written for: the ‘robots′ square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo card and for the 2017 Summer Heat Mini Round over at the ROK LJ community.
summary: After all is said and done and the Breach is closed, Isaac and Scott share a moment in the catwalks above the Shatterdome, away from the victory party below.
(or, the Pacific Rim AU with "I'm so happy that we're alive" hand jobs.)
Mere hours ago, the Shatterdome had echoed with the sounds of an army prepping for war; yelling in half a dozen languages, the screech of metal against metal, the frantic, repetitive thud of booted feet crossing the expanse of the room over and over again. It’d been chaos; organized chaos, albeit, but chaos nonetheless.
Now, the vast space is filled with the sounds of joyous victory.
Isaac isn’t sure who is in charge of the music, but the speakers that are normally reserved for broadcasting announcements and orders are now spilling out pounding electronica tracks, the volume so high that the bass seems to reverberate through every surface he lays his hands upon. Drunken whoops and joyous yells break through the music every so often, along with the sharp crack of a cork exploding from a bottle of champagne.
For being an active military base, there seems to be a lot of the latter lying around.
Isaac’s sure that, if he ventured down from the catwalk, he wouldn’t have to ask for a drink. They’d shove full bottles in his arms, pour it down his throat, probably drench him in it. It’s all too possible that he’d end up on someone’s shoulders, carted around the room like a trophy or idol.
Some of the other pilots would absolutely love that. He’s sure they’re already down there having the time of their lives.
That’s all the more reason for him to stay away.
As far as he can tell, he’s the only one up in the catwalks; all the mechanics and technicians that usually fill them have abandoned their posts, are probably down below soaking in the revelry. Not that Isaac blames them; there’s nothing for them for them to be working on, after all. Every last one of the cavernous Jaeger bays is empty, their normal occupants either abandoned in the bay or ripped to pieces or blown to bits in another dimension.
Hopefully, they'll never be occupied again.
He has to believe they’ll never be occupied again, that what happened today is a permanent fix, because otherwise everything they did, all the people they lost-
(and that is not a line of thought he wants to pursue right now, because while he’s only been at the Shatterdome for two weeks, barely enough time to get to know anyone, he knows that they were good people, people with lives and hopes and dreams for after the apocalypse was thwarted, people who deserved to live)
-was for nothing.
Abruptly, the sound of nearby footsteps thudding against metal breaks through the music, and he pulls his gaze away from the deep shadows of the bay that previously held Alpha Wolf, which is now entombed in the murky waters of the ocean. Most of the overhead lights have been switched off, so it’s a few moments before Isaac can actually make out the figure of someone coming towards him. He gets ready to defend his absence from the party below, starts combing through excuses in search of one that won’t just lead to more invasive questions that he doesn’t feel up to answering.
Thankfully, before he actually has to decide on an excuse, he recognizes the figure, and he relaxes back against the sturdy railing.
“I figured you were up here,” Scott says, smiling as he leans up beside Isaac. There are three stitches holding together his eyebrow, and butterfly bandages dot his forehead and cheeks. Two of the fingers on his left hand are bound together in a splint, and dark bruises march up and down both arms, extending from his wrists to where the sleeve of his tee bisects his bicep.
All things considered, the fact that he’s in one piece, that they’re both in one piece, is something of a minor miracle.
“How was the party?” Isaac asks, sliding down to rest on the ground with his legs stretched out and his back pressed against the railing. His ankle bone is bruised, and although the painkillers that were thrust upon him in the medical bay are top-grade, it’s probably best to get off it sooner rather than later.
“Skipped over most of it, actually,” Scott says, sinking down beside him, a wince momentarily passing over his face. “Last I saw, they were hoisting Jackson around on their shoulders.”
“I’m sure he’s absolutely loving that,” Isaac mutters.
“He probably won’t even remember it tomorrow, if he keeps drinking like he was.”
It’s the last either of them say for what feels like hours. Isaac isn’t sure when Scott’s head drops down onto his shoulder, but he follows suit by carefully lowering his own head down so that he doesn’t end up resting his ear on any of Scott’s battle scars. Their hands end up entangled together shortly after, and Isaac finds himself entranced by the way their fingers slot together, like they were solely designed for that purpose.
“It’s so quiet,” Scott eventually murmurs, the words washing over where Isaac’s collarbone branches away from the collar of his t-shirt. The Shatterdome is still echoing with noise; if anything, the music and yelling has only increased in volume, but Isaac knows what Scott means.
Without the drift connecting them, without Scott sharing every single inch and hidden corner of his brain, his own mind seems painfully quiet and empty.
“It is.” If he concentrates hard, closes his eyes and does his best to block out the sounds of revelry filling every inch of space, he can still feel something connecting his mind to Scott’s. Something thin and tenuous, like a loose thread gently unraveling from a well-worn sweater.
He wonders how long they have before that thread reaches its end and tears away for good.
He wonders what that will change between them. If that will change anything.
He hopes with everything he has that it doesn’t. Scott’s the first person in years that he’s been able to depend on, and even though they’ve known each other for all of two weeks, he’s not sure if he knows how to go back to being on his own again.
Even if he was interrogated, he wouldn’t be able to definitively answer which of them leans in first; what he knows, and what matters most, is that their mouths meet and immediately meld together like they’ve been doing so for years.
They don’t stay leaning against the railing for long; Scott slowly slumps over, until he’s stretched out on his back, and Isaac is obliged to follow him. Thankfully, the catwalk is more than wide enough to safely accommodate them so, once they’ve moved safely away from the edge, they pick up right where they left off. The only difference is that, this time, Isaac is slotted between Scott’s legs, and Scott’s right hand is fisted tightly in his hair, tugging slightly whenever Isaac shifts.
He was starting to think that his hair was getting too long, but he’s definitely reconsidering that notion.
The rough metal of the catwalk scrapes against his knees, even through the thick fabric of his pants, and he can’t imagine that it feels comfortable against Scott’s undoubtedly bruised back. But when he pulls away for a moment, before he can even part his lips to ask, Scott shakes his head fiercely.
“I don’t want to move,” he says, tightening his fingers in Isaac’s hair. “I’m fine. Kiss me.”
That’s all the assurance Isaac needs to dive back in.
Part of him thinks that they should be talking about this, trying to work through things before they step over a line that they can’t come back from, but that part only remains in the forefront of his mind for a few moments. The last few weeks have been an absolute exercise in control, in keeping himself carefully between the lines, so that he didn’t jeopardize the mission. The drift was no better, because for every errant thought that slipped through, every memory of his father or every half-thought out musing about what Scott would sound like choking back a moan, there were dozens, hundreds more that he had to keep hidden away.
He’s tired of holding himself back.
The others down below are celebrating their victory with rivers of booze.
Isaac is going to celebrate by letting himself go.
His own various aches and pains let themselves be known across his body as he rolls his hips down against Scott’s, but he does his best to ignore the urge to pull away when Scott’s fingers press into a bruise or trail over a line of fresh stitches. When he braces his forehead against Scott’s to take a breath, the butterfly bandages holding Scott together scrape against his skin, and he silently apologizes for any pain he’s causing before he dives back in.
By the time Scott’s fingers yank open his button and zipper, Isaac already feels like he’s walking along the edge, whether it’s from the adrenaline that has yet to totally wane from his system or from the sheer fact that he’s alive, they’re both alive, still living and breathing and able to touch each other.
“I hope you aren’t expecting me to last,” he laughs against Scott’s swollen mouth, words trailing into a gasp as Scott’s fingers slide past the elastic of his boxers.
