Black Water ↠ Stiles Stilinski [Teen Wolf, Vol. One]

Game Day

Disclaimer: 'Teen Wolf' isn't mine. Shocking, right? But it's true. If there are any similarities in content or dialogue, it has probably originated with the show.

Gif by yesalltheships of tumblr!

Fair warning, I'm not 100% on this chapter....I just can't look at it anymore.  I'm tired, and honestly if I don't post it I feel like I'll never move on so here we go.

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

Chapter 7 – Game Day

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

"Up! Up! Up!"

The shrill voice ringing in Charlie's ear was more offensive than any alarm clock known to man. It was worse than Lydia's ringtone wrenching her out of consciousness at obscenely early hours of the morning—hell, it was worst than the air-raid horns of the London Blitzkrieg. A comparison which was in not in the least bit hyperbolic. There was, in fact, no sound more harrowing than Aunt Mel's unwavering, insufferable positivity hovering over her on a sleepy Saturday morning.

Letting out a nondescript 'mmph', Charlie grabbed onto her pillow and yanked it over her head. If crazed serial killers could use pillows to muffle gunshots, then she sure as hell should be able to drown out Mel's voice.

This strategy proved unsuccessful.

"Charlotte Oswin," her aunt's voice insisted. "I am telling you to get out of that bed this very instant. I am being stern and forceful to convey my meaning without appearing aggressive or hostile."

Ignoring the excited chirping, Charlie shifted her head from under her pillow. She rolled over and grabbed her alarm clock, twisting it in her direction to see the time. The sleep in her eyes left the glowing red numbers fuzzy and illegible. Blinking several times, Charlie squinted at the squiggly red lines until they assembled themselves into something she could read When they finally did, the clock read 10:14 a.m. Nope. No. That was simply unacceptable. Weekends meant sleeping till noon or later, no exceptions, no compromises.

Charlie rolled back over in her bed, yanking the covers over her head. "Go away," she mumbled into the pillow. "I shall not be awoken until the prophesized hour."

"Oh really?" Mel demanded skeptically. "And when exactly is 'the prophesized hour'?"

"Whenever I feel like waking up," Charlie replied, snuggling deeper into the covers. "Probably some time tomorrow afternoon."

For a few moments her ears met with silence, giving Charlie a small degree of hope that maybe—just maybe—she would be left to her own devices. But that hope was cruelly ripped away from her, along with the covers. Mel took hold of that deep purple fabric and tore it away from Charlie with unexpected force, leaving Charlie exposed and vulnerable to the unhappy state of consciousness. And then, to add insult to injury, Mel ripped the curtains open as well. Light streamed into the room, hitting Charlie in the face with the force of a wrecking ball. Her eyes stung with the assault, eliciting a feral hiss from her lips.

"AH!" Charlie shouted, throwing her arms over her face to protect it from the harsh rays. "It burns! Make it stop! For the love of Neil Patrick Harris, make it stop!"

"You need to stop being so dramatic Charlie," Mel said in a slightly patronizing tone.

Charlie huffed loudly and finally pushed herself into up, scooting back until she could lean against the wall, and folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not being dramatic," she grumbled. "Mel, let me tell you something and I want you to listen very, very carefully. Saturdays? They're for sleeping. Blissful lack of consciousness. So why don't we get a giant black Sharpie and mark off every Saturday on the calendar. Write 'if you wake up Charlie, she'll come at you like a honeybadger'."