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janedoeswriting · 4 days

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The Way The Wind Blows (Stiles x OC) Chapter Four

Description: Rhiannon finds herself trapped within her guilty pleasure tv show— Teen Wolf. Now, she must choose which path to take… one that leads back home, and another that follows uncertain adventure.

Tags: extreme slow burn, frienemies to lovers, fix it fic, canon change, actions have consequences.

TW: smut??, angst, fluff, sexual harassment, anxiety, depression, obsession, domestic violence, manipulation, etc. Just please do not read if you are sensitive to difficult subjects.

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(The Edge of Seventeen by Stevie Nicks)

Rhiannon woke to a knock at her bedroom door.

"Come in." she called groggily. It wasn't exactly a relief to remember that she was in an alternate dimension.

The door opened slightly. The sheriff said softly, "How did you sleep?"

Rhiannon nodded, running a hand through her wild hair. She had thankfully slept the whole night through. "Good." was all she said, still in a sleepy haze.

"Good." he responded. "Listen, I have to go to work. Stiles has school, but if you want I can have him stay home for the day--," the sheriff said trailing off. Rhiannon adamantly refused.

"No! No I'm fine. I can stay here. I'll just sleep a bit more."

The sheriff nodded but she didn't miss his hesitation.

"Alright. I'll be back around five. We can go to the store and get you some clothes and things. There's plenty of food in the pantry and fridge. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. I left some money on the counter in case you'd like to order some takeout. I also got you some stuff you might need." He set a brown paper bag full of things on the floor.

Rhiannon nodded.

"Just some basic things."

"Okay," Rhiannon said.

"I'll let you go back to sleep." he finally said, and shut the door gently. Rhi fell back onto her pillow with an arm covering her face.

When Rhiannon awoke again it was midday. She got out of bed and showered. She didn't know how long she sat on the shower floor letting the water run over her body. The shampoo and conditioner was a men's two in one. When she finished, she dug through the paper bag to find a new hairbrush, girls' shampoo and conditioner, and other essentials. She let out a short laugh at the sight of menstrual pads. She couldn't even picture the sheriff in a grocery store, shopping for what he thought a teenage girl might need. The house was silent. She walked around tentatively. She vaguely felt as if she were intruding. Despite being utterly alone she tiptoed around. Her eyes caught on pictures on the wall.

Most of them were of Stiles as a child and throughout his adolescence. A woman Rhiannon recognized to be Stiles' mother was in many of them. Her heart squeezed at the sight of Stiles' boyish grin as his mother's arms wrapped around and held him tightly.

Rhi made herself a bowl of cereal and tried not to think about last night.

About Heather. And what she had indirectly did to her.

Rhiannon unpacked the contents of the bag. The set of drawers in her new room were full of old clothes. Some were womens, and she decided that she couldn't bring herself to wear any of Sheriff Stilinski's dead wife's clothing. The vanity drawers were utterly empty. The walls and comforter were plain white. An old quilt was folded on top of a wooden rocking chair.

Rhiannon picked it up. It smelled faintly of lavender. It was warm and oddly comforting. Rhiannon tentatively sat in the chair and wrapped herself in the quilt as she brought her knees up to her chest.

Stiles came home in a hurry and walked briskly down the hall. His father had told him earlier of the news that he didn't want to face. Heather was missing. And he was the last to see her.

The news of it sparked anger within him. Anger at Rhiannon. Ever since she arrived to Beacon Hills things had been going wrong. He wasn't stupid. She was the common denominator. His father telling him to go straight home to check on her after school only made his anger worse. Why did his dad trust her? Why did he take this strange girl into their home, where she didn't belong?

He was set on confronting her the first moment he saw her, but when he burst into her bedroom he was caught short. In the corner of the room she was curled in the old rocking chair. Wrapped around her body was his mother's' quilt. She sat sleeping in his mother's chair. The same chair she used to rock him to sleep in.

This should have made him even more angry at her. But in that moment is heart fell. She was so tired. And frail. And, despite himself, he realized how beautiful she really was. He hadn't let himself look at her for too long before.

She was tall and thin. Her hair was a dark mousy brown, and eyelashes as long as a cow's. As she slept, her mouth curved down and her brows crinkled together as if she wasn't having a pleasant dream.

In another life, if she had shown up as the new girl at school, Stiles would surely have had a crush on her. She was so beautiful that she easily could have been a model.

He could imagine a life in which he stared at her in class, and fell asleep at night picturing her. A life where she was a cheerleader and had popular friends and sat at the cool table during lunch.

But here she was, curled up in his house without any hint of her past or a family to call her own.

His father's words echoed in his mind.

Make her feel welcome. That girl has been through a lot.

Rhiannon didn't realize she had fallen asleep until she woke up. When she did, there were noises coming from somewhere in the house. Her bedroom door sat ajar. Rhiannon stretched and walked into the hallway toward the living room. She was surprised to find Stiles in his bedroom.

He turned to her. She still had the quilt wrapped around her shoulders and her eyes were sleepy.

"Hi." She said awkwardly.

"Hi," he responded, not knowing what else to say. His phone buzzed and he glanced down at the text he received. Scott: Where are you?

Right. They were supposed to meet up at the vet clinic to try and recover Isaac's memories and hopefully find Heather.

"My, uh-- My dad's coming home soon. He said he wanted to take you shopping." Stiles said shifting around on his feet. Rhiannon nodded, sensing his preoccupied thoughts. "You can go." Rhiannon said. "You don't have to babysit me."

Stiles opened his mouth to try and reassure her that he wasn't babysitting her (even though he was). She smiled at him calmly. "Go." she said simply. It was reassuring. And kind of her.

Stiles smiled gratefully at her and nodded. She shuffled back into her bedroom and shut the door behind her as he left the house and started down the road to the animal clinic.

"What about this?" Mr. Stilinski said, holding up a frilly pink dress. It might have been popular for the time, but Rhiannon couldn't be paid to wear a dress like that. She couldn't help the laugh at it. "Not my style." she said. He smiled and hung it back on the rack. "Good," he said. "I've never really shopped for girls before."

Rhiannon picked up a pair of jeans from the rack. "Don't worry. I'm easy to shop for." She set the jeans in the cart.

That afternoon was surprisingly easy. When Mr. Stilinski got home, he was clearly frazzled and stressed. Rhiannon could only assume it was because he had a missing persons case on his hands. A girl he had seen grow up in Beacon Hills.

Browsing for clothes wasn't exactly Rhiannon's idea of a good time, but it certainly seemed to be doing the job of distracting the both of them. By the end of the trip Rhiannon had bags of jeans, shorts, layered tops, and lacey tank tops. It was all very 2010's. She had even gotten a couple new pairs of sneakers.

"There are some clothes in the dresser that you can use too," Mr. Stilinski added. Rhiannon nodded, but wasn't too keen on wearing any of his dead wife's clothing. "I saw. Where did you get girls clothes?" She asked, fishing for information. He hesitated but told her.

"Some of it was my wife's." The car grew heavy with silence.

"Did she pass away?" She asked, though she knew the answer. He nodded.

"It was a long time ago. I don't know why I held on to some of her things, but it would be good if you could get some used out of them." Rhiannon shifted, uncomfortable at the idea. "She wouldn't want her stuff sitting around gathering dust." he added. After he said that Rhiannon felt somewhat guilty for avoiding the clothes.

When they got home, Rhiannon took her time unpacking her things and deciding where their new homes would be. A smoke alarm blared to life, and Rhiannon scrambled out into the kitchen in a panic. The oven emanated a heavy stench of burnt food, and Mr. Stilinski coughed profusely as he tried to wave away the smoke. Rhiannon swiftly opened the side door and grabbed a dish cloth to start waving the air near the smoke detector. The smoking food was tossed in the sink and doused with cold water. Finally, the ear splitting alarm stopped. "Sorry," Mr. Stilinski said coughing through the smoke. "We never really cook around here." Rhiannon smiled and shook her head. "It's alright. I can cook."

An hour later, they sat at the dinner table eating rice, chicken, and broccoli. It was a simple and easy meal, and Rhiannon felt a shred of pride as Mr. Stilinski gobbled it down as he raved about how good it was.

He reminded her of her own father, who ate more than double the portions Rhiannon could stomach. She missed him in that moment, and grew saddened at the thought of her family. She wanted to go home. She wanted to see her mom. Did they miss her? Did they panic when she wasn't in her room? What were they doing right then? He noticed her melancholy quietness.

"Today... work wasn't very good. There was... a lot going on. Some days, my job is really difficult. Normally, days like this stay with me into the night. It's very hard being the Sheriff sometimes. But you helped me to forget about work for a little while. Thank you." he said. She could only imagine how difficult it must be to be the Sheriff in Beacon Hills. To shoulder all that blame and responsibility for the lives he isn't able to save. He was playing a losing game.

"Likewise," she said with a smile. And it was true. She liked having him there. To talk and distract her. To make her feel like she wasn't helpless and alone. "Maybe tomorrow I'll make some lasagna." she said light heartedly. He smiled and took another bite, nodding in agreement.

Rhiannon awoke the next morning to shouting in the hall. "Dad? Dad!" Stiles' voice rang out and trailed away. Rhiannon groaned and shoved a pillow over her head. Stiles' voice became more distant as he followed his father through the house, nagging him about a bank robbery. This house was bustling. And loud. Well, it was whenever Stiles was around. The night before, Stiles and Scott thought they were being quiet when they came home in the dead of night, but she could hear their whispers and printing and typing on computers until the wee hours of the morning. She lay there in her bed until she heard the boys rushing out of the house and the jeep keel out of the driveway outside. Finally, the house fell silent. As she passed by Stiles' open bedroom door to make breakfast, she caught sight of the state of his room. It was covered in papers and red thread. The comforter and sheets were strewn about. Rhiannon couldn't resist creeping inside and poking around.

She picked a piece of paper up off the floor. An image of Sheriff Stilinski apprehending a bank robber was displayed on the article's cover. Rhiannon let the paper fall back to the ground. They were searching for how to break into the Alpha Pack's lair. Rhiannon creeped around and took in Stiles' bedroom.

It was strange to actually be inside of it. Her eyes caught on details she hadn't seen when she had been watching the show. The walls were covered in strange posters for bands and people she'd never heard of. There was a telescope near the window. She pressed her eye into it just to be blinded by sunlight and immediately retracted her face.

Old plates and cups and bags of chips were strewn about the room. A collage of photos leaned against the wall, and Rhiannon took in the photos of Stiles with his friends and family. Two cheeky faced children grinned at the camera with their arms around one another's shoulders-- Stiles and Scott as young boys.

Books were perched here and there, all with bookmarks still stuck halfway in them like Stiles had been reading them and forgotten to pick them up and continue. Catcher in the Rye. The Great Gatsby. To Kill a Mockingbird. He also had a variety of different lacrosse things laying around. One of his sticks was halfway laced up. It took a lot of willpower for her not to clean up some of the mess, but Rhiannon dreaded the thought of him knowing she was there sneaking around his bedroom.

Besides-- she had things to do. As Rhiannon ate, she wrote intensely in a journal. She had bought it the day prior while she was at the store shopping for clothes. In it, she wrote down everything she knew to be true. She tried to pick up the pieces of her knowledge and memory and fit it into the puzzle that was her new reality. By the time midday rolled around she had a solid timeline of events, and had written down as much information as she could fathom.

It was more than she could bear. She had watched the show so many times that she had the basic plot memorized. But small details escaped her.

A nagging thought started at the back of her mind but grew ever-present. The death count would be increasing soon. After Allison's death, there was a heavy growth in innocent people dying. A picture of those who had been taken by the death doctors sat in her mind. Even worse still was what the ghost riders did to the town. The nazi alpha. The Anuk-Ite. As she finished writing, Rhiannon's resolve hardened.

She couldn't stay there. She had to get out of Beacon Hills. As far away as she could. While the only hint of a solution for her return home was in Beacon Hills, she knew that the longer she stayed the more at risk she was. She didn't want to know what would happen when Stiles became possessed by the Nogitsune.

She had to leave.

Some part of her had clung to the idea that Scott could keep her safe, but this idea was thwarted by the truth.

Scott couldn't protect her. She was a regular human. She couldn't fight back in the face of a supernatural creature. And the closer she got to these characters, the worse off she was.

It was decided. The next chance she got she would make a break for it.

"Heather is missing, and there is one common denominator. You know it's true." Stiles said.

Scott shook his head. "She was with us that night. How could she have possibly kidnapped her? I told you-- she's just a regular human."

"Yeah, a regular human who knows what you are and is lying about it."

"We still don't know why. Maybe if we confront her about it, we can see if she has some sort of connection." Scott reasoned. "And what if she's a spy? What if she's working with the Alpha pack, huh? What then?" "Then we'll figure it out." Scott said reassuringly. Stiles was growing more and more disillusioned with Scott's unwavering trust in others.

It was eating him alive. Heather's disappearance was his fault. If he had only stayed with her, she would still be here. If Rhiannon hadn't suddenly shown up and thrown a wrench in his life maybe Stiles would be able to keep his thoughts in order. To protect those around him. What if his father was next?

"Listen-- I'm not saying we have to trust her. I'm just saying that from what I can tell, she's harmless. Tomorrow we can talk to her. Try and get to the bottom of all this. But right now, we have to save Boyd and Erica."

And Scott was right. Stiles knew he was right. It didn't feel any less wrong.

The sun had set hours ago, and Rhiannon was growing weary. Sheriff Stilinski was supposed to be home by now. All of a sudden, a ringing sound interrupted her anxious pacing. She ran into the kitchen, where a landline sat on the counter. She quickly lunged and picked it up.

"Rhiannon?" Sheriff Stilinski's voice sounded.

Relief flooded her instantly. She tried not to let it show in her voice. "Hello," she said cooly. "I'm sorry I'm not home. Something came up and I'll be here for a while. I thought Stiles would be home by now, but he always seems to get himself involved. He should be there minute now." Rhiannon nodded though he couldn't see her and said, "Okay! That's fine, I wasn't worried." Lie. "Good. Don't forget, you have an appointment tomorrow morning with the therapist. If I can't take you, Stiles will."

"Alright. Did you want me to bring you dinner?"

She realized she didn't even have a car. "No, it's alright. I got some food," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. She tried not to glance at the set table where the food had gone cold already.

"Okay. I'll put some leftovers in the fridge."

"Thank you... Hey, I'm sorry Rhi. You must have been worried."

"No, it's alright. I know you're busy." Rhiannon didn't know how she had already grown reliant on him, but tried to keep a casual edge to her voice. "Shoot me a call if you need anything."

"Okay. Bye."

"Goodbye."

Rhiannon set the landline back and let out a sigh.

Rhiannon was halfway through wrapping the lasagna up when the door opened and shut. She looked up to see Stiles walking in. He looked ragged.

When he caught sight of her, he slowed. "Hi." she said. "Hi," he responded.

He couldn't help but appraise her in suspicion. After seeing the dead body that Lydia had found at the pool, he was on guard. It didn't help that his father had baraded him for finding a dead body instead of being home with Rhiannon, who "needed us to watch over her". His dad had commanded he go straight home despite his protests that he should make sure Lydia got home safe. And so here he was, watching over a girl he just met against his better judgement. Part of him resented Rhiannon for how much his father was looking after her.

He noticed the table was set. For three. She was wrapping a platter in tin foil. She glanced down at it and then back up at him.

"Are you hungry? I... made lasagna."

Stiles hesitated. Finally, he nodded. He was hungry. Really hungry. It had been a long day.

