#that dress to impress game has them in a chokehold

[yayhell]

Been experiencing a lot more joy in life

[goldenstring6123]

Hi !!! How r u pooks :3

Ignore this if u haven't played dti but what do you think the L&DS boys' reactions would be to their s/o playing dress to impress and actually raging at it like verbally LMFAO this game seriously has me TWEAKING bro but I can't stop playing it gigi please free my family 💔 (hcs plz)

Thanks for reading O_o

Lnds: Dress to impress chaos

Warning: no warning! GN!READER, crack-fic (?)

Author's notes: DTI has me on a chokehold as well pookie.

Zayne:

Surprisingly, Zayne knows about this because of the children in the pediatric ward. A good number of kids have their tablets with them and play the game; to him, it looked like some regular dress-up game. He didn't think much of it and just warned the children to lessen their screen time.

When he arrived home and was taking his shoes off in the foyer, he could hear you complaining about something. The only coherent sentence he heard was, "The theme is Y-THREE-K, NOT Y-TWO-K!" He wondered what you were talking about and who you were mad at, but when he saw you huddled around the coffee table, fashion magazines sprawled all over, and another gadget displaying fashion catalogs, he knew what was up.

"What are you getting so worked up about?" he asked, sitting next to you and placing down a cup of tea after changing into his clothes. He could see that there were figures walking down the runway.

"I don't get how those ugly layering players win first place!"

He was confused by what you meant. The outfits were suitable, donning the familiar attire of the staff at the hospital, particularly scrubs and white skirts that were too short for the protocol. "What's the theme?"

"A doctor or a nurse," you replied. As the screen turned briefly black, Zayne waited in anticipation. The scene changed, and on the podium was a mermaid with neon green wings and a god-awful dress.

You threw your hands up in frustration and wept on his knees. Zayne was dumbfounded. "I hate this game!" he heard your muffled cries on his knees. He patted your head.

He got used to seeing you so engrossed in the game, but he would never get used to your mood swings: one moment, you're insulting children, and the next moment, you're giggling because you won 1st place.

Zayne bought you a VIP pass because he loved seeing your reaction every time, although he isn't really a fan of spending money on in-game currency. But he loves you too much, so he just keeps that thought to himself.

After seeing you play, he watches the kids play as well, occasionally commenting on their choice of clothing. The nurses were pretty confused by his comments because Zayne never really commented on any outfits, much less in a game.

Xavier:

Xavier knows about the game and has tried it once, not getting the premise of it at first. He didn't know how to change patterns or delete the clothes he was wearing, so his first catwalk was a bit of a mess. But here's the thing: Xavier won first place, which made him more confused. He screenshot himself on the podium and sent it to you.

When you got home from work, excited to play with him, he was pouting while looking at his phone. You wondered why and saw that another player was walking around in the same exact fit as your partner's character. Xavier said that he kept on trying to change his outfit, but that one person kept doing the same thing. You decided to give that player a piece of your mind on behalf of your boyfriend.

When you're at work, Xavier will send you links to fashion hacks he sees on social media. "This looks cute; let's try it later," and he's more updated when Gigi is working on something. The codes—Xavier knows the codes by heart. He knows them more than he knows the date of your birth.

It was thanks to this game that he likes to go shopping with you to get some inspiration. Surprisingly, he can make a coherent outfit with the ones he sees in the malls.

When you both play together, he likes playing duo, and even if your outfits are unfinished or bad, he gives you 5 stars. But for the rest of the players, he forgets to vote more than half of the time—you don't know if it's on purpose or really by accident.

He would occasionally laugh when players fight against one another, especially if you were involved.

He once bought himself the VIP pass, but his outfits still looked too generic for your liking, but you didn't have the heart to complain. Xavier once lost a bet, and now he has to buy you the pass as well.

He once used his work account to comment on some suggestions on Gigi's Twitter, and kids were confused as to why a hunter was commenting on a kids' game. He deleted it soon after, but he amassed a few hundred followers.

Sylus:

He felt nothing about the game at first and thought of it as nothing more than your form of entertainment. It keeps you busy and out of harm's way, but he never once thought that it would cause a rift in your relationship (he's exaggerating).

Sylus would grow annoyed at how you weren't picking up his calls when you were clearly at home, so he sent Mephisto. The little snitch took a picture of you being so engrossed in your game and sent it back to his boss. Sylus was half disgruntled and 100% dumbfounded when he found out—he was laughing, but he was annoyed. Luke and Kieran were utterly confused.

At midnight, while you worked your way to being a fashion maven, you didn't notice your man sneaking in through the window. Just as you were about to hit pose 11, Sylus yanked your feet and stole your tablet from you.

"No! Give that back!"

"You're not answering my calls because of…this?" He turned to the tablet, which displayed another player's half-decent outfit for the theme "star."

"What calls?" you turned to your phone. '18 missed calls' and your heart sunk to the floor. Shyly, you turned to him, scratching your head. "Oops?"

He sat down on the edge of your bed. "Why are you so engrossed in a dressing game? Why not dress yourself with all the clothes I gave you?" He nudged to the mountain of paper bags in the corner of your room—branded ones, too.

"Because it's fun?" You took the tablet from him and showed him on screen how your outfit won first place. "See? I like winning—one more round, and let's go on a night ride."

He paused, patiently waiting for a minute while you scrolled around the game lobby. He came to a decision. "No. Screen time is over. You've neglected me for far too long." He yanked the tablet away from you using his evol, then pinned you down to the bed, burying his nose in between your breasts.

Although Sylus claims he's not interested in playing the game with you, he did, in fact, join the game secretly to spy on you. He was mildly infuriated with the little amount of selection of menswear and the ridiculous look on the men's faces, so he still really doesn't understand the hype, but he'll be generous enough to give you a three or four-star once in a while.

Once, he joined your server, and the theme was the bad guy. You dressed up as a white-haired, red-eyed man with over-chiseled cheekbones. A moment later, Sylus bombarded you with a screenshot of the game. "I do not look like that. Delete it."

As much as he says he doesn't like the game, Gigi made an update and added some dark reddish aura in-game, as well as a crow perched on the hand of the model. The bird looked awfully close to Mephisto. You confronted Sylus about this, and he denied having any involvement in it.

Whenever you sleep in Sylus' home, he would wake up to the goddamn beat of the game at 3 am, and out of frustration, he would use his EVOL to get the device away from you and place it on the highest shelf in the room. Then he'd hold you down.

Rafayel:

Rafayel introduced you to the game, but after a few times of playing it, it didn't take long for him to get banned for cyberbullying—he wasn't bullying, actually; he was just stating facts, and the other players couldn't take it, and so they reported him. He fights anyone, and he comments a lot in the game, earning him the title of a "yapper."

"You guys don't have taste. How did that thing win first place?" That thing refers to a pretty decent outfit but doesn't match the theme.

"You don't look good either, hun," said the person in first place.

"You don't get to say that when your hair looks like puke, darling." He rage-chattered, saying everything he was typing out loud.

You were cackling beside your boyfriend, witnessing him rage while you were just perched on top of the 3rd place, happy you even got to go up there against all the fashionistas.

"Kids really have the gall to compete and insult adults with taste."

"Raf, you do understand that they're adults as well, right?"

"No, they're not. They're children. This is a kids' game."

You stared at him intently. He stared back, thinking.

"Then I don't need to hold back from insulting them." he placed his hand on the keyboard.

Rafayel's fits are absolutely top-tier. He always wins first place. The layering, the color combination, the form, and the aesthetic are all on point and top-tier. He doesn't reference, and the only time he does is when the theme requires it.

This man doesn't do duos with you because he wants the podium to himself. He once did a duo with you, and it broke his winning streak. You had a small argument about it, but you just gave in, eager to make him lose. Newsflash: You failed miserably.

He secretly joins a farming server every once in a while. Rafayel unknowingly joined the same server as you, and when you asked about it, he denied it, saying only people with bad tastes need to farm for stars. You sent him a screenshot. He didn't talk to you for a day.

He files a lot of complaints and goes on Twitter about how buggy the game is and how bad the texture is. He didn't know that his graphics were on low.

Rafayel is very active in the community and contributes to it during his free time. He uses an alternate account to post suggestions when Gigi opens a post about it. A lot of people actually agree with Rafayel's complaints and suggestions.

Rafayel once freaked out when he accidentally went inside the meat room and told you about it, but when he showed you, it was already catwalk time. You pretended you didn't believe him and tried to pretend to listen when he was searching for that passable wall. You laughed at him and brushed him off, pretending that you didn't believe him.

This began the downward spiral to Lana's lore. He kept on sending you reels about it—and speculations and theories. He even once invited you to that scary horror game, but he quit because it was too creepy and full of 'negative energy.'

Author footnotes: If I'm taking a break while writing, I would be playing dress to impress and I would be fighting children (i'm not joking, I once made a player and her friends leave the server)

Layout by me, using Canva premium | Do not repost |

[faetedwill]

That’s Not a Knife || Sloane & Rhett

TIMING: Current. LOCATION: Downtown with the mimes.  PARTIES: @faetedwill​ @ironcladrhett SUMMARY: Sloane nearly gets robbed by a mime. Rhett steps in, and then they run from a mermaid man and barnacle boy style invisible car.  CONTENT WARNINGS: Gun use. 

Sloane was no stranger to mime encounters. Most of the time, Sloane paid very little mind to them, not because she was afraid, but because half the time, she couldn’t be bothered to play their little games. Impatience held Sloane in a chokehold, and unfortunately for her, not everyone seemed to be alright with the way Sloane was quick to walk away. No matter the number of times she tried to brush past the mime standing in front of her, they managed to get in front of her again, something clearly in their hand that she couldn’t see. “I don’t–” Sloane let out a frustrated sigh, “I don’t know what you want from me.” She wouldn’t even be in this part of town if it hadn’t been for the danish she craved. 

The mime held up a finger, ticking them off as if counting something. Sloane continued to stare at them, amusement having left her long ago. “Look, I really–” Sloane felt something stop her as she tried to move, but the mime wasn’t touching her. Instead, they held something with two hands in front of her. “Oh, fuck. Come on, I really need to go, I can’t even see what you’re asking me to look at!” Sloane tried to act out the words she said, holding something of her own that was invisible, and then making a giant X with her arms. The mime seemed to grow irritated and continued on, but not before they put down the item and seemingly pulled something out of their pocket. Even if she couldn’t see it, Sloane knew what it looked like to hold a knife. “Dude, what the fuck? Come on, put that away, whatever it is.” Maybe she would get lucky and it were something else entirely, but the expression on the mime grew into something rageful. Was she being robbed by a mime? 