“I was going to say the same thing,” Scott grins, arching his hips into the line of Isaac’s thigh. “There’s always later for that.”
Later.
Hearing that word pass from Scott’s lips officially shuts down the last remnants of concern in Isaac’s mind.
When Scott’s fingers wrap around Isaac’s cock, Isaac’s breath catches in his throat. He wants to return the favor, but for a few moments, all he can focus on is the feeling of Scott’s calloused palm, the slick slide of his thumb slipping across the head of him. It’s just on the right side of overwhelming, and he thrusts his hips into the loose circle of Scott’s fist, bites back a groan as his mind finally sparks back to life. He sits back slightly, putting more weight onto his knees, so that he can better access the zipper of Scott’s pants. His fingers, normally so sure of themselves, fumble and skitter, until he finally manages to get the button open with a frustrated growl.
“Take your time,” Scott says quietly, resting his free hand on Isaac’s face. The metal of his splint is warm against Isaac’s cheekbone and he twists to press his lips to it, another silent apology.
The real thing can wait until later.
He gets Scott’s zipper down with more ease, yanks his pants down his hips until he can get his hand inside. It’s far from a great angle; warning twinges of pain shoot through his wrist, but he ignores them.
What’s a little more pain, after all?
In the end, he doesn’t have to worry about finding a way to work through a wrist cramp; before the warnings can turn into the real thing, Scott spurts onto Isaac’s fingers with a sudden gasp. His head drops back against the catwalk with an alarmingly loud thud that seems to echo. The grip of his fingers around Isaac’s cock grows tighter, and he twists his wrist in a unfamiliar way that makes fireworks go off behind Isaac’s eyes.
He comes with his teeth pressed into Scott’s bottom lip and the taste of blood in his mouth.
Who the blood belongs to, he couldn’t say.
Once he’s gotten his breath back, he wipes his hand off on the thigh of his pants and carefully lowers himself to the ground at Scott’s side, wincing as every ache and pain that he’s been ignoring makes itself known with a vengeance, painkillers be damned. Scott wipes his own hand off on the hem of his shirt before carefully tucking himself back into his pants. There’s a fine sheen of sweat covering his face, and when he rolls his head to face Isaac, so close that their noses brush together, a smile more radiant than the nuclear heart of a Jaeger splits his mouth.
“We’re here,” he says. One of the bandages dotting his forehead is slowly turning red, the skin underneath freshly split open. “We’re here.”
Now that the adrenaline has started to melt away, replaced by pain and rational thought, Isaac is ready to admit that, at some point, they’ll have to talk further. They can’t just ignore what happened today, all of it; they need to mourn for the people they lost, find their place in a world no longer on the edge of disaster, figure out how they fit together without the drift to tie them together.
But all of that can wait for tomorrow.
“Yeah,” Isaac says, dropping one hand to Scott’s chest, right above his pounding, beautifully strong heart. “We’re here.”
He leaves the I’m not going anywhere unspoken, but he trusts that somehow, Scott hears it all the same.
~550 words of domestic fluff! also using this for the ‘she’s so nosy’ square on my Rare Character Bingo Card!
on ao3 here.
By the time Braeden hears the bedroom door creak open, she’s drank half a pot of coffee, read the entire weekend edition of the paper, and compiled a grocery list sub-categorized by which store has the best deals on certain products. Kira’s shuffling footsteps veer into the bathroom and moments later, the water starts running. Braeden gets up and flicks on their electric kettle; it’ll be a few moments before Kira gets out of the shower, but the kettle is an older model that takes a few minutes to boil so, if she times it right (and she’s certain she will), she’ll have a cup of tea on the table at the exact moment Kira stumbles in.
She places the cup down mere moments after the bathroom door opens, and she sits back down in her own chair just as Kira shuffles into the kitchen. Her hair is wrapped up in an intricately knotted towel, and the curve of her neck is slick with water. She’s also wearing Braeden’s clothes, a tank top and pajama shorts, both of which are too big on her.
Braeden’s never been particularly fond of sharing her things with others, but for almost five years, Kira has been the exception, particularly when it comes to clothes.
“Good morning,” Braeden says, sipping her fresh cup of coffee. Kira mumbles something incoherent, grabs her cup of tea and drags it to Braeden’s side of the table before unceremoniously flopping down onto Braeden’s lap, chin digging into the top of Braeden’s head. Braeden snorts quietly and drops her hand from her coffee mug so that she can wrap her arm around Kira’s waist instead.
“I thought you were going to sleep in today,” she asks, sliding her hand under the hem of Kira’s (or rather, her) shirt and smoothing a thumb over the smooth, still damp skin of Kira’s hip.
“Tried,” Kira mumbles, pressing her face into Braeden’s hair. “But I forgot to turn my alarm off last night, and I couldn’t go back to sleep once it went off.”
“You can always nap later,” Braeden says. Kira makes a sound that might be agreeable before reaching out and grabbing her mug from the table. Braeden isn’t much one for the taste of tea, but there’s no denying that it smells rather pleasant, and she inhales deeply as the scent passes her nose. Kira takes a tiny sip and sighs contently before dropping her chin to the top of Braeden’s head again.
“Anything interesting in the paper?”
“Is there ever?” Braeden replies. “Mrs. Margolis was on her front stoop though. Stared at me the entire time it took me to get the mail.”
“She’s so nosy,” Kira grumbles. “You think she’d be over us by now.”
“Some people don’t have anything better to do than be nosy.” When Kira leans forward to put her mug back on the table, Braeden intercepts and does it for her. When she leans back, she twists so that she can see Kira’s face, still a little puffy from sleep. “By the way, have I ever mentioned that you look good in my clothes?”
Kira flushes pink, fingers dropping to the baggy fabric of her stolen tank top.
title: sync up the cuts (to the bass drum kick) [ao3: here]
main pairing: Laura Hale/Stiles Stilinski
rating: G
word count: ~600 words
written for: the 'making music’ square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo card and for day 2 of Shipping With Stiles 2017!
Watching Laura perform is like watching a tornado decimate a town.
She’s only been singing for five minutes, but her cheeks are flushed scarlet, and her neck and collarbone are covered with droplets of sweat. The glaring lights overhead glint off the hoops threaded through her nose and lip and illuminate the intricate, vividly colored tattoos covering her bare arms, and every time she shifts, the inked wolves and vines and ravens seem to move as well, like they have minds of their own. Her tank top and black jeans, littered with holes from years of wear, are stuck to her like a second skin. Her long, black hair, streaked through with shots of neon-pink and deep red, is a tangled, wild mess, and every time she shoves it away from her face, it falls right back into place. Her eyeliner and mascara are starting to bleed down her face, but her cherry red lipstick is still firmly in place, doesn’t budge as she spits out lyrics that started their lives at the end of Stiles’ pen.
The stage is only a few yards across, and her four inch stilettos have already covered every single inch of it that isn’t taken up by one of her bandmates or a piece of equipment. She’s done a few of her signature backbends, each of which elicited a roar of approval of the crowd, and while she hasn’t yet kicked over a stack of speakers or gone crowdsurfing or swung the microphone cord around her neck (and nearly brained Malia and Erica in the process), Stiles knows that all of those will happen in good time.
As she snarls the chorus of the first song they ever worked on together, she drops to her knees directly in front of where Stiles is standing, sandwiched between the edge of the stage and the rabid crowd. Without missing a beat, she presses one finger under his chin and tilts his head back, until she’s screaming mere inches from his face.