He had sat in class that entire school day anticipating the night's bank infiltration. Worrying about his friends safety. Thinking of possible solutions. And as he had been on his way home, he received a call from Lydia saying she had found a dead body at the pool. The image of a bloody purity ring flashed in his mind. It didn't help that at the scene of the crime, the police officers had received another report of a different missing person.

She made him a serving and put it in the microwave. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he barely noticed her setting down a hot plate of dinner in front of him. "Are you okay?" she asked, not doing well to hide the concern laced in her voice. "Yeah, I'm fine." He said, still guarded. She couldn't be trusted, but Scott's words from earlier echoed in his mind. She sat next to him and prayed silently. He didn't bother to join her. He waited for her to take a bite. When she did, he dug in. "What, your not afraid I didn't poison it?" she asked sarcastically. It was hard for Rhi not to notice the walls he put up around her. His wariness whenever she was near. Rhiannon knew he probably suspected her to be the perpetrator of the murders.

He choked on his bite but quickly recovered. "What?" he asked, trying to play it off. "I know you don't trust me."

Stiles looked her up and down. "That's not true."

"Your a bad liar."

He ignored her and continued to eat. In truth, Rhiannon did want to prove to him that she was innocent. She didn't want her favorite character to think she was a murderer. But, what good would it do anyway? She'd be gone soon, and this whole thing would be a memory.

So she stayed quiet, and they ate in silence.

When Rhiannon heard him leaving the house again later that night, she turned over and shut her eyes. Pretending like she didn't care.

The house was silent for a long time. Sheriff Stilinski didn't return back until halfway through the next day. Stiles had been gone the entire time until late into the evening. Both of them looked dim behind the eyes. She could feel their grief in the tangible poignant atmosphere of the house. How Stiles went straight to his bedroom, and Mr. Stilinski followed shortly after. Their voices were soft and muffled through the walls. Rhiannon tried to resist creeping closer to eavesdrop. Mr. Stilinski's comforting phrases and a small stifled sob from Stiles was enough to send Rhiannon retreating back to her room. She didn't want to say anything to them-- she didn't even know what to say.

Heather was dead. And they all knew it now. Mr. Stilinski must have found the last of the virgin's bodies that morning, and Stiles must have identified Heather's body while in the hospital morgue as well.

Rhiannon grabbed her journal from where she kept it hidden under her mattress and flipped through the pages. 'Heather's body is identified by Stiles after Melissa accidently shows it to him. Another body is found by the Sheriff. Threefold virgin sacrifices are discovered to be the common thread.'

She took her pen and crossed it through-- a task that was completed.

She read the words that came later in the journal of scribbles that didn't quite make much sense.

'Virgins: Heather, lifeguard, girl who went camping?

Warriors: ??? Mr. Harris

Healers: ?, a doctor, Deaton

Philosophers: pianist at concert,???

Guardians: Sheriff Stilinski, Melissa, Mr. Argent'

The gaps in her memory were debilitating, and she wrote question marks where she couldn't remember details. She felt powerless. Maybe if she had the plot of the TV show in front of her face she could remember who the next victims were and attempt to help them, but she couldn't.

Who was next? A random side character who had never appeared before in the show, probably.

And how was she supposed to know when anything actually happened? The timeline was confusing in real life, she didn't know if the next murder would happen within the next few days or weeks. And when she wasn't on the inside scoop within Scott's pack, her second-hand information was gathered hours later than it was discovered.

Rhiannon's stomach was tied in knots as her eyes lingered on the names at the bottom. Sheriff Stilinski. They'll save them in time. They will... As long as I don't get in the way.

Maybe next time, something worse than Lydia getting cut on the forehead would happen. Maybe someone important could die. Like Mr. Stilinski. Rhiannon shut the journal and leaned back against the bed, sighing. She had to leave soon, but how? She could steal some money and hop on a bus, but then that would be too easily traced. She'd be caught and dragged back to a different foster home. She didn't want to even consider the betrayed look that Mr. Stilinski would foster if she got caught doing such a thing.

She couldn't help but to consider how devastating it would be to Mr. Stilinski when he found out she was gone. Another victim disappeared without a trace. He would surely blame himself... But he would get over it. And so would everybody else. She didn't even have any family who would miss her here anyway.

She had to leave. It was the safest option. For everyone.

Her therapy session had been delayed by a few days due to the events that occured. Stiles had missed three days of school now, and he was forced to return that Thursday and Friday. Since Sheriff Stilinski was so busy with the investigations, he had no time to shuttle Rhiannon around for appointments.

So on Saturday, Stiles drove her to the office in the city. Sheriff Stilinski would be picking her up. Rhiannon almost felt like a burden, if she didn't know any better.

If she didn't know that this would be the last time she ever saw him. The car ride might have been awkward, if Rhiannon hadn't rolled the windows down and turned the music up high. The Edge of Seventeen blared in the speakers. Rhiannon sang along softly as she let herself appreciate that moment. She was riding in Stiles' real jeep, she realised, and it made her giggle. She had always wanted to do so. Daydreamed about being friends with Scott's pack. Now, it was bittersweet. Never could she have predicted that if given the opportunity to not only ride with Stiles but to also live in the same house him, she would run at the first opportunity given.

Stiles glanced over at her with his fist clenching the wheel. He was trying not to let the girl get on his every nerve, but did she have to play this song? Sure, it was the radio, but still. Edge of Seventeen? Really? I mean- didn't she even realize that Heather had died on her seventeenth birthday?

Her giggle sent him over the edge.

He slammed his hand across the radio and shut it off. She looked over at him in surprise, hair blowing about her face. She slammed it back on, like a child throwing a tantrum.

He returned the favor. Before they could get into a slapping fight, Stiles grabbed her lunging hand in motion and gripped his fist closed to keep her from turning the damn radio on again. To his endless anger, she used her other hand to turn it on.

Stiles didn't remember the last time his temper had gotten to the best of him like that. It seemed they didn't even need words to fight.

Stiles slammed on the breaks and pulled over. She, who hadn't put on her seatbelt, slammed into the dashboard and fell onto the floor in the slim space between the front seat and the glovebox.

"Oh, real mature." She said, pulling herself up violently.

"Mature? Mature!? Is that really where you want to go?!" he demanded, his voice quickly turning from annoyed to rage.

"What, so I like happiness and fun? So I want to listen to a song on the radio on my way to a therapist appointment because I lost my memories and have no family!?"

When she put it like that, Stiles almost felt bad. Almost.

"Heather is dead, and your singing Stevie Nicks." he said.

"You say that like I know Heather. I met her for, like- five minutes."

"Yeah! On the night that she went missing!" He said as his voice grew more and more strung out.

"What do you want me to do, Stiles? Wear black and stay in my room for a fortnight?"

"How about you start by not playing music when I don't want to listen to it inmyowncar!" His words started to run together as they argued.

They glared at each other for a long time. Rhiannon's frustration peaked and she let out a yell of frustration. She pulled at the handle of the door, wrenched it open, and slammed it shut again as hard as she could behind her. "What are you doing?!" he demanded as she began to walk forward down the road. They were on the edge of downtown, but still a good hours walk to the office. And not in the best part of town, either.

He had started driving slowly to keep up with her. Her arms crossed in front of her chest and her heavy hobo bag swung at her side. Why she had a satchel with her, Stiles didn't know or care to ask.

"Get in the car." Stiles demanded. She dutifully ignored him as she stomped down the street.

"Rhiannon," he used her full name sternly. "Get. In. The. Car. Now." She looked at him and did the most mature thing she could think to do. She flipped him off. "Rhiannon!" he exclaimed demandingly. "Fuck. OFF!" She screamed back. Stiles sat in brief disbelief.

"You know what?! Fine!" he screamed, and drove off faster than he probably should have. His tire sprayed and and covered her in a thick coat of dust and dirt. She yelled in anger and stomped her foot. "ASSHOLE!" She screamed as loud as she could at him.

In the distance, she saw his middle finger sticking out his window as he peeled around a corner. She huffed and continued marching forward.

Another car pulled out from the side of the road. It was a vintage red truck in pretty beat up shape. When it began to slow next to her, Rhiannon's stomach did a nervous backflip and she immediately picked up the pace. "Hey." a voice called in a thick Texas accent.

Rhiannon glanced over quickly and then looked stiffly forward. She hadn't caught a glimpse of the person driving save for a brown cowboy hat. "Hey, little lady. Are you okay?" he asked, his truck rolling to a stop. He sounded surprisingly nice. Rhiannon looked over at him again properly.

She was shocked to find he looked young. Probably in his early twenties. He had a toothpick in his mouth and was kissed generously by the sun with freckles dotting his face. He was even... handsome.

"I'm fine." she said waving her hand in the air in dismissal.

"Boyfriend troubles?" he asked with light laughter.

"No. He's my foster brother," she said with venom in her voice.

"Ohh. Oh, now I see." he said, still finding the situation deeply amusing.

"Do you need some help? A ride? Or I could call you a taxi?" He offered.

Rhiannon stopped walking and turned to him. The sun beat down heavily. He was smiling at her with a wolfish grin.

Rhiannon appraised him. He was skinny, and looked harmless enough, though you could never tell with strange men approaching strangers in the street.

An idea struck her. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm not from around here darlin'." he said.

"I didn't ask where your from I asked where you're going."

"Oh boy, what am I gettin' myself into." he muttered with amusement thick in his voice. "How 'bout this? Where're you goin'?"

She approached the open passenger window and ran a hand through her hair. "Florida." she said, though she wasn't sure where exactly she'd gotten that idea. I guess it made sense-- in the end she just wanted to go home.

"Florida? Really?"

She nodded confidently at him. "Why, you gonna take me?" She asked, falling into his playful tone of voice. "Maybe. Not all the way, but I am going to Louisiana." he commented. She looked him up and down again, but this time slower.

"Louisiana." She echoed. This was getting quite real.

She had planned to leave. While she was supposed to be at that dumb therapy appointment, she was going to hitchhike her way out of town. Hopefully, across the country if she could get lucky. It was a stupid plan. Contingent on others to be quiet and not kidnapping her. But she had no other options. She had no money. No car. She didn't know how to steal, and she couldn't get around without doing so. Public transport left a trail in her wake. Unless she just... asked. "What, are you in some sorta trouble? Foster family doesn't treat you right?" he asked. He sounded kind and soft in that moment, like he was actually concerned for her.

Normally, this would have been dangerous and stupid. The kitchen knife in her bag said otherwise. He was skinny enough. She figured if he tried to attack her, she could take him.

Besides, remaining in Beacon Hills was more dangerous and stupid. Rhiannon took a moment to think and then nodded. "Louisiana it is."

Stiles swerved into an empty parking lot and put his car into park in the center of it. He banged his hands against the steering wheel and laid his head on the horn. His anger from earlier still simmered above the surface. He got out and paced around, muttering about crazy girls he couldn't stand.

He had never in his life been so frustrated. She seemed to know exactly how to push his buttons. With this human sacrifice thing going on, Stiles wasn't sure how to cope.

The loss of Heather was one thing, but the prospect of a serial killing supernatural creature was another. Maybe it wasn't even supernatural, but it certainly screamed supernatural tendencies being that human sacrifice trends were involved.

His own status as a virgin endangering his own life certainly didn't help the emotions running high.

Finally, he stopped and leaned against the side of the jeep. He regretted leaving her on the side of the road. Granted, he was less than a block away and had just done it for effect to scare her, but he couldn't believe his own actions anyway. He had left a helpless girl on the side of the road. One who was mentally unstable. One he was meant to be protecting.

Stiles got back in the jeep and drove back around the block. He hoped that when he found her she would beg his forgiveness and get into the jeep without further trouble.

When he got to the spot where she had gotten out he stopped. She wasn't up the street, or sitting on the sidewalk like he had expected. He drove forward, calling her name out the window. No response. He parked and ran out, running up and down the streets calling her name.

She was gone. ===

Notes: Thanks for reading! This chapter and the next little subplot are inspired by Ethel Cain and her southwestern gothic aesthetic. I'm excited to see some things ramping up a bit. From here on out things will be getting more dangerous and into some heavier themes, so beware as you read further. This is an official T.W. for the coming chapters' themes of assault, kidnapping, murder, etc. You have been warned. Also, this new character has been inspired by the movie Hitch, which also very much falls into this sort of aesthetic that these next couple chapters will have. See ya later. Happy reading.

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moonrivcr · 2 months

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❀ *◦ ning yi zhuo. cis woman. she/her. bisexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that mingxia "millie" ruan? i think that the twenty-three year old from fremont county, colorado works as a vet technician at happy villagers vet clinic and a cashier at the raven house, but outside of that people describe them as icicles glittering in the rising sunlight, fleece blankets littered everywhere, a clear night sky, a ring of skeleton keys, and antique dollhouses meant to be looked at and not touched. i hear they are gullible & flighty, but they are also known to be trusting & open-minded. consider giving them a visit at their home in kingpin trailer park and get to know why they’re called the stargazer.

-partially blind, sheltered little bean -book smart, not very street smart -is used to being babied and full of unearned confidence -wasn't properly socialized as a teenager, a tiny weirdo -not a lot of life experience, but she's doing her best to come into her own -doesn't realize that her long-lost sister is in anchorage -is lowkey having prophetic dreams, but she's not fully aware of it -excited to explore her new home (with her trusty seeing eye dog at her side)

pinterest / playlist

tw: ableism mention, kidnapping mention

always a riddle in the world, she said, always a riddle inside my head: lore.

Childhood:

Born the youngest of the Ruan siblings, Millie doesn't remember much about her life before she was adopted. But despite the lack of knowledge about her origins, there was always one consistency that persisted among her siblings, even long before they were placed under the care of their loving adopted parents: Millie was always to be shielded and protected from anything that could potentially hurt her, something that became a central facet of her upbringing throughout every stage of her life.

Her adopted parents', already teetering on the edge of overprotective when it concerned their children, were even more cautious with Millie thanks to a childhood diagnosis of optic nerve hypoplasia just after she was born. Though her sight wasn't entirely gone, her vision was much more limited than other kids her age, which came with its own set of challenges.

Paired with a general delay in her cognitive development in the earliest years of her life, her parents took extra care in looking after their youngest. But despite their best efforts to give Millie whatever she needed to succeed in life, their helicopter parenting became a hallmark of her childhood, with the girl rarely allowed to leave their side and venture out on her own for fear that she might unintentionally hurt herself.

Millie appreciated their warmth and unwavering support, but even as a child, she was frustrated that there were milestones she wasn't allowed to reach on her own, eager for the room to explore and make mistakes like any other kid.

Still, despite the initial obstacles, Millie had a penchant for learning new things, eager to soak up information and discover how things around her and out in nature worked, even if it took her a little longer than other children to fully understand and retain the information. This desire lead to a natural curiosity about science and history, as well as a fascination with animals of all shapes and sizes that persisted long into her teenage years and adulthood.

Adolescence:

Though she was already confined to her own personal bubble, the whole world seemed to change for Millie the day that Mei disappeared. Sure, her parents had always been extra cautious with her, erring on the side of slightly controlling over the baby of the family, but that only seemed to ramp up in intensity when Mei was taken. And with Millie considered particularly at risk due to her limited vision, they became downright paranoid over her safety.

On the cusp of turning thirteen, she was not allowed to do anything that ordinary teenagers would've been doing: joining clubs, going to sleepovers, or even volunteering at the local animal shelter. But even despite her natural curiosity, Millie didn't mind her new, more isolated existence all that much. A part of her figured that her parents were right, that they were only keeping a close eye on her to protect her from being victimized the way her sister had been. No, the restrictions on her personal freedoms didn't hurt half as much as losing her big sister. That was what haunted her the most, not knowing what happened to Mei.