—

Never before coming to White Crest had Rhett encountered something quite like the local mime population. They weren’t people, not regular people, that much was clear. Something to do with that black fucking ooze… the last time he’d been here he hadn’t had time to investigate it, and frankly since coming back the second time, had forgotten all about it.

Until now, of course.

Watching for a moment as the mime harassed a young girl, Rhett felt his irritation rise. Street performers were fine, but the line for the warden was when they started to interact with unwilling participants. He’d decked a performer or two who decided to get in his face in the past—just another mark on his permanent record that meant he couldn’t go back to certain parts of the world. But this was obviously not your typical street performer, because it never fucking was in a place like this. 

“Oi!” he called from across the street, jogging through traffic to get to them in a matter of seconds. He didn’t even spare the girl a glance as his focus settled on the mime, standing a good few inches taller than them and getting right up in their personal space, inserting himself between them and their target. “Naff off, mate,” Rhett growled, resting a palm over the handle of his own knife. 

—

Sound. There was sound. Sloane turned her attention to the man who was headed their way. He wore all black with a beard that even the banshee had to admit was pretty impressive. Before she could say anything, the glint of metal appeared between them. Sloane took a tentative step back as she watched the man size up the mime who, for whatever reason, still seemed very unimpressed and unfazed. “I think he has his own knife,” Sloane managed to get out after she cleared her throat. She wasn’t sure, but she was almost positive that even if it was invisible, it could still do damage. The knife, or whatever it was. And the car that seemed to be heading their way. 

Another mime also dressed in black and white seemed to be levitating. Only, they were going faster than if they were just floating. Sloane watched, mouth open slightly in disbelief as they got closer. The second mime had their hands up as if they were gripping a steering wheel and their right foot kept pressing down onto something before letting up ever so slightly. “Uh–” Soane began, tugging at the stranger’s shirt. “I think they’re driving. I think we need to–” Sloane barely had time to finish her sentence because the car (or what she thought was a car) was getting closer to them. She tugged on his shirt again in an attempt to pull him backwards and out of the way, just as the first mime had backed up on their own, whatever they were holding still extended towards them. 

—

I think he has his own knife. He had his own somethin’, that was certain, but… Rhett wasn’t quite sure if it was a knife. Still glowering at the performer slash creature of malicious intent, the warden hardly noticed the approaching…. vehicle, if you could call it that. But the girl was tugging at his shirt and saying something that he was fully ignoring, that is until she gave a more forceful yank and pulled him backwards. The few people that shared the street with them seemed to recognize mime hijinks when they saw them and quickly scattered, leaving the two victims on their own as far as dealing with the threat was concerned. 

Cowards.

Letting out an indignant huff as the second mime came to a stop between them, looking equally ready as their counterpart to maim, Rhett realized what it was that the first one was holding. Ah, shit. The first mime ducked behind what Rhett could only assume was a fucking invisible car while the other one reached into… the glove box?—to retrieve something. Right, of course. Another gun. They were being robbed by mimes. Mimes with guns. What the fuck? 

“Go,” he barked back at the girl, who he was still attempting to shield with his body. The first mime poked its head up and rested both wrists against the presumed hood of the car, took aim, and—nothing. Well not nothing, the wall just to their left suddenly erupted in a small explosion of brick as something hit it with deadly force… but absolutely zero sound. Rhett yelped in genuine surprise, though it really shouldn’t have been that surprising—if they could drive invisible cars, of course they could shoot invisible fucking guns. “Go!” he shouted again, this time backing up with the girl as they scurried to get around the corner of the building that had taken the hit. 

—

Sloane couldn’t believe what was happening to her. Was she going to die by mime hand? It would be fitting, she thought. After all, nothing else had seemed to be able to do the job. She stared ahead as the stranger kept himself between her and the mimes. 

If it weren’t so common for a bunch of mimes to wreak havoc on innocent bystanders, Maybe Sloane would be a little more fearful. Of course, there was a part of her that was scared, who wouldn’t be? Nobody really understood the way that the mimes in White Crest worked, and so as Sloane watched one reach around into the glove compartment, finger delicately poised, it could only mean one thing. 

And the stranger seemed to think the same. Sloane didn’t need to be told twice. There was a bright blue mailbox next to them and she ducked behind it, not ready to run just yet— curiosity getting the better of herself. She waited to hear something, but of course no sound came. Instead, a spray of dust erupted from a nearby wall as the gun went off, or what she thought was the gun going off. Then he told her to run again, and run she did. 

Sloane scrambled to reach the other side of the building, pressing herself firmly against the wall. “They had a gun, right? That was for sure a gun?” Sloane inhaled sharply and rested her head against the wall. “I don’t even have anything worth stealing! Why are we getting robbed?” Her voice was low, words quick, tumbling out of her mouth like she’d never said a word in her life before now. Then another plume of dust erupted just above their heads. “ANOTHER?!” Sloane recoiled from the wall, digging her nails into the man’s arm to pull him after her. 

—

Far be it from Rhett to call a situation strange—he was often the one that made things strange, especially to those who were already in the know when it came to the supernatural. Somehow, even in a world with Alps and Bubaks, Rhett still somehow managed to be the weirdest fucking guy in the room. But this? This was next level weird. This had Rhett thinking like a sane person, feeling for the first time in over twenty years like he was the one with all the brain cells. 

Kinda felt… good? Actually? But there wasn’t any time to celebrate. Not when the brick wall was exploding around them as fully muted gunshots missed their targets. How odd, Rhett thought, that the mimes were such bad shots. Why would they feel the need to escalate the violence in such a dramatic and clearly atypical way? Maybe something had happened, maybe—no. Don’t get sucked into the mime lore. Just get away from them. 

“Dunno, kid,” Rhett grumbled, wincing as another shot collided with the wall just a couple feet over his head. Mime number one seemed to have joined number two in the vehicle, and they were screeching around the corner, hands still… pointing in their direction. Feeling the nails dig into his arm, the warden was about to hiss out a complaint until another shot was apparently fired, and this one found a home in the man’s leg. His breath hitched in his throat and he quickly hobbled after the girl, trying to keep up with her as they attempted to outrun the car, or at least find somewhere they could go on foot that the fucking mimes couldn’t follow. One gloved hand pressed to his thigh, he could feel the blood seeping between his fingers. Damnit. Damnit. “Don’t happen to have any Mime-B-Gone, do ya?” he joked through gritted teeth.

—

Another shot, another plume of dust. Sloane let out a strangled groan from the back of her throat. She wouldn’t die here. Couldn’t die here. She would be pissed. Death by mime? Fates no. She was not about to be a headline or some statistic — the forgotten ones, the ones who died by a mime’s hand, or by something that the town couldn’t explain. She’d seen it enough, and like hell would she be a part of that world. 

There was no telling where a shot was going to land and that’s what scared Sloane most. She hated not knowing how to be prepared for this, and even if she had her scream, what would it do? Would it even hurt the mimes? Would they be invincible to her sound-like abilities? And it wasn’t like she could put this stranger in danger, not when he was trying to help her. But it wasn’t as if she had her scream, and so the thought was fleeting. 

The car made no noise as it followed them — an ominous horse drawn carriage, sans the horse, and well, the carriage. Sloane chanced a glance over her shoulder to check just how far the mimes were from them. Not very. The man was talking to her now, making a joke— Yeah, jokes. She could do that. “Afraid not. I used it all last week when they tried to get me to join their pyramid scheme.” Sloane was nearing her exertion limit. Her chest was burning from running so much, as were her legs. She really needed to get into better shape. She hadn’t noticed that the man had been shot yet, and it was lucky for her that she didn’t notice until she pulled him into an alleyway, creeping awkwardly towards a dumpster that was pressed flush against a wall. When she noticed the blood at the man’s leg and his hand, her eyes grew wide. “You got shot?!” She kept her voice low, well-trained in that art for the sake of her future. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

—

Heh. Mime pyramid scheme. If Rhett hadn’t known she was joking, it honestly would have been believable. Believable as them shooting invisible guns from an invisible car, anyway. What the fuck happened to good old fashioned swords? When and why did those go out of style? Fuck. 

They didn’t even have the advantage of hearing brakes screech or car doors slam, utterly blind to their pursuers as they huddled behind the dumpster. It was then that the little bird noticed his injury, to which Rhett shrugged. “Ah… s’nothin’,” he assured her, knowing that it would heal in a matter of days. In trying to wave it off nonchalantly, the warden only managed to flick some of his own blood onto her shirt, and frowned. “... sorry.” 

Suddenly, a figure appeared around the corner of the dumpster. A black and white figure very clearly hunting for them, but also very clearly unprepared to the sudden attack that was delivered by way of Rhett throwing himself forward, slashing with his knife a few times before burying it deep in the mime’s side and ripping it back out. The creature silently screamed and recoiled, which urged the man to usher Sloane along past it and out of the alley. “Must’ah lost ‘em. Well, until now. C’mon, bet we can give ‘em the slip—” If he could stop bleeding, that was.

— 

“It’s nothing?” Sloane gaped for a moment, eyes flicking down to meet the injury that really, seemed like something. She swallowed the expletives that flattened against the roof of her mouth. Now was not the time to argue with the man in leather about his gunshot wound from the invisible mime gun. “That sounds fake, but uh—“ She glanced down at her shirt, a spray of red loud against the periwinkle tank top she wore. “Oh, for fuck’s sa—“ 

Sloane had no time to finish her sentence. One of the mimes had gained on them, painted features contorting at the sight of his prey. Her company had decidedly thrown himself forward, knife whipping through the air before it finally connected with his side. Even though she should have had conflicted feelings over the attempted murder brought on by the stranger’s knife in the mime’s side, she found nothing but greed. Greed for her life, and for this man beside her. Her mom would have screamed, should her death be written into fate, and yet she still stood. Well, ran. 

