A Safe Space

Dz is the original character of Tiktok creator @ishness. 

Content warnings for a breakup, anxiety, panic attack.

18+ NSFW. Slow burn. TW: choking, breath play, biting, marking, blood play.

I wrenched my half-asleep arm out from under my pillow, scrambling for the blaring cell phone on my nightstand. The pins-and-needles sensation obliterated my fine motor skills; my arm landed heavily, almost sending the offending piece of technology clattering to the floor.

I was still struggling to massage feeling back into the limb when a heavy, persistent knocking sounded from the living room. Cursing, I used my free hand to support my still-tingling arm as I dragged the phone in front of my eyes.

Caller ID:
Dz

Fuck. I'd forgotten. Knowing that he was likely also the source of the knocking, I cleared my throat.

"Hold on," I croaked, trying to reach the hallway with my morning voice, but it was completely inaudible.

Or it would have been, if the person standing in the hallway had been human.

The knocking was replaced by muffled, exasperated swearing.

I untangled myself from the sheets and stumbled across my dawn-lit apartment to unlock the door, not bothering to comb my hair or brush my teeth or put on a bra. It wasn't like Dz hadn't ever seen me like this before.

The door swung open on a familiar gray pea coat. Two plastic bags hung from his left hand, the right forming a raised fist about to resume its assault on my door. Drinking in my appearance, pupil-less white eyes widened in concern.

Okay, maybe he hasn't seen me quite like this. I slid my tongue across my teeth and started to finger-comb my hair.

"That's... not helping," Dz said drily. Grasping my upper arm with his free hand, he pivoted me backwards and stepped inside. Gently nudging the door closed with his foot, he peered at me more closely, then released a low whistle. "Jesus."

I felt my cheeks turn red in response to being perceived, something I'd successfully avoided the past few days. "Great, thanks," I muttered before jerking my chin down towards the bags in his other hand to deflect his attention. "What's that?"

He shrugged dismissively. "Zyggy. I mean, it's--they were his idea." Turning me around, his firm hand on my shoulder shoved me towards the bathroom. "You'll feel better. Trust me."

He was right of course, but that didn't stop me resenting him for it. I stubbornly took my time peeing, combing my hair, and brushing my teeth before reluctantly meeting my own gaze in the mirror. Yesterday's makeup was smeared under my eyes like a pair of smoky, crescent-shaped weights. The thought of the effort it would take me to clean my face made my stomach turn. I ripped off a single square of toilet paper and swept it under each eye.

By the time I emerged, the plastic bags had been deposited on the kitchen counter and Dz was helping himself to an apple. I rifled through the bags, immediately identifying Zyggy's influence on their purchases: sour gummy worms, three ice cream quarts of increasingly complicated flavors, and a family-size pack of microwave popcorn.

"Doctor Zyggy's orders, I see." Trying and failing to force a smile, I resigned myself to a quick grimace as Dz shrugged again and sank his teeth into the crisp apple. Its juice glistened on his lips. There was the familiar tug of interest in my solar plexus, thinking about those fangs and how they felt on my skin, but I allowed the sensation to pass. The energy to even entertain those thoughts was out of my reach.