So Millie spent the formative years of her adolescence keeping to herself, learning to navigate life with her deteriorating vision, and fostering her interests within the safe confines of her house. Her only saving grace was that she managed to convince her parents to allow her to remain in public school, though she was barred from doing anything outside of attending her classes.

Even when she eventually graduated from high school and began her collegiate studies, Millie wasn't allowed to live on campus or attend any parties with the other kids her age. Instead, she spent all four years being driven to class by her parents and living at home. But she took solace in her studies, eager to learn as much as she could from her professors and dedicating herself to her academic pursuits, hopeful that one day she would get to put that knowledge to good use outside the walls of her childhood home. Pretty soon, she was walking across the stage at graduation, elated at what she'd accomplished and looking forward to whatever the future held.

Present Day:

That was when the dreams started again. Millie had always dreamt in fully opacity, frequently dreaming of simple mundanities that seemed to occur in the near future like clockwork. She'd never really thought much of her dreams before, chalking their occasional accuracy up to her overactive imagination creeping little slices of her life directly into her subconscious. Nothing more than a simple question of probability and suggestibility, that's all. But this time, she dreamt of a place entirely unfamiliar to her, something outside of the safe bubble that her parents had constructed to keep her safe: a snow-dusted forest, a cat sleeping on the windowsill of a cozy bookstore, and a sign that reads "Welcome to Anchorage."

She originally gave the idea very little thought, brushing off these dreams as nothing more than something she must've picked up in a geography class, or perhaps a nature documentary she'd seen in the past. But the visions of this place became more persistent, more vivid in her sleeping mind, and Millie was having a hard time finding a logical reason for her newfound fascination with this place, a city she'd never even thought about before, with her mind's cautious insistence that maybe it was a sign. Maybe there was a reason she was meant to go here, something beyond her largely unchallenged, more scientific worldview.

Her parents were apprehensive to allow Millie to leave Colorado, especially as her vision was bound to only worsen over time. But after years of doing exactly what was expected of her, of taking their helicopter parenting in stride, she was more than ready to start her own adventure and explore the world at large. But is Anchorage really the right place for Millie to venture out on her own and start to forge her own path, to test the waters of independence in a place with unknown dangers waiting around each corner? Only time will tell.

always a thing of wonder, the way we come to be: stats.

General Info: Full Name: Mingxia Allison Ruan. Nicknames: Millie, Mimi, Xia (only really used by her family). Age: 23. Date of Birth: July 12th, 2000. Zodiac Sign: Cancer. Gender: Cis woman. Pronouns: she/her. Sexual Orientation: Bisexual. Romantic Orientation: Biromantic. Alignment: Chaotic Good. MBTI: ISFP, the Adventurer.

Appearance: Faceclaim: Ning Yi Zhuo. Height: 5′2. Eye Color: Brown, partially blind in both eyes. Hair Color: Jet black. Tattoos: None. Piercings: A single earlobe piercing on each ear, a helix piercing at the top of her right ear (her twenty-first birthday present to herself and her one small rebellion).

Background: Education: Graduated with a bachelor's degree in veterinary sciences from Colorado College. Occupation: Vet technician at Happy Villagers Vet Clinic and a cashier at the Raven House. Residence: Kingpin Trailer Park. Class: Middle. Ethnicity: Chinese. Language(s) Spoken (in order of fluency): English / Mandarin.

Identity: Label: the stargazer. Positive Traits: easy-going, trusting, open-minded, forgiving, curious. Negative Traits: naïve, tactless, foolish, forgetful, flighty. Quirks/Habits: has a loud laugh, jiggles her leg when she's anxious/feeling restless. Love Language: Quality time. Hobbies: Knitting, listening to audiobooks and podcasts, watching documentaries, journaling. Likes: shapeless dresses, knit sweaters, overly blushed cheeks, fuzzy socks, trinket dishes. Dislikes: feeling like a burden, feeling inept. Fears: being tricked, never standing on her own.

#anchorintro

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3vocatio · 2 years

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idk évo something tells me that godtongue doesn't like her mother

i didn't think you'd look that closely at my tags! it's a little more than the simple, “i hate my mother”, storyline... [godtongue] doesn't hate her. not currently, anyway; she is troubled, though.

if you'd like to read through a quick explanation of her lore (because the document i'm rewriting is. too many pages as we know it atm), i wish you the best of luck of attempting to retain all of the information.

tldr; her mother was a very assertive woman, and she immensely loved her family that consisted of her husband and her daughter. after fleeing her own family with her lover, she'd settle down with him and raise their child with ease, enjoying every day that consisted of teaching her new things.

however, her father's family (being consisted of high class citizens), despised [godtongue]'s mother and by proxy, herself. she didn't mean to become hated, but she couldn't help but make her voice a little too known--not everyone will enjoy the same mindset you have. there was a time when [godtongue] was around 8 where she'd succumb to an unnatural fever that caused her bones to bend & break, and her own family offered a tea that would "ease her passing" (it was outwardly known it was poisoned). she refused to drink it despite the pain she was in.

the severity of the situation began to rise, where her father's family would become increasingly hostile and, between you and me, her mother's family began on the hunt for all three of them--particularly [godtongue]. for lore reasons, [godtongue] and her mother were forced into hiding.

but her mother grew sick of hiding. so, she took a little [godtongue], around 13 at the time, to confront her husband's family.

(i'll include some writing from something i previously wrote...[godtongue] is dreaming.)

“paralleling her behavioral habits, her dream doesn't dawdle in one place: it presses on. she finds herself visiting every long-lasting moment from her infancy, through her adolescence, and coming to a steady conclusion as the dream begins to rest once it steadily rolls through her adulthood to the present. she watches, and she listens. [godtongue] doesn't dig her nails into her past grievances. instead, she has grown to come to a stopping point in which she has come to accept the unfortunate outcomes that her parents laid before her, and does not hold anything against them, no matter how fruitless their endeavors were. her eyes soften upon viewing her younger self alongside them, playing by the riverbed shortly before destruction would fall upon them.

she pays close attention to her mother in particular, and tenses once the atmosphere flashes, taking the form of a scene she has replayed in her youth time and time again before the next great destruction.

from the mountain edge, two figures gazed down into the newest settlement—a mining location that would soon fill the skies with black smoke and the clattering of metals. aquilo, it was called, the roman word meaning “north wind”. a woman stood with purpose, speaking in a foreign tongue right on the rocky edge; as she spoke, the wind began whipping violently around her, thick black curls lashing like snakes against her skin. at her side, her daughter's eyes flickered with uncertainty, yet her small figure remained unmoved. she took after her mother's will, and honored it greatly.

[godtongue]'s mother was a serpent trapped in its own snakeskin. it could be big, it may be beautiful, you might even come to love it, and its fangs may hold the most potent of venoms—but it was nothing unless it would shed. there she was, still writhing and wriggling to be free from her own body all these years later until her last breath.”

upon doing so, [godtongue]'s mother ended up unleashing powerful magic in an emotional frenzy, and when [godtongue] looked upon both of her parents in horror, she begged her mother to stop. from there, they'd both flee into the forest, where her mother would collapse and begin dying as a result of her strong surge of power.

woefully staying by her mother's side, a dark spirit taken the form of a cat would appear, and at the same time her mother drew her last breath, a long, black cut was administered down her chest; both a blessing and a curse. this cut, however, holds remnants of her mother's soul, and there would be somedays where she finds the terrifying look of her mother in her own eyes, and feel things that were not her own. as she grew older, these feelings dissipated--but her cut would still be there, lingering.

[godtongue] could very much follow down the same path her mother did, she is capable of the same baneful wrath, the same power that exuded from her, but chooses not to. in spite of everything, [godtongue] grew to be very secure, and isn't so easily swayed by mere illusions.

that, and she has had days where she would talk to herself, to her cut. even if she were truly alone, she carried the story of herself and her parents. she never forgot what it means to love, and to be loved. she still held onto the feeling that one day, after generously sharing her affections, she too, will find people willing to give her as much love as she is willing to give them, platonic or not.

#﹒❝ birdsong #sevensigils #oc: godtongue #teehee lore drop on tumblr dot com

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reel-to-real-emporium · 10 months

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Random Moxie HCs [Part One]

Mox has a few tattoos; a large raven in flight with void trailing behind its feathers, a rowan branch clutched in its talons on her back. An ace of spades on the inside of her left wrist in honor of her mother and grandfather.

She possesses a large mark that most people assume is yet another tattoo, appearing as a void-stricken vein branching off into smaller veins on the side of their neck and crawling down the top of their right shoulder. Upon closer inspection though, you can see that this is actually more similar to a scar. It was from the first time she died and was brought back by the vault itself.

On the inside of her right wrist, she has a lone freckle in the shape of a heart. At some point she was teased about- it was like she truly had her heart on her sleeve. She hated that.

The scar along the bridge of her nose and her cheeks isn’t actually a complete scar, it is disconnected on one side and earned through one of the many fights she got into in her past. That one being she she decided that just because she was being held back…she wasn’t giving up. Going literally headfirst into her attacker and the weapon they had. It was stupid and painful- but it did stagger them and shock the people holding her. Enough so that with the adrenaline, she was able to simply grin, face already covered with fresh blood from the new gaping wound, her nose broken- the attackers backed off. Claiming that it wasn’t worth it when Moxie was clearly crazy and had no sense of self-preservation. Both things were only partially true.

Scars litter her body from any number of things; fights, accidents, random events- she has so many that some of them she doesn’t even remember the story behind.

Her eyes are reminiscent of her father’s and grandfather’s save for the sectorial heterochromia she possesses in her right eye. The top right silver is the same rich brown as her mother’s. The rest is a hyacinth blue color with a golden bloom around the pupil which makes her eyes occasionally appear grey and hunter-green instead of gold and blue depending on the lighting.

Has always had oddly sharp teeth, inheriting them from the Rowan side of her blood. Her hair has also always been that unnaturally bright crimson, despite the fact that her mother’s was a much more natural auburn sort of ginger. [This is namely due to traits being amplified by Rowan blood.]

In addition to marathoning movies with her mother and researching the origins of the monsters within them, Acelynn also had a unique taste in literature to read to her daughter. Stoker, Wilde, Poe, Shelley- any and all of the greats and could be betters if gothic literature. And Moxie loved it. In some ways it was to desensitize Mox early to the idea of things that go numb in the night, often telling the small child that sometimes humans, could be much more violent and cruel than any monsters you found in movies and books.

Mox has a soft spot in particular for Edgar Allen Poe, for a time before Reel-to-Real she even carried around a brick that she nicknamed Amontillado as both a companion and a ‘creative use’ tool/weapon. She still has Amontillado. It’s under the counter in Reel-to-Real.

Her first crush was, to the surprise of no one, Merletta McDaniels. The leader of the eventual misfit gang she would join in her adolescence.

She learned how to play some instruments during her time in the group just for fun, the members [at least, under Merletta’s rule] often taught each other new skills. Moxie has a fondness of the electric bass guitar, she enjoys feeling the deep vibration in her bones.

Smoking was something that she picked up from that group too- though she had been around it before. Both Leigh and Acelynn had been known to smoke on occasion. Her favorite brand is hard to find and called, ‘Odds-and-Ends.’ Mostly composed of tobacco and cloves/other herbs. It is highly fragrant when smoked but pretty good at taking the edge off. Though because of how hard it is to find, she doesn’t often smoke unless really needs one or finds an occasion where she feels like it.

Because of the events of her past, she has convinced herself that she is complacent on indulging in small acts of things she wants. Keeping people at arms length or from knowing too much about her in every other aspect to protect them and herself. She can be happy enough with other people’s happiness, with helping, with seeing them live. She can survive with the small flirtations and nothing more. Its what she’s always told herself after awhile.

It’s not really a secret that Moxie has trouble backing down. Ever the type to fuck around and find out and keep going until she gets through something if she gets herself into trouble, owning her mistakes and holding her responsibilities. She will refuse or decline things if she doesn’t want to do them or can’t- but if she is challenged and feels she can handle it; there’s no going back.

Has a love of cards thanks to her mom and Leigh. Though that extends to more than just playing cards. She holds a fondness for divining tarot cards too; having procured a set through a visitor once upon a time and studying it for a long while thereafter. She keeps that deck under the counter next to Amontillado and the playing card deck, that used to be Leigh's, on her person whenever she can.

One of the things she regrets losing the most from burning down the cabin she grew up in is the box of Floriography notes composed by her and her mother. One of the random jobs Acelynn had picked up had been a florist and with their shared love of movies and media, floriography became a point of interest. Eventually, they made a collection so that they could use the flowers to speak to one another or convey messages when one or the other wasn't around- or even if it was something that they were struggling to say. Leaving flowers behind. When Acelynn eventually switched to a new job or when flowers weren't available, drawings or even the flower names were left around as a substitute. Moxie memorized most of them, but...she misses having that box. They poured hours into researching and conferring the different messages and meaning, debating which ones fit and how to incorporate them. Plotting on if the meaning changed depending on the other flowers it was paired with, dedicating an entire chunk to combinations and bouquets. Mostly...she misses seeing her mother's handwriting and the memory of coming home from school or staying up waiting for her to come home so that they could work on it together in between replaying their favorite slasher flicks.

#| ♠ | Personal Clips | ♠ |

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senatushq · 1 year

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NAME. Efigenia AGE & BIRTH DATE. 137 & August 13th, 1885 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her SPECIES. Witch COVEN. Narcissus OCCUPATION. Unemployed FACE CLAIM. Morena Baccarin

biography

( tw death ) Bestowed with a legacy of a powerful coven at birth but saddled with two disappointing parents warranted Efigenia to learn to sharpen her edges quickly, to be proficient in realms of studies in precise succinctness. The Coven of the Divine had settled right among the banks of the Acheron, a powerful place that was believed to be rooted as a path to the Inferno, festered with souls captured on its banks. They were branded as healers by communities which surrounded them, Genia’s sovereign boasting of the Acheron river and how it was a place of worship which could purge even the most iniquitous of human souls. Those who came to The Coven of the Divine under the fanatical idea that their soul would be salvaged by the potent qualities of the water would never return to their families again, their blood used only to empower the coven further.

Efigenia’s parents were weak and enfeebled, even being bolstered by their fellow coven members did little to strengthen the clumsy magic they held within. They were careless, hasty, and acted with little thought. Genia’s birth had been solidified as a breakthrough for them and yet her presence in their lives did not warrant them to learn from their haphazard mistakes. On her 14th birthday, they had fumbled yet another spell but it was this which cost them their lives and sealed Efigenia’s fate within the coven. Though she was outwardly an antithesis to her foolish parents, the coven could not abandon the idea that she was a liability that would inevitably cost them everything. To abandon the Acheron riverside, what had been her home the entirety of her adolescence was a hard reality to swallow and in the sake of survival, she had traveled to the epicenter of Greece.

Being stripped of her last name was easy, she would never wish to be like her parents who carried the stench of failure even in death, but the severance to her coven was a roadblock Efigenia had great difficulty dealing with. Despite the cold demeanor she presented, Efigenia had always been rooted in a sense of community and with the turmoil Greece was currently involved in, the now orphaned child searched for such a community. Inevitably, she had made her way to Syra, the well known orphanage on its island boasting what she desired. There had been thousands of refugees placed within its walls and education had been considered paramount.

As a girl, Efigenia was allowed to choose between homemaking skills or nursing, both of which did not serve her. She scoffed at the idea and at her own ludicracy for believing this place could ever replace the belonging she had felt along the shores of Acheron, delving further into the illicit texts her parents had never successfully devised. Inevitably, though her room was shared with others within the orphanage, Efigenia would never leave the confines of it. She had become adamant on discovering the hidden meaning within the scripts she had taken, to practice the magic which needed to be better culled within her. Though the Coven of the Divine may have abandoned her, she refused to abandon the studies they had taught her, Efigenia recollecting the brief lessons she had once been privy to.