She followed him willingly out of the alley, heart loud in her ears. There was no other sound but her own labored breathing and whatever hiss that the stranger let slip from between his teeth. Sloane could see more blood against his pant leg, leather slick with a mess of rouge. “You’re— you’re bleeding a lot.” Sloane knew they couldn’t stop, but how much further could they go? “Do we need to find somewhere to hide?” She asked, throat constricting. Like that had worked out so well for them before. 

— 

“Aye. Got just the spot.” Rhett led her through the streets toward one of the bridges that crossed the river to the East End, but rather than running across the bridge, hopped over the little safety wall and down into the foliage that grew up the hill. Scrambling through the bushes and thicket, Rhett headed for the space beneath the bridge, limping along the concrete barrier that ran alongside the water to a drainage pipe. Ducking down inside of it, the warden scooted away from the opening and a little bit into the darkness, relieved to finally get the weight off the wound as he sat just above the tiny, trickling stream of runoff water from the gutters above. 

“Motherfucker,” he breathed, pressing his palm back over his thigh, he glanced up at the girl. “Well… that coulda gone worse,” he chuckled. “Name’s Rhett, by the by.”

—

Any decision Sloane made at this point could end badly for her. She had to trust that it wouldn’t. She had to trust that this person wouldn’t kill her. What reason would he have? White Crest was full of people who were looking to cause trouble, and though he had technically saved her from it, she was still wary. But she followed him anyways, all the way to the bridge. Surprised by his choice of hopping the wall, Sloane swallowed her arguments and followed after him after a quick glance over her shoulder verified that the mimes were too far behind to notice where they’d gone. 

“From mime food to troll food.” There was no troll here, and they were lucky enough for that fact. “Kidding.” Sloane cleared her throat and crouched down next to Rhett, vision adjusting to the shadows that danced around them now. The quiet trickle of the water was welcomed — far better than the silence that followed them as they ran for their lives. “I’m Sloane.” A small, but considerate smile pulled at her lips as she pointed to his leg. “We should probably get you to a hospital or something, right?” She didn’t know how extreme the injury was, but she hoped that the bullet had merely grazed his leg instead of going through. How would they find an invisible bullet? 

—

“We run into a troll n’ I’m quittin’ my day job,” the warden chuckled. “Sloane. Well met. Er…” Rhett glanced at his leg, brows furrowed. “So-so met, maybe.” At the suggestion of a hospital the man waved it off with his free hand, still applying pressure to the wound. “Nah, she’ll be ‘right,” he assured her with a shake of his head. In a few days, it’d be like nothing had happened, except maybe the addition of a new scar among many that hid beneath his clothes. “Didn’t dig dip. Just need a minute.” The waning daylight that had been turning the sky pink at the start of their adventure was already transitioning to a deep purple. “Fuckers are gettin’ bold, attackin’ a young thing like you in proper sunlight hours,” he grunted, his tone shifting from something light (albeit in some amount of pain) to something that carried a poisonous edge. Rhett had always harbored an affection for children and young people, though he might never admit it: likely a holdout of his desire to know his own children, and the bitter understanding that that would never happen. 

Not that that wasn’t his own fault, but he had to misplace the anger somewhere. People (or mimes) who tried to mug twenty-somethings seemed like a good enough outlet. “Y’alright? Really rattled yer dags good there, girlie—sorry y’had to just trust me like that.” He knew how he appeared to most people, and he was generally not the sort of man you’d want to follow beneath a bridge based on looks alone. 

After another minute or so, the warden felt well enough to press on. “C’mon, let’s get movin’ ‘fore a troll really does turn up.” 

—

Sloane watched Rhett carefully, gaze trained on the way he held his hand to his leg. Something told her that he was the kind of person to get himself involved in these sorts of things a lot. She couldn’t be sure, but the look of him screamed seasoned fighter. “Uh huh. If you say so.” Sweat beaded at the back of Sloane’s neck and she wicked it away with the back of her hand quickly. She just wanted to be home, away from these mimes with their guns and invisible cars. 

“I don’t think they care much about like, uh…” Sloane’s brows knit together as if in deep thought while she searched for the words. “Doing the right thing— not attacking people, I mean.” The young banshee exhaled sharply through her nose, the burn in her chest finally mute against the other pains and worries that were cascading. “And I’m not that young,” Sloane said bitterly under her breath, scrunching her nose. She reached down to the ground, fingers digging their way into the roots of some of the weeds that scattered around their feet in order to keep herself upright. 

Sloane half expected to see the mimes round the corner. But they didn’t. She didn’t know where they were, but for right now, she and Rhett were safe. As he spoke, she shook her head. “Shit happens, not a big deal. I feel like it was bound to happen, the mimes and I have been getting along way too well for these past uh— twenty years.” She cleared her throat before reaching up to scrape a hair away from the way it stuck to her cheek. “You seemed to know what you were doing, and it’s not like you’re some axe murdered, right?” She let out an awkward laugh, not understanding how she may have been partially right. He seemed to know his way around a wound, among other things. 

“I was joking when I said that, but yeah, probably not a bad idea.” Sloane winced slightly at the dull pain in her knee as she unfurled herself from a crouched position, pushing on out of the underbelly of the bridge. 

[nyroom]

The Ghosts of Childhood - Chapter 2

The Pines family adapts to this new change with mixed results. 

[AO3 Link] [Part 1]

All things considered, Stan took the news remarkably well. 

“So you’re sayin’ something came around and turned me into a kid?” He had echoed, scrunching up his face in thought for a moment. “Eh. I guess it could be worse.” 

To be fair, Ford had kept it simple and brief. There was no sense in telling Stan the reason he had gone out in the first place, just as there’d be no sense in explaining every shred of bitterness that had built up over the years. Stan was old, went out, and then wasn’t anymore. Anyone could understand. 

“And we’re your great-niece and nephew!” Mabel piped up, grabbing her brother in a side hug. “Your favourite great-niece and nephew, by the way.”

Ford almost corrected her that they were their only great-niece and nephew (unless there were more descendants of Shermy? Ford would need to investigate that once he was settled), but bit his tongue. For once, it wasn’t the time to play perfectionist. 

“Great-niece and nephew, eh?” Stan tapped his chin, a slow grin spreading across his face. “So that makes me the boss of you!” 

“Well, you’re younger than us right now.” Dipper corrected, straightening out his clothes from his sister’s hug/chokehold. From what Ford could tell, Mabel didn’t do her hugs by half measures.

Stan ignored this point, nodding to himself. “I’m the boss of people… Cool!” 

“Let’s not forget who the older twin is here, technically and literally.” Ford cut in next, shooting his brother a stern look. “So I’m the one in charge right now.” 

That made Stan deflate a little, crossing his arms and huffing defiantly. “Only by fifteen minutes!” He shot back, but kept it at that. For as stubborn as Stan was, that was certainly remarkable. Maybe now that they were farther apart in age, he would finally listen to Ford. 

Ha.

The annoyance passed quickly, Stan’s face brightening with realization. “So if Sixer’s an old man, then I’m an old man too, right?” He immediately rounded on Ford, leaning forward excitedly. “Did we fix the Stan O’War and go treasure hunting?”

Ford’s mouth shut with an audible clack. He had already told himself he wasn’t going to bring up the years of bitterness, but how was he supposed to answer that question without lying? ‘For unspecific reasons, we actually haven’t spoken in 40 years.’ That would never work.

He may be upset with Stanley right now, but he couldn’t bring himself to crush this child’s innocent naivety.  

“You run a business!” Mabel volunteered, saving Ford from having to answer. He wondered if she did that intentionally or not. “And you do have some employees, so you’re basically still a boss anyways!”

Stan’s eyes widened with wonder, childhood dream momentarily forgotten. “No foolin’? Wow! I bet Pa was real proud of me!” 

And here Ford thought it was impossible for this to get worse. 

The excitement in Stan’s expression crumbled a little at his audience’s stony faces, uncertainty creeping back into his features. He looked right at Ford, searching. “...He was proud of me, right? Stanford?”

The scene was so heart-wrenchingly familiar that, for a second, Ford wasn’t an old man with the threat of the world on his shoulders. He was a child, just like Stan, standing in a cave, hiding in a theme park attraction. His twin was so open and vulnerable, looking at Ford like he had all the answers in the world, pleading to tell him he was wrong. 

‘Do you really think I’m a bad kid?’

‘It just sometimes feels like Pa hates me.’

‘Do you know what it’s like being the stupid twin?’

‘I wish just once Pa would look at me the way he looks at you. Like he actually likes me.’

Truth be told, Ford had spent so long trying to bury Stan in his memories that he had forgotten all about his twin’s insecurities. His stomach twisted at the reminder. How long ago had those memories happened for Stan? How long had he felt like that in general? Probably longer than you’d care to admit.

Ford hadn’t wanted to lie to Stan if he could help it. Lies had never been Ford’s strong suit, not like they were Stan’s. Lies were liabilities, a misstep waiting to happen. They were messy and risky and something Ford would rather avoid altogether. Yet looking into Stan’s eyes, he knew he had no choice.

“Not just proud, Stanley. He was impressed.” He said, and his voice didn’t even shake. “You really beat him at his own game.” 

If at all possible, Stan looked even more starstruck than before. He looked back in the direction of the Gift Shop, blinking hard. Ford didn’t need to see his brother’s eyes to know they were damp.

It’s just a white lie. He told himself when Stan turned back to him with a thousand-watt smile. There’s no harm in a white lie or two. When Stan is back to his proper age, he’ll understand.

After that, the questions came at Ford rapid-fire. Really, he should have expected as much.

“So did we really go treasure hunting after all?”

“Yes.”

“Did we find lots of treasure and get all the girls?”

“Yes.”

“Did I open the business before or after we went sailing?”

“After.”

“Where’s all the treasure now?”

“Hidden away to protect it from pirates.” 

“What about the Stan O’War?”

“In a museum. We are world-famous adventurers, after all.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the younger twins exchanging a grimace and pretended he didn’t notice. The children just didn’t understand. It was easier to do things this way. If Stan knew the harsh reality their lives had taken, he may not be so quick to trust Ford and allow him to reverse whatever had done this to him in the first place. Stan didn’t have the emotional capability to handle the truth. This was for his own good.

He also pretended that the giddy smile Stan wore didn’t warm something within him, buried after so many years. 

Just because Stan is this way right now doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. I’m still justified to feel angry with him. When he’s his proper age, we’re going to have a very long discussion. 