The lyrics coming from her mouth are anything but joyful, but the smile splitting her face, reaching all the way up to her piercing green eyes, is nothing less than delighted.
She stays like that, fingernail digging into the underside of his chin, eyes locked on his, until Malia launches into her guitar solo, the sound as loud and sharp as a buzzsaw. Only then does she close the space between them, pressing a deep, messy kiss to Stiles’ waiting mouth. She tastes like lipstick and peppermint, and although she only has a few moments before she has to sing again, Stiles presses his tongue against hers and slides his hand into her hair.
He feels rather than hears the moan that slips from her mouth.
All too soon, long before he’s ready to actually stop kissing her, she has to go back to singing. With one last press of her mouth against his, she leaps to her feet and goes back to racing across the stage, screaming louder and louder, hair flying around her reddened face.
It’s the same thing that happens every show, happens at the same moment in the same song, but while Stiles has experienced it hundreds of times in hundreds of venues of varying sizes, while it’s long since become routine, the kiss is still his favorite part of Laura’s show.
He's fairly certain that it’s going to remain his favorite for as long as she keeps stepping onto a stage.
"Autumn Fic Meme" baking or cozy night in + boyd/kira pretty please?
here’s 500 words of domestic fluff! on ao3 here.
warnings for brief mentions of food poisoning and subsequent hospitalization. also written for the ‘it didn’t come with instructions’ square on my teen wolf bingo card!
Beyond the glass of the living room window, Kira can see nothing but hints of streetlight and a wall of rain.
It’s been raining on and off for most of the day, but only in the last hour has it turned into an outright downpour. Long streaks of water are running down the window and the rhythmic beat of it grows louder and softer intermittently. No headlights pierce the night and even the sickly orange glow of the streetlights is barely visible, dim as the ember of a cigarette in the vast expanse of the dark night.
Kira sighs dejectedly and drops her chin to her crossed arms.
So much for date night.
“It’s still coming down pretty hard, huh?” Boyd asks, stepping up behind her and dropping one broad hand between her shoulder blades. Kira nods and leans back slightly into his touch.
“Don’t think it’s going to stop anytime soon,” she mumbles and, on cue, the rain starts to lash even harder against the already soaked glass. “I just checked Facebook, and they cancelled movies in the park. I don’t think they’re planning on rescheduling.”
“I’m sorry,” Boyd says, stooping over and kissing the top of her head. She leans back against his stomach, just taking a moment to bask in the contact. As always, he’s unreasonably warm, comfy in a t-shirt while she’s huddled in one of his sweaters to keep away the cold.
“We can still have a date,” Boyd mumbles after awhile, thumb slowly brushing up and down along Kira’s spine.
“Do you really want to drive in this weather?” Kira asks, finally taking her eyes away from the window and spinning around on her stool, widening her legs so that Boyd can stand closer.
“No,” Boyd replies, full lips curving into a closed-mouth smile. “That’s why we don’t have to leave.”
“Wait,” Kira says, “you mean the place downstairs?” There’s a diner on the first floor of their building and, if they stuck close to the side of the apartment complex, Kira’s pretty sure they could get inside without getting more than a little damp.
However, the last time she ate there, she ended up with a case of salmonella bad enough to put her in the hospital for a day. She doesn’t want to disappoint Boyd, but the thought of eating there again makes her stomach churn preemptively.
“Definitely not,” Boyd says, and Kira sighs gratefully. “But we have chocolate chip cookie dough in the freezer. And that new board game Stiles bought us.”
“It didn’t come with instructions,” Kira points out, a smile spreading across her own face. Boyd shrugs his broad shoulders and pulls her to her feet, tugging her in close.
“We’ll make some up.” Where her cheek is pressed against his chest, Kira feels his deep voice rumbling, and she lets her eyes drop closed, just for a few moments, just so that she can properly savor the moment without being distracted.
“Okay,” she murmurs, locking her arms around his waist, fingertips just barely touching together. “But you’re in charge of the cookies. I’m not setting the oven on fire again.” Boyd laughs and presses another kiss against the crown of her head.
sleeping with the enemy: an aged-up Allison/Laura mix. | it’s supposed to be a one-time thing. it’s supposed to be just sex, a momentary lapse of judgement, two enemies falling together instead of tearing each other apart
but it keeps happening, over and over again, and the more it happens, the harder it is for Laura and Allison to convince themselves that they'll quit after just one more time. if they are caught, it will mean the end of an uneasy truce. it will mean outright war.
but that still isn't enough to stop them
created for the ‘Laura Hale’ square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo card. listen here. ficlet on ao3 here. the choice of Karla Souza as Laura Hale was inspired by this graphic.
1) creepin’ up the backstairs - the fratellis 2) bliss - muse 3) i need you tonight - inxs 4) run right back - the black keys 5) the good, the bad and the dirty - panic! at the disco 6) radioactive - marina and the diamonds 7) strange love - halsey 8) just one yesterday - fall out boy ft. foxes 9) bite down - bastille vs. haim 10) jessica kill - sum 41 11) heart shaped glasses (when the heart guides the hand) - marilyn manson 12) rough hands - alexisonfire
"This has to be the last time."
"I know." Allison's words and teeth bite into Laura's collarbone, catching on skin that's bruised and healed half a dozen times since they fell together an hour ago. Her hands are tight on Laura's hips, thumbs pressing into her like she's trying to rip her open.
"Allison." Laura twists her fingers tight into Allison's cascading dark hair and tugs her away from her chest, until they're eye to eye. "I mean it. Thishas to be the last time."
"And I said I know," Allison snaps and even though she's the furthest thing from a werewolf, composed of ivory skin stitched over lithe muscle and ruby-red blood, her nails still feel like claws when they dig into the curve of Laura's jaw. There must be wolfsbane lingering on her hands from some training exercise or weapons session, because Laura feels her fingerprints burned into her skin even after she pulls away. There's a challenge in her dark eyes, a taunt targeting Laura's resolve.
Instinctively, Laura almost flashes her canines, but that'd be no use. Allison would either smirk or press the point of a knife into her throat, right above her pulse point.
So instead, she leans back against the abrasive tree trunk, molds her hands to Allison's narrow hips and yanks her forward. She shoves her thigh between Allison's and immediately, she grinds down against it, blistering warm and, as Laura can smell when she sucks in a deep breath of fresh forest air, already wet.
"C'mon," Laura murmurs, sliding her hands into Allison's hair, refusing to acknowledge the thick, bitter feeling spreading tar-thick through her chest, "let's make this memorable."
Could you write 21: “We’re in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?” for Braeden/Malia? ♥
here’s ~1100 words of future fic, honeymoon fluff. also using this for the ‘coffee’ square on my Rare Character Bingo Card! on ao3.
On the second day of her honeymoon, Braeden wakes up to the sky tearing itself apart.
Even though the clock on the bedside table says it’s just after seven o'clock in the morning (which means that the room should be filled with sparkling rays of sunlight), the light filtering through the thin curtains is so dim that Braeden can barely make out the other side of the room. Just as she throws the blankets back, another crash of thunder splits the air, sounding uncannily enough like a gunshot that Braeden instinctively reaches for her hip.
But her holster is still tucked into the bedside table and it’s just a summer storm, one that will hopefully break the heat wave they’ve been having for the last week.
