping her up before stepping back and surveying her.
The other woman can barely keep her head up, tipping it over to rest on her shoulder, limp hair falling in her face. There’s a smear of blood on her cheek, and her hands are covered in it, glowing slick and red, her left arm comes back up to press at her side, right on her ribs. She grits her teeth on a groan as she does, and Misty bites down on her own tongue, hard, ignoring the flush spreading throughout her flesh. The blood is-
It reminds her of too much.
She tries to keep a clear head, takes a deep breath and turns, ripping open the door of the cabinet that contains her, admittedly, overstocked first aid kid. But it comes in handy, doesn’t it?
Blood smears along the handle, on the panel of the cabinet.
The blood she imagines she can hear splattering against linoleum makes her shudder, it makes her ache.
Her teeth clench against the feeling, against the urge to fall to her knees at Natalie’s feet and watch her bleed out, to attach her mouth to the wound and lap it up like a kitten clinging to its mother, to its life force. Flickers of hung deer, of hung girls, one and the same, she blinks. Misty pulls out fistfuls of supplies from the open case, rolls of bandages and medical tape and gauze pads, little packets of alcohol wipes, scissors.
As she works, red, stained fingers shaking with pure, unadulterated adrenaline, Nat scoffs behind her.
“Jesus, Misty. I haven’t been disemboweled.” Her voice is forcibly light, colored with pain, making an attempt at humor, but it falls flat and raw between them. Misty feels the hot, wet and heavy rungs of small intestines in her shaking teenage hands, and she fumbles, drops the gauze, plastic slippery with blood, to the floor.
The blonde huffs a laugh as she bends to retrieve it, eyeing Natalie, who’s slumping lower and lower in her seat by the second, fingers looking more shiny with blood than they did just a moment ago. Misty narrows her eyes.
“But you got what? Stabbed?” she scoffs, voice filled with condescension. Misty allows the feeling of smug, bright happiness to swell in her lungs. She’d told Natalie those bars she frequents were shady, filled with dark, seedy characters, weirdos. And now, look who turned up, needing the blonde, again. Misty bites the inside of her scarred cheek, hard, fighting a smile.
Natalie’s gaze is turned toward the floor as Misty shuffles forward and dumps the supplies on the table, and she shrugs, noncommittally, then immediately her face pulls inward, grimacing.
The blonde turns again, steps to the sink to scrub her hands under scalding water. The orange scented antibacterial hand soap mixes unpleasantly with the metallic iron smell, she watches the pink suds spin, before going down the drain. She hums Happy Birthday, twice under her breath, just to be safe.
There weren’t any gloves in the first aid kit, and while she knows there’s a massive stash in the basement, she selfishly wants to keep feeling Natalie, slick and hot under her fingers, nothing separating them, body and soul and insides.
As she finishes up, Misty dries her hands on a clean dish towel, and when she faces Natalie again, the dark joy that was glowing warmly in her stomach falters entirely for the first time since the bleeding brunette showed up on her doorstep. Nat is slumped fully now, out cold, chin tucked against her chest, hair shielding her face in a stringy curtain. The hand that was just cradled around her ribs has fallen, limp into her lap, and as Misty approaches, a sick sense of dread crawls up her spine, settles in the pit of her stomach like a heavy, freezing stone.
She gingerly pushes the sides of Natalie’s leather jacket away, tucking them by her back, soft. She skirts her fingertips along the darkened fabric of Nat’s shirt, and they come away sticky. The shirt is soaked, all down the right side, staining the white of the graphic at the center, a beautiful blonde woman, with a similar haircut to Natalie’s all those years ago, clutching a microphone, mouth wide open. Debbie Harry, she remembers, suddenly. Nat had always had a thing for her, she could tell.
Misty gets to her knees, bones digging rough and biting into the floor, but she barely feels it. She pinches the hem of Nat’s shirt and drags it upward, exposing all that skin, usually tan and warm, but now sallow and stained bright red, smeared down the entirety of her flat stomach. When the shirt bunches around Nat’s breasts, clad in a mesh black bralette, which Misty is proud she’s able to ignore, she sees it. A bright red, gushing gash, a bit less than two inches across, so deep that the blood pumping out of it appears black and thick, like oil.
“Oh, Nat,” Misty sighs, to her unconscious form, and she pushes the damp dish towel still in hand against the wound, pressing down hard. Natalie moans loudly, the sound rough and broken, like an animal clawing up her throat. She tips to the side a little, shoulder knocking against the table, and it skids along the floor with a whine.
She can’t tend to her like this, Misty realizes, having to support the brunette’s weight and apply pressure at the same time. She sighs, and with a slight struggle, she wraps her free arm around Nat’s waist again, attempts to gently lower her to the floor, but with her unconscious, it’s all dead weight, and she thuds to the floor, hard. Misty freezes, but Natalie barely moves, just makes another little soft noise of pain.