“I told you it’d happen!” Stan proudly declared, reaching across the table to affectionately punch Ford in the arm. Ford pointedly ignored the memory of the last time Stan had punched him 30 years ago. 

Before Stan could launch into more questions, Dipper awkwardly cleared his throat. “Hey, uh, Great Uncle Ford? Do you think we could have some dinner?”

Right, Ford should have realized. Stan had left around midday and, apparently, hadn’t been back until just now. The children must be starving. That realization was followed by another, more daunting one: Ford would have to cook for them. 

Ford hadn’t cooked for anyone since he lived with Fiddleford, and even then that had been sparingly. Fiddleford had dubbed him a “fire hazard” when he accidentally added vinegar instead of pasta sauce; a clear overreaction. It wasn’t like he had done it intentionally, he had just been sleep-deprived! It could happen to anyone! 

“Of course, Dipper.” He responded, spite burgeoning him with confidence. He could cook just fine, thank you very much, Fiddleford. “You’re actually in luck, I was in the middle of cooking for myself when you all arrived. It shouldn’t be too much to whip up a bit extra.”

If he could survive the multiverse for 30 years, he could handle cooking for 3 children. It was just cooking more, after all. It wasn’t rocket science. What could go wrong? 

----------------------

Evidently, a lot could go wrong. 

As it turned out, leaving food unattended in this house was a bad idea. Apparently, a pig - Mabel’s pet Waddles, Ford learned later - had taken the opportunity to indulge in the unguarded delicacies and left nothing to salvage when Ford returned. Never one to accept a setback, he had merely taken it as a sign that he needed to make something a bit more extravagant than plain old eggs for a family dinner.

After liberally covering the kitchen in food matter, utensils, and soot from a spontaneous fire, the family had made the decision to give the kitchen a much-needed break. This was what had lead to them piling into Greasy’s Diner, tucked into a booth near the end of the restaurant. Mabel tried to assure him that Stan had done much, much worse in the beginning. Ford got the impression she was just saying that to make him feel better.

Truth be told, the idea of being in town set Ford’s teeth on edge. While the Rift may be contained, it was in no way safe. Until Bill was defeated once and for all, he would never stop trying to get it. This made every citizen not only a target, but a suspect as well. They couldn’t afford to trust anyone. 

Ford had almost turned the idea down when it was suggested, but a look at the kitchen reminded him that he wouldn’t be able to provide the proper meal growing children needed. Instead, he settled on lecturing them at length about keeping on guard, making sure to keep it specific enough to dissuade questions and vague enough not to keep Bill’s name out of their mouths.  Worryingly, the children barely seemed fazed. 

Now, sitting in the diner as the group looked over the menu, Ford was struck with another troubling realization. While people were going to address him by his actual name, they were still going to think he was his brother. With Stanley right there, he couldn’t very well correct them, either. Not only that, but he’d need to think of a good excuse for why “Mr. Pines” suddenly had another child. 

Frustration surged through him at the thought and he found himself remembering the resentment he felt earlier today. Damnit Stanley, why do you need to make everything so hard?

Before Ford could entertain that thought further, he caught sight of an older woman in waitressing attire approaching their table. She had a lazy eye, but the eye that remained open was a perfectly boring hazel. Not Bill. Ford could relax a little.

“Stan!” She greeted, smiling brightly at him. “Did you get dressed up just for me?” 

Ford looked down at his clothes and inwardly cursed. If he had had the forethought, he would have taken the time to dress like Stan to compl-- wait a second. 

As he finished processing the woman’s words, he felt his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. Of all the people in Stan’s life that Ford could have met first, why did it have to be someone he had been or was currently romantically involved with? He could barely woo his own partners when he bothered with romance, let alone his estranged twin’s. 

Luckily (or unluckily, in hindsight) for Ford, the woman soon shifted her attention to Stan and brightened even more. “And who’s this cutiepie?” Damnit, Ford hadn’t thought up a decent cover story for the town yet.

“My name’s Stanley!” Stan chirped, puffing out his chest at the compliment. He had always been more receptive to people’s praise, soaking it up like a sponge while Ford shied away from it. Ford supposed it was natural, considering how they were raised. 

 “He’s our younger brother who just got back from a trip to New Jersey!” Dipper cut in quickly, drawing the attention of four sets of confused eyes. He seemed to quail a little under the scrutiny, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uhh… Our parents decided to just send him here too.” 

There was a moment of silence, but only for a moment before Stan answered confidently, “Sure am! I can’t let my big siblings hog all the fun of camping up here.” Ford had forgotten how honed his brother’s lying was, even at such a young age. He hadn’t even stuttered. 

The waitress laughed and, thankfully, took their orders without pressing the issue further. Once she was gone, he smiled gratefully at Dipper. “Nice thinking, Dipper. Great work.” 

The boy flushed at the praise, eyes darting down to the menu as the hand rubbing his neck increased in pace. “Oh, uh! It was nothing… I just figured we probably should keep this under wraps until we get Stan back to normal.” 

Stan nodded his agreement, much more cooperative than Ford thought he’d be. “Makes sense to me, but won’t people wonder where I am? I mean, if I’m a world-famous adventurer and successful business guy an’ all…”

Right then. It would probably be best to get their stories straight before anyone else happened by. Though Ford wasn’t much good at this lying business, he knew the logic behind it. If they were all in agreement, that lessened the chances of conflicting lies, which lessened the chance of confrontation. Confrontation was certainly not something Ford’s skittish heart needed right now. 

“Simple: you’re an adventurer. Though the lull of running a business was a nice reprieve, the calls of the sea were not so easy to dismiss. You set out in search of wonder and new exhibits for your business, ready to fight any who opposed you.” 

Ford expected Stan’s eyes to light up at the very idea. It played into his dream quite handily, harkening back to days spent weaving tales on the beach. He even pitched his voice dramatically for the effect. Instead, Ford was met with a stormy expression, Stan’s lips pressed into a thin line. Ford didn’t understand. 

“An adventure without you sounds like a pretty dumb adventure,” Stan grumbled, picking at the edge of his menu. He refused to meet Ford’s eyes. “Are people really gonna buy that?”

Of course. Sailing away hadn’t just been Stan’s dream, it had been Ford’s once as well. Wherever we go, we go together. He swallowed uncomfortably. 

“Well, of course they will.” Ford reasoned, wracking his brain for a believable lie. “One of us needed to stay back and keep running the Mystery Shack. No good business can just close down, you know.” 

Stan’s scowl deepened, unconvinced and stubborn as ever. Ford found himself sighing in response. “It’s just a lie, Stanley. It doesn’t need to be realistic.”

“If anyone can make something unbelievable believable, it’s you Grunkle Stan.” Mabel pointed out, smiling. “And this time, it’s for a good cause!” 

Stan’s expression wavered at that. “I guess so. And it’s not like it’s gonna last forever…” He nodded to himself, tension easing. “It can’t be any harder than that time I convinced Mr. Carter that I ate roasted seagull for lunch every day. The look on his face was priceless!” 

The air at the table lightened some as Stan began to re-tell tales from their youth. Another forgotten aspect of his brother’s personality came to surface as he watched him, gesturing and speaking with the flair of a showman. Truly, Stan had a knack for public speaking. Ford wondered what else he had forcibly repressed about his brother. 

He might have been able to make something of himself if he wasn’t so insistent on suffocating me. A dark voice murmured in his mind. Ford dismissed it, forcing himself to focus on the present. There would be time to stew in bitter thoughts later. 

Though the children were listening with rapt attention, they were not content to play captive audiences for long. As their food arrived and the group dug in, they repaid Stan with stories of their own from their summer in Gravity Falls. It didn’t escape Ford that plenty of their tales centred around anomalies that he had recorded in his journal, nor did he miss the side glances Dipper cast his way anytime one was brought up. 

He thought back to the first time he had opened his third journal upon his return, flipping through the carefully scrawled blue words. The twins - Dipper mostly, judging on the writing - had certainly been busy this summer. The solutions they posited seemed so obvious when spelled out, how hadn’t he thought of it? 

Stan had been firm in keeping Ford away from the children for their own safety. At first, he could see the logic behind that assertion. While Gravity Falls was a wonderfully weird place, it was also dangerous to those who were unprepared. Yet the more Ford read the journal, the more capable the children became in his eyes. Hearing the stories firsthand merely solidified the notion in his mind. Stan was just being overprotective. 

If they were going to turn Stan back to his proper age, then he was going to need to work with the children, deal be damned. If he happened to get closer to and bond with them along the way, then that was just a logical and inescapable outcome. Stan couldn’t fault him for that, not when it was for his own good. 

Besides, these children were his family too. Stan had no right to hold them hostage from him. 

---------------------------------------------

The past few hours had been such a whirlwind, Stanley was having trouble processing. To start the day on the beach and finish it in a small town smack dab in the middle of a forest? It didn’t feel real. More than once, Stan would dig his fingernails into his arm when he felt like no one was paying attention, just to see if he was dreaming after all. No luck. 

Don’t get him wrong, he was interested in this new life he seemed to have made for himself! His great-niece and nephew seemed really nice (even if it was weird to think that kids around his age were actually younger than him?), and the fact he was a businessman now was an unexpected delight. But it just wasn’t the same without Ford here by his side to experience it with him. 

Ford may be around, but he wasn’t really around. He was older and wiser and sure, he was still the same old Pointdexter, but it just wasn’t the same. Experiencing this sudden environment shift on his own, after doing everything with his twin before, was a change Stan wasn’t ready to face. Beneath the bravado and excitement, Stan couldn’t stop himself from feeling terribly anxious. 

Riding in the backseat of an admittedly neat looking car (“It’s your car, Grunkle Stan!”), wedged between unfamiliar family, Stan could feel those anxieties creeping back up to the forefront once more. He had been to the woods before on a school trip, but never at night. The trees looming through the windows looked dark and foreboding without the sun, like they could swallow you up and no one would hear from you again. He had to resist the urge to shrink back into Dipper’s side. 

Ugh, what kind of wimp was he? Pa would likely scold him if he knew. ‘Belt up, boy. A Pines man doesn’t hide from danger.’ Of course, that thought just made him homesick. What he wouldn’t give to tuck himself into Ma’s arms right about now. 