Malia’s side of the bed is empty, which doesn’t surprise Braeden in the least; Malia is a notoriously light sleeper, and she’s probably been awake since the very first far-off rumble of thunder. Braeden pulls on a loose pair of jeans but leaves on her tank top from the night before as she opens the bedroom door and steps out into the living room.
She’s stayed in some very nice places over the years (and some absolutely horrendous places), but nothing like the cabin they’ve rented for a full week. The main room is cavernous, stretching up two stories to a peaked roof. Well-worn armchairs and bookshelves dot the room and with the kitchen just off to one side, the smell of fresh coffee seems to permeate every inch. The entire west wall is sheer glass, offering a view of the forest that Braeden thinks rivals paintings for sheer beauty, even with a storm going on. There’s a sloping stretch of slightly yellowed grass leading down to the treeline, which continues on as far as the eye can see. Currently, the trees are swaying back and forth, bent underneath the wind slamming into them.
The best part of the view is Malia.
She’s dragged one of the armchairs over to the middle of the room, right in front of the window, and she’s perched on the back of it, bare feet placed on the armrests. Although it’s hard to tell from the back, it looks like she’s wearing just a long sleeve flannel and underwear. Her fingers are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee and there’s a stack of Eggos on a nearby table, within easy reach.
“Did the storm wake you up too?” Malia asks, leaning over and grabbing one of the waffles.
“Yep,” Braeden replies, crossing the room, her footsteps echoing in the massive space around them. “How long have you been awake?”
“An hour. Maybe longer. I wasn’t really paying attention.” Braeden grabs a waffle as well and comes to stand beside Malia. She’s a little too high up for Braeden to rest her chin on her shoulder, so she settles for wrapping one of her arms around Malia’s waist and watching the storm around her. Aside from the sound of the rain lashing against the window, the room falls into a comfortable silence. Once she’s finished her slightly cold blueberry waffle, Braeden kisses Malia’s bare shoulder, where her flannel has drooped down. She smells wonderful, like coffee and pine needles and something unidentifiable, something that’s just wholly Malia.
Not for the first time, Braeden has a hard time believing that she’s actually standing here, actually married, to the woman whose mother she tried to kill so many years ago.
(She’d succeeded at finishing Camille off, eventually, but that isn’t something she particularly cares to dwell upon.)
“I kinda want to go out there,” Malia says, polishing off her last sip of coffee.
“You’re not serious,” Braeden replies, glancing from the trees, which are being yanked by the wind as if they were mere saplings, and back to Malia, who is simply looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “You are serious.”
“Yeah,” Malia says. “Not for the whole morning. Just for a little bit. Just to feel the rain.” Yet another rumble of thunder splits the sky above but no lightning accompanies it.
Braeden takes one last glance out the window. It’s definitely not the most terrible idea Malia’s ever had and they’re probably not going to get struck by lightning.
Besides, she’s always been a sucker for new experiences, and based on the triumphant smirk on Malia’s face, Malia’s thinking the same thing.
“Just let me get a jacket on,” she says. “Some of us are actually capable of catching a cold.”
“I’ve never seen you with a cold,” Malia retorts. It’s a good point; Braeden can’t remember the last time she had anything more annoying than a mildly stuffed up nose.
Although, if there was going to be a time that she got sick, it would be on her honeymoon.
She heads back to the bedroom, grabs her leather jacket and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. When she steps back into the main room, it’s empty. A blur of red movement flashes in her peripheral vision and when she glances in that direction, she sees Malia standing outside, her outline smeared slightly by the droplets on the glass. Her long, tanned legs are still bare, exposed up to the hem of the flannel. Her head is tilted back and her bobbed honey-blonde hair is plastered to the back of her neck.
Even through the distorted view of the glass, it’s a beautiful sight and the last of Braeden’s apprehension melts away.
She’s soaked almost as soon as she steps off the porch. Rain drizzles off her jacket and her pants stick to her thighs like they’ve been vacuum sealed. Mud squelches underneath her boots as she approaches Malia, who hasn’t moved an inch. Her flannel is plastered against her ribs and her white underwear, where it’s poking out underneath the hem of the shirt, is nearly transparent from the rain.
Malia doesn’t say anything. She just reaches her hand outward, fingers already spread, and Braeden slots her own in between. They stand side by side, clasped hands tucked between them, and Braeden tilts her head back as well. She closes her eyes so that the rain doesn’t get into them and stays motionless.
It should be a terrible experience. The rain is cold and it stings when it hits Braeden’s skin, carried along by the gusting wind. It’s going to be nearly impossible to peel herself out of her clothes and it might take days for her boots to dry out.
But none of that seems to matter. Something like peace settles over her, rooted in the place where their hands are twisted together.
“You owe me a cup of coffee. Maybe two,” she says, but there’s no bite behind the words.
“As many cups as you want,” Malia replies, her voice soft and faraway.
They stay in the downpour clasping hands, thunder rumbling above them, until the shivers and the irresistible thought of a hot shower are too powerful for Braeden to ignore.
Multiship Meme ➸ Alicia Boyd [2/5]
Prompted by @ericadays
Pairing: Alicia Boyd/Cora Hale
On Ao3 here
After a few hours of blaring music and dodging drunk classmates, Alicia had finally had enough of this high school party. She started wandering the halls, looking for her brother, so she could let him know that she was going to head home for the night.
She finally found Vernon in the kitchen. He was nursing a beer as he leaned against the counter. His girlfriend, Erica, leaned against him as she laughed at a joke their buddy Isaac had just made. All three of them smiled when they saw Alicia approach them.
“Hey, Little Boyd,” Isaac greeted. “How’s it going?”
“Hi, Isaac. I’m good,” Alicia answered. She then turned her attention to her brother. Hey, Vernon, I think I’m going to call it a night and head home. I’m not really in a party mood.”
Vernon pushed himself off of the counter and walked over to his sister. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”
“No, you don’t have to do that,” Alicia protested, motioning for her brother to stay with his friends. “It’s only a few blocks away.”
Vernon shot his little sister a questioning look. “Are you sure? I can walk you home if you want. It’s no problem.”
“I’ll be fine,” she reassured him. “Stay and enjoy the party.”
Vernon nodded, accepting Alicia’s decision. “Okay, just text me when you get home safe.”
After agreeing to her brother’s request and saying goodbye to everybody, Alicia left the party and started on her way home. The cold air sent a shiver down her back as Alicia pulled her jacket tighter around her. It was pretty dark outside, but she had the streetlights and the full moon to light up the sidewalks as she walked.
It didn’t take long until Alicia realized that something was wrong. She felt like something or someone was following her. For a second, Alicia debated on texting her brother for help, but instead, she decided to confront her stalker.
When she turned around to see who was following her, all Alicia saw was a large grey wolf.
“Holy shit,” she exclaimed under her breath as she stared at the wolf. She couldn’t believe her eyes – there was a wolf standing less than a foot away from her.
Wait a minute, Alicia thought. There aren’t any wolves in California. It’s probably someone’s dog, like an Alaskan Malamute or something.
Alicia tried to get closer to the wolf to see if it had a collar because she assumed it was someone’s lost dog.
“Are you lost?” she asked, hoping that her calm voice would be soothing to the wolf. “I’ll help you find your family.”
She softly petted the wolf as she looked for its collar. “Who’s a good boy?”
The wolf let out a low growl at that. Alicia froze, her hand still entangled in the wolf’s fur. She quickly recovered with a, “Who’s a good girl?”
The wolf quit growling and leaned into Alicia’s touch. She could have almost sworn that the wolf was smiling at her.