Misty breathes a sigh of relief, and pulls her arm out from under the brunette’s body, finally free to fix. Still applying pressure with the dish towel, she rucks Natalie’s shirt entirely up over her breasts, wrinkling her nose a little at the state it’s in. She’ll never get the blood out, even with all of Misty’s tips she has for getting any stain out of any fabric. She thinks suddenly of the scissors on the table beside her, wonders if she cut the other woman’s shirt off, could she keep the blood soaked scraps?
Shaking her head, eyes pinching tight, focus, Misty. Jeez, she thinks. She pushes at the frame of her glasses with her free hand, smearing blood along the glass on the way, and she swallows down the shudder that threatens to tremble through her. Misty reaches up and grabs at a packet of gauze pads, pulling them down and setting them to the ground beside her. Slowly, she peels the towel back, already soaked and thick with blood, and leans down a little to get a better look at the wound.
Natalie did, in fact, appear to have been stabbed. Misty allows instinct to consume her, to swallow her whole, tries hard to ignore how her mind fills in the blanks, imagining against her will, the glittering canopy of trees above her, the woods wide and swarming. It’s carnal, almost, this incessant need to care, to heal. Whatever the cost, whatever the gore splattering up around her and slick on the linoleum, it’s worth it, it’s for Natalie. Her best friend.
Her mind races, Natalie was up, sort of, and was talking, not choking on rasping, wet coughs, was able to speak. Her lung probably hadn’t been punctured, at least, she’d presumably driven herself here, Misty realizes, and feels a little better. Though, the passing out from blood loss probably isn’t a great sign.
Misty can fix this, she thinks. With the whispering of the wilderness surrounding her, she feels that sweet-hot glow of imagined appreciation, how Natalie will probably trip over herself thanking Misty. It makes her feel a little better, knowing what she needs to do. She’d never had any trouble doing the necessary thing, not with all the praise that (usually) followed.
With a deep, shaking breath, half sick anticipation, half fear, she raises two fingers to the slowing but still oozing wound, and presses in.
A scream strangles out of Natalie’s throat as she does, the brunette coming to with the pain of it, and Misty probes in as far as her fingers will go, gently, checking the depth. She bites her lip to contain the tiny whine that tries to escape, Nat coating her fingers in blood, her hot tissue giving beautifully around her.
“The fuck are you doing?” Natalie borderline growls at her, words slurred, squirming to try and get away from the blonde, but Misty pins her to the floor with a hand on her hip.
“I’m checking how deep it is,” Misty says, matter-of-factly. She pulls her fingers back out, the freshest blood, dripping, only coming up to just under her second knuckle. Some stitches should do just fine.
Natalie groans as Misty pulls away, writhing on the floor. Her hands are curled into tight fists, rings tinged with a red sheen, one hand beating against the floor in a punch, hard, once.
“If I’d known you were going to finger-fuck my stab wound I would’ve just gone to the fuckin’ hospital,” she says, strained, teeth gritting.
More blood smears along Misty’s glasses as she fiddles with them, flushing hot with Natalie’s word choice. She clears her throat as she reaches for the packet of gauze, opting to rip open the plastic seal with her teeth, since her right hand is slippery, slick with Nat. When a little piece of plastic gets stuck to her tongue, it tastes like meat. She swallows it.
“Here, hold down on this,” she directs, ignoring Nat’s words. She presses the thick gauze to the wound, making the other woman hiss and thrash, the back of her skull cracking against the hard floor beneath it. The hospital scent of it all reminds her of too much, of bright white fluorescents after the rescue, it reminds her of her mother. She guides Natalie’s shaking, clammy hand back up to her side, presses down pointedly on top of it, and doesn’t move until Nat follows her lead.
It isn’t until she’s at the sink, about to wash her hands, that she wonders why Natalie didn’t go to the hospital. She allows the imaginary compliment to sweep through her with a glittering flourish, her stomach and chest swelling with pride, and Misty grins, privately. Her hands are shaking, trembling, but she finds that she isn’t afraid, which doesn’t surprise her. Even if Natalie bleeds out on her kitchen floor, she’d still feel chosen, sought after and desired. She sighs happily, and Natalie whines loudly from where she lays, and Misty feels a pang of sympathy, that urgent need to help, to be useful. Staring down at her hands, so recently soft and clean, now soaked in rust-colored drying blood, stuck under her nails, she wishes desperately that she could suck them clean. She can almost taste the metal. But she feels Natalie’s eyes on her, prying, so she turns on the sink and starts scrubbing.
“Are those bunny slippers?” Nat asks, scoffs really, but it’s not entirely unkind. Misty flushes, anyway. Natalie has always been so cool. “Where’d you even get those in an adult size?”
Misty tries to laugh, as she washes her hands under the water that’s so hot it burns, but it comes out flat, a little plastic giggle. Underneath her short bare nails, and along the beds near where she picks and peels her skin off, remain ringed with red, and she hopes with a white-hot desire that when she’s alone she can take her tongue to them, suck them clean.
“I have small feet, they’re from the kids section at Wal-Mart,” Misty admits, tight and thin, defensive for no reason, and as she steps back, drying her hands on another fresh towel from the drawer, she glances down at the slippers, pink and worn, ears flopping. There’s a drop of blood on the left one, near the nose, and she wishes Natalie would stain everything in her house, mark her whole life with her insides.