But Pa was right. He was a Pines man, and a Pines man didn’t hide. He pointedly squashed down his fears and, instead, asked about the pig Mabel had called Waddles. The girl lit up with a dazzling smile and spoke at length about how wonderful he was, showing him picture after picture that she had saved in the pockets of her sweater. Dipper assured him this was only a fraction of the pictures she had, the rest having found a home in her scrapbook. Stan believed him.

Maybe Stan didn’t have Ford here to face this unknown situation with, but Dipper and Mabel made good company. Though he wouldn’t trade Ford for the world, it was nice to have other people to call friends for once. He closed his eyes as he listened to the two talk, allowing himself to be soothed by their voices. 

If they and Ford weren’t afraid right now, then he had no reason to be either.

He hadn’t realized he had dozed off until he heard the sounds of car doors opening. He opened his eyes, blinking blearily and scrambling to get out of the car. Looks like they were back at the Mystery Shack (his business, wasn’t that so neat?). Man, how long had he been out? Hopefully, the others hadn’t noticed.

As they made their way into the house - coming in through a different door this time, though Stan guessed that wasn’t really important - Ford clapped his hands together. “Alright then, Stanley. Let’s get you situated and off to bed.”

Darn. He must have noticed.

“What? But it’s only -” Stan paused, looking over at the clock on the wall “- 8! It’s not even close to bedtime, and I’m not even tired!”

Ford shot him a stern look, looking much more like Pa than Ford. Stan felt himself instinctually straighten. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, I believe that you aren’t tired. That doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been through quite an ordeal, mentally and physically. Your body and mind need time to recharge. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”

As usual, Ford was making a good point. That didn’t stop Stan from crossing his arms and scuffing the floor with his shoe, most assuredly not pouting. Stan didn’t pout. Pouting was for babies. 

Apparently satisfied with Stan’s silence, Ford turned his attention to the other two. “While I’m attending to that, do you two mind fetching me my remaining two journals? They should be down in the lab.” 

Dipper’s eyes widened at Ford’s request, looking like a kid on Christmas. Were Ford’s nerd scribbles really that interesting? “O-Okay!” He stammered out before turning on his heel, racing out of the room. Mabel was hot on his heels, calling after him to slow down and wait for her. 

Stan watched the two until they disappeared down the hall. “Journals, huh? Isn’t that kinda like a diary?” He asked, turning to where Ford was standing. Keyword: was. Turns out, his brother was already halfway up the stairs. Looks like he had decided to take a leaf out of Dipper’s book. Stan frowned at that and hastened to follow.

Ford stayed quiet as they journeyed through the house, scarcely seeming to notice that Stan was following at all. He looked lost in thought, which Stan supposed wasn’t all that out of place. Ford was usually thinking about something, and sometimes he’d get so lost in that big brain of his that he stopped noticing his surroundings. Usually, that only happened when he was faced with a really hard problem. 

Maybe Stan’s situation was hard too? It seemed hard to Stan, but Stan was never all that bright to begin with. For Ford’s sake, he stayed quiet too.

Eventually, the pair stopped outside a door. Luckily, Ford seemed to snap out of whatever daze he had been in. “Ah, yes, here we are,” He said, opening the door and gesturing inside. “This is your room. You can sleep here while I work on getting you back to normal.”

The first thing that Stan noticed was that it was dark. Maybe it was just because the lights were off, but the dark felt different somehow; suffocating, almost. The curtains on the window were drawn tight, preventing any moonlight from brightening the room. The light that did spill in from the hallway illuminated the dusty air and the general state of disarray the room was in. 

If Stan had to describe it, it seemed sad. Was this really the room he slept in as an adult?

Ford continued talking, sounding way too casual after revealing such a dim place. “Now I doubt you have any children clothes here, but I don’t anticipate Dipper having an issue with you borrowing some of his. If everything goes well, I should have you back to normal in a few days, so it won’t be an issue for long. The children sleep in the attic and I’ll be sleeping in the room down the hall, so we won’t be far if you need anyth--”

“Wait.” Stan cut in, realization dawning. No wonder there’s only one bed. “You’re not sleeping with me?”  

He turned to look straight up at Ford, watching as his brother’s eyes immediately looked off to the side. He had that sad look on his face again, a look that Stan was starting to realize showed up quite frequently now. It made him wonder if he was the one causing that look. 

“No, Stanley.” He eventually said, reaching up to push his glasses further up his face. It was a nervous habit, one Stan could easily recognize. “We haven’t slept in the same room for a very long time. Adults need their own space.” 

Stan wanted to argue that. Ma and Pa shared a room - heck, they shared a bed! - why couldn’t he and Ford? Yet taking another look at his brother, Stan once again remembered that this Ford wasn’t really his. This Ford was basically a stranger to him, and Stan hated it. Sharing a room would probably just make the strangeness even more apparent.

It was Stan’s turn to avoid eye contact, staring into the room instead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford’s features softening a little. Soon enough, the familiar six-fingered weight was settling on Stan’s shoulder. The fingers were bigger and rougher now, but the gesture was still the same. It felt like Ford was drawing out the tension through touch alone. 

“I know it’s new and frightening, but I promise you’ll get used to it.” He said, stooping down so he was level with Stan. His lips twitched up into a slight smile. “As I said, I’m not far away, okay? If something happens, you can still come to me. Just because we don’t share a room anymore doesn’t mean I won’t be there for you.” 

Of course, what was he thinking? Ford might be old and strange right now, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still his brother. He really shouldn’t be expecting so little of him. Just because he was sleeping here alone didn’t mean Ford didn’t have his back. 

It’s just temporary. The room is weird but you can do this. You’ve taken on worse. 

Stan took a breath and let the weight on his shoulder strengthen him. It was hard to feel afraid when he had someone at his side and a slow, shy smile spread across his face. He turned to face his twin, holding up his hand in mutual solidarity. No matter how many years separated them now, surely this was universal. This couldn’t be tainted by the strangeness. 

“High-six?” 

Instead of immediately raising his hand and completing the gesture, Ford just stared blankly at it. One moment passed, then another, and Stan’s smile began to flicker. Ford had that look in his eye again, that sad, far-away look. Stan decided he hated it more than he hated the room. 

Subconscious now, Stan lowered his hand. Maybe he had been wrong after all. Stan couldn’t imagine it; in what reality could he achieve his dream while everything he shared with his brother was suddenly different? Was it just inevitable? 

“I-I’m sorry, Stanley.” Ford finally stammered, removing his hand from his shoulder to card anxiously through his hair. “It’s been… A trying day for me, too. I hope you can understand.”

Stanley didn’t, not entirely. 

Maybe… Things were just different because Ford had lost someone, too. Maybe he felt this same strangeness in reverse, looking for the adult version of his missing half. Stan didn’t really know how he’d feel in Ford’s shoes, so it seemed probable to him.

Either way, he put on a smile and reached over to put a hand on Ford’s shoulder too. His hand was much smaller and probably lacked the same satisfying, grounding weight to it, but he hoped it helped anyways. “Course I do, Pointdexter,” He lied. “But it’s okay. We can be here for each other, just like always.” 

Ford inhaled softly at the touch, but didn’t immediately move away. Stan took that as a good sign and remained there, allowing the silence to stretch for as long as Ford needed it. 

The moment passed soon after and Ford straightened once more, letting Stan’s hand fall away. Stan understood; Pines men didn’t just sit there and whimper. If you had time to cry, you had time to fight. That was what Pa had always said. 

Feeling lighter, Stan dutifully crawled into the too-big bed without any further complaint. For the time being, he didn’t even notice the heaviness. Now that he was really laying down, the exhaustion that he had been fighting since the diner was returning with a vengeance. He had just enough energy to turn onto his side, looking at where Ford stood in the doorway. 

“G’night, Ford.” He murmured, eyes already closing. 

Whatever Ford’s response was, if there was any at all, fell on deaf ears. Stan was fast asleep before he knew what hit him. 

--------------------------

Far away from the odd little family, in a dimension nothing like theirs, a being contemplates the scene he has just witnessed. The little display was disgustingly saccharine, almost making him sick to his proverbial stomach.

Still, the advantage that had just been handed to him was well worth enduring that little sob fest. He leans away from his handy eavesdropping orb, hands clasped at his back. 

“And here I thought my conquest was going to be difficult.” He thought aloud, unable to stop himself from cackling. After enduring those embarrassing defeats at the hands of those meddlesome twins, this break was exactly what he was looking for. 

It was time to exploit that six-fingered freak’s kryptonite: Stanley Pines. 

[caratdreams]

yen

aka “all i want for christmas is you”

Member: S. Coups

Word Count: 2k

The first fourteen days of life post-breakup hadn’t been as difficult as you anticipated. If anything, you felt free after dropping 170lbs of fuckboy. You were weightless, gliding through the air with a newfound freedom and confidence.

But still, your friends had convinced you to go out because you hadn’t been to the club in ‘forever’ and they were worried you were ‘isolating yourself’. Neither were true, at least not from your point of view, but being the good friend you were, you decided to indulge them.

What a night you were in for.

In your opinion, pre-drinking was the best part of a night out. In second place was dressing up and taking selfies, the only thing that stopped it from overtaking pre-drinking and being in first place was the fact that sometimes you had to take over thirty different pictures to find one that you liked. Even then, you ended up deleting that one.

Someone had told you whose apartment this was, but the name of the host escaped you. You recognised enough people to not feel uncomfortable, which worked in your favour, for if your friends saw you acting awkward it would have fuelled their false-narrative. A cold, rough hand on your shoulder shocked you, and you turned to look up at Seungcheol. You hoped he didn’t notice how you reacted to his touch.

“Don’t worry, it’s only me.” He noticed. “I haven’t seen you around in a while, you been okay?” Your relationship with Seungcheol never went beyond exchanging pleasantries, or nodding at each other in acknowledgement when you were too busy to talk. He was such a big personality that it was hard to have a proper conversation with him, you were sure the boy never had half an hour to himself without someone having something to say to him.

“I’ve been good.” There were enough mutual friends between you for him to have known about the breakup, and you appreciated that he didn’t specifically ask you about it. Part of that might have been because he was trying his hardest not to stare at your cleavage, and the concentration briefly removed his ability to converse. Before he could respond, and fill the almost-awkward silence that had befallen upon you, a body had squeezed itself between you. One of Jeonghan’s arms was around your shoulder, whilst another swung around Seungcheol’s.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, the sheer volume of his voice causing your eyes to widen. You barely had the chance to process the question further as Seungcheol had dragged Jeonghan away, mumbling something about his ‘big mouth’. The boys were gone as quickly as they came, and that was how it usually went with the ever-elusive Choi Seungcheol. 