It was only three years within the orphanage before she aged out but Efigenia made many friends who would inevitably be culled in the sake of her bidding. Nothing was off limits to her, collecting the blood of halfbloods who were stuck within the orphanage, practicing potent spells and summonings from what she had stolen from them. Though their blood was potent it was not enough to satiate the itch for power which Efigenia had discovered. She was likely far more adept than her parents already but she wished to boast of something more, a legacy which would have never been a tangible future without their untimely deaths.

Always underestimated, Efigenia graduated from the use of faiman and cambion blood to seeking out the potency of full blooded fey. She was careful, calculated, and sure not to leave a trail to what she meddled in; she understood what a rarity eladrins could be. The only friend Efigenia ever made whispered to her in the dark, in times of great strife they would call to her; the Pythia. They boasted of a legacy in which she would never forget, whispered sweet nothings of a better future in which people would waver at the mere mention of her. She vied to accomplish such bearings, to unearth what they desired, but even the excerpts from the Necronomicon only warranted her putrid failure, it almost led to her death. There was a horrid reminder of her parents and what she could never be like and though she already soared high above them, there remained the illicit promise that one day she would secure what the Pythia had called for.

Necromancy would not work without the pieces of the puzzle fitting back together snugly and though Efigenia was never a quitter, she placed the ideas of such potent and iniquitous magic on hold for now, focusing on her proficiency in a subject she'd already mastered. Though Efigenia was ever careful, always remaining a harrowing myth to those who’d heard of the supposed crone with a youthful complexion, Efigenia was given the prospect of eternal life from the magic she leeched off of her subjects.

Fey were harder to find nowadays, however, and Efigenia noticed the more she honed in on her powers, the faster the longevity of her life would waste away. The Narcissus Coven was a means to an end, they had discovered her and sought her out and due to the clock which ticked above her head, Efigenia would be a fool to refuse. Afraid of wasting the magic which currently keeps her appearing young, Efigenia has remained within the walls of the Narcissus house since joining, though she is an adept teacher for new initiates. The resurgence of the Asphodel coven and the whispers of the Pythia have finally unleashed Efigenia back onto the streets of Rome, hungry for something more.

personality

+ calculating, proficient, prudent – harsh, critical, stern

played by gia. est. She/her.

#skeleton rp #takenc #takenf #takenwitch #the advocate

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one-rosy-sock · 3 years

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Coming Undone | Abner Krill x fem!Reader (1/2)

Go to the {Ao3 Link} for more info...

Fandom: The Suicide Squad (2021) Rating: T (M for future chapter) Summery: You’re a psychiatrist. You should know the warning signs when a relationship with a patient is becoming problematic. But you refuse to consider this, because Abner Krill is a lot of things, and violent is not one of them. Warnings: PTSD, childhood abuse, trauma, brief mention of past suicide attempt.��

Notes: no use of y/n Disclaimer: Author is NOT a real therapist. I do not own DC comics. __ The first time you met Abner Krill, he was recommended to you by a colleague at Belle Reve.

It had been several weeks since the convicted metahumans defeated Starro, that giant one-eyed starfish. Sometimes it amazes you to no end what strange things exist in this world. The Corto Maltese coup and monster defeat held onto headlines for several weeks until the next big thing came to top it. Seeing such exciting news affect your patients wasn’t unusual, but to have a high profile patient be a part of such news was a first, you’ll admit.

As for you, well, things were pretty much the same. You see your patients during the week at your office. You’re a licensed psychiatrist, and oftentimes you see men and women who have been convicted of a felony or are ex-prisoners themselves. It wasn’t a dream job for many women, much less anyone, to counsel people so troubled. You aren’t like everyone else, though. No, you might not have x-ray vision or super strength, or any super fancy gear to punch bad guys, but you do have a gift not many have: A good ear and an open heart.

And a prescription notepad, but you are determined to make your sessions more than just a pill dispensary.

You are aware of who Abner Krill is. The Polka-Dot Man. One of the metahumans who went to Corto Maltese and defeated Starro. This has partially immortalized him in the media as a superhero, despite his past as a prisoner. Some of your patients were metahumans too, but none as powerful or as widely known as the Polka-Dot Man. His identity and those of his teammates had been concealed from the general public. As of last week, you know his real name.

His appointment’s in the morning on a Tuesday. Your secretary came by as you were straightening up your office to let you know he had arrived. You fluff the couch pillows, throw blanket over the back, tissue box on the side table, a mild scent infuser on your desk. The century-old computer at your desk whirls to cool itself off. Earlier you'd taken the time to shoot an email to Ms. Waller confirming Mr. Krill's appointment.

You follow your secretary up front. She goes to her desk and you step into the waiting room.

Though foolish, you half expected to see Abner in his super suit. The polka dot suit and headgear. Instead, he’s wearing a pair of khaki trousers that hugged high over his hips, and a somewhat flashy, silk button-up tucked neatly into the waist. And, dare you say, a fanny pack. His outfit looked straight out of the 70s or 80s. You don’t know the definitive difference between the decades. But his shirt looks clean and pressed, the collar tucked down nicely. He has one leg over a knee, bouncing it rhythmically as he watches the fish swim around the tank in the wall. It looks like he tried to read a magazine, but stopped halfway, finger wedged between the pages.

“Mr. Krill?”

He jerked in response to his name, swinging his head up with a guilty look gleaming in his eyes. You think of a puppy who’s been caught peeing on the carpet. His expression, or perhaps the way his face was structured, reminded you of a puppy too. His face was somewhat sallow, somewhat droopy. Lines indicate a lot of frowning. Like a sad, droopy cartoon dog. His face narrowed down from his eyes, making his red cupid’s bow mouth seem small. A strong, straight nose dominates his face. His big eyes seem dark and questioning. Like a scared, lost child.

Krill quickly shoots up like a bean sprout, shaking his hands out. The magazine drops to the floor. He swears, bends down to pick it up, and anxiously fusses over righting it on the coffee table. You watch the way the glossy purple cuffs wave as he moves about in jerky, quick moves.

“Good morning, doctor,” he greets warily, avoiding your gaze and staring at your shoes.

“You must be Abner,” you smile. You reach out your hand. In a painful, pregnant pause he visibly wavers as he stares at your hand as if you’d stuck out a gun at him. Finally, he reaches out to take your hand.

He has a strong grip. Sweaty hands.

Hastily, he pulls away.

“Nice to meet you. Why don’t we head on back?”

He nods. His legs are long yet his steps uncertain, reminding you of a gangly adolescent. He follows you down the hall from the waiting room and awkwardly stands by as you open the door to your private office. You hear him pat his thighs as he waits. Like a shadow, he follows and sticks close but careful not to touch. Barely making a sound.

After your office door clicks shut, the two of you sit in your respective places. Your desk chair has a high back, cloaked in a fraying, multicolor knitted throw blanket. A bit garish against the dull beige walls and simple yet whimsical desk decorations beside you. There’s a poster that reads It’s OK to feel this way: over a circle divided by colors and sections, listing different emotions.

You pull your knees up and begin to take off your shoes.

Your patient stares in visible confusion.

“Would you like to take your shoes off?” You ask, setting your shoes aside as you straighten up in your chair. “I find it easier to relax without them.”

“Um…” he trails off, his downturned mouth pursing as he considers this. The tension rolling off him makes him stiff and hard to read. All you’re getting from him so far is how much he doesn't want to be here.

You watch him while occupying your hands with things on your desk so he doesn’t feel pressured to make a decision. From the corner of your eye, you watch him swallow, Adam's apple bobbing, and he slowly reaches down to untie and slip off his oxford shoes. He sets them neatly beside his feet. Hands tucked in his lap, sock feet on the ground. Looking up at you somewhat imploringly.

“This is a safe space, Abner,” you smile at him. You have your clipboard and pen in your lap, but you make yourself relaxed and as welcoming as you can. Note-taking can be done later. Visibly, at least. Don’t want to make him think you’re already assessing him before y'all begin to talk. Can’t force him to talk.

Ex-prisoners often struggle with reforming to civilization after release. He couldn’t be forced to attend therapy here despite the outside forces that pressured him to. If he wanted to walk out, he could. Abner was so tense he seemed to be walking on eggshells. He struggled to relax his shoulders, like his limbs were too long for his body. During all this, he hadn’t met your gaze one.

“Whatever we talk about won’t leave this room, unless, for instance, you said you plan to hurt yourself or someone else.”

This gets a reaction out of him. A grimace, a shake of his head. “No, I wouldn’t…”

“Of course not. You’re a superhero now, right?”

He grins. It’s brief, boyish, sheepish. He’s studying the design of your clothes. You consider that progress from your feet.

“You were recommended to me by Dr. Rooney at Belle Reve,” you begin conversationally, baldly, wanting to get a feel of where he was coming from. Your colleague had said Krill was not a violent inmate, but was often verbally bullied by other prisoners. He tended to avoid crowds, thus mostly avoided. More than once he had been on suicide watch. Casually, you glance down at your clipboard. Born in Philadelphia to Augustine Krill--father unknown--and tried and convicted for first-degree murder as an adult in the city of Metropolis. He was incarcerated at Belle Reve shortly after turning eighteen. He was in his early forties now.

You look back up at Abner. He had that sad puppy dog look again, staring at nothing in particular with his neck hunched.

“Did you and Dr. Rooney get along?”

“D-Doesn’t your notes say?”

You make a face. “I want to know what you think of Rooney, not what he thinks.”

Abner didn’t answer right away. “He was okay.”

“Okay,” you echo, licking your bottom lip as you cock your head up. “Okay is better than nothing.”

“We mostly spoke about my mother.”

“Oh?”

“She experimented on me and my siblings. She wanted us to become superheroes,” he said. His voice held much more confidence than anything he’d said so far, but his expression remained unchanged. It was because he kept words void of emotion.

“I see.” Yes, you did see. You had anticipated the topic of his mother coming up if you didn’t ask him about it first in future sessions. Dr Krill was listed in his files as a scientist at S.T.A.R. Labs, and having six children whom lived on site with her. CPC had been called a few times, rebuffed every time by various means other than being convinced nothing was wrong. The whole thing was fishy, especially after the untimely deaths of three of Dr. Krill’s children. The whereabouts of the other Krill children were unknown. All investigations into S.T.A.R. Labs had been terminated by higher powers, even after Abner’s arrest and psychological evaluation.

Abner continues, to your surprise. “I pictured Starro as my mother.”

“You did?”

“It makes it easier, when I convince myself that my enemy is her. I don't like killing.”

You pick up your pen and tap your lip, looking down at the way he was fidgeting his feet. “Did you regret killing your mother”

Abner’s knee stopped bouncing. “No.”

“Do you regret killing the other scientists at S.T.A.R. Labs? The--”

Abner grimaced and brought his hands to his head, tugging on fistfulls of black hair. “I-I didn’t mean--I-I--”

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to answer that today,” you placate with a soft tone, putting down your pen, fingers rubbing along the edge of your clipboard. After a moment of heated silence, you set your things down on the desk and stand up. This makes your patient crumble in on himself, trying to hunch low enough to shield some blow. You smile sadly where he can’t see. “Abner, do you see my poster here? With all the emotions?”

He looks back up, glancing from you to said poster. His attention is answer enough.

“Whatever you feel in this room is valid to you and to me. Not now, but in the future I’d like for you to give me short but detailed descriptions to how you feel on certain things. It's okay to say something you think is taboo or unorthodox. This room doesn't have ears or a head to judge. Do you think you can do that?”

The couch makes no sound as he moves to better see the circle chart of words. Timidly, he nods.

“Great,” you smile sadly and sit back down. “Let’s get back to that later. Today, I’d like to talk about something other than your mother.”

Abner tilts his head. You must be doing something to exceed his expectations, because now he’s looking at you and not at you. “The Corto Maltese mission?”

“No. I want to know about you. I want to talk about Abner Krill. Who are you?”

His blank stare makes your heartache a little for him.

The following silence, where all you can hear is his ragged breath, the whirl of the monitor, and the soft mist of the incense humidifier, is thick. You can cut it with the tip of your pen. The sound of his voice as he speaks is almost staggering. "I am... I am my mother's son."

“No."

He flinches.

"Your mother does not define you. What you think about your mother and how you feel about her should not determine your sense of self or your future. You liked defeating that monster, right?”

Abner nods.

“You’re a superhero because you took action, not because she moved your hand. What you say here today, and any day, should be the same. Do you think you can do this for me?”

“I don’t understand…”

“I want to know the real Abner,” you smile. “Not Dr. Krill’s son.”

He still can’t make eye contact. The fidgeting starts back up. “But, what I am is because of her.”

“Not unless you choose otherwise. Starting today, you and I are going to help define Abner Krill. First, you are not your mother’s son.”

“But I am?”

“No. You are not your mother’s son. You’re Abner Krill, superhero. What does Abner Krill the superhero like to do?”

Understanding slowly started to dawn on him, visible in his eyes as he lifted his slanted brows. Recovering from trauma was no walk in the park, but the two of you had to start somewhere. Rooney over-fixated on Abner’s fixation on his mother and the abuse, and after years of obsessing over it to “fix” him, it seemed to become all Abner could think about. No one had really given him proper trauma recovery therapy, or helped to treat his PTSD. You wanted him to take the first step into self-evolution. No one could do it for him. You want him to define himself other than his mother’s son. Seeing himself as a superhero was perhaps the start of it.

“I-I don’t know,” he frowned. “I like to read…”

“That’s great!” Your enthusiasm startles him. “What sort of things do you like to read?”

“Well… Ah, I-I uh... I like the classics….”

The rest of your session with Abner was mostly casual. The safe topics you steered him to visibly made the man relax. He spoke about the fictional worlds he enjoyed immersing himself in. He liked the classics because they were “soft”. Sweet romances where the only real worries were who’s going to the ball. He didn't like tragedies or novels about war or great violence. With some coaxing, he opens up to talk about his favorite foods, animals, celebrities, songs-- You ask about his (non-virus related) talents or any hobbies he might’ve picked up at the prison or since he’s been out. Steering him away from the topic of his mother confused him in the beginning, leading you to assume he had anticipated mostly speaking about her. He’d been prepared like he might prepare to go into battle.

You know he won’t be able to just brush his mother aside; his virus was because of Dr. Krill. He blamed his 20+ years of incarceration at Belle Reve on his mother’s experimentations. He blamed himself. He hated her. He hated himself. Feared her. Feared himself. It was an inner wound that would never heal, you know this without a doubt, but you hope with time it becomes easier to manage as he takes control and independence of his new life.

“Did you ever go to school, Abner?”

The phantom smile on his face falls, but you haven’t lost him as he turns to you. Looks at your shoulder. “No. We--my siblings and I--were… homeschooled.”

“Right. Well, you at least know what homework is?”

“Yes. Of course. Am--Do you want me to--?”

With a hand gesture you hope is placating, you smile and gently cut him off. “Don’t worry, I’m not assigning you an essay to write or a month-long project to present. I’m not that cruel,” you chuckle. “But I am going to push you a little. Can you try that for me?”

He looks as if you’ve asked him to consider sacrificing his firstborn. Thankfully, he nods as he plucks a loose string off his knee.

“I want to see you biweekly, so schedule with Patrica upfront. Maybe this Friday or Saturday?”

“I-I can do that, yes ma’am.”

"Now, it's your choice to come back or not but it would make me really happy if you did."

His back straightens. "Yes. I'll be here."