“Cute,” Natalie says, but her usual sarcasm is lighter now, teasing, soft. Misty smiles a little, preening, eyes connecting with the other woman’s, warmth resettling in her stomach, sweetly, before she looks away. She shuffles to the side, digging through the first aid kit for the supplies she needs. Sterile thread and a needle, something to sanitize the wound. All Misty can find is a bottle of saline wound wash, and she feels a pinch of regret mottled excitement, imagining how it’ll sting.
Natalie looks… rough. Her ruined shirt bunched up above her bra, stomach both shiny with new, fresh blood, and dried, flaking red. She looks a little pale, her stomach heaving and twitching against where she presses the soaked gauze against her wound. Her face is screwed up, eyes pinched shut tight, slightly greasy hair fluttering with every breath she exhales. Misty tries hard not to find her beautiful, like this, wounded and small, needing, shaking.
The blonde crouches down next to Nat, knees meeting the hard floor again. She sets her supplies down in a little pile next to them, adjusting and readjusting the placement.
“Can I take off your jacket?” Misty asks, hands already coming up to rest at the buttery soft leather. Natalie nods and sits up a little, grunting quietly, and Misty reminds herself to move slowly, gently, tries to tamp down the excitement that feels blistering at the center of her.
The air between them feels tight and tense, crackling with anticipation, this mutual, needing desperation. Symbiosis.
Natalie eyes the supplies next to her, the needle and thread, and she grimaces as Misty guides her right arm out of the sleeve of her jacket, the blonde applying pressure with her own hand as Nat moves.
“Do you at least have something I could drink?” Nat asks, her voice rough with pain. Misty can tell she’s trying to put up a front, always acting tougher than she really is.
“Alcohol is a blood thinner, and I really can’t have you losing any more. You already lost consciousness once,” Misty says, trying to infuse some regret into her tone, but she fails miserably, her words coming off more delighted, coated with glee. If Natalie notices, she doesn’t comment, just huffs in reply, tilts her head to the side, jaw rocking.
“Just… hold your shirt up for me?” the blonde asks, ignoring the way her cheeks color as she asks, allowing her gaze to settle on Natalie’s breasts, just for a second, the dark mesh of her bra. She thinks she can see her nipples, but she looks away quickly, eyes settling on her stomach instead, flat and slightly defined. The blood isn’t unappealing. Misty can see the waistband of her fishnet tights sitting just above the top of leather pants. She wonders if Natalie ever takes them off. She swallows.
Natalie still doesn’t speak, just takes a breath in and adjusts on her elbows, her left hand clutching at the blood-crusted fabric of her shirt, tendons in the back of it flexing as she grips hard.
“This is just to sanitize the wound, before I stitch it up. It’ll probably sting,” Misty says softly, an understatement, trying not to sound too dreamy about it all. She peels the gauze back, and sets it down on the floor. She imagines collecting all of the bloodied waste around her, keeping it in jars. She steadies her left hand against Nat’s trembling ribs, the tips of her fingers grazing the edge of her bralette.
Uncapping the saline spray with her thumb, she flicks it to the floor, and lines the nozzle of it up to Nat’s oozing injury.
“Ready?”
Natalie nods, gnawing on her lip, she squeezes her eyes shut. Misty presses down, spraying the solution into the wound, bloodied pink water dripping down skin and onto the floor, and Natalie moans in pain, her head tipping backwards.
“Fuck,” she grits out, the muscles in her neck clenching, throat bobbing.
“It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m almost done, you’re doing so good,” Misty says, her voice all saccharine sweet, babying, slightly condescending. She hopes she’s as good at being comforting as she is cleaning up messes. Natalie swallows again, visibly, still whimpering, low in her throat.
Her free fist beats at the floor again, pounding once, twice, before Misty releases the button of the spray. Natalie relaxes obviously, her stomach pushing and pulling, her whitened lip pinking back up as she releases it from the grip of her teeth. The blonde feels a hot swoop in her stomach, she bites down on her own lip, hard, just for a split second, imagining.
After a quick breath, she sets the solution down, her now free hand coming up to rub at Natalie’s dripping wet side.
“Okay, that should do it. Can I start suturing, or do you need a minute?”
Her voice is too plastic, coddling, she knows. She glances at the blood, the Natalie smeared across the lense of her glasses. She can’t imagine ever wiping it off. Nat has quieted, and Misty misses the whining. The deep, gut wrenching ache to hurt and then soothe, it’s too hot. It’s burning her up.
“No, just keep going. I wanna get this over with.” Nat sounds so tired, which makes sense. Blood loss does that to a person. But Misty can’t help but prickle with the perceived rejection. Does Natalie really want to get away from her that badly?
“Okay!” she chirps, then cringes internally. Too chipper for the current moment, she thinks. Misty pushes forward anyway, plucks another square of gauze from the packet to wipe up some of the blood, the red tinged water on Natalie’s skin. She readies her supplies, unwrapping the suturing thread and needle, looping it through the hole.