“Seungcheol? Unexpected, but you should go for it.” Your friend approached you, passing you a drink. You brought it to your nose and inhaled slightly before deciding that you probably weren’t going to touch it. The glass would have to remain in your hands as an accessory.

“We barely even spoke, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She smirked when you rolled your eyes.

“You must not have seen the way he was looking at you.”

“What? The same way he looks at everyone?” Your denial seemed to amuse her, as an affectionate smile grew on her face as she shook her head at you.

A group of you were gathered around the kitchen table minutes later, with Jeonghan announcing that he wanted to play a drinking game. The suggestions were fired out rapidly – from Ring of Fire to 21 – but none of them seemed to spark Jeonghan’s interest. He shook his head at all your suggestions, his lips pursed in a pout.

“No guys, it’s December, it has to be Christmas themed.” Jeonghan paused for a moment, before his eyes lit up in the way they only ever seemed to when he was about to spew bullshit. “Why don’t we play ‘All I Want for Christmas’?” All eyes darted around, a mutual confusion amongst you.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever heard of that game before.”

“it’s Jeonghan, he probably just made it up.” Seungcheol looked up at Jeonghan, a slight curl to his lips, daring his best friend to deny it. Of course, Jeonghan didn’t deny a thing.

“Okay, the rules are simple. Someone tells us what they want someone to do for Christmas, and the other person either does it or takes a shot. Get it?” Jeonghan sighed at the silence. “So, if I said ‘All I Want for Christmas is Jihoon to hump the Christmas tree-”

“I’d take a shot.” Jihoon interrupted, not missing a beat. His deadpan tone earned laughter from everyone who had heard it.

“So, essentially, it’s truth or dare?” You asked.

“Details, details.” With a dismissive wave of the hand, Jeonghan had evaded your question and started the game.

It was always interesting, you thought, to watch how the night descended into anarchy as soon as alcohol got involved. Laughter got louder, spirits were higher, and the concept of shame was thrown out the window. The game went the same way these games always did, friends targeting each other and spilling secrets that had been shared in the dead of night, under the comfort of the moon. Safe to say, you had learned a lot about everyone in the room.

When it was your friend’s turn, she twisted off the cap of vodka and poured it into the daunting double shot glass. It had been sat in the corner of the table, untouched thus far. She tapped it lightly with her fingernail as she called your name, and you narrowed your eyes at her.

“All I Want for Christmas is for Y/N to do this double shot.” She pushed it towards you, the glass making an unpleasant sound as it scraped across the wood. The myth surrounding the cursed piece of glassware was that most people who drank from it ended up being sick; you yourself had witnessed it happen at least twice. A burning sensation prematurely lined your throat at the mere smell of the drink. But still, a dare is a dare. 

The burning only intensified when you knocked it back, the torture lasting twice as long as the pain of an ordinary shot.

“Impressive!” Seungcheol handed you a glass of cranberry juice, which you gratefully accepted and used to chase down the shot. You don’t remember how the two of you ended up sitting next to each other, you were now shoulder-to-shoulder though you were sure there were others sat between you at the start of the game. All of a sudden you were too aware of the heat radiating from his body, and the way you reacted to his proximity had you wanting to roll your eyes at yourself.

“My turn!” Jeonghan’s announcement stole your attention. There was a slight pause before he spoke, and during this second of silence his gaze flicked towards you. His eyes lit up again, not in the way they did when he was about to lie, this was much worse. In that split second, you saw that Jeonghan had a plan. Even with your slightly tipsy gaze that almost had you seeing two of him, it was clear as day. You were confused as to why he looked at you, though.

“Here we go.” Seungcheol muttered to himself. He must have noticed it too, for he knew Jeonghan much better than you did.

“All I Want for Christmas,” Jeonghan paused to chuckle to himself, as if it were the funniest thing in the world, “is for Seungcheol to make out with whoever he thinks is the hottest girl here.” The look in Jeonghan’s eyes made sense now, and you realised he must have been looking at Seungcheol, not at you.

Your head tilted to the side slightly, as it did whenever you pondered something. You wondered who he would pick, and despite the suggestive looks your friend was sending your way (which you had to pretend not to notice), you couldn’t envision any scenario in which it was you. Your heart dropped a little, and you told yourself it wasn’t envy. All eyes had turned to a now red-faced Seungcheol, who had made a mental note to put Jeonghan in a chokehold for that one. 

“Clock’s ticking, we don’t have all day.” Jeonghan’s teased. Seungcheol’s eyes fell on yours, and you weren’t sure how to react. You blinked once, twice, three times.

“Can I?” he asked, and you nodded. He placed a finger under your chin, tilting your face up towards him. Mindful of the fact everyone was watching, waiting, he wasted no time in bringing his lips to yours. The kiss was urgent from the get go, your lips immediately parting to deepen it. A hand of his settled at the base of your neck, pulling you into him. You had a hand cupping the side of his face, your thumb stroking lightly against his cheek as you kissed.

You were first to pull away, your face hot and your skin tingling from a combination of alcohol and nerves. PDA was never your thing, but it wasn’t until you pulled away that you even remembered there were other people in the room. Your hand flew to your mouth in what was an instinctive attempt to conceal your embarrassment. 

Everyone knew the game was over after that, there was no topping it. Plus, you had to make it to the club at some point. You were leaned against a bedroom door - whose it was you didn’t know –with an eye on your phone, checking the time. Your friend stood to your side, talking your ear off about how she was right the whole time, and how she knew that Seungcheol wanted you. The only thing that got her to stop talking was the presence of the man himself. He had asked to speak to you, and she was more than happy to leave the two of you alone.

“I didn’t make you uncomfortable or anything, right? The kiss came from out of nowhere.” A hand rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke. The entire time you knew him, you had never seen him so rattled.

“No, not at all. I really liked it, actually.” You shrugged in response, as if it were simply a casual kiss that didn’t set your heart alight.

“Oh yeah?” One of Seungcheol’s eyebrows had raised as he looked at you, his gaze travelling over your body from head to toe. Just like that, the nervous Seungcheol of a few minutes ago had disappeared. He stepped into the kitchen briefly, returning with a shot glass in his hand. “You know, I never did get to have my go during the game.” His grin was cheeky, and your expression matched his.

“So, it’s just me and you playing right now?”

“Do we need anyone else?” he smirked, handing you the glass. He was standing much closer to you now, the softest push would have sent his body into yours. “All I Want for Christmas is for you to let me kiss you again.”

“Well, I guess I can’t deny you your Christmas wish.” With that, he leaned into you and pressed his lips against yours.

This kiss started off slower than the first one, the pressured nature of your earlier kiss having disappeared, replaced only with lust and discovery. The shot glass in your hand fell to the ground, its contents spilling as it smashed to pieces, but that was the least of your concern. His hands were around your waist, and you were at complete mercy to his touch. Never before had someone made you feel like this with only a kiss.

He used his foot to nudge open the door behind you and you stumbled into the room, walking backwards whilst he led the way, lips never leaving yours. With your back now against the wall, his lips travelled down to your neck. You felt his breath dance against you before he began to place soft kisses against the delicate skin. You inhaled sharply when his lips pressed onto your neck, a moan escaping your lips soon after.

“Let me know when you want me to stop.” He spoke, lips brushing against your neck.

“Why would I want you to stop?”

You never did end up making it to the club that night.

[wildkaleidoscope]

Of Blood and Stitches (2/?)

This one is really NSFW, I mean it. Enjoy! SFF, just under 5k words.

Part one is here 

Let me know what you thought of it, maybe it’ll motivate me to write the next part faster!

Time passes by in a duller manner since Root has met Shaw. She struggles to find any ER case as entertaining and fun than when she was held in a chokehold by a potentially fatally hurt trauma surgeon. These things just do not repeat themselves.

Since her interns have been getting a little too comfortable in their reflexes, Root has started a new game she likes to call “Surprise Emergencies”.

Usually it’s on a quiet day, or right after they finished a surgery, or just as they walk in the hospital. It’s any time, really. Today, she’s waiting for one of them outside the men’s washroom, her small pocket blade in hand. She knows he's just finished scrubbing in on a five hours surgery. He must be tired. She lifts one side of her hospital shirt up a couple inches, and as soon as the door opens, she presses the blade to her pale skin. A quick slash, and a short wince, and she calls to her unsuspecting intern.

“Fusco! I just got stabbed, my liver is touched, what do you do?”

Fusco almost whimpers before grabbing Root and sitting her down on the nearest bed. Immediately, he starts reciting the procedures, putting on gloves and applying sterilized gauze to her wound.

“This is starting to get concerning, Dr Root.” He mumbles as he patches her up, unwillingly darting his eyes between the small wound to her wrist, where the three stitches he put in last week are slowly fading away.

“This is fun! Oh, next time, I’ll give myself an insulin overdose, see how fast you can work as a team!” she proclaims, lost in her next episode of “surprise emergencies”

“Don’t you have a hobby?” the man asks, pulling down her shirt with a disgruntled look.

“This is my hobby!” Root pleads, but her smile is anything but sorry.

Get another one, this is not normal.” He grumbles, getting up without another word.

“Oh, Lionel, you’re no fun!” she giggles, rummaging through the nearest drawer for some painkillers; his hands are anything but delicate.

He did a really good job, though. She takes long strides to the on call room, hoping she might get some shut eye, but, with no surprise, the phone rings.

She readies her emergency voice, trying not to sound too bored, and picks up.

“Hi.”

Her serious face flips upwards and she rolls alongside the wall, twisting the telephone cord in her finger.

“This is an emergency phone line. How'd you get this number?” Root tries to sound at least a little patronizing.

“You're not the only one with special talents. Samantha.”

Root grins even wider, picturing Sameen digging information on her, trying to up her one. Thinking about her. Her stomach is giddy.

“Oh, I never said you were talentless. You make frowning sexy.”

There's a silence at the other end. Root giggles, looking over her shoulder to see the rest of the staff just going their way.

“Was there a reason you called? Or did you just miss me?” this time, she hears a scoff.

“Yeah right. You left your phone in the hospital.”

She was waiting for that call. It only took two months.