“Beautiful, Abner. Beautiful. Sometime this week I’d like you to do something you normally wouldn't do. Go on a hike, join a gym, take a class on cooking or arts and crafts. It can be simply looking up a food recipe you’ve never tried before and making it. Tell me about your experience. If you’re around strangers, how is your relationship with them? If you see something new, how does it make you feel? This isn’t an order, Abner, just a… strong suggestion, mm? All I’m asking is for you to do something new and spontaneous. It can be at home or outside. Your choice.”

Abner licked his lips. It had taken a great deal of effort to convince him to come here at all today. Today is the first time speaking to him, but you’ve had his file for a few days now. You’re a little grateful for that. There was a lot to read. However, it took outside forces such as one Amanda Waller and fellow ex-prisoner teammates to get him to come here. You suspect someone dropped him off if he didn’t take a cab himself. He had no driver's license.

“Ah… Okay. Um, yes miss. Ma'am. Doctor! Ah--”

“You can call me by my name,” you reassure, tilting your head to him. “This is a safe space for you and I. We may be doctor and patient outside that door, but here, we can be as familiar with each other as we'd like. Like old friends.”

He turned to you with a look that sent a thunderbolt of sensation down your spine. Surprise, awe. A silent question gleamed in his puppy-dog eyes. He doesn't respond, brows raised high as he just stares at you.

You cover for his lapse. “I’ll see you in a few days. It was wonderful to finally meet you, Abner,” you say, looking at him without pretenses to hopefully show your honesty. He had an incredible gift that could help save a lot of people, and from what you've learned from recent character evaluations on him he had the makings of a fine superhero. First thing first, he needed to adjust to civilian life after years of being locked up, and years of having nothing but unresolved trauma. All the while, you hold back a rueful smile at his demeanor. You won't say it aloud of course, but he was so cute. Idly, you wonder about his sexuality- but you can ask that another day. For now you wanted him to be a little more daring to try new things and focus on something other than his mother.

You stand up and shake his hand. His grip is a little looser this time, lingering longer, but he moves away quickly, gathers his shoes, and you see him out. His scurrying reminds you of a startled elk. Large yet quick, stumbling over his long legs. Running from you as if you held a rifle instead of a purple glitter clipboard.

It was hard to believe this man had committed mass homicide.

#abner krill #polka dot man #the Suicide squad #abner krill x reader #polkadot man x reader #reader #therapy #chapter one

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phoenixyfriend · 3 years

Note

Re; Ahsoka and Quinlan being the same age, now I'm picturing Ahsoka, Quinlan, and Rex eventually ending up in a weird sorta thruple where Quinlan comes in and out of the relationship but the door is kinda always open for him? And Rex spends a lot of mornings eyeing the tangle of orange and brown skin on the other side of the bed like he has no idea how he ended up here but he's (mostly) okay with that tbh

Context: Commander Buir in chronological order

YES okay so this is wild to me that people are invested in this but like half the time-travel fics with Ahsoka in the same age-group as Quinlan have me wondering if I should ship them. Let me just. Ho shit.

So, okay, I've explored a lot of possible dynamics but there's something really engaging about how Quinlan, trained as a Shadow before the Sith came back, could react to a War Padawan. Ahsoka isn't really infiltration material yet, she's very much a frontline fighter, but she's got a lot more experience with a kind of consistent dark atmosphere that most Jedi don't. They get exposed to plenty of dark stuff, sure, but not the kind of all-encompassing "this is my life for the last two years" thing that is usually reserved for the long-term field agents like Shadows and Watchmen.

The War Padawans, for all that they were supposed to be just normal Jedi Padawans, were living in the kind of consistently negative environment that's normally experienced by those Knighted Sentinels.

So Ahsoka, while still generally pretty young in these AUs, is a very odd kind of person to be around, because she's spunky and vivacious and snippy and affectionate and snarky and knows how to break every bone in your body from harrowing experience as the only thing standing between death and thousands of brothers.

And Quinlan, I imagine, really likes that about her. She gets it, and she's still an energetic and loving and trying to do her best to be a good person despite everything. He gravitates towards her and she... well, she's not blind. She can tell he's interested. And she's not upset about that.

ANYWAY, ONTO REX

So, Rex is... technically twelve. He hasn't exactly got a whole lot of experience with romance. He is also, up until the point of time-travel, legal property of the Senate and the Jedi Order, which means that Ahsoka, or at least her community, owns him. He was indoctrinated to serve her and that community. She also outranks him, for all that she usually lets him take the lead in the field due to experience. He's older than her physically and maturity-wise, but she's also had a grow-up-faster-than-you-should adolescence, and she has superpowers.

What I'm saying is, the power dynamic is fucked up.

(Unironically I spent hours last night realizing that it balances out a lot more than C*dywan does, which I'm censoring because by god do I not want discourse on this post. I like both ships, and don't want to argue about what's the most problematic. It's Star Wars. The only unproblematic ships are Bail/Breha and Owen/Beru.)

Here's the thing, though, because the main thing people seem to argue here is the age/maturity difference as a problem area:

The age difference in actual time is four years, which is smaller than the two main ships of the franchise (Han/Leia and Padme/Anakin, to be clear). The age difference in maturity is ??? We'll say that the clones started aging normally after they hit twenty, so the age difference in maturity is six years... which is still normal for SW ships.

(This is why I don't have any issues with the ship in a post-O66 context, once they've had a few years to move past the traumas and whatnot. The age stuff all evens out with time, they're a good team, and neither was grooming the other. It's not objectively any more problematic than most SW ships at that point, and I'm okay with that. They deserve to be happy if they want.)

But they get yanked away from all that structure of who owns what, who reports where, who has which rank, who's legally a person in the eyes of the Republic when they end up on Dagobah. Once they've registered when they are, the only remaining complications are:

He grew up in a cultlike environment and was indoctrinated to serve her (but has been replacing that indoctrination with genuine respect and affection for her as a person because they've worked together for two years).

She has superpowers (contextually not a big problem: we see several Force-Sensitive/Non-Sensitive ships that don't consider those powers a complicating element)

He's several years younger than her (canonically less of an issue than it could be: Cut got married and has kids) and has next to no experience with what a normal romance looks like except for hanging out on the edges of whatever the fuck his General has going on with the Senator

She's several years less mature than he is (...something of an issue)

So a lot of this is mostly okay. She feels weird about the fact that she's got more knowledge of romance and all that it entails. He feels weird about the fact that, despite her being older, he looks at her and sees someone that's still a little young, not quite a shiny. Except she is older than him, and he's seen her behead four people in a single move, and they've saved each other's lives more times than either of them can count anymore. He respects her, and the fact that she's babyfaced doesn't change the fact that, in terms of who they are as people and warriors, they're on a level playing field.

She still looks at him and mourns his lost childhood, and he still looks at her and takes a moment to see past the too-big eyes and adolescent proportions.

But they really, really care about each other, and maybe part of them is starting to recognize that there's a bit of a crush before they time-travel, but neither one wants to make a move. There's a lot of baggage on both sides, a lot of "but they're a child" and "but they're (literally vs functionally) below me in the chain of command, I can't take advantage of that" and all that fun stuff. It's the kind of situation where two people circle each other for ages without making a move, because actually making that move is terrifying on account of not knowing whether the other party knows they can say no, on top of the usual "what if it ruins our friendship?" thing.

What happens on Dagobah, though... is very tropey. They're sort of stranded until Ahsoka can fix the ship, and that takes time. The area is also very heavy with the Force, dense and heady with the energy it carries, and it's... actually really not great for Ahsoka. She keeps feeling like she's back on Mortis, and has nightmares from the trigger there, but also keeps hallucinating because she wasn't ready for the thickness of the energy (like Yoda) or still new enough to the Force that she couldn't feel how dense it all was (like Luke). She can't work on the engines as constantly as she'd like to get them out of there, and while Rex is a competent mechanic, he's not as skilled with it as the girl who jumped headfirst into lessons with Anakin.

Rex spends a lot of time holding Ahsoka and wiping her brow with a wet cloth while she's feverish and out of it. Yes we're going full Florence Nightingale romance here, let me have my fun.

They get the communications relay working earlier than the engine, find out the year is wrong, panic a bit. All is well. (It's not, but they're holding it together for now.)

Ahsoka keeps working on the engine when she's lucid. Rex keeps hunting up game and edible plants for them while she does. They cuddle at night, because it's not cold but it is empty of the people they care about, and they kind of want that reassurance of someone they trust and love at their back.

(Morai visits.)

(Daughter shows up in the nightmares, tells Ahsoka that age will not come for her beloved until the time is natural for it. The phrasing is dumb but she does manage to convey that the accelerated aging is no longer an issue, if it even was after they hit adulthood. Ahsoka is relieved.)

And, you know, emotions happen. She takes his hand while they're leaning up against each other. He kisses her forehead while she's having a bad spell. They cook together and tell jokes to keep sane and spar. They hug each other through nightmares and panic attacks. There is much blushing. There is much cuddling.

Once, they kiss.

They break apart, flushing and stammering and being very awkward about the whole thing, and make excuses to leave and panic about the fact that they!! Kissed!!!!!

A couple hours later they find each other again, and have a long and complicated discussion about why they like each other (war makes bedfellows, there's trust and affection and all that fun stuff) and why they're hesitant (age stuff, maturity stuff, prior indoctrination), and make the decision to take it slow. They cuddle, and kiss, and blush a lot because both of them are basically just dumb teens having their first real relationship.

They eventually leave the planet, make it to Coruscant, etc. It takes a bit for anyone except Obi-Wan to realize that something's changed between them. Most people didn't know them before, and Anakin's observation skills are currently at a very low ebb. But they sit together and hold hands, and flirt when they spar, and once or twice people find them kissing (both standard and Keldabe) in a corner while holding hands and then just smiling at each other like loons.

They end up rooming together because nobody has the heart to separate them after hearing about all the war stuff. Like yes attachment's bad, but these two do seem to understand loss of loved ones and recognize that they could lose each other at any time and death is natural and they won't lose their entire shit about it, and if even General Kenobi is anxious as hell about being separated from the people he fought side-by-side with for two years, then maybe it's just... really normal for those two to want each other's company, and everyone can just turn a blind eye to the romance happening.

They share a bed, but they only ever sleep in it. Like, there's some goodnight kisses and cuddles, but everything is very G-rated until they've had time to settle into being true equals instead of just the "well, I guess the power dynamics balance out? Maybe?" of before.

And just... yeah. Rex does not believe that he's in this good of a position whenever he has the time to think about it. He's got a girlfriend! A really pretty, smart, strong, skilled one! Who thinks he's a cool dude! How the fuck did a clone like him manage that? He wasn't even legally a person a year ago, how did he end up in bed with one of the most amazing people he's ever met? He spends multiple nights just staring at her while he tries to fall asleep, asking himself how he got here and just like... marveling at her. She's worth marveling at. He's in love and she's amazing and he has no idea how to handle it at all.

...yeah no I have a lot of feelings now.

#Rexsoka #Ahsoka Tano #Captain Rex #Quinlan Vos #time travel #Commander Buir #Phoenix Posts

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archaneanscribe · 3 years

Text

Finally Taking the Trip to Jupiter

Vague spoilers for MGS4. Also xtremely fucking sad fair warning lol

“Snake... Dave?” Hal immediately corrected himself upon entering the room. The veteran’s (finally they could use that term, with there truly being no fights left to fight) request to drop the codenames they had maintained for nearly a decade had been a little sudden, but entirely understandable, “We think we’ve found a place to stay, for the moment. A nice house, close enough to a town that Sunny can go to school in, but far enough ouy most folks will leave us alone.”

David simply nodded- taking a deep breath that would normally be an intake of smoke into his lungs, but he was sincere in his declaration of quitting. Even if it wasn’t for very long, he could do that much for Sunny and Hal, after all this time. The tech wiz stood awkwardly in the doorframe, posture so closed in on himself David would see the gangly nerd he once was before he had started spending more time eating and moving around than seated in front of a computer.

He still did plenty of that, but years on the run had shifted the ratio considerably until just recently.

“Out with it, Hal,” he croaked out in a voice that was becoming increasingly unfamiliar to both of them. This seemed to shock his companion out of his own thoughts, and he finally moved closer.

“Ah, well, you see- what do you want for your last name, Dave? You know I’ll be formalizing Sunny’s adoption, which means we’ll finally be obtaining,” emphasis was put on the word, because in reality it meant forging, “papers for her, and I thought you’d probably be in need of some too. We can use whatever is on your birth certificate, but if you want to pick something out yourself...”

A smile formed under Dave’s mustache.

“I already know what I’m using.”

Hal perked up, “You do? What is it?”

With the same simple, to the point gruffness he would never quite be rid of, the one legendary soldier answered in a single word.

“Emmerich.”

All sounds except the Nomad’s machinery working overtime on her last voyage and David’s unfortunately heavy breathing ceased for an eternally long moment, Hal’s face journeying between every emotion he possessed. Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, and his attempt to stifle his sniffles failed.

He probably wouldn’t have admitted it at the beginning, but something David had always loved about Hal was his ability to keep crying. No matter the hardships he faced, the traumas, the evils and cruelties he bore witness too, he didn’t run out of tears. His compassion was a well that ran deep, and those tears were just a result of it overflowing.

“Dave...of, of course,” his expression betrayed some amusement past the waterworks, “Do you want me to list you as my brother, or-”

“You know exactly what it’s going to say, Hal.”

They both laughed now, such different sounds than it was just a year ago even. David had been sitting on the edge of the bed, and Hal had been across the room, but that distance closed as Hal kneeled on the floor, placing his hands on David’s knees. It was a gesture that David had previously classified as pitying, but he knew better, now.

It wasn’t for his comfort at all.

“Thank you, David.”

David had half a mind to ask what it was like to kiss an old man with a mustache, but they didn’t have the time for jokes like that anymore, so he just closed his eyes and enjoyed it.

---

The eyeroll David had given when Hal told him the name of the town they’d be living in was named Jupiter was so legendary it surpassed his previous exploits with ease. But, despite how silly it was, he couldn’t deny the warmth in his chest.

They’d gotten their trip to Jupiter, just a little late.

Jupiter, Washington, was as small as a small mountain town got. It didn’t even have an elementary school for Sunny to attend (she was bussed to the neighboring, larger town). Most residents were the descendants of the people who had first lived there, so their new faces stuck out for awhile, but they eventually concluded what was essentially the truth, albeit missing some key details, and moved on- they were just two retirees, hoping to live out what was left of the older one’s life in peace with their orphaned granddaughter, nothing exciting.

Hal laughed at how huffy David had gotten at the granddaughter comments.

For the first month, their time there was peaceful. Content. Happy.

The second month, David starting being able to spend less and less time out of bed.

In the third month, he took Hal aside.

“You should stop sleeping in the same bed as me.”

His husband was a genius, he knew exactly why, but he still asked anyway.

“Don’t make me say it.”

That he didn’t want Hal to wake up one sunny spring morning cuddling a corpse.

Tears were shed, as they always were, but he complied nonetheless. All of David’s belongings were transferred to the guest bedroom (Hal had tried to convince him to stay in the master bedroom, it was more comfortable, but David was adamant- that was where Hal would be staying in the future, and he didn’t want his ghost lingering in the air whenever he slept).

On the first day of the fourth month, right after sending Sunny off to school, Hal told him they were getting a dog for her.

“She loves those chickens, and I thought she might like another pet.”

“Or is it to replace me?” he asked, morbid mirth nearly buried under the pure gravel that had become his voice, “Seems to fit perfectly.”

Hal’s eyes, sad and weary, seemed to want nothing to do with this conversation, but he participated for his partner’s sake, “How so?”

“It’ll bark at strangers, bite the hand that feeds, and just generally be a pain in your ass.”

Despite himself Hal did laugh, not entirely bitter, “We’ll train it better than that.”