She rests her left hand back against the brunette’s clammy skin, takes a breath and pinches the gaping flesh together. Nat gasps, and Misty feels the phantom clutch of pain the woman must be feeling, it takes her breath away for a second, it’s white-hot. Her gaze drags up, settles on Natalie’s face. She finds dark, hazel eyes already on her own. She squirms under the intensity of it. Natalie’s mouth is parted, slightly, lips swollen from being bitten. Her face has regained some color, Misty thinks. She poises the needle before puckered flesh, a question, and Nat nods her ascent.
The wound needs about ten stitches, and without lidocaine (which Misty may have in her basement, but that’s neither here nor there) it’s slow going, Natalie biting out curses, squirming and moaning with every prick and tug of her torn apart skin. Misty tries to console her, softly speaking, telling Nat how good she’s doing and how it’s almost over. Nat doesn’t reply, just keeps shifting against the floor, whining loudly and rocking her head back and forth.
Misty is ashamed that when she shifts her own thighs together, the scratchy fabric of her nightgown, streaked with blood rubbing over her soft thighs, she finds that she’s wet, through her underwear even. She flushes bright, wrinkles her nose at herself.
The feeling of being needed, the wantedness, the utter devotion she feels crackling in her every cell, has shifted, turned into something hot, molten, a wild animal in the cradle of her hips. With every new smear of blood along Nat’s ribs, along her own fingers, she finds it mirrored against the insides of her thighs. The clawing creature, deep in her churning guts, needs right back.
She has about three more stitches to do, the wound closing up and bleeding a little less with every one she places, and she feels both pride and longing flash in her. Her work is nice, tidy. But she doesn’t want this to end. Her nostrils flare, the scent of blood suddenly overwhelming. She feels seventeen.
Natalie drops one hand to Misty’s thigh, squeezing, digging her nails in. Misty tries to swallow the gasp that shoots up her throat.
“How many more?” Nat asks, panting. Misty twitches a little at the sound of it, thighs pressing together involuntarily. She can’t tell if she really hopes that Natalie doesn’t feel it.
“Two or three more, is all,” Misty says, her voice airy. She focuses hard on what she's doing, the blood on the pads of her fingers making the work slippery and hard, she sticks Nat again, threading the needle through and pulling tight. The hand on her thigh, still digging in hard, makes her mind all fuzzy and hot.
Nat grumbles in pain, her nails sharp against the blonde’s tender flesh. Misty suddenly feels a thread of panic, pushing through her pulsating arousal. She’s desperate for this to not end. The thought of Natalie leaving as soon as she’s finished makes her chest ache hollowly.
“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks, letting the fear of it color her words, hoping it comes across as worry instead of what it really is.
“Just some asshole, talking shit.” That’s all Nat says, her voice tight, trembling. The way she says it reminds her of high school. Natalie, small, picking fights she couldn’t ever handle herself. Misty can almost hear how her teeth grind together. Her hand flexes again, and that’s when Misty notices the way her knuckles are split, shining through under the blood caked there. She swallows, ignores the way the image of Natalie punching somebody in the face sends a thrill through her.
The brunette doesn’t seem interested in talking at all, really, as she writhes on the floor. As Misty throws the last stitch, pulling it into a knot and reaches for the scissors to snip off the extra thread, she breathes deep, filled with regret. She fights against the violent impulse to lean down and kiss the raw, stitched wound. She licks her lips.
“Okay, I’m all done here,” she sighs, watches Nat sag and deflate with relief. “Let me just clean it up and put a bandage over it. You’ll probably want to see a doctor, anyway, to get some antibiotics. I don’t have any here.”
Misty feels a pinch of annoyance with herself, right in her sternum, for not being able to do everything Natalie needs.
The brunette’s head tilts, leaning against her shoulder. She shifts on her elbow, takes a deep breath. She has a strange look on her face, like she’s contemplating something. Misty feels pinned by it, she feels like a prey animal under her probing gaze. She shifts uncomfortably, her mind racing as she reanalyzes everything she’d just said.
When Natalie moves her hand off of her thigh, Misty feels a sharp stab of agony. She feels the sudden urge to cry, but her eyes don’t water at all. This is what she’s meant for, she knows. Taking care of her family, not the stupid old people at work, who smell like mothballs and throw food and spit at her and don’t look at her with heavy, knowing eyes. She aches a little, realizing how much she’s missed this. She wonders if it’ll ever happen again.
The feeling of a sticky hand wrapping around her wrist is like a shock to the system, like somebody poured a bucket of ice water over her. She suppresses a shiver, looks to Natalie’s fingers gripping her, the blood gleaming under the bluish-dim lighting of the kitchen. Misty shifts uncomfortably, nervously. For once, she finds that she can’t imagine she knows exactly what Nat is thinking.
Pushing her glasses up her nose, she finally meets the brunette’s eyes again. She’s staring down at Misty’s blood soaked hand, her eyebrows pulled tight together, the smear of blood on her cheek seems like it’s glowing. Misty opens her mouth to speak, and then-
“You like this, don’t you?” Her words are slightly harsh, accusatory, but there’s a thread of something else there, something Misty can’t place. She shakes her head, denying, as always, curls bouncing around. Again, she opens her mouth and gets interrupted.