“It's a good thing you found it.” Shaw is waiting for the rest, but it never comes.

“So, when can you pick it up?” The tone is pointedly formal.

“How about we meet halfway?” Root asks, resting her temple on the wall, holding the phone closer.

“Whenever you're in the area, just drop by, it'll be at the ER admission.”

“You took two months to find my phone. The least you can do is bring it halfway.” There's a grunt and a mumbled ‘fine’ before she goes on; “There's this nice little restaurant just left to the bridge. Meet me there tomorrow at nine.”

A shocked silence follows suite, and Shaw scoffs in realization.

“You left your phone here, didn't you?”

“Goodbye, Sameen.” Root says softly, hanging up with a satisfied smirk.

---

Sameen is left with a half smirk on, the line ringing in her ear. She shakes her head; she really hung up on her! The woman tuts in disbelief, although her face looks amused.

She looks at the phone in her hand and hesitates for just a second. She looks around quickly; no one is paying attention to her. With a few taps and slides, she has put her number in Root’s phone, under the name “Don't Ever Stab Again”. She grins to herself, puts the phone back and goes on her way to look for an intern to terrorize.

 That'll keep her in a good mood.

She doesn't have time to find one, though, before the emergency line rings and in comes multiple gunshot wound victims. An excited look brightens her features for a second, and only a little voice in her head tells her she should be getting sleep before tomorrow afternoon for her date - date?!

Her mind is quick to focus on the victims ahead, which is a relief; she can't handle thinking about going on a date with Root when there are at least five people bleeding on gurneys coming her way.

Shaw dispatches the ER staff as the ambulances rush in. Everybody is walking fast and steady, just like she taught almost every single person on her service. The only other doctor she didn't train is John Reese, the closest thing to a best friend she has. They work well together because none of them likes to chitchat.

It's no surprise they exchange a look of challenge when the paramedics informs them the last ambulance to come in is a woman, and her husband holding her guts.

Shaw smacks him in the groin right as the ambulances doors open and she grins, claiming the patient.

“You're an animal.” Reese grunts as she flies by.

------

Tomorrow goes faster when you spend three quarters of your yesterday in surgery, trying to put back into place a woman's intestines with minimal complications.

When she walks out, Shaw is a little dizzy, but content; the woman didn't die! She'll have months of rehab and healing, possibly a few more surgeries, but she will be alright. Chest inflated with pride, Shaw sets to find Reese.

They share a copious breakfast - he pays - while Shaw tells him the entire sixteen hour surgery that went on.

He lets her finish his steak, and parts of his fries, with a smirk inching up his lips.

“What?” Shaw asks, mouth full of scrambled eggs.

“Don't you have a date at 9?” his tone is dripping like honey, but his shit-eating grin betrays his intent.

“Shit!” she mournfully looks at the half eaten plate before her, then shoots a look at Reese. “You let me eat all this and now I have to pretend like I'm hungry again in -” She looks at his watch and grunts in agony “in an hour!”

Reese carefully slides her plate towards himself and chuckles.

“I'm sure you'll work up an appetite by then, Shaw.” He looks so innocent, Sameen wants to punch him.

“You're the worst kind of friend, you know that?” She rolls her eyes at him, but her smile tells another story.

She gets up and is about to leave before she whips around and glares at him.

“And it's not a date.”

She walks out before seeing his head tilt as he claims her uneaten waffle.

An hour to wash the scent of blood and guts and surgery out of her hair, and skin. She needs more than that. She needs at least three hours of sleep, and an hour long shower, and she probably doesn't even have clean clothes, and - she stops her brain.

This is not a date.

She will simply shower, tie her hair in a ponytail, put jeans and a t shirt on, and she will give Root her phone back. She probably won't even eat.

Shaw is decided as she enters her apartment complex.

In front of her door lies a white rectangular box and a note is attached to it.

“Congratulations on your surgery! I hope this isn't too much. I look forward to seeing you.”

Shaw is intrigued, and slightly annoyed that she knows whom it's from. She wonders for a second how in hell the woman could’ve known about her surgery, but again, doctors are the worst gossip. She sits on her bed and opens it, scoffing loudly at the sight.

In her lap, delicately folded, sits a bright red dress, and when she takes it out, she realizes it is a short dress, with a very deep v-neck. She shakes her head, already convinced she will not be wearing this. Another note falls when she chugs the box on her bed.

“It's too much, isn't it? It's okay, I figured as much. It probably looks better on the floor anyways.”

Shaw looks over her shoulder as if someone might suddenly read this note, and then back at the lump of fabric on the floor. She can't help the grin on her face, and she hates Root for it. Something does a back flip in her stomach, and as she tries to say no, her body is already undressing and getting ready for a night in a tight dress.

The idea of Root seeing her in the dress and thinking of it on the floor is too exciting to pass. If she can make the woman flustered, it's bound to be a good night.

She has no difficulties finding the restaurant, but she is about fifteen minutes late. Her pony tail has turned into crafted loose curls, and her jeans and t-shirt have metamorphosed into a red dress and black heels. She has put a matte lipstick and dark eye shadow on, just to complete the look.

Root sees her first. Sameen sees her wide and bright smile right after.

She sways her hips - result of the high heels and tight waist - to the table, very much aware of Root’s delighted look and wandering eyes. Once she is sat, Shaw tries to contain her smile.

“You wore it.” states Root with an impressed note in her voice.

“Hey, free dress. A dress makes everyone think you've put effort in your clothes when it's just because you were lazy.” She retorts, shrugging with one shoulder.

“And the hair and makeup, is that part of the facade of being lazy?” Root questions, raising an eyebrow.

Shaw tuts and rolls her eyes, waving for the waiter. He comes, all smiles and nice, and Shaw asks for a scotch, on the rocks. Root raises an inquiring eyebrow, but before she can reorder wine for herself, Sameen takes her glass and gives it a whirl. She inhales, and then wets her lips with the red liquid. With a knowing smile, she orders the exact wine Root is drinking.

“That was quite the feat, Sameen.”

Shaw shrugs, opening the menu to distract her hands. And eyes. Because Root has let her hair down, and the way it cascades over one bare collarbone, framing her long and thin features in a softened shadow, it is too much to take in. She does not want to admit Root looks more than lovely tonight.

This is not a date.

They order food and Shaw has worked up an appetite, but it isn't as much for the steak in her plate than it is for the way Root keeps casually touching her hand across the table. Or how she laughs at the intern stories she extracts from Shaw, and her neck lengthens, exposing pale skin and the perfect spot for Shaw to bite, certain it would drag a low moan from the same throat. Or even the way Root has courageously inched closer to Sameen, their legs brushing under the table from time to time.

When desert comes, Shaw is fairly certain Root is playing footsies, and that the hand she wrapped around her knee earlier is now right under the hem of her dress. She can't really think of anything but the burning sensation of her fingers achingly sprawled against her inner thigh.

She snatches the check from Root, with a wicked grin, and she gets up to pay.

Once she's back, Root is up as well, ready to leave, and she looks expectant.

“What?” Shaw asks, gathering her coat and purse.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Root retorts

“I'm not kissing you.” She deadpans, although maybe she would like to kiss her.

“My phone, silly.” She holds her hand out.

Oh.

Right.

They met so Shaw could give her phone back.

She smiles apologetically, and Root bursts out laughing. People are startled and Shaw hushes her out of the restaurant.

“I forgot it at my place. It's not far from here. Just come with, you can grab a cab from there.”

“Is this the part where you look all innocent to lure me in your apartment, only to cut me in pieces and ditch me in the desert?” Root tries to look scared, but she’s smiling too wide.

“There's no dessert, we're in New York.” Shaw starts walking.

Root rolls her eyes; one day, she will make Shaw laugh. She makes it her goal from now on. The brunette quickly follows Sameen, and nonchalantly slips her arm around hers. Shaw looks down at their linked arms and sigh, but doesn't take it away.

It's a peaceful night, if only peaceful is a word that can be used in The Big Apple. Once they approach her building, Shaw starts to slow down, until they come to a full stop. She looks down at her feet, and Root feels her heart tighten. Is she shying away from her? She thinks, and she has a hard time restraining her need to gush. Shaw clears her throat and plants herself in front of the brunette.

“You can wait here, I’ll be right back.” she takes back her arm, but her hand gets stuck in Root’s.

“You’re going to make me wait out here, on the street?” she raises an eyebrow, taking a swift step forward, closing the distance between hers and Sameen’s body. “In the cold?” she whispers, towering with a full head above the other surgeon.

“Why do you have to be so dramatic?” she replies, not flinching at Root’s closeness, their faces inches apart - again.

Root’s cocky grin is all she gets for a response; that, and unfaltering direct eye contact. Shaw wants to win this, but Root is way too close, and too pretty, and she had one too many scotch, and she smells too nice, and this is just - no. She rolls her eyes and scoffs a “fine” before turning swiftly around.

Root closes her eyes for half a second, inhaling Shaw’s perfume with delight.

They climb the five floors by foot, and Root is convinced Shaw is trying to race her. Sameen is actually trying to diffuse her increased heartbeat with actual physical activity. No one has been to her apartment. Not even John and they’ve known each other for literal years. Yet, here she is, sliding her key in the doorway, unlocking her home to a stranger, and a very annoying one at that.

Root lets herself in right after Shaw; she can feel the woman’s warmth irradiating on her back. She waves her hand around, swiftly going over the kitchen, the living room and the hallway to her bedroom. Shaw doesn’t keep much in sight, but there is an easel with a painting half finished. Her therapist said it would help with the nightmares.

Shaw tries to subtly put herself between her most intimate passion and Root, but the woman has already seen it. She lets her head fall back as she sees Root bee lining for it. The tall woman points at it after a few seconds, and a soft smile makes her lips quiver.

“This is really good, I like it. Did you paint this?” she asks, tilting her head for another angle.

“Yeah, I did.” Shaw decides she has to speed this up, because this is way out of her comfort zone.

She disappears for a minute, but she doesn’t have time to come back. Root has followed her to her bedroom, and she leans on the doorframe.

“So, this is where the magic happens, uh?” she teases, glancing around the neat and tidy room, except for the box carelessly thrown on the bed.

“No magic. Just sleep. Here’s your phone.” Sameen tries to body-block Root’s inquisitive looks, but the woman does not budge, and she finds herself almost pressed chest to chest.