“You know what? I’m going to call you Wolfie,” Alicia informed the wolf. “Come on, Wolfie. Let’s get you back to my house. We’ll put up found posters of you in the morning. You’d like that? Right, Wolfie?”
The wolf let out a bark as if it was agreeing to her plans. Taking the bark as conformation, Alicia led the wolf back to her house. She quietly chatted with the wolf as they walked.
After a few more blocks, they arrived at the Boyd residence. Alicia unlocked the door and let the door and let the wolf into the house. Once she and the wolf were both safely indoors, Alicia sent off a quick text message to her brother to let her know that she got home safe.
Alicia led the wolf up to her room before she started on her nighttime routine. When she finally returned to her bedroom after brushing her teeth and changing into pajamas, Alicia found Wolfie laying down on her bed.
After a failed attempt to shoo Wolfie off of her bed, Alicia decided to just climb into bed. Wolfie curled up beside her and the two of them went to sleep.
Sunlight beamed in through her window, waking Alicia up. She groggily reached out to pet Wolfie. When her hand came in contact with smooth skin instead of fur, Alicia jolted awake. Her eyes were as wide as saucers when Alicia saw that she was lying face to face with her crush, Cora Hale.
Alicia had no recollection of going home with Cora last night. Her mind was racing as she tried to come up with an explanation for how she could wake up with Cora in her bed. None of the explanations she came up with made any sense to her.
When she began to stir, Alicia realized that Cora was currently naked in her bed. Alicia jumped back startled.
“Why are you naked?!” Alicia screeched as she jumped out of bed, accidently pulling the sheets back with her. She quickly realized her mistake and threw the sheets back at Cora, who quickly pulled the sheets around her to try to cover herself up.
Cora looked up at her, trying to think of how to answer. Her eyes were wide with fear. Thick tension hung in the air as the two girls stared at each other.
When Alicia started to get over her initial shock, some new questions popped into her head. “How did you even get into my bed? And what happened to Wolfie?”
Cora shook her head and sighed. “I can explain.”
“Then start talking,” Alicia said, crossing her arms over her chest.
Alicia didn’t believe Cora at first. Who would believe that werewolves existed? Definitely not Alicia. And that Cora actually had a crush on her? That would only happen in her wildest dreams. It took Cora a few hours to convince her, but eventually Alicia believed her – both about the werewolves and the crush.
“So werewolves,” Alicia stated nonchalantly.
“Yep,” Cora answered. “Werewolves.”
Alicia smirked. “So what you’re telling me is that you are a werewolf and that even in wolf form, you still remembered that you had a huge crush on me and insisted on making sure I made it home safe?”
Cora tried to cover her face with her hands as she blushed. “Pretty much.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I have a huge crush on you too,” Alicia said as she leaned in closer. Their faces only a few inches apart.
Cora looked up at her confused. “You do?”
Alicia smiled widened. “I do.”
Cora closed the space between them as she pressed a kiss to Alicia’s lips. The kiss was innocent and pure, only lasting a few seconds before Alicia pulled away. Cora blushed again when she remembered her current clothing situation. She pulled the sheet tighter around her to make sure she was completely covered.
“I’ll loan you some clothes, so we can head downstairs and get some breakfast,” Alicia said, trying to comfort Cora. “And then you can tell me more about werewolves and whatever other magical creatures that exist.”
After Cora put on a pair of Alicia’s sweatpants and a spare t-shirt, the two girls headed down to the kitchen, walking hand in hands together. Alicia kept asking questions about werewolves and Cora just laughed as she tried her best to answer her questions.
Cora knew she would have to face the consequences when she got home and her mother found out that she had told a human that werewolves exist, but for now, Cora was happy that Alicia knew and that Alicia accepted her. Well, and that her crush was actually requited.
please break my heart
please don’t go
I’ll eat you whole
I love you so, I love you so, I love you so
(~5400 words. created for the ‘Victoria/Kali/Kate’ square on my Teen Wolf Femslash Bingo Card. warnings for unhealthy relationships, infidelity (regarding Chris/Victoria) and sexual content. on ao3 here.)
Kate Argent sweeps into Victoria's life with all the noise and commotion of a thunderstorm.
It's a sticky night in late July. The air is completely stagnant, heavy as a blanket over the entire town. Victoria can hear an air conditioner chugging away downstairs but none of its relief reaches Chris' bedroom. Even with the window open, there's sweat coursing down her neck and curving around the back of her knees. Really, it's too warm and too late in the night to do much of anything but try to sleep, but Victoria has no interest in sleeping.
Not so long as Chris Argent remains between her legs.
His stubble has scraped her throat nearly raw and his hand is heavy at her waist, thick fingers tucked just underneath the hem of her shirt. The skin on his back is taut and flame-hot underneath her palms and she can only guess how many paths her sharp fingernails have traced down his spine.
But still, no matter how much she's enjoying his company, if he doesn't soon figure out her not so subtle hints and slide his hands under her skirt (or even up her shirt), she might just get up and leave.
Of course, just at the moment where his fingers begin to brush lower along the line of her hipbone, a resounding crash comes from outside the window.
Chris is up and off her in what seems like a split second, and if it weren't for her frustration, Victoria would take a moment to admire his speed. As is, she sits up and leans back against the headboard while he yanks a sharp hunting knife from his bedside table and stares at the window. It's impossible to see anything moving in the darkness beyond the wire screen, but something is definitely scuffling around out there.
Chris takes a single, purposeful step towards the window but before he can move any closer, the screen shoots up and a whirlwind somersaults in.
It takes a few moments for Victoria to reconcile what she sees as an actual person. For a few moments, it’s just details; a teased snarl of dark blonde hair, a pair of heeled boots dangling from thin fingers, an orange bra strap peeking out from underneath a tank top. Finally, everything comes together to form the image of a woman, who bears just enough resemblance to Chris for Victoria to make a conclusion.
"Kate, what the hell are you doing?" Chris hisses, lowering the knife an inch.
"The door was locked," she says with a slight frown, lips reflective with gloss. "And I didn't want to wake up Dad."
"Especially not when you smell like that," Chris mutters, mouth curling sharply. "How much did you drink?"
"Enough for it to be none of your business," Kate retorts with a haughty toss of her tangled mane of hair. With that, she turns to Kate and flashes what is probably meant to be a grin, but twists more into a smirk that looks almost feral on Kate's sharp face.
"You must be Victoria," she says, raising a hand tipped with fingernails the same shade as her bra. "Kate. I'm glad to finally meet you."
"Me too," Victoria says, trying not to notice that there's a ragged tear near the hem of Kate's thin tank top, exposing a tan strip of skin that makes the back of Victoria's neck flush with heat.
She blames it on the temperature.
Chris essentially throws Kate out of the room moments after. She vanishes in a haze of perfume and lingering booze and, maybe just to spite Chris, she leaves her boots sitting right by the door. He mutters something under his breath before collapsing back on the bed, taking up so much space that Victoria finds herself pressed against the wall.
"Sorry about her," he says, wincing slightly as a door down the hall slams.
"Don't worry about it," Victoria replies, taking a single breath before she slides on top of him and kisses him until there isn’t a single thought remaining in her head.
Two hours later, she leaves Chris sleeping in his bed and silently closes his door behind her. She takes a single step towards the stairs when someone clears their throat behind her.
When she glances back over her shoulder, she has to use all of her effort to maintain a poker face.