“Don’t lie.” Natalie’s gaze is on her’s now, their eyes locked, something burning between them. Misty feels like a specimen, a butterfly on a cork board, and her cheeks burn. She tugs at her wrist, but Natalie just tightens her grip.
“Is it the blood?” she asks, eyebrows lifting. There’s something dark, dancing, to her tone. Misty presses her thighs together. “Or something else?”
Mouth opening and closing like a fish, Misty tries to find the words.
“I…” she tries to settle on something, but everything her brain comes up with sounds stupid, raw and pathetic. “I like taking care of people. That’s all.” The you of it all remains unsaid, but Misty can see in Natalie’s eyes that she knows. She always has.
“I can see that,” Nat says, laughing at her now, and she nudges Misty’s knees where they sit, gesturing with a pointed tilt of her head. Misty flushes furiously, face scrunching up indelicately, offended.
This time, when she opens her mouth to defend herself, she isn’t interrupted with words, but with Natalie turning her wrist in and up, pressing her own fingers to her mouth. Misty gapes, her eyes going wide, her fingertips smeared with Nat brushing against her lips. She can almost taste the blood. She pulsates.
Nat is looking at her like it’s a challenge, like it’s a dare. There’s a seed of doubt, a prickling fear that if she does suck her own fingers clean, even though it’s wrong, and weird, that Natalie will be disgusted, that she’ll immediately scrape herself off of Misty’s kitchen floor and leave. Misty’s always been the butt of a joke she doesn’t understand.
Inevitably, the desire wins out. It always does. She dips forward, mouth opening wide, and takes her fingers into her mouth, sighing a little at the feeling of sucking Nat off of herself. It makes her shudder. She can’t think of anything more romantic.
She watches, cheeks hollowing around fingers, as Natalie’s eyes turn glassy, tracking the movements of her mouth. The brunette’s own mouth parts, the grip she has on Misty’s tiny wrist turning harsh. The sensation of it and the taste, iron and metal and beauty slicking on her tongue, makes Misty whine, high in her throat, eyes pinching shut tight.
Natalie inhales, sharp, as Misty sucks fervently.
“Fuck,” is all she sighs out, before she yanks Misty’s hand out of her mouth, rough, and the squeak of protest dies on the blonde’s stained tongue as their mouths meet, teeth cracking together in a flash of bright pleasure-pain.
Misty is aware that she sounds pathetic. She’s loudly moaning and breathing heavily before Nat’s tongue even slides into her mouth. The brunette groans softly, at the taste of her own blood or at the feeling of Misty’s tongue meeting her own, Misty isn’t sure.
She’s been tugged forward on her knees, leaning over Natalie, who’s still propped on an elbow. Her hand is still caught in the firm grip of the other woman, her silver rings biting into her bones. As Natalie sucks on her tongue, Misty whines loudly, and brings her free hand to settle on Nat’s chest, below her shoulder, the heel of her hand brushing the top of her breast.
Natalie makes a soft little noise, which twists harshly in the blonde's lower stomach, and she nips at Misty’s lip as she pulls back.
“What are you doing?” she asks as Nat moves away, and her own voice grates at her, the neediness practically dripping from her lips.
She watches as Natalie lays back against the floor, her lithe body stretching invitingly, her stomach tensing and then relaxing as she moves. She lets go of Misty’s wrist on the way down, and the blonde immediately feels a pang of loss, missing the controlling touch.
“Come here,” is all Nat says, and Misty shivers at the roughness of it. It’s low in a different way, leaden with something other than pain.
Complying, Misty shifts up on her knees and leans over the brunette, being mindful of her right side, where the wound sits, uncovered, raw and bare. She hovers over Nat, uncertain.
Natalie huffs and rolls her eyes, wincing just a little as her hand comes up to sit heavy at the back of Misty’s neck, dragging her back down so their open, wet mouths meet. Misty moans again as soon as contact is made, and she feels the sides of Nat’s mouth tick up in a smirk.
Her hands rest awkwardly in her lap, her thighs squirming and pressing together, every movement sending a shock up her spine. Misty doesn’t think she’s ever been this wet in her life. Nat kisses like she ate, starving, consuming all, rough and hard and fast. Violent. Nothing like the timid, sweaty men Misty had kissed before. It feels like her soul has been set on fire, it feels like everything is clicking into place. She smiles back against Nat’s mouth. She wonders if her teeth are stained red, still.
With another harsh bite at Misty’s swollen, slick bottom lip, she turns her face into the crook of the blonde’s sloping neck, attaching her teeth to the flesh, biting and sucking. Nat grabs at Misty’s wrist again, the left one this time, and she drags it up out of her lap to settle on her breast. She lets go and loops her hand to meet the other at Misty’s neck, as the blonde squeezes roughly at the flesh in her hand, Natalie’s hard nipple pressing into her palm. Nat sighs against her neck, a hot push of air against spit slick skin making Misty shudder.
She’s vaguely aware of how loud she’s being, right above Natalie’s ear, whining and breathing heavily, rutting against her own legs. Somewhere far off, she feels the brunette’s hips jump.