She puts her phone on her torso, waiting for the brunette to grab it. Instead, Root just cocks her head, looking over Sameen’s head. Shaw raises an eyebrow, an uncertain smile tugging at her lips. Root closes her hand over hers, but makes apparently has no intent on taking her phone.

Instead, she takes a step forward, pushing Sameen back into her room. Shaw can definitely feel Root’s heart beating fast, and hers follows a similar rhythm. The tall woman has this indescribable smirk and she lifts a hand to grip Shaw’s hip, never breaking eye contact. Sameen’s breath hitches in her throat and she gasps softly; her left hand is gripping Root’s belt.

“It’s too bad only sleep happens here.” Root purrs, tilting her chin so their noses are touching, lips ghosting over each other’s.

“Shut up.” Shaw closes the distance, her heart exploding in her chest, relishing in the taste of wine and lipstick.

Root grips her hip tighter, and swirls them around, harshly shoving Shaw against the wall. Sameen’s hands work fast to unfasten her jeans’ belt, nearly ripping them open. She moans and gasps loudly when Root, one hand pulling her hair and bending her neck backwards, sinks her teeth in the sensitive skin above her collarbone.

She pushes Root back, and the woman stumbles a few steps. It gives Shaw enough time to cock her head, grinning mischievously, before she launches herself at Root. She presses her roughly against her dresser, lifting both of her arms and pinning them on the wall. She slowly reaches under her shirt until her fingers bump against her bra. She chuckles breathlessly as she feels the fabric; lace, and very thin. Root lets her head fall back when Sameen’s hot lips kiss their way from her lower abdomen to the hem of her garment. She’s still holding a firm grip on her wrists, making Root squirm under the languishing pecks.

Shaw drags her teeth over her half exposed breasts, pulling down the pigeoning bra with them. She revels in the sight for a second, and her tight loosens just enough that Root yanks her hands free. The brunette presses her body grimly against Shaw’s until the woman is backed up against her bed. She looks her straight in the eyes as she drops to her knees. Shaw’s eyes roll to the back of her head and she takes a handful of Root’s hair, balling her fingers into a tight fist. Root is kissing up her thigh, lifting her dress at the same time, and Shaw is about ready to cave in.

But not yet.

She likes control.

Root’s mouth is getting dangerously close to her panties, and Shaw’s having more difficulty breathing and focusing on her next move. The dark-haired woman moans loudly, and an echo from the brunette’s mouth sends a shiver through her entire body.

Shaw grips Root’s hair a little tighter, and she tugs at it, forcing the woman to get back up. As soon as she’s on her feet, Shaw takes off her shirt and unclasps her bra. Root is standing in front of her, bare-chested, breathing heavily, and Shaw needs to taste her. She shoves the taller woman on the bed, and kneels in front of her bent knees.

With experienced fingers, she rips open her jeans and slides them off her ass. Root thinks Sameen is still wearing way too much clothing; she sits back up and pulls her in, close. As the black haired woman straddles her hips, biting and sucking on her exposed shoulders, Root unzips the dress and simply lifts it off Shaw’s body.

Their ragged breaths become moans, and grunts, as they both try to take control of the situation.

Root finally gives in when Shaw ruthlessly bites her hip, sliding herself off of her and onto the carpeted floor, hooking her fingers under the waistband of her matching lace panties. Root helps her take them off, and she pulls Shaw back up, shivering under the weight and warmth of her body grazing against her bare skin. She bucks her hips under the avalanche of successive bites, kisses and licks from Shaw. Her hands manage to undo her bra, and as soon as their chests collide, Root grabs onto Sameen’s ass with both hands and arches her body into the embrace.

Shaw leaves a trail of wet and lustful kisses down Root’s torso, onto her abdomen, and she stops briefly to bite her right hip. She drags her teeth over smooth skin until her chin is prickled with short hairs. She smiles at the guttural sound that escapes Root’s mouth, and reaches to cup one of her breasts.

Root doesn’t know what to do with her hands; grab Shaw’s hair and push her head just an inch lower, grip the sheets in exquisite apprehension or cover her hand to keep her groping her chest.

She settles for a sheet grab, as Shaw kisses her inner thighs, making Root whip her hips towards her mouth every time she gets close. Never close enough.

Finally, after excruciating tongue drags and sloppy kisses, Root feels Shaw’s breath directly on her navel. A low and loud moan rumbles deep in her throat, and it gives Shaw the final push; she presses the length of her tongue on Root’s hot center, dragging it upwards.

She flicks the tip of it right under her clit and Root quivers under her mouth. Shaw feels so powerful in that single instant, more so even than when she’s saving lives in surgery. This is power. The way Root is silently - not that silently- begging for more, completely unraveling at the simple touch of her tongue.

Shaw feels too tight in her own underwear, but she is so not ready to let Root go. She drags her nails down her chest, until she can hook her arm under the brunette’s hips, and grips tightly. Her mouth feasts on the wetness beneath her, and she’s holding Root into place. Her tongue swirls around her swollen clit, making Root moan loudly. She flattens it; her nose pressed right above her sensitive bud, and almost lazily licks her up and down. Every time she gets close to her entrance, Root bucks her hip just that much stronger. Shaw gets the message quickly, and she teases her with the tip of her tongue. Her own desire takes over and she buries her tongue inside her wet navel.

A high pitched moan, quickly followed by a harsh gasp tells her that his feels as good as she thinks. Root lets go of the sheets and fists a bunch of Shaw’s hair. She’s pushing her head almost viciously against her cunt, dictating the speed at which Shaw fucks her with her tongue. Reaching above her hip with one hand, Shaw places two fingers just above her clit, and drives Root to the edge with fast motions in tandem with her tongue.

She feels the woman tightening her pelvis, bucking her hips more erratically, and it makes her smile. She shifts her weight and slides one arm out from under Root’s ass. She slides her tongue in one more time before lapping the wetness. She replaces her tongue with two fingers easily curling inside her. She feels for the rigged area inside Root, and she fingerfucks her hard, sucking on her throbbing clit.

She wraps her tongue around it as Root presses her head even harder against her cunt. Shaw’s fingers are working at a steady and fast pace, hitting just the right spot every time they curl in, and she switches from sucking to licking with a flat tongue.

Soon enough, Root is whimpering, ordering her to keep going, and she grits her teeth, jaws furiously clenched, when Shaw stops. The hand in her hair yanks her head back and Root can barely look directly at her with a glistening chin, and eyes dark with lust.

“Impatient much, Dr. Groves?” Shaw chuckles a little nervously as Root digs her nails in her scalp.

“‘My name is Root.” she growls, watching closely when Shaw drags herself on top of her.

“And what’s mine?” Shaw bites her earlobe harshly, smirking.

Root gasps loudly, and she’s about to reply when she feels Sameen’s hand cup her navel, fingers curling inside her, and deep. She picks up a fast pace, her thumb circling her clit at a perfect rhythm. Root holds onto Shaw’s body, pressing her as close as possible. Shaw observes her closely, and when she feels Root is about to orgasm, she slows down her fingerfucking with a smug look.

“This is for stabbing me in the neck.” Shaw growls, kissing Root’s neck avidly.

“I saved your life.” Root retorts, gasping loudly as Shaw’s fingertips lazily drag over her clit.

“I saved yours too.” Sameen is having a little too much fun, and she’s let her guard down just enough.

Root sees an opportunity, and she switches their positions. She’s straddling Shaw’s hips, her dripping wet navel darkening the grey underwear she’s still wearing. She pins Sameen’s hands above her head and a sassy snicker cascades out of her parted lips.

“Let me apologize properly, Sameen.” Root purrs, grinding her hips down.

She slowly releases Shaw’s hands, pointing a warning finger at her. Shaw doesn’t move and her breath catches in her throat when she understands what Root is about to do. The woman pulls her panties to the side, and she slowly rubs her thumb over her clit. Her other hand reaches down her exposed cunt, and she reproduces the same motion on herself. Shaw’s eyes fall back, but she can’t look away from the sight.

Root is gyrating her hips down, and every time, it presses her hand harder on her cunt, and makes Shaw moan louder. She can feel her orgasm build up, but never enough pressure or fast pace to tilt her over the edge. When she realizes that Root is going to get herself off with her own hand while watching Shaw squirm, the black haired woman cocks her head in astonishment.

“Oh no you won’t.” She stammers through gritted teeth, quickly gripping Root’s hips before she can pin her wrist back up.

She crudely pulls her by the ass, inching herself down until she engulfs Root’s cunt in her mouth. She watches the other woman intently, smirking when she can’t even stay upright. Her shoulder slump forward and she barely holds herself up, smacking her hand on the wall to not completely fold in half. Shaw cups one of her breasts, groping it roughly, swirling her tongue around Root’s clit. She was so close before Shaw had her sit on her face, she can’t hold back anymore - and neither is Sameen.

Root reaches back, seconds before her orgasm, and digs her nails into Shaw’s thigh. Root lets her head fall back, one hand gripping Shaw’s head, keeping her in place, the other leaving deep crescents in her bare skin. She moans loudly, groaning Shaw’s name, unraveling in the feeling of her tongue indecently pressing and circling on her clit.

Shaw lets Root ride her face until her body is quivering and every time she moves her tongue, Root trembles. Then, she slowly kisses her inner thigh, sinks her teeth in the hot and humid skin with a content smile. Root lets her head hang low, her hair sticking to her sweaty face, panting heavily. She caresses Shaw’s face, an almost inaudible moan torn from her dry throat when Sameen teases her raw clit.

“You have a strange way of apologizing. “ Shaw states, and Root covers her face with one hand.

She slowly peels herself off of Sameen’s face, and falls beside her on the messy bed. She gently wipes away her own wetness from the other woman, grinning. Root’s eyes flutter shut, and Shaw’s quick to shuffle under the blankets, softly covering her as well. She brings an arm under her pillow, looking intently at Shaw.

“Stop staring.” Sameen whispers, eyes half closed.

“Stop being so beautiful.” Root retorts, and it makes Shaw scoff.

She turns away from Root, her cheeks flushed red. The brunette slides closer to her and Shaw gasps when a cold hand snakes around her hip.

“It’s your turn to scream my name.” Root growls, biting her ear lobe sharply.

Shaw instinctively backs herself closer to Root, seeking contact.

Tomorrow cannot come slow enough.