“Don’t train it too well. Won’t remind you enough of me.”

Fifth month, they had a dog. Rex, a joke on two layers- a name so common it was funny, and a reminder of one man’s shame that he’d never quite shake off. Not a husky, because while that would please David, they’d be keeping it long term and that level of energy just wouldn’t suit their needs. Rex was an adolescent Golden Retriever.

The dog of the American dream.

Almost like he could tell David wouldn’t be around long enough to justify getting attached, Rex mostly ignored him. The feeling was mutual.

Sunny loved them both dearly, and that was enough.

---

They had been there half a year, and Sunny made them breakfast. Her specialty, eggs fried to methodical perfection, toast just a little browner than anyone would like, maple sausage microwaved for ten seconds more than the instructions said just to make sure they were thoroughly cooked, and a glass of pulpless orange juice tucked precariously into the crook of her arm as she carried the meal to Uncle Dave’s bedroom.

It was two minutes after Hal watched Sunny depart from the kitchen that he heard a loud crash, glass and ceramic shattering, followed by Rex’s insistent barking and whining. He was on his feet and rushed to the scene, fearing the worst and finding exactly that.

“Oh, Sunny... Sunny...”

“U-Uncle H-Hal,” she barely managed through her cries. Rex, to his credit, ignored the food on the ground and nuzzled at her face, whining, confused and upset by the noises of unparalleled distress his beloved human was emitting. Stifling his own grief, Hal went over to the young girl and pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

He didn’t do a great job at holding that grief in after all.

“Sunny, Sunny, Sunny... I’m so sorry... I should have checked up on him when I woke up... It’s okay, Sunny...”

“H-He’s d-d-dead. J-Just,” her stutter was exacerbated by her choking sobs, “J-Just l-like my m-mother.”

The downside of having such a bright child was that you couldn’t shield them from life’s harsh realities that easily. There was no convincing Sunny that Uncle Dave was with the birds in the clouds, or any other such comforting tale.

He was dead and gone, and she knew that.

---

The gravestone read:

David Emmerich

Beloved father and husband.

All three of those titles were ones he had only worn for six months, but he had worn them with honor.•

#otasune #snotacon #jupiter family #sunny emmerich #hal emmerich #otacon #solid snake #mgs #mgs4 #metal gear solid #metal gear solid 4 #fanfic #fanfiction #suu's scribbles #this shit made me so sad to write i literally cried planning it #i have only watched most of mgs4 not played it thats why the spoilers are vague lol

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monster-bait · 4 years

Text

Talse, Telepathic Gelatinous Monster x F Human, NSFW, Monster Match

A commission for @edgier-than-a-diamond, based on a dream she shared ina "Show Me Your!" post

I wish you were able to see what I’m dealing with here, you thought, pressing your lips together to keep your laughter at bay. Bun fun time is proving to be a bit too much for the volunteer of the month.

Across the room, Marcie was struggling. You tried not to let the older woman get under your skin, for you knew she meant well. Still, that didn't mean you actually needed to hear about how long she’d been volunteering every single time you were scheduled together, nor did it help you do your job better to be reminded that she had been named the volunteer of the month a staggering eighteen times over her years of service at the animal shelter.

All of her experience and laminated certificates weren’t helping at the current moment, as Biscuit and Marshmallow raced around the exercise enclosure, tawny and white blurs, determined not to listen to Marcie. Every time the rabbits slowed, she would charge forward in victory, her hands barely grazing their fur before they’d be off again, gleefully evading her once more.

This is how you take the title from her. Bun mastery is absolutely worthy of volunteer of the month! Just start carrying a pocket full of whatever Biscuit likes to eat!

You had to turn away then, unable to hold back your huff of laughter as Marcie attempted to reach through her legs for Marshmallow, staggering forward as she did so and still completely missing him.

Not needing to speak aloud to have conversations was a double-edged sword. On one hand, you didn’t have to appear as though you were talking to yourself. You imagined that it would not endear you to your parents or people in shops if you were constantly carrying on one-sided conversations, and certainly wouldn’t earn you the volunteer of the month title.

On the other hand, controlling your facial features was sometimes a greater challenge. As it was, your parents had remarked about how “smiley” you’d become, how difficult it was at times to keep a neutral expression. You couldn’t help it—your conversation companion had a sense of humor you adored, slightly sarcastic but always kind, and you loved the time spent with them.

...In your head.

“What’s going on down there?”

A voice full of barely suppressed mirth crackled in your ear, the next volunteer radioing down from the upstairs office, and this time you didn’t bother hiding your snort of laughter, knowing full well she could see Biscuit racing like he was going for the gold around Marcie’s feet.

“Let me guess...she didn’t need your help.”

“Nope,” you confirmed with a chuckle, turning away from the amusing tableau as Marcie exclaimed in frustration. There were only two volunteers permitted on the floor at once, social distancing measures that had become the new normal. Despite her bluster about being the very best volunteer at the shelter, Marcie was typically the first person pushing out the door once replacements arrived, and you weren’t about to give up the rare opportunity to leave first.

“All the cats have fresh litter and water, check with her about the dogs...have a good night!”

I’m getting out of here, you announced silently once you’d left the shelter.

Ok...drive safely. Let me know when you get home.

Your cheeks warmed as you crossed the parking lot, keys already in hand. If it had been a text message, there would have been nothing amiss, you considered. Hell, for that matter you could have been talking aloud on speakerphone, and the brief exchange wouldn’t have raised the suspicions of anyone in the vicinity. You were announcing your departure and received the same sort of caring admonition people received from their loved ones every day.

The only difference was your conversation was taking place inside your head...with the voice.

It had started shortly after you’d moved back to your parent’s house.

It had made sense to come home: you were finished with school and had managed to secure a day job to cover rent and bills, but then everything had shut down, the whole world screeching to a grinding halt. You’d vacated your small apartment and moved back into your adolescent bedroom, with plans to either return to school for an advanced degree or start a successful freelancing business with your art.

You were grateful for having the safety net of coming home, but the nostalgia of being surrounded by your old things, your yard, the woods where you’d played endlessly as a child, had been overwhelming.

The woods had been the biggest change.

Hours and hours you’d spent there—never more than fifteen feet or so into the treeline, the light from the road clearly visible and your family’s house just across the street—but you pretended that you’d been transported to another world, deep in the heart of the forest. There was always a curious collection of random detritus to be collected: bottles and buttons and shoelaces, treasures from the woods which became potion vessels and magic amulets, objects which you used to construct traps for any intruder who might come barging into your tree-shaded sanctum, creating detailed origin stories for everything in your fortress and the woods beyond.

It had been your favorite place to play as a child, and you’d been more than a little upset when the first thing you’d noticed, as you pulled up to your parent’s house on the day you’d moved home, was the absence of trees. The frontage of the woods, the spot where you’d played, was gone; flattened and bare, leaving nothing behind but the newly-poured foundations of a house, the land purchased and developed.

It was silly to be upset, you told yourself, struggling into the house with bags full of clothes that day. You weren’t a kid anymore, it wasn’t as if you could just disappear into the woods and play with sticks and buttons and bits of colored glass as you’d done as a child...those days were gone, and the neighborhood was changing.

That hadn’t stopped you from thinking about it for days, nagging at the back of your mind until your feet carried you outside one night, seemingly of their own volition. You’re not a child, it’s not like you’re going to get in trouble for being out after dark, you’d reminded yourself. Standing on the front porch led to sitting on the stoop, until you began to restlessly pace the length of the driveway...until your feet acted independently once more, drawing you to the road. The woods which remained were dense and dark, deeper than you’d ever ventured as a child. But if that house had always been there, you would have played in this section instead. It’s no different.

The suburban neighborhood was quiet, the streetlamp above casting a long shadow over a car parked at the curb, and from the end of the driveway, you were able to see the waddling shape of a skunk moving purposefully across a manicured lawn, several yards away. Headlights lit the street briefly, a zooming compact car bearing the lit rooftop sign of a local pizza franchise turning into a driveway near the corner.

Rocking on the curb in front of the house, you’d held your breath and waited.

There were all the familiar sounds of suburbia which you knew so well: the dim sound of traffic from the main road, several blocks away from the twisting nest of side streets, lessened at this hour, but never entirely ceasing; the sound of music and childish shouting coming the home of one of the neighbors, the slam of a car door and the roar of an engine, as the pizza delivery car turned out of the driveway on two wheels, red brake lights flaring to life for only an instant before the car careened around the corner, out of sight. There was something else there as well, some unseen thrum of electricity that made your skin prickle pleasantly and your blood hum, and you’d been certain it was coming from the woods.

An interminable moment went by before you’d decided. This was the neighborhood you’d grown up in, and there was nothing of which to be afraid. Rocking forward one last time, you left the curb and crossed the road.

It was dimmer on the other side of the road, the streetlamp’s halo of light not quite extending that far, but the edge of the woods had seemed comfortably familiar as you walked through the grass leading to the treeline. You’d hesitated once more, closing your eyes to listen for the crunch of sticks or a rustle in the underbrush that might indicate you were not actually alone, but all you’d been able to hear was the sound of the neighbor’s children laughing in their playroom, and a car door slamming several houses away. The thrum of energy seemed stronger, and you pushed through the trees, stepping carefully. The peaty smell of dead leaves and bark brought a wave

You hadn’t gone more than ten feet when you were stopped.

Careful. There’s some water just ahead, and the rocks are terribly slippery.

You’d frozen, terror-stricken at the unexpected voice and unable to place from which direction it had come. Stupid, so stupid! What the hell are you thinking, going traipsing through the woods in the dark?! A million possible scenarios flooded through your mind, each one more terrifying and grisly than the next, but your mysterious navigator did not show themselves. They’re waiting to see what you do next. The thudding of your heartbeat was loud enough to surely alert them to your whereabouts, and your eyes casted about wildly, seeking the hidden shape of an assailant in the trees...but there had been no one. Play it cool...just thank them and walk away.

“Th-thank you,” you’d squeaked out, listening for the telltale rustle of branches, but the woods around you remained still and silent. “I...appreciate that.”

You’d turned around carefully, and managed to make it back to the treeline unmolested, although your pulse had still been racing. You heardit again, just as you’d stepped back through the branches, the safety of the streetlamp’s glow just ahead.

Come back in the daytime when there’s more light. The creek is very pretty, but you’ll want to know which spots to avoid.

The voice was just as clear and distinct as it had been in the dark woods, although you'd been positive you’d not been followed. Neither male nor female, the voice was smooth and even, with a slightly buzzy quality, like the hum of an old-fashioned television, it hadn’t come from the woods behind you, nor from your left or right...it had come from your head.

You ran. Realizing that you were technically running from nothing, you’d managed to slow to a casual jog, just in case any of the neighbors were peering from their windows, as though sprinting out of the woods hours after sunset was the most normal undertaking in the world.

It had only been a bit after eleven p.m. when you’d let yourself back into the house that night, but you’d immediately gone to your room and collapsed into your childhood bed, falling into a deep sleep, full of dark trees and a pulsing, thrumming energy.

It was several days before you went back.

At first you’d been afraid, convincing yourself that there had been someone there, that there must have been some odd reverberation from the trees which had made the sound seem as though it were coming from closer than it was.

But the sound hadn’t just been close.

It had been right in your head, as if you’d thought the words yourself! There was no way for an echo from the trees to carry into your consciousness, was there?

There was an old picnic table on the side of the house, one your mother had been telling your father to drag to the curb for several years, and you made quick work of dragging it around the house and across the yard. Pulling across the street had been a bit trickier, as had been hoisting it over the curb and across the hidden rits in the short field, but soon you had it positioned where you wanted it—close enough to the dense treeline for you to tell if that same thrumming hum was present, and just far enough for you to have a decent head start on anyone, or anything, that might come barreling through the trees.

It was a good spot to sketch, you thought that first evening, glad you’d brought a spiral-bound pad as an excuse. The light was softly diffused, and from your spot at the low table, you had a perfect view of the sunset between the houses, leaving the sky a wash of pink and orange, and you wasted no time in getting to work.

That’s quite good. You’re very talented.

You became so engrossed with capturing the wisping clouds, that you’d forgotten your purpose at the table before the trees, jumping in surprise when that same voice resonated in your head. There was no one looking over you, as their words implied, and you took a shuddering breath, your fight or flight response moving into overdrive.

“Th-thank you,” you called out uncertainly, carefully positioning your legs in a way that would allow you to spring away from the table if needed. “Um...who...where are you?”

You don’t need to be afraid, the voice responded, jumping over your question to address the audible thump of your heartbeat. I’m not going to hurt you, there’s no threat from me...I live here. In the woods. Have you lived here very long? I’ve only been here a few years myself, but I don’t remember you visiting before.

You blinked. It seemed to be such an innocuous conversation, as if the fact that they were an unseen voice issuing from inside your head meant little next to their desire for gossip. “I-I used to live here. My parents live across the street, this is where I grew up. I used to play in these woods for hours, I was sad to see so much of it had been cut down.”

Your answer surprised you, shocked that you were apparently going to play along with...whatever this was.

Ah, yes, I imagine that was disappointing. The bittersweetness of lost childhood coupled with the loss of nature...well, I’m glad that you’ve found some solace in the bit of green space left. You really are very talented. Is art your profession?

You’d nearly laughed aloud. You’d gone on only a handful of dates in the past year, and none had seemed as interested in you as this mysterious voice!

“I’m hoping to make it more than just a hobby,” you replied, unable to keep the smile from your face. Perhaps it’s a tree nymph, unable to leave the forest? “Thank you for the compliment.”

You went in not long after, and the voice had expressed regret that your conversation had to come to an end.

“I’ll be back,” you’d blurted, not thinking your actions through. Despite your initial trepidation, it had been a nice conversation. “I live just across the street, and this is a nice place to sketch...I’ll definitely be back. Maybe tomorrow?”

Tomorrow had turned into every day that week, several hours on Sunday, and clear into the following week in the blink of an eye. You couldn’t explain why you felt so comfortable with the voice, only that you did. Their words to you that first evening at the picnic bench had proved to be true—you sensed absolutely no threat from them. You were naturally quiet with a tendency to stay in your shell around most people, but at the low bench facing the woods with your back to the street, you felt free to be sociable.

They were insatiably curious about the neighborhood, and you couldn’t help but think it was adorable.

Do you think they’ll have children? Or a dog? they mused over the new house which was now being steadily constructed. I hope not, they can be so noisy...oh, but isn’t that what a house away from the city is for? Hopefully it’ll be a nice family with children who respect the woods as much as you did.

It was later that night, three weeks after you’d first dragged the table across the street, that it happened for the first time.

Tomorrow I’ll bring lunch out to the table...I wish we could have a picnic together. You did not give voice to the words in your head as you crossed the street, heading in before the mosquitoes got to be too overbearing. It would have been nice to have a picnic lunch with your mysterious friend, but you knew not to push the issue. A tree nymph...or maybe some sort of faerie. They had never offered their name, and you felt awkward asking at that point, and had never volunteered to come out of the forest, wherever it was they were hidden.

That sounds nice! You can tell me all about it, and I’ll tell you about the fight that happened over the weekend!

Your face pulled into a smile, charmed by their customary cheerfulness and love of gossip, thinking of the backyard swim party that had somehow turned into a multi-family brawl two streets away, a story you’d only heard snippets of from the ladies at the shelter, when you froze.

You hadn’t spoken your picnic plans aloud.

Are—are you able to hear me?

You were standing on the sidewalk facing your house, not daring to turn back to the woods, certain you’d imagined the cheery response...when it came again.

I am! How nice! This is almost like having one of those cellular devices!