“Natalie…” she sighs, dreamy. Her name feels like heaven on her lips, in any context, but especially like this.
“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” Nat almost growls, and she sounds angry about it. Misty pauses in her movements, in her sounds. She wonders if she’s been too eager.
But then Natalie grasps at her side, her hip, fists the fabric of her nightgown and pulls hard, til Misty gets the hint and scoots up further, swinging her leg over Nat’s waist, settling down, her clothed cunt making contact with her slightly muscular stomach. She can’t help but moan, loud, and her hips snap forward uncontrollably. The hand she has around Natalie’s breast spasms, she reaches down to pinch at her nipple, making her hiss.
“You’re so wet,” Nat says, her voice seductive and low, and Misty pulses, nods. “Have you been this whole time?”
She flushes with the question, the humiliation hot and heavy, but it twists pleasurably, makes her mouth drop open on a little whine. Her right hand drops to the floor, beside Nat’s head, her body fully covering the other woman’s now, and she nods again, allows herself to drag her pulsing cunt up the flat plane of Natalie’s stomach. She couldn’t stop the rolling of her hips if she tried, she thinks.
“Jesus,” Natalie mutters, something like awe coloring the word, and she slips her fingers underneath Misty’s nightgown, now smudged with more blood than before, and when she snaps the band of Misty’s panties, the blonde shrieks a little.
Her fingers, slightly warmer than before, Misty notes with pride, slide up her soft stomach, teasing, before they reach where her breasts sit in the cups of the nightgown.
“Please, fuck, please, Nat,” she begs, for her hands on her breasts, for anything, really. Her voice is shrill, but Misty’s too worked up to care. She continues rolling her hips, the drenched fabric of her panties sticking to her. The image of Natalie’s bloodied fingers on her clit, inside her cunt, comes to her, unbidden, and she moans.
Natalie tugs on the cups and her breasts pop out of the bottom. She tries not to blush as Nat pushes the mess of fabric up, exposing her cotton panties, dotted with tiny pink flowers which Natalie snorts at, the soft plush of her stomach, then her bare breasts, nipples hard and aching. Holding the nightgown up with one hand, Nat runs her other palm up the skin of her stomach in a way that feels too tender, and Misty feels something too close to hope jump up her throat. She pushes it out of the way, instead breaking into a moan when Natalie cups one of her breasts, heavy in her hand, and squeezes hard.
Suddenly she feels selfish, and then embarrassed. Here she is, rutting against Nat’s stomach, smearing her slick, mixing with the drying blood, all too similar to the nights in which she humped her pillow, imagining something not far off from this. She feels her chest pinken with the humiliation, and hopes that Natalie can’t see it.
Determined to make Nat feel at least half as good, Misty pulls the cup of her bra down, and leans forward quickly, attaching her mouth to the brunette’s hard nipple. They moan in unison, Natalie’s hand tightening on her breast, then moving to pinch at her nipple. Misty lets out an airy sigh through her nose. She bites gently, and when Nat moans softly, her hips twitch, dragging again.
Things blur, after that. There’s Natalie gripping at both of her breasts, pinching her nipples almost cruelly, making Misty shriek against Nat’s chest, sucking bites into the flesh, flicking her tongue against her nipples. There’s Natalie fisting a hand in Misty’s hair and yanking, Misty grinding down faster and faster against the brunette’s stomach, growing frustrated by the lack of friction as she gets slicker and hotter by the second.
Nat drags her by the hair back up to her mouth, tongue sliding past her teeth quickly, their spit smearing together in a way Misty always found unappealing with men, but now, it’s hot, it’s raw. It’s perfect.
They pant into each other's mouths, and Misty notices that Nat is squirming underneath her, wriggling. It sends a hot lurch through her stomach, and she realizes all at once that if she keeps going like this, it’s only a matter of minutes before she comes. The thought of coming before Nat has even touched her feels painful. It takes everything in her, but she stops rutting against the brunette, drawing back a little, their noses brushing.
“Fuck me?” she asks, making her voice high and whiny, pleading, widens her eyes and blinks sweetly at the other woman. It does the trick, she thinks, when Nat’s eyes flash. She doesn’t say anything, just drags a hand from where it was sitting between Misty’s shoulder blades down to the hem of her underwear. Misty can’t help the twitch of her hips, the little gasp that she can’t tamp down.
Natalie moves and palms her ass roughly, pushing her hot cunt against her stomach again.
“Nat,” Misty edges, voice slightly hard, and Natalie laughs in her face.
“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” Her voice is dark, teasing. It makes Misty hot all over, makes her clench around nothing. She gets the feeling the question is rhetorical, but she nods anyway. She’d say anything, at this point.
Nat smirks up at her, and brings her hand down to smack Misty’s ass hard, once, and the blonde can’t hold in the pornographic moan that escapes her, her eyes slamming shut, hips rocking again. Natalie makes a little pleased noise, and then grips the side of Misty’s panties.