Kate is leaning casually against the wall, party clothes swapped out for pajama shorts and another tank top, just as ragged as the last one. Her feet are bare and her hair is still a disaster, draping down over her tan shoulders and the jut of her collarbone.
"Watch the third step," she says. "It squeaks. I'll lock the door behind you."
"Thanks," Victoria says with a nod. It comes out curtly, but Kate doesn't seem bothered; if anything, she looks almost amused, eyes glinting slightly under heavily mascaraed eyelashes.
"Maybe you'll stick around longer than the other ones," she says thoughtfully before simply smirking and disappearing back into the darkened doorway that leads to her bedroom.
Victoria sticks around.
A month turns into six, six turns into twelve, and living apart turns into living together. It’s an apartment on the fringes of Beacon Hills, barely big enough for the two of them, but they make do. More often than not, they’re on the road, bouncing between hotel rooms, carrying a crate of weapons in the back of their trunk, closing deals on behalf of Chris’ father.
It’s not a bad life. Victoria never got a chance to travel much as a child. Sure, there were occasional trips to the bigger cities; San Diego, Las Vegas, even New York once. But she’s never actually just driven across the country, spent hours on blacktop after anonymous blacktop, watched as motels and gas stations flashed by the window. It’s new and exciting, causes just the perfect amount of danger to tingle at the base of her spine.
The only complication is Kate.
She makes a habit out of showing up without announcement or warning. She breezes into their motel rooms wearing leather jackets, carrying a different suitcase each time. When they come back from Nevada, or Utah, or Colorado, they find her on their couch, watching a black and white movie with her boots on the coffee table. More often than not, her and Chris end up fighting within an hour. Sometimes Kate storms out, sometimes Chris does, disappearing out the door with a muttered aside that they need milk or he has a meeting.
She’s a walking storm, both impulsive and incredibly calculating. She can stumble into their motel room reeking of whiskey one hour and yet close a deal with brutal efficiency the next. When she’s not tearing into Chris about something or another, they strategize like hardened veterans, scoping out new markets and figuring out new directions better than their father ever could.
Despite the arguments and screaming matches, Kate has a loyalty to her family unlike anything Victoria has ever seen.
But there’s no mistaking the intent lingering in her eyes every time Chris leaves them alone in the apartment or a motel room. Victoria has seen the signs from the beginning, seen the way Kate blatantly eyes her up, follows her around the room without moving from the sofa, makes comments that would make Victoria fume if they came from anyone else.
When they come from Kate, they end up lingering in her mind for hours, days, weeks, adding up, causing their next interactions to feel increasingly suffocating in the most pleasurable way possible.
Victoria has no intentions of leaving Chris any time soon.
But she’s not sure how much longer she can suffocate without needing to breathe.
After a year and a half, Chris proposes.
Victoria says yes.
She knows that it’s a hopeful thought, but maybe having a ring on her finger will be enough to deter Kate.
Maybe it will be enough to deter herself.
If Kate is a thunderstorm, Kali is an unexpected supercell.
Victoria first meets her three months before the wedding. Kate hasn’t answered her phone in days and Victoria is sick of holding onto her bridesmaid dress. It’s a soft peach color, floor length and strapless, frothy around the bottom, like the foam from an ocean wave breaking against the shore.
Frankly, Victoria isn’t sure if she likes the dresses. It’s too late to change them now, but she thinks that peach was a mistake. She’s also not sure if she really wants Kate to be standing mere inches away from her at the wedding. She can already feel Kate’s eyes burning into her back as she stands at the altar.
Really, all that she is sure of is that she’s sick of seeing the dress hanging from their closet door every morning when she wakes up.
One morning, while Chris is still sleeping off a cross-country drive, she grabs the dress and takes his key ring, which has a key to Kate’s apartment on it. Regardless of whether or not Kate’s home, Victoria is getting rid of the damn dress.
She knocks twice on Kate’s door, knuckles connecting firmly with the thick wood. She can hear muffled voices on the other side, but it’s probably just the television; Kate isn’t exactly known for being environmentally conscious. She waits a few more moments and when no one comes, she drapes the dress over her arm and unlocks the door.
As it turns out, she wasn’t entirely wrong about the voices. Kate’s front door opens onto a tiny hallway, more of an alcove really, that leads directly into the living room. The first thing Victoria sees is that the television is on, playing what looks like a daytime soap opera.
The second thing she sees is Kate’s long, tousled hair dangling over the arm of the couch.
The third thing she sees is the person kneeling between Kate’s bare, spread legs.
The door swings closed behind her and Kate jumps slightly. After a moment, she arches her head back until it’s completely hanging over the arm of the sofa and she’s glancing backwards, upside down, face red and split in half by a wild grin.
She’s not wearing a shirt and Victoria can see a semi-circle of dusky pink skin peeking out from the top of her bra.
“Hi Vicki!” Kate says, like Victoria has interrupted nothing more serious than an afternoon movie marathon. “Is that my dress?”
“Yes,” Victoria says through gritted teeth, forcing herself to look at the television instead of the person between Kate’s legs (who hasn’t stopped moving their head). “I’m going to leave it in the kitchen.”
“That’s fine,” Kate says breezily. “Oh! This is Kali! Kali, say hi to my future sister-in-law.”
Kate makes the phrase sound like a curse.
Not for the first time, Victoria wonders if she should entirely ban Kate from the wedding.
Kate’s partner sits back on her knees and wipes off her lips with the back of her hand. Even then, her chin remains glistening and both her grin and the glint in her dark eyes matches Kate’s.
“Hi,” Kali says, tossing her long, pitch black hair over her shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”
“Indeed,” Victoria mutters before ducking into the kitchen and haphazardly draping the dress over a chair, leaving the bottom of it to puddle on the ground.
When she crosses back into the hallway, Kali is back in her former position. Kate’s fingers are tangled in her long hair and her nipples are even closer to popping out of her bra.
“Lock the door behind you!” she yells cheerily, voice trailing off into a delighted moan.
Victoria doesn’t lock it, but she pulls it shut hard enough for the doorknob to rattle between her fingers.
She takes a moment in the parking lot to gather herself. Her face still feels flushed, too full of blood, and she’s sure that a quick glimpse in the rear view mirror will reflect back red cheeks. Instead, she keeps her gaze fixed on where her knuckles are wrapped around the steering wheel, leaving grooves in the leather.
Her face isn’t the only part of her that feels flushed full of warmth.
She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. She can still see Kate and Kali, both of them grinning at her, totally and completely unashamed, displaying themselves so blatantly. It should make Victoria curl up her lip in a sneer, should make her be ashamed on their behalf.
She is ashamed, but only of herself, for wishing that she could have lingered in the hallway a little longer before Kate realized that she was there.
Once most of the heat has left her face, she starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot.
At the very least, she’s certain that she doesn’t have much to worry about on the Kali front. If she’s anything like the other people Kate has ‘dated’, she won’t be around for long. She’ll be in Kate’s life for a week, maybe three at the latest. As far as Victoria knows, none of Kate’s lovers have lasted longer than a month.
Victoria can manage for that long.
Kali doesn’t leave.
When Victoria holds her bachelorette party three weeks before the wedding, Kate shows up forty-five minutes late to the bar, already well on the way to being inebriated. Kali is just behind her, wearing jeans and a crop top with a neckline that scoops down to the top of her bra, looking stone cold sober.
“Vicki!” Kate yells as she stumbles over their table. Victoria digs her nails into her palms.
(She’d never really cared one way or the other for the nickname before, but the more Kate says it, the more she grows to hate it.)