You’d smiled, shaking your head fondly as your stomach flipped. Having them inside your head...that was different, you thought. Different, but not entirely unwelcome? After all, you rationalized, hadn’t you just been muttering to yourself that same morning that missed having actual friends to talk to throughout the day?

Well? Did bun fun time end in disaster?

We’ll never know, you thought back with a laugh. I left before Biscuit managed to trip her, but I’m sure I’ll find out when I go back later this week.

Your mother had plans to redecorate several rooms in the house, roping you into her planning the instant you stepped into the house that evening, but you managed to escape shortly after dusk, slipping out the side door and hurrying across the street.

Sorry, you announced, throwing a leg over the bench, my mom is obsessed with turning the house into something from HGTV. I’m really glad to be home and saving money, but sometimes I miss the simplicity of my apartment. You laughed, nearly missing their wistful sigh.

It must be nice having a house. It’s a space of one’s own, of course she’s excited to keep it looking beautiful!

Swallowing, you considered their words, thinking again of them being tethered to a tree. You—you’ve never lived in a house?

I haven’t, they confirmed. But I do so love the look of them. What are you drawing tonight? Have you started working on your commission yet?

The conversation had been thoroughly changed, but their words echoed in your mind long after you went in for the night, after they’d wished you a tender goodbye.

Sweet dreams, I hope you have a good morning.

Goodnight, you mentally called as you crossed the front lawn. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

I...I think we should meet. The words were out before you were able to control your traitorous thoughts, and your cheeks instantly heated. You had a habit of speaking without thinking, but this was really putting your foot in it, you considered, as all you had to do was control your thoughts. When no immediate answer was forthcoming, you pushed on as the fire spread to your ears. Don’t you? It’s just...it would be nice to finally have a conversation in person.

...I don’t know if that’s wise. Its voice was a murmur, more subdued than you could ever remember it being previously, and your heart fell. Things might be very different in person, and this has been so nice.

I agree, you argued vehemently. This has been the nicest summer of my life. I don’t see anything changing once we’re face to face, why would it?

Your pulse had begun to thud in your ears as they hesitated, another uncharacteristic element to their normal conversation. You managed to hold back voicing the depth of your feelings, the desire that heated your body when you were alone in your bed at night. The memory of the dream you’d had was still strong, still replayed in your mind almost every night, your fingers moving down your body to push between your legs and finding yourself slick at the thought of being with your mysterious friend.

We may not be very compatible.

The bottom your chest seemed to drop as your heart plummeted down to your feet. Not compatible. There had never been anyone else with whom you’d been more compatible, and you couldn’t foresee yourself having such a strong bond with anyone else, not the way you had with them. Not compatible. This was just a game to them, just a way to pass the time, and you’d gone and assigned it feelings which were clearly one-sided. You weren’t anything special at all.

That’s not what I meant—

I think we should leave things here then. Your eyes blurred with tears, unable to keep the thought from barreling forward, even though it hurt. No sense in wasting each other’s time if we’re so incompatible. This has been fun, but...all good things must come to an end, I guess. You spun on your heel and headed back into the shelter to finish the rest of your volunteer shift, closing your consciousness to the effortless connection you had with the invisible voice.

For the first time in weeks, your mind was silent.

You’d felt on edge throughout the day.

Your concentration on even the smallest tasks was not existent, your gaze constantly settling on an invisible point in the middle distance, your thoughts a jumble.

The voice in your head had remained silent, and it was tearing you up.

You hadn’t gone this long without speaking to them since that first night on the edge of the woods, hadn’t realized that the absence of their chatter would leave you feeling as though you were suffering through the days. You regretted making things awkward and wished you could take back your words, but it wasn’t as though you were able to call or text them, couldn’t swing by their house on your way home from the shelter. You didn’t know how to fix things, although you badly wanted to try.

Things were beginning to open up, life slowly returning to normal, and you needed to start applying for jobs, you conceded, or else, start looking into university programs. You could go back to your alma mater, you considered, or investigate some of the other options which weren’t terribly far away. There was a state school just outside the closest city, and just beyond that was a community which housed a small, private university with an excellent liberal arts college…

You needed to start thinking about what was next, but the idea of doing so without your friend, whoever, whatever they were, broke your heart.

The rest of your shift at the animal shelter passed in a blur, and you hardly paid any mind to Marcie’s prattling or humblebragging, shouldering past her the instant you spotted the next volunteer up in the office window. She’d huffed when she realized your intent and that she’d not be able to leave first, calling out with a dodgy-sounding excuse, but you’d ignored the whine in her voice and pressed on. Your mother had mentioned needing your help with something when you got home, and you usually didn't take your sketchbook down to the picnic table until dusk, but you beelined across the street that evening, the moment you’d pulled into the driveway.

You felt the thrum, the familiar connection with the unseen force and your mind sparked, just before a stream of conversation exploded in your head.

I didn’t mean incompatible regarding our personalities. You’re funny and talented and kind and I love spending time with you, of course I do! Their voice burst to life behind your eyes, speaking in a rush as if they were afraid of being cut off again, and your chest heaved at their words. I only meant that we’re not...the same. I’m not like you. And...and I didn't want that to spoil things.

You understood their meaning immediately. Of course they weren’t human, how could they think you would assume they were?! You had been having telepathic conversations with them for the better part of the summer, and you thought constantly about what they might be, but you hadn’t wanted to ask, and it hadn’t seemed important. You had shared with them a part of yourself which was hard to share with anyone, a part of yourself you increasingly felt disinclined to share with anyone but them. You loved the sense of security you felt with them in your mind, their clever banter and humor, their innocent wistfulness when it came to the neighborhood. You loved spending time with them, loved...them. You loved them, and it didn’t matter what they were.

The town was predominately human, was all human, as far as you knew. There had been whispers when you’d gone to the local high school about certain families being werewolves and other creatures, but there had never been any proof, as far as you’d known, and you had no idea if any of them were still in the area...but there were towns where multiple species lived side-by-side. There had been a handful of non-human students at your university, and when you’d venture into the city with friends, there would be orcs and goblins and minotaurs, all crowding the restaurants and light rail trains, bustling up the sidewalks. There was a hair salon you’d visited a handful of times which was run by blue-skinned nymphs, and for her twenty-first birthday, your best friend had wanted to go to a posh nightclub in the city, where the doorman had been a brawny minotaur and the bartender a tall, green-skinned man with sparkling, laughing eyes. You weren’t worried about an inter-species relationship.

I don’t think it will, you challenged. Do you honestly think I’ve been assuming I’m talking to some random human sitting on a log in the woods? Of course I know you’re...different.

It’s not that simple, they began after another pause, interrupted this time by the clang of your phone ringer. Your mother. You sighed, knowing she’d be irritated to learn you were home and were actively avoiding helping her.

Look, you began, silencing the phone. I need to go, but we’re not done discussing this, okay? I’ll be out later.

Later, unfortunately, never arrived. Your mother was organizing the basement, an undertaking that seemed as if it would have no end, and it had been night by the time you’d finally trudged upstairs to shower away the grime. It was late, too late to go sit in the dark and have the conversation that you needed to have, and your head felt heavy, eyes aggravated from the dust of your chore. Skipping dinner, you went from the shower to your bed, dropping to sleep almost immediately.

Moonlight lit a small clearing in the deepest part of the forest across the road. You were dimly aware of its glow overhead, seeing it as you were from under a translucent surface, as if you were under water. Under water, yet...suspended, somehow. There was a humming, a pulse of energy more than an audible sound, and it shivered up your spine, making the hair on your neck stand on end. A pumping rhythm, a pulsing throb that escalated in its intensity until you were able to feel it thudding through you, matching your heartbeat and the pulse between your thighs. The rhythm engulfed you, pumping, pulsing, throbbing against you from every side until your body began to shake, waves of ecstasy arching your spine.

You sat up in bed, gasping.

Moonlight flooded through the windows, bathing the end of the bed in light, and you struggled to slow your breathing. It was a dream about them, your voice, you knew it. You didn’t know why you were so certain, couldn’t account for the strange sensation of being completely engulfed...but you knew it was true. Tingles still rippled up your spine and you could almost still feel the pulsing tension encasing you...You need to go to the woods. They would be there, and you would find them. As you clutched at the bed sheets, desperately trying to recover from the explosive climax in your dream, you couldn’t find any fault with your own line of reasoning.

The road was still, as you crept out of the house, careful not to wake your parents, and the air was silent, save for the buzz and chirp of crickets. Unlike that first night when you’d rocked off the curb to venture to the trees, it was truly late, the moon high in an inky-black sky. High, but still bright, and you were grateful as the moonlight filled in the gaps where the streetlamp diminished. You felt the thrum of energy, the familiar prickle of heat against your skin, and pushed into the trees without hesitation.

You knew where to step, which spots to avoid, and were grateful for the time you’d spent in the daylight hours, exploring the front part of the wood. You’d never gone very deep into the thick of the trees, but you would need to that night, you realized. You felt the soft hum of energy, felt your body responding to it...and pushed forward, following it into the darkness.

You knew you’d reached your destination before even breaking through the trees to the clearing, felt the buzz of energy beneath your skin so strongly you were nearly vibrating with it. The small hollow was bathed in moonlight, ringed in dark woods, and at its center sat them. Your voice, your constant companion for the last several months. You immediately understood why they’d been so worried over meeting, why they’d thought this might end things...but they were wrong, you decided. You would figure things out.

They were completely translucent and roughly the size of your neighbor’s Volkswagen, and as you approached cautiously, the dew drop trembled.

You’re so lovely

The voice in your head was soft, and heat rushed to your cheeks. You were still trembling from earlier, still not quite completely down from your climactic high, and as you gazed around the small clearing, so like the one in your dream, you had a thought.

I had a dream, you began, stomach flipping when they quickly confirmed.

Yes...I was able to sense you.

It was you, wasn’t it? You weren’t sure why it hadn’t occurred to you earlier, how real the dream had felt, why it had been so hard to catch your breath afterwards, as if you really had been submerged...Was that you calling for me?

Not exactly, they hesitated, and your shoulders slumped a bit, but their next words stalled your disappointment. I was...dreaming, I suppose. Dreaming of you.

The ramifications of their meaning took a moment for your mind to absorb. Dreaming...of me? Were we-were we sharing a dream?!

It would seem so, they hummed, and you drifted closer, unable to keep yourself from reaching out. I’ve never had a connection with another being so strongly before, and your consciousness...well, we’re very in-tune.

The outside of their droplet form had a surface tension you weren’t quite expecting, with a springiness your fingers could only sink into so far. In your dream, you realized, you’d been upright, as if you’d sunk straight down into them. You needed to climb to their top, you realized, kicking off your flip flops. I want to do that again, you announced, cutting off whatever they’d been saying in their even, thrumming voice. Your toes squished against their crystalline side, struggling for purchase as you climbed the dew drop form you’d somehow managed to fall for.

The climb was not difficult, and before you knew it, you were atop the shimmering orb. The texture of their squishy surface was pleasant, and as you steadied yourself, you felt it rippling against your skin, caressing up your bare leg in a ripple, and you struggled to pull off your pajama shorts. Bare from the waist down, you balanced on your knees and waited.

You began to sink slowly.

Too slowly, you griped to yourself, for the sucking, rippling sensation against the fronts of your legs as they were slowly submerged sent shockwaves of feeling up your body, and you were eager to feel it pressed against the far more sensitive bits of your anatomy.

You weren't sure if you’d begun to roll your hips or if their surface had begun to undulate in a wave-like pattern, but before you could think better of it you were grinding against them, gasping in pleasure as your hips moved. Cool and silky, and every time you managed to move your hips at just the right angle, the quivering surface kissed your clit, and you redoubled your efforts in order to feel it again.

You were submerged to your thighs at that point, so close to feeling the gelatinous ripples against the spot where you needed it most, when you mind buzzed with their voice.

Hold still. Their voice was a bit firmer than usual, sending a thrill of excitement down your neck, quick to obey their direction. Hold still, and stay straight. Let yourself sink straight down.

You wondered if they had spots where they were sensitive, if the inside of their gelatinous form had more sensation than the outside, if you sinking into them was as pleasurable for them as it was for you. Only one way to find out...Holding stock still, you did as they requested, keeping till and straight, allowing yourself to sink directly down.

The effects were instantaneous.

There was a pulsing churn within their crystalline depth, kneading against your sex rhythmically, a silky press against your clit that made you see stars. Your neck dropped back, but you did not fall. The dome-like surface you’d climbed upon had shifted, energy from within being rediverted, and three thick, tentacle-like protrusions pushed upwards, somehow retaining the surface tension of the dome, wrapping around each of your arms and curling around your back until you were fully supported.

Within the translucent dome of energy, something similar was happening.

Much as you’d ground against them as you waited to sink, you felt a rolling pressure against your slick folds. It was nearly like being underwater, the thrumming currents churning within reminding you of the jets of a whirlpool, although the idea that your mysterious friend might be experiencing the same pleasure you were made the entire adventure that much more satisfying. The sensation against your clit had become a sucking, pulsing throb, and the first warning tremors of climax were just quivering through you when you felt something entirely different added to the mix.

A current of the interior ooze, solidifying loosely to form another of the tentacles which supported you, with none of the outside surface tension. It was impossible to explain, and when it tentatively pushed into you, the need for explanation vanished as you moaned into the night air. You’d been surrounded in your dream, completely engulfed by the pulsing churn within the dome of their form, but now you were partially free, able to be an active participant in your own pleasure, and you cried out again.

“I’m so close,” you gasped aloud, forgetting to voice your thoughts silently. “Please don’t stop.”

The fluid tentacle within you writhed, pumping into you with the same pulsing energy as the sucking press at your clit, and your tentative dam of control broke at last. Your body shook within its gelatinous suspension, your core convulsing rhythmically against the fluid tentacle inside you, and your mind buzzed. It took you another moment to realize the buzzing energy was their own release vibrating against you until the sensation against your sensitive pearl was enough to wring another climax from your body. The stars above you in the inky black sky suddenly seemed impossibly bright, bright and close, and then the world went dark.

When you woke, you were cocooned in their gel-like center.

Your head was pillowed against the outside of the dome, and it was surprisingly comfortable and warm, the most comfortable mattress you’d ever slept upon. The tenderness with which they enveloped you stole your breath.

You’re so lovely, they murmured again, pleasant sparks pricking your skin at the sound in your head. I’ve missed you so much. I never meant to hurt you.

I know. It’s my fault too. It was just a miscommunication.

Can things go back to the way they were?

You waited several long moments before answering. Could they? You loved their humor and cheerfulness, didn’t want to be miserable without them again...but you couldn’t go backwards. Not now.

I don’t think so.

You felt their deflation before the small ‘oh’ sounded in your head, and you struggled to move your hand, to stroke at their smooth interior.

I don’t want things to go back, you explained quickly. But-but that doesn’t mean they can’t go forward. Their silence was a heavy weight, and you pushed forward unerringly. Schools are opening back up, and I need to think about work, about going back to school.

You’re going to leave.

Their voice was sad, sadder than you could bear and you pressed your cheek to their surface. I am...but you can come with me. There’s a town, it’s not even that far away, just on the other side of the city! Different species all live together there. I didn't even realize it until I was looking at the university’s website this week...if I get into the art program there, you could come with me. They have really cute little houses and condos for student housing and I’ll have a stipend, and-and there’s a forest if you can’t manage anything else.

Their domed surface had begun to recede, until you were able to stumble free.

A-a house? In a neighborhood?

Their voice was wondrous, and you laughed. That’s up to you.

You thought they were reforming into the great dewdrop again as they began to shift, but something else was happening, you realized. As you watched, their form began to shrink; shrink inwards, drawing energy inside and reforming until a shimmering, translucent, vaguely-human form stood before you.