For a brief, thrilling second, she imagines that Nat is about to rip them off, but she just tugs them down until Misty can pull one leg out of them. She resettles on top of the brunette, her bare cunt now making contact with the warm, tacky skin, and she groans lowly. Natalie huffs on a breath, and trails one hand down Misty’s side, her fingers eventually making contact with her thigh, teasing.
Misty whines, pleadingly, and it seems to do the job fine, because Nat stops messing with her and cups her cunt, fingers pressing deliciously against her hot, dripping flesh.
“Fuck, Misty,” Nat says, under her breath, as Misty lets out a noise that might as well be a wail. She burns a little, shame creeping up and threatening to bubble over the arousal she feels coursing through her entire being, but then Natalie splits her open and runs the pads of two fingers along her dripping opening, and all embarrassment is forgotten.
“Oh, Natalie, please,” she whines, twitching against her fingers. She threads her fingers into Nat’s hair, tugging a little, pleading, her other hand digging into the flesh of the brunette’s shoulder. When she opens her eyes, Nat is staring up at her with a strange look on her face. She feels peeled open, like her organs are on display.
Nat drags her fingers through her cunt one more time, then she settles, presses against Misty’s clit roughly, making Misty groan, low in her throat, and close her eyes again. Nat’s rough, calculated rubbing makes heat lick up her spine, makes her whimper and whine and shift, chasing the feeling. She feels embarrassingly close already, she never wants this to end, she thinks. She could die like this.
Despite Misty’s desperation to prolong the situation, when Natalie dips her fingers into her opening, shallowly, asking, she can’t help but nod rapidly, a pathetic little please escaping her as she tries to settle down onto the waiting digits.
Her fingers sink into Misty, hard and rough, immediately fucking into her, hooking to curl up into the ridges of her front wall. Misty’s eyes snap open, her mouth dropping wide, panting breaths filling the space between them. She finds Natalie’s gaze glued to where her fingers meet her cunt, and the sight makes her clench. Wet, sloppy noises fill her ears, and she burns a little with the sounds. It’s hot, she realizes. And the thought makes her clench again.
She’s filled with a sudden, violent desire to make Natalie feel this way. Misty leans forward a little, angling her body down and pressing between Nat’s thighs, spreading them. Her face pulls on a grimace with the motion, and, right. How could she have forgotten what led them here?
Misty eyes the stitches closely, almost yearns for them to pop open while they have sex so she can replace them. She looks away, fiddles with the hem of Natalie’s fishnets.
“Can I?” she asks, attempting to be as effortlessly teasing and seductive as the brunette, but she sounds like she’d gotten the wind knocked out of her, instead. Natalie nods anyway, her free hand coming down to pop open the button of her pants, Misty shoves it to the side so she can slide the zipper down herself.
It takes a considerable amount of effort to peel the leather down Nat’s legs, since she won’t stop fucking Misty. And thank god. The blonde thinks she’d die if Natalie stopped now.
Finally, with Nat’s helpful lifting of her hips, despite the grimace it paints on her face, Misty successfully drags the pants down to her knees. She leaves the fishnets where they are, notes how curiously, they’re worn underneath Nat’s black boyshorts, not above. The sight makes her clench, again, and Natalie laughs at her, again. Misty huffs indignantly, her face scrunching up, but when the brunette pointedly curls her fingers harshly, the look melts away, and she moans.
The sight of her distracts Misty from her own pleasure. All that dried blood, the shine from Misty’s cunt, all smudged and mixed together on her stomach, her bra pushed down, the tiny trail of fine, brown hair underneath the criss-crossing diamonds of her fishnets, disappearing underneath her underwear. Misty breathes deep, attempting to center herself a bit, and then realizes that she can smell Natalie, and she moans a little with it.
Always eager, the fear of inexperience fading into the back of her mind, Misty cups Nat over her underwear, feels the heat and the dampness against her palm, and she drops forward, biting down on the flesh of her own forearm where it rests by Natalie’s head so she doesn’t come.
Nat sighs a soft, almost sweet laugh, which turns into a moan as Misty presses harder against Natalie’s cunt. The brunette’s fingers stutter inside of her, and Misty smiles to herself, proud that she was able to throw her off, even a little.
The victory is short lived, because Natalie fucks into her even harder, the wet sucking noises almost constant now, and Misty turns, moans long and loud into Nat’s ear, feels her buck against her palm.
It’s almost like they’re at war with each other, seeing who can push further, make the other react the most, the loudest. When Natalie has finally ruined her boyshorts, Misty shoves her hand under her tights, her fingers brushing past a patch of slick hair, immediately meeting burning hot wetness. She trails her fingers through it, finding Natalie’s clit quickly, and setting a brutal pace, like how she touches herself, when she’s too lonely or wine drunk or touch-starved to use her vibrator.
Nat moans, but her fingers still inside of Misty, and her free hand comes up to drag softly at the blonde’s arm.
“Softer,” she says, commanding but incredibly gentle, so sweet sounding that Misty doesn’t even feel the usual twinge that would accompany any sort of redirection. She listens, slowing her pace and softening her touch considerably, dragging light circles around the brunette’s pulsing, wet clit. Misty watches Nat’s face from the side, watches her eyebrows tug together, her eyes shut, mouth parting. She picks up her fucking into Misty, and the blonde yelps a little, hips jolting, knocking into where she’s straddling Natalie’s leg.