“You’re late,” Victoria says, taking a sip of her margarita, which is really more pure tequila than anything.
“It’s my fault,” Kali says, sliding onto the opposite bench beside one of Victoria’s high school friends and tugging Kate down with her. “I distracted her.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Kate says, wriggling until one of her legs is draped over Kali’s thigh. She drapes the rest of herself on the table, elbows somehow managing to avoid spilled drinks and crumbs from the appetizers that have already come and gone. “Are you ladies ready for shots? I’m buying.”
Before Victoria can say anything one way or another, Kate throws up her hand and grabs the attention of a passing server. She tugs him down to her ear by his arm and when she finishes whispering their order, he bustles away with a blush burning from the bottom of his neck to the tips of his ears.
Victoria automatically glances over at Kali, and finds the other woman already staring back at her. She doesn’t look the least bit bothered by Kate’s latest display. She simply raises an eyebrow and twitches the corner of her mouth before turning to Victoria’s friends.
“I’m Kali. It’s nice to meet you.” Her voice is smooth as glass and Victoria is sure that, under the right circumstances, it could be just as dangerous.
Just like that, burning heat flushes up the back of her neck.
The alcohol continues flowing after Kate’s first round of shots and within an hour, Victoria knows two things.
She is almost certainly going to have a hangover come morning and Kali and Kate won’t stop staring at her.
As the night progresses, Kali’s eyes seem to turn darker and darker, until her irises are black as ink. She seems to be getting along well with Victoria’s friends, laughing and exchanging stories, but even when Victoria turns away, she can feel the exact moment that Kali’s eyes turn back to her. Kate’s do much the same, but Victoria memorized the feeling of that long ago.
She could handle them individually; she’s had to handle Kate on her own for far too long. But when combined, she can feel her resolve slipping away as heat builds in her face and her core.
Just before midnight, the party winds down. The bar is open for a few more hours, but two of Victoria’s friends have children to go home to and the others have work in the morning. They call cabs from the payphones in the lobby and after saying her goodbyes, Victoria slips into the last cab in line.
Before she can tell the driver the address, the other passenger door opens.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Kate says (or, rather, slurs), sliding across the bench seat until she’s pressed against Victoria’s side. “We’re on the way, after all.” Kali pulls the door shut and simply grins, flashing her too-white, too-sharp teeth.
Victoria presses her sharp fingernails into the meat of her palm, spits out her address between gritted teeth, and moves as far towards the door as she can.
For a few moments, she fools herself into believing that things might just be bearable. Kali and Kate are remarkably quiet, especially considering Kate’s state of near inebriation. They talk to each other in near whispers, heads bowed together, occasionally laughing quietly.
Even Kali’s laugh sounds like glass.
Eventually, even those sounds trail off and Victoria wonders if Kate fell asleep or simply got bored.
The thought has barely crossed her mind when she hears a moan.
The sound is quiet, no louder than the whispers from before, but there’s no mistaking it for anything else. When it comes a second time, Victoria slowly lets her eyes drift to the side, until she can see Kate in her peripheral vision.
Perhaps more importantly. she can see what’s going on between Kate’s legs.
Her knees are spread slightly and her leather skirt is pushed halfway up her firm, tanned thighs. Kali’s hand has disappeared underneath the hem and as Victoria watches, the skirt slides up an inch further, revealing a sliver of Kali’s wrist.
If Kate is uncomfortable, there’s no sign of it on her face. Instead, as Victoria watches, she drops her head back against the seat, long hair draping loosely over her shoulders, lips parted, one hand resting against Kali’s leg.
The other hand wraps around Victoria’s.
Victoria freezes and lowers her gaze to their hands. Kate's fingers tighten, squeezing in time with another moan. Her skirt drifts up even higher, high enough for Victoria to see Kali’s fingers disappearing under the edge of Kate’s underwear.
When Kate tugs on her hand, Victoria doesn’t pull away. She’s watching from somewhere outside of her body, unable to do anything but let Kate move her hand until it’s resting on her thigh. Kate’s skin is incredibly warm underneath her palm and her muscles are active, twitching when Kali twists her wrist slightly. Victoria knows that if she took control of herself and moved her fingers only a few inches upwards, she’d find even warmer skin.
With that realization, she yanks her hand away like it’s been branded.
“Stop here,” she yells to the driver, already fumbling with her seat belt. The driver pulls over to the side of the road and Victoria yanks a twenty from her purse hard enough to tear it slightly. She tosses it into the front seat and shoves the door open.
She’s still twenty minutes from home and in the heels she’s wearing, she knows that she’s going to ache by the time she gets there, but that’s more than worth being able to see Kate’s face peering at her through the window as the cab pulls away from the curb.
She thinks it might be the first and only time she’s seen Kate look confused.
After ten minutes, she gives up on the shoes and continues the rest of the way home with them dangling from her fingers, a switchblade tucked into her other hand, one eye on the shadows, almost hoping that someone pops out to attack her.
It would certainly distract her from the warmth that simply won’t leave her body.
When she lets herself into their apartment, Chris is sitting in the recliner in the living room, television turned down low, flickering blue light playing off his lightly stubbled face. There’s a folding table set up in front of him, covered with the pieces of a disassembled gun. As she drops her shoes and purse on the floor, he looks up from the component that he’s cleaning.
“I didn’t think you’d be home so early,” he says, setting the piece down. “Was it a good night?”
Victoria doesn’t think she could lie with a straight face.
So instead, she pushes the table out of the way, drops into Chris’ lap and presses her mouth against his, fingers curved around his jaw.
They don’t make it any further than the living room couch. After, when sweat is drying along Victoria’s spine and their clothes are spread across the room in puddles, Chris presses his lips against her temple.
“Did Kate behave herself tonight?” he asks, calloused fingers slowly brushing along her hip.
Victoria simply nods.
Her last days as a legally single woman dissolve in the blink of an eye.
She can hear the crowd, small as it is, murmuring a few rooms away. She’s alone in the dressing room, her mother having vanished a few moments ago in a whoosh of perfume and a swish of her pastel skirt. Since then, Victoria has simply been staring at herself in the mirror, at the flush in her cheeks, the cinched waist of her dress, the swoop of her bare shoulders.
She looks uncomfortable at best, but when she plasters on a grin, she only looks worse.
It’s not that she regrets making it to this day. She wants to marry Chris. She doesn’t feel cold feet. She doesn’t have to stifle the urge to simply bolt from the building.
But she can’t help but wonder how Kate is going to look at her. Kate, who is going to be mere feet away from her, standing in a line with Victoria’s other bridesmaids. Kate, whose gaze usually feels like coals smoldering on the back of her neck.
Kate, who has been ruining her life from the day she first fell into it.
A knock at the door makes her tear her gaze away. She reaches for the organza of her veil, but decides to leave it pinned up for a moment longer.
As soon as she opens the door, she tries to slam it closed.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t work; Kali grabs it in one strong hand, her fingernails painted bright red. Both of her thumbnails are too long, sharpened to near points, and Victoria yanks her eyes away from them before her mind wanders to how they would feel gently dragging down her spine or along her wrists.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, reluctantly stepping aside before Kali simply bowls her over. She’s in a sleek black suit and stiletto heels, which tap gratingly against the tiles as she strides in.
“We need to talk about Kate,” Kali says sharply, spinning around once she’s in front of the mirror. Victoria takes one quick glance out into the hallway before closing the door. Her father should be coming by any moment now, to let her know that they’re ready to walk down the aisle.
