Chapter Text
You sit up on the couch quickly, awoken rudely from your sleep by a loud thump from upstairs. You swing your legs over the edge of the sofa, grabbing the bad you have leaning against the side. You stand quickly, raising it in defense against whatever was making that noise. It's Tuesday; Dad wouldn't even be home for another week, so there was no fucking way it was him making all that damn racket. Personally, you think the whole bat-at-the-ready bullshit is fucking cliché, but your dad insisted. You would have thought he would have preferred having you keep a knife or five underneath you pillow at night, or at least something along those lines.
You make your way carefully up the steps, wincing slightly at every creak the weary old wood makes underneath your cotton-clad toes. Though, you doubt anything short of a nuclear bomb going off on the front lawn would make enough noise to be heard over the ruckus your home intruder was causing upstairs. You mean, damn, seriously? What was the fucker doing, throwing electronical equipment across the room?
Reaching the top of the steps, you freeze where you stand as the incessant noise suddenly stops. You're suddenly very aware of how loud your breathing is right at this moment. You slowly turn your head, staring at your closed bedroom door, acutely aware of the fact that there was most definitely someone poking around your things. You are not okay with this. You are most certainly the opposite of okay with this. You are negatively okay with this. You offer your past self silent praise for not being a complete dumbass like usual and sleeping on the couch in the living room instead.
You stand completely still, ignoring the cramps threatening to attack at any moment, waiting for what feels like an eternity, though it probably couldn't have been longer than a minute. Your heart-rate quickens as you hear something clatter to the floor on the other side of the door. You hear a faint mumbling, followed by a sudden shout.
"Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!" You hea the string of profanities just as what sounds like a much larger object slams against the door before colliding with the floor, followed by the unmistakable sound of many smaller objects crash to the ground, as well as the cacophony of shattering glass. You slam your palm against your forehead, embarrassed for whoever was on the other side of that inconvenient slab of mahogony. Who the hell was this idiot? He obviously didn't have the faintest clue of how to successfully break into and raid a home quietly and efficiently.
Ther's a silence on the other side of the door once more, and you let out a sigh, eyes immediately shooting open wider as you realize that this fucknut probably heard you. You take a cautious step forwards, placing your hand gently on the old-fashioned brass doorknob. Frowning slightly, you feel it wiggle in your grib. These damn loose fasteners. You've been wanting to replace these doorknobs anyway, maybe with something fancier. Whatever, you'll get to that after you deal with this shitstain going through your personal belongings.
Well, Vantas, it's now or never. You turn the dorknob quickly, stepping back slightly to allow it to swing open. Of course, you forgot something had landed against it, and were unprepared for the sudden weight against your shins, forcing you to fall backward into the hallway. The back of your head collides painfully with the banister, and you land roughly on your ass. "FUCK." You shout the expletive without a second thought, raising your hand to nurse the back of your head, dropping the bat. It clamors noisily down the stairs, causing you to wince with every slam against the delicate paneling of the steps. Damn it, you'll probably have to fix those, too. Lovely.
You suddenly remember the fact that there was an intruder in your room and you did indeed just open the foor and rudely burst in on them, and there was still the unresolved matter of what the fuck was on your legs. Your eyes open, your expression still twisted into a constant grimace from both the pain from the blow and the fact that there was a dude on your legs.
There, resting on your legs, was the goddamned douchecanoe who broke into your bedroom at what-the-fuck o'clock in the morning, and promptly assaulted and broke most of, if not all, of your private personal shit.
Not even the almighty god of douchebaggery himself could have surpassed the great and powerful ass-fuckery that was this prick. His blond hair fell messily in front of his eyes (probably from his fall, your subconscious notes, unhelpful as always), and his mouth was twisted downwards slightly, barely perceptibly, in pain. His eyes were wide behind his aviators, staring at you - wait. Aviators? Who the fuck even wears those anymore? And inside too, what the hell?
Your gaze travels downwards slightly, ignoring the fact that he hasn't broken his stare yet. You methodically note how he's practically laying on top of you, arms resting just below your crotch, obviously because he had them braced for impact with the floor. Well, sorry dude, the floor was not what he had landed on. His knee was wedged between your legs, practically straddling your lower left leg
Glaring down at him, you grit your teeth, gaze returning to his and, hopefully, burning a hole through those stupid fucking shades. Your hands are clenched into fists at your sides, and you stare at him for a moment before speaking. Your voice is a low growl, forced out in bursts through your clenched teeth, rough from the fact that your vocal chords are tight from rage. A knot forces its way into your throat.
"Are you going to fucking get off of me?"