The feeling of a slick cunt, one that isn’t her own, especially it being her, Natalie, under her hand, does more for Misty than actually being fucked, she thinks. Her stomach heats, she digs her knee forcefully into the tile underneath it, writhing, speeds up her still light circles on Nat’s clit as the brunette moans softly, body jerking. She winces a little with the motion, again, but then moans again, and Misty whines softly into her ear at the sight. Maybe she wasn’t the only one that enjoyed it, tonight.
Natalie hits her with a particularly rough thrust, curling her fingers in a way that makes Misty’s heart lurch into her throat, and suddenly brings her hand back down on the blonde’s ass, a little harder than before, and Misty yelps, pants into her ear, suddenly desperate to come, even if Nat up and leaves right after. She needs it more than she’s ever needed anything, more than food that first winter, more than her blood in her mouth.
“God,” she grits out, pushing her nose against Natalie’s cheek, her hips jerking to meet every thrust, willing herself not to lose her focus as she continues rubbing at Nat’s clit. “Please don’t stop, fuck.”
“Yeah? You gonna come for me, baby?” Natalie asks, her head turning to press back against Misty’s face, and Misty moans long and high pitched, probably too loud right next to the brunette’s ear, but Nat doesn’t seem to be complaining. The pet name itself almost sends her over the edge, almost, but not quite, and Natalie seems to sense that Misty needs a little more, starts fucking into her impossibly harder, her thumb coming up to press against her clit.
“Oh, oh, oh, Nat, Natalie, fuck me, fuck,” she’s panting, completely lost, her entire body on fire, unable to stop her babbling, whiny and high in her throat. When Natalie digs her nails into the meat of her ass, and leans up to sink her teeth into Misty’s collarbone at the same time, she shatters, heat pulsing out from her dripping cunt and racing up through her every nerve. She doesn’t recognize the almost animalistic noises that wrench themselves from her throat, as she ruts uncontrollably against the brunette’s hand, her clit twitching, thighs trembling.
It takes her a moment to regain any sort of composure, her forehead pressed against her arm, glasses smashed uncomfortably against her face. She lifts her head, blowing her sweaty bangs away from her face. She realizes with a quick, sharp pulse of embarrassment and pain, that her hand on Natalie’s cunt had completely stilled.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, fingers picking back up where they’d left off, circling, slick coating them, and Natalie’s hips jerk.
“What for?” Nat asks, face screwed up, like she’s trying to focus. She sounds mildly breathless.
Misty lifts one shoulder in a shrug, tips her head in a nod to her hand between Natalie’s legs.
“You’re sorry that I made you come so hard you couldn’t keep fucking me?” Natalie snorts as she asks, head rolling a little on the linoleum. Misty colors, the vulgar language post-orgasm and the apparent ridiculousness of her feelings making her skin prickle hotly with humiliation.
“It’s fine, Misty,” Natalie says, like it’s obvious, dragging out the syllables in that way she always does.
The blonde doesn’t say anything, just picks up the speed of her movements, wishing suddenly that she’d taken the time to pull Natalie’s boyshorts off. If this never happens again, she’ll have wanted to see her, all of her. She sucks in a little pained breath at the idea.
Nat’s squirming now, hips jumping against her fingers, her eyes having fallen shut, pretty mouth parted. Misty continues rubbing sloppy, light circles against her clit, already fantasizing about sucking Natalie off of her own fingers for the second time that night. Her eyes catch on the red, stitched wound, shifting with every breath the brunette sucks in. She sits up just a bit, enough to stretch her free arm down, and experimentally ghosts her fingertips along the edge of it.
She hears a sharp inhale, and when she looks up, Natalie is watching her, looking a bit affronted, but there’s something else glimmering in her eyes. Misty speeds up the movement of her fingers, not looking away from the hazel eyes glued to her own, and Natalie’s hips jerk up hard, a little soft noise coming from her mouth.
Misty doesn’t think it through, really. She presses her fingers to the warm, puckered wound, not too hard, but hard enough, and without warning, Natalie moans, loud, and seems to break apart, her hips moving wildly, back arching, a hand coming up to dig into the blonde’s shoulder, nails digging in, punishing, maintaining eye contact the whole time. Misty clenches around the fingers that are still inside of her.
“Fuck,” Nat says, panting, a few seconds later. She blinks a few times, tips her head back. “You little freak.”
Misty giggles, despite herself, despite the insult, because she made Natalie come. Nothing could dampen the joy rolling off of her in waves. If she’s a freak for doing it, then Natalie is a freak for getting off on it, anyway, she thinks but doesn’t say.
She presses her sticky forehead to Nat’s slightly bony shoulder and breathes in deep, the room smelling of sex and blood and sweat and Natalie. She doesn’t know how she’ll ever clean up. Maybe she’ll let the blood dry, let it become a shrine to the other woman, a museum, just like the rest of her life has.
✰