“What about Kate?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest, biting her lip against the other words that want to pour from her mouth like knives.
Kali stays silent for a moment, but she doesn’t break eye contact with Victoria. She just stares at her, eyes unnervingly dark, mouth quirked up into what might be a pitying smirk.
“You do know she’s in love with you, right?” It sounds like how she'd speak to a five year old, so condescending that it makes Victoria’s teeth grind together. She wants to grab Kali by the lapels of her jacket and toss her out the door, out of the church entirely.
Instead, she settles for spitting, “Kate doesn’t know what that word means.”
“You’d be surprised,” Kali says with a shrug. “At the very least, she thinks it’s love. I’m not going to bother correcting her. I don’t care enough.”
“You don’t care?” Victoria hates how confused she sounds, but there’s no skirting around it. Kali seems completely nonplussed by the fact that her girlfriend is in love with someone else. Hell, she’s acting as the goddamn messenger.
“Why should I? It’s just sex,” Kali replies with a raised eyebrow. “I don’t love her and she doesn’t love me. But you…” She trails off but before Victoria can respond, another knock comes at the door.
“Victoria? It’s time.”
“One moment!” she calls to her father before twisting back around. Kali simply gazes at her, dark eyes sweeping from her head to her toes.
No matter how many layers her wedding dress is composed of, Victoria feels like she’s just been stripped naked.
“As soon as we’re done here,” Victoria says, digging her fingernails into her palms, “you and Kate leave. Don’t come to the reception, don’t try to corner me. Leave.”
“Fine by me,” Kali says, shrugging her shoulders again. She crosses the room but before she reaches the door, she stops and lays one hand on Victoria’s shoulder, sharpened nail scratching against her skin.
“You look beautiful, by the way.”
With that, she sweeps out the door with a quick murmured word to Victoria’s father. Victoria stays stock still until she hears her father step in behind her, forcing herself to breathe even though all she really wants to do is swipe everything off the small vanity in front of her, smash every piece of glass in the mirror and maybe hold a shard to Kate’s throat.
“Are you ready?”
She nods and slowly uncurls her fingers from her palms, clammy with either sweat or blood.
“Yes.”
When she walks down the aisle, Victoria keeps her gaze straight ahead, ignoring the flashes and whirs coming from the cameras around her. She’s aware of the bridesmaids and groomsmen flanking the pulpit on either side, but she has eyes only for the man standing between them.
Chris doesn’t cry, but she can see his jaw trembling before she even reaches the end of the aisle.
She speaks her vows to him in her steadiest voice and means every word of them.
By the time the priest speaks the final words of the ceremony, she’s slicked with sweat and exuberant in a wholly foreign way.
She also feels like a hole has been bored in the back of her neck by the sharpest eyes she’s ever encountered.
After their first dance, she excuses herself to a back room of the reception hall to change out of her wedding dress. It’s really a two-person operation, but she needs the time alone.
She isn’t surprised when the door of her changing room bursts open without so much as a knock.
Kate’s bridesmaid gown is long gone; Victoria can’t help but entertain the thought that it’s in a dumpster somewhere, covered in trash. She’s back in the jeans and boots she adores so much and Kali is only two steps behind her, still wearing her suit.
“I told you not to come here,” Victoria says, lowering her hand from the corseted back of her dress.
“You honestly thought that I’d listen?” Kate replies, turning just far enough to nod at Kali, who closes the door. Her face is clouded over, positively simmering with fury, but Victoria just holds her gaze.
“I hoped,” she answers. “I hoped that you’d stop.”
“Why would I do that?” Kate crosses the room in what seems like a flash, until she’s pressed flush against Victoria’s body, pinning her against the wall.
“Because he’s your brother,” Victoria hisses.
“And now he’s your husband,” Kate retorts, quick and sharp as a whip. “All because you can’t stop lying to yourself.”
“I’m not lying. I wanted to marry him. I want him.”
“But you want me more.” The words strike Victoria like a dagger slipping between her ribs. Kate’s face lights up in a vicious grin and she somehow steps even closer, one leg sliding between Victoria’s. “You want us more, don’t you?”
Just like that, Victoria feels something snap deep inside of her, snapped by the pure simplicity, the sheer rightness, of the statement. She doesn’t know who she hates more: Kate, for not being able to leave well enough alone, for always being so fucking pushy, or herself, for not being able to lie. Not about this.
“I hate you,” she mutters and before Kate can say anything else, Victoria grabs her by the back of the neck and yanks her towards her mouth. As first kisses go, it’s pretty damn terrible; their mouths collide hard enough to split the corner of Victoria’s lip open and it’s too aggressive, dissolves too quickly into teeth and tongues.
It’s exactly what Victoria had hoped it would be.
When Kate pulls back, hands wrapped tight around Victoria’s wrists, her lipstick is smeared around her lips and her smirk is a dangerous, blinding mess of sharp teeth.
“I hate this fucking dress,” she mutters, dropping her eyes to the mound of fabric still between them. “Kali?”
“I can take it or leave it,” Kali says, twisting the lock on the door before crossing the room as well. “Vicki?”
“Don’t call me that,” Victoria snaps, but she turns around to face the wall. “Help me get out of this thing.”
Being with the two of them is like being caught in a storm.
Her dress is puddled on the floor but her slip stays on, albeit rucked up to her waist. Nails scratch down her arms, over her stomach, along the inside of her thighs. Teeth press into the base of her throat and at her hips. Neither of them seem to care about leaving marks on her.
Victoria doesn’t care either.
She comes for the first time around Kate’s relentless fingers, her own fingers locked around the back of Kali’s neck. Kate doesn’t let up; she circles her thumb against Victoria’s clit until she comes again, biting back a cry hard enough to make her lips bleed.
Just when Victoria thinks she’ll be able to breathe again, Kali slides to her knees and looks up at both of them, cocking an eyebrow as a question.
Victoria nods. Kate laughs breathlessly and presses her mouth underneath Victoria’s ear.
“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to see this.”
Victoria thinks that she might have an idea, but before she can pursue that line of thought any further, Kali’s mouth makes her disappear into another spiral of sensation.
After that, they vanish just as quickly as they appeared, leaving Victoria in a wrinkled shift, with sweat and come covering the inside of her thighs, marked by bruises and scratches. She quickly hangs up her wedding dress, pulls on the other outfit that’s waiting for her, and heads back out into the reception hall.
She waits for someone to notice the marks, to question her about them, but no one does. Not even Chris or her parents. They simply ask her where she was and she tells them she just needed some time.
It’s not a lie.
Kate and Kali are both gone.
They stay gone.
As the months go by without a word from either of them, the familiar feeling of suffocation comes back to Victoria. She’d hoped, hoped with everything she had, that it would have stayed gone after the wedding, that one time was all she’d need to walk away.
But with time, the feeling only grows, until just hearing Kate’s name makes her reel.
One day, she can’t wait anymore. She needs to take a breath.
She wakes up early, while Chris is still sleeping, and pads into his office on bare feet. His Rolodex is sitting on the corner of his desk and she scrolls through it until she comes to the letter K.
Kate’s card is the first one and there’s two phone numbers written on it: one scratched out, one written in still fresh black ink.
Without hesitation, Victoria picks up the phone sitting on the opposite corner of Chris’ desk and dials.
While she waits for an answer, she runs a finger over the grain of the desk, over the scratch marks made by her husband.
She still wants him. She doesn’t regret marrying him in the least.
