#gotabat

@gotabat said: [ crawl ]  for  your  muse  to  crawl  into  bed  with  mine || 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 ➳ 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈

𝑬𝒙𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏, petite form drenched in agony that no pain killers will abate. It’s physical contact she seeks, and apparently from any source ( now sought from one she’d never anticipated ). 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 still separate agent and criminal, former now having slipped between the sheets but as yet refraining urge to remove distance. Steady breathing assures wary woman of unconventional ally’s maintained slumber, fingers grasping at soft sheets as internal debate rages. Pitiful gnawing of lower lip ensues, own breathing ragged and uncertain, peaceful sounds emitted by murderer soon enough to encourage increased proximity.

     malia’s LOSING and she knows it.    the coyote may hold more supernatural power over the other, but combat is about more than just physical strength.    if you don’t have a strategy, if you can’t keep your emotions in check?    your opponent obtains a significant upper hand.    which is how the desert wolf managed to catch malia off guard.    having anticipated her daughter would come in furious, using anger as her fuel, she struck hard and fast.    every move calculated, managing to always stay a few steps ahead of the other.    by the end, malia’s barely conscious, injured and bloody with her mother’s hands around her throat, cutting off any oxygen.    just before the desert wolf can deliver the fatal blow, however, in the distance, malia can hear someone shouting her name.    the sounds of running, people talking.    and she that grip on her neck release and her body hit the ground before she falls into unconsciousness.

      she doesn’t know how much time has passed, but when the coyote comes to, she’s in a different location.    her body laying down, head resting on someone’s lap, their fingers brushing through her hair.    a grunt escaping, eyes slowly flutter open to take in her surroundings.    doctor’s supplies, bloody bandages, and the smells of medicine and dogs; she’s in deaton’s office.    and, judging from the scent filling her nostrils ( she could recognize it anywhere ), and the familiar sound of a sporadic heartbeat, it’s STILES whose holding her right now.    ‘     stiles?     ’    confused and still out of it, the coyote attempts to sit up, though a wave of vertigo sends her right back down. 

scream,  lydia .     green   hues   linger   on   the   body   dumped   lazily   in   some   dark   &   dusty   alley ,       on    the    eyes    perpetually    frozen    in    terror .     she   doesn’t    even    know    how    she    got   here ,    so   very    far    away    from    her    brooklyn    apartment ,     but    she’d    recognize   those    eyes     anywhere .    scream,  lydia .    they’re   the   same    eyes    she    painstakingly    brought    to    life    on    canvas   just    this    morning ,    the    same   eyes    that   haunted    her    dreams    last    night .      and    just   like    every    other    set     of     eyes     she’s    sketched    this    week ,     they’re    lifeless .    haunted .     void   of   warmth     forevermore .

                               scream,  lydia .

her       hands       are       coated       in       someone       else’s        warm     ////      sticky       blood   ,        the        hem         of           her        dress         blossoms       with        shades        of       black  ,       &         wide      green       eyes       are        tinged       with        an         uncharacteristic      darkness                     ------------------------      but      sure ,       stiles ,        let’s      have       a       conversation       about           lydia’s         poor        decision        to       withhold        information  .

trembling            hand            lifts          to         rest        fingertips        against        her       temple ,         frustration        welling       within         her       chest  .       a      storm      of       fear      &       unadulterated      panic         brews       within        her ,          yet       he       somehow      manages         to         bring        a        wave        of        annoyance        crashing        down        upon        it        all  . 

Process is 𝒈𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈. Perceptive hues don’t miss the growth in bloody patch which darkens clothing, nor the perspiration that isn’t a good sign ( once again, his life is in her hands, and once again, she cannot let him die ). Own dizziness is gulped down, hands assisting his movement as much as she can. The 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕 snarled out is met with amused scoff, agent unable to believe he is resorting to humour at a time like this ( but he’s Stilinski, and he wouldn’t be him if he wasn’t ). “You’re not going to have the opportunity to haunt anyone, because you’re not going to die — not today, at least,” she mutters, scrambling into driver’s seat and wrenching the gearstick into reverse.

oh  ,     the     irony .        she’s     never     bothered      to       tell       him       what        her        answer        would      have     been ,       should      have       been ,       if      she      had      stepped      off      that     plane     the    same    day     she       stepped      on      it.       but      if      being     with     lydia     had      truly      been       his       wish ,        his       wish        would’ve         come       true . 

if     he     hadn’t     married     her. 

she     doesn’t     have    anything     against     malia ,      not       really .      in    some     other     life ,      they      might     have     been     friends .       now ,     she     can’t     even    be     in     the     same      room     with     the     girl     without     feeling     like      she      might      suffocate .     

knees       are       tucked      to     chest ,      cheek      pillowed      atop ;     a     silence     stretches     on     between      them .      she’s     made     a     practice      of      never      wasting      time      with      regrets ,      but  .  .  .      how      can     she      think      of      that      fateful      day      with       anything       other      than       the       bitter       taste       of      regret ?