I can manage, they announced, and you laughed as they once more swelled, engulfing you once more.

Good. You snuggled into their gelatinous confines, yawning hugely. We’ve got a lot of planning to do in that case. But first...do you have a name?

Their voice was tremulous, and you were glad you’d finally asked.

Talse.

Talse...two little syllables, easy on your tongue. Talse...wake me up just after sunrise. You’re really comfortable!

You recognized the thrum of energy in your mind as their laughter, and settled in against their squish.

Coming home for the summer had been a wonderful plan.

#exophilia #monster lover #monster x reader #monster x human #dewdrop #monsterbait writes #monster match

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savethelastdan · 3 years

Text

Sesskagu Week Day Six: Future (White)

CW: child death, grief

DISCLAIMER: This was written weeks ago but no one outside a Discord has seen it, and I thought it fit the prompt.

When he is fourteen, Sesshomaru’s son, Akinori, goes to see a fortune teller.

His mother advises against it; claiming to have killed many witches in her time, she declares that, with a sweep of her fan, “all they tell you is what you want to hear.”

Akinori laughs, but in the end can neither agree nor disagree; for when he arrives, the woman bars the doors and refuses to give him answers.

When will the panther king fall from power - this year, or the next? (Sesshomaru hides a smile, recalling the sword that awaits his son’s birthday to be claimed.)

Will my parents give me siblings, or have I already achieved the height of perfection in their eyes? (Kagura laughs boldly, but her smile is as soft as a feather as she runs a hand through her son’s hair.)

Which will be greater -- my father’s legacy, or my own? (The fortune teller cuts him off, her voice shaking as she tells him to please, please go away.)

It is not the first time that he has lost a child. But Sesshomaru could never say that the experience prepared him for the sight of the broken body stretched before them.

The panther king has shown little care in his work; Akinori’s limbs bend at competing angles, like a tree ravaged in a storm. His mokomoko lies limp in the grass, drenched with blood. Pink replaces the gold in his lifeless eyes.

The youth’s expression is peaceful; not that such a thing could bring comfort in this moment.

“Do something!” Kagura screams; the side of her fist connects with his shoulder. Her other arm drapes over their son’s mangled body, as though to shield the heart that sits still beneath the tattered ribs. “Bring him back!”

Jaken’s eyes meet Sesshomaru’s, frozen with horror. He knows exactly the memory playing in the kappa’s mind: The night of Akinori’s birth, where the child had come from Kagura’s body blue-faced and still. He hadn’t thought twice of wielding Tenseiga in that moment, while his wife was still lost in the throes of a final bloody contraction.

They had never told her -- had never thought it would matter.

“Sesshomaru! ” The raw desperation in her voice - that which she’s always managed to shield from him, before, even when begging for her own rescue - he can not bear it.

He stands, the blood and poison pouring from his own wounds forgotten. Jaken’s head bows at his silent command - stay with them.

The panther king’s demise is neither swift, nor merciful.

“Happy birthday, little brother.” Rin bends before the memorial stone, hands pressed flat together. The surface of the rock is not yet wind-worn, and it’s nice to finally have a place in the village where she can go to remember him.

Akinori’s true grave is at the peak of a tall mountain, chosen by his mother. Lord Sesshomaru searched for weeks to find it, and Rin has never felt comfortable asking him to take her.

She hasn’t seen Kagura or Jaken in years. Somehow, she believes they are together.

A breeze rustles against the back of Rin’s bare neck, tickling the strands of closely-cut hair at her nape. She hunches her shoulders in response, wondering not for the first time if Lady Kagura stays away because of her - knowing that Rin has escaped death twice, a prize that cannot be given to anyone else.

Could I trade one of my lives for yours, Akinori? To see you smile again?

She doesn’t want to judge; Rin has no children of her own, as much as she likes them.

Both hands fall to her side as she stands. Tonight, Lord Sesshomaru will arrive to sit with her. When Kohaku gets home, the three of them will drink, and talk about anything other than what is the only thing they can truly think about.

Rin’s glad he comes, instead of wandering the woods alone.

On the dark night of the winter solstice, something calls him to Akinori’s mountaintop.

Part of him (the weak part, the one that pulled him through the Meido in search of a lost wind goddess’ soul and made him want to smile when his brother pulled a girl out of the Bone-eater’s Well) doesn’t want to go. It’s easier to grieve on the ground, where he can walk a mere ten yards to find some creature to tear apart in order to calm his racing heart.

But he’s long past the days when he would ignore his instincts. When his boots settle in the snow atop the grave’s peak, he sees that he is not alone.

“Lord Sesshomaru!” Tears flood Jaken’s eyes. He trips over the edge of the memorial stone in his hurry to bow. “How I’ve missed you!”

Kagura hunches her back and refuses to acknowledge him. Sesshomaru stands frozen - stunned that she and Jaken have remained together for this long without his servant’s demise, and at how little she has changed in the years since their last meeting.

“How is Rin? And Ah-Un? And Kohaku - oh, I’ve practically forgotten their foolish little faces!” Jaken continues to wail, waving the staff of two heads to emphasize the enormity of his struggles. Kagura clicks her tongue loudly, but the kappa soundly ignores her, and she tosses her head with a dramatic huff.

Sesshomaru resists the almost overpowering urge to embrace her. To do so would be foolish. The rejection would be swift and violent - most likely in the form of throwing him off the mountain. And why not? This particular failure of his has been the ultimate betrayal, far worse than simply allowing Naraku to destroy her. This had been a life she’d nurtured, suffered to bear - one she had cherished.

She swears under her breath in exhaustion, curling herself even tighter against his chest. Their newborn son is pressed safe between them, drooling against her collarbone. “I wish he looked more like me,” she mumbles. “Ah, well. Spoiled little prince...”

“Lord Sesshomaru, forgive me for my impertinence, but...” Jaken steps back slowly, in preparation to avoid punishment. “Are you well?”

He supposes he is not. Food and rest seem rather pointless; times when he can slow down enough to breathe, are also opportunities for memories of his loss to seep in. Other than a few visits to his human wards, and one to his mother (which ended quickly enough, when she used the meeting to make an offer of condolences that he does not wish to accept), Sesshomaru has not engaged socially with another creature since that terrible day. Much of his time is spent as it was in his adolescence - wandering the earth, searching for beings to challenge.

It is not as fulfilling as it once was.

“Oi.”

He blinks slowly in surprise, before turning his gaze to Kagura. Arms crossed over her chest, his wife (if she can still be called that, several years after having abandoned each other) appraises him with a cold stare.

“It’s going to snow tonight.” She nods towards the graying clouds. “We have a cave nearby, if you want to spend the night.”

Jaken squawks, vocalizing the disbelief that Sesshomaru himself feels. Kagura’s face reddens.

“Only because you look like shit,” she spits, words cracking in the air like glass. “What would it do to your reputation, to keel over from a little storm?”

The insult smarts, as though she’s taken Bakusaiga in hand and thoroughly tenderized him with it. Sesshomaru used to be strong, proud. The kind of being that others would come to for help, long ago, only to be dismissed for his own purposes.

Now, he is simply a father with two children who have grown up, and one who never got the chance to.

Now, Kagura is the one who curls her lip and turns away.

Jaken fusses over him. It is a strangely welcome reminder of the old days. Kagura acts as though she doesn’t care, but it’s clear the two have developed a routine of sorts on their own - Jaken’s staff has place beside her fan, and they set up a small fire within the depth of the cave together without a single pause in their bickering.

The sense of unbelonging is uncomfortable. Sesshomaru sits as close to the entrance as he can, cold wind bearing against his back, to mute it.

“Eat this, my Lord!” Jaken bows his head, holding out a hunk of steaming meat. “There are tons of tasty creatures roaming around the mountains. It would be my pleasure to prepare as many as you’d like!”

He eats silently, ignoring the nausea that simmers under Kagura’s gaze. He does not know how to diffuse the unbearable tension between them, and so he will not try.

But when Jaken heads to the rear of the cave to sleep, there is no one else to put between them as a makeshift shield. And, despite his fervent prayers, Kagura does not leave her place on the opposite side of the fire.

It feels like centuries pass before she speaks.

“You left us.”

It’s three little words, but he knows exactly the moment of which she speaks. “I did.”

Outside, the wind screams as it drags snow from one side of the mountain and piles it against the other. Kagura pulls her kimonos tighter around her body, glaring into the fire.

He clears his throat. “I destroyed the panther king that day. Eradicated his tribe and his allies.”

She nods stiffly.

“And I have not known peace for a single moment in the past three years.”

Her eyes flick up. “Do you think that’s what I want to hear?”

“It is the truth.”

Fingers crush the edge of her sleeve in a fist. In one swift moment, she stands and marches over to his side of the fire. Sesshomaru braces himself in expectation for a fighting blow.

Her palms slide against the side of his face, thumbs resting against the spot where his skin purples. Up this close, he can see lines of grief darken under her eyes, as the fire’s shadows bounce against them. The purple crescent moon on the side of her neck, tattooed during their wedding ceremony, has turned blood-red in the light.

“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she murmurs.

Then, she wraps him in a tight embrace. Her heartbeat thuds loudly in his ears, drowning out the roar of the snowstorm outside.

He doesn’t know it yet, but for the first time in years, Kagura sleeps soundly through the night.

This doesn’t mean I forgive you.

She is wounded while razing a village, and does not object when Jaken calls him for aid.

This doesn’t mean I forgive you.

Sesshomaru travels to meet Kohaku on a slayer’s trip, and a gust of wind floats by his side the entire way.

This doesn’t mean I forgive you.

On the anniversary of the day Kagura lived again, they meet one another in an overgrown forest and don’t part ways until half a week later.

“Please?” Rin begs, tugging on Kagura’s arm. Though she’s well past the appropriate age for such childish actions, no one objects when she spends her parents’ visits practically glued to the wind witch’s side. “Lord Sesshomaru won’t tell me.”

“Ah.” Kagura glances over to where he stands in the corner, inspecting a weapon that Kohaku has mounted on the wall. “So you were listening to me, for once.”

“You said you wanted to keep it a secret,” he drones, carefully obscuring the relief that still arises in him that they can speak like this to one another, again. Things have progressed between them more than he could have ever imagined in the past few months; some days, he can almost believe that things will be like they were before.

Rin sighs in a long, guttural motion that sounds too much like his brother for Sesshomaru’s liking. “Please? Jaken said it was good news.”

“Oh, of course that stupid frog would be the one to--”

“Kaguraaaa.” “Okay, fine.” The witch’s hand travels up to her hair, picking nervously at the feathers twisted into the base of her bun. “You’re going to have a sister by the time it’s autumn.”

Rin’s mouth drops; her head snaps over to where Lord Sesshomaru is trying very hard to look too busy to participate in the conversation. “What? But I thought you two were still--how did this even--” Her hands grip Kagura’s shoulders tightly. “Are you okay?”

He’s apprehensive about the same thing. When everything on Earth still reminds them of Akinori, would another child only bring fear and resentment into the picture? Only by some strange miracle had they salvaged what tragedy had broken - the stress of another birth could easily rupture the wound again.

“I’m okay.” Kagura shrugs in a poor attempt to hide her discomfort. “Definitely didn’t miss the morning sickness, though.”

Rin sticks to her even more closely after that.

Mirai is born during a storm, a week and two days earlier than she is supposed to arrive. Despite the timing, she is red-faced and lively, screaming from her mother’s arms the moment she can breathe.

When she is old enough, her parents will take her to meet her older sister, and the grave of her older brother. Her grandfather’s sword and her mother’s fan will be her sixteenth birthday gifts.

But for now, she rests in the crook of her mother’s arm, lulled asleep by the wind.

“She sure is loud,” Kagura mumbles, tracing a tiny ear with one finger. “Guess we should prepare for a sleepless winter.”

Sesshomaru hums wordlessly in agreement. As he shifts, to shield them both from the cold seeping through the nearby window, Kagura grabs his arm with her free hand.

“I don’t blame you anymore, by the way.” Her words slur with fatigue. “I haven’t for a long time.”

He could tell her that her forgiveness is not necessary to keep them together. That, regardless of what she does, he will always blame himself first and foremost.

Instead, Sesshomaru leans over to rest his chin atop her head. “Sleep, now.”

“Right, right.” Her eyes close, lips turning up in what is unmistakably a smile. “You better stay where you are, or else...”

He would not be able to step away if he wanted to.

#sesskagu #kagura #sesshomaru #inuyasha #sesskaguweek #sesskaguweek21 #savethelastdan #shespitsfire

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bbygirldahyun · 3 years

Note

cheer au nayeon finding out dahyun cant swim so she teaches her 🥺

dahyun went to one, singular swimming lesson as a child.

she’d been eager to go, around four years old and still with a bright curiosity for the world in her own, cautious way.

despite it being loud, and there being several other kids she didn’t know, and her being left alone with the swimming instructor while her parents went somewhere else for an hour, she tried to keep her excitement.

and it was fine, really, until the instructor started their first lesson — sticking the mouth and nose under the water to blow bubbles.

the sensation of her face under the water was awful, dahyun too young to have the words to communicate what exactly about it was upsetting her, instead just flat out refusing to do it and breaking down in tears.

so she’d sat at the side of the pool for the rest of the lesson, sniffling and hiccuping watching all the other kids blow bubbles in the water, and she never went back to swimming lessons after that.

into her adolescence, she knew it was odd to say the least that she still didn’t know how to swim, but that memory of her first swimming lesson lingered in her mind, not to mention her already ever present insecurities over her body.

so she never learned, never going to the community pool during the summers as many other students at their school did, not that she’d really want to anyways.

swimming never really came up, that is until she started dating nayeon, who’s family has a pool in the backyard.

nayeon has invited dahyun to swim several times, whether it be a warm day she, sana, and mina are already in the pool and she’d text dahyun to ask if she wanted to join or at one of their sleepovers offering they can go swim if dahyun wants.

dahyun always declines, and nayeon doesn’t push, forever assuming it’s an insecurity thing. she knows dahyun struggles with her self image and she doesn’t want to put any pressure on her to do something like wearing a bathing suit when it could make her feel bad about herself.

but dahyun wants to swim, for the first time in her life wishing she’d stuck it out at swim lessons so she wouldn’t have to embarrassingly admit she doesn’t know how, even now.

“maybe we could go down to the pool and um...you can swim and i’ll just sit at the edge,” dahyun suggests one day. “dip my feet in.”

nayeon gives her a slightly questioning look. “you don’t wanna get in with me?”

dahyun shifts nervously, the admission on the tip of her tongue, eyes on her own lap when she mumbles, “i-i...i can’t swim.”

understanding washes over nayeon’s face. “that’s okay, baby. i can teach you,” she says instantly.

“really? you’d do that?” dahyun asks in awe, and nayeon smiles.

“of course! swimming is really fun, and it’s not hard to learn,” she grins brightly. “you’re so smart i’m sure you’ll get it easy.”

so she leads down to their deck, gently helping dahyun down the steps into the pool, holding her hand. for awhile they stay in the shallow water where they can still touch, just getting accustomed to it.

“did you not grow up swimming?” nayeon asks to make conversation.

“i went to one lesson and hated it,” dahyun sighs. “i cried until i went home, so my parents never bothered to take me back. said i embarassed them.”

nayeon nods, understanding, hating that nobody was patient enough with dahyun to help her learn in her own way, at her own pace.

“well it’s never too late to learn,” nayeon tells her confidently. “you’ve helped me so much with school stuff, it’s the least i can do.”

dahyun comes to find she enjoys swimming, when it’s nayeon guiding her, showing her how to tread and to doggy paddle and telling her she never had to go under the water if she doesn’t want to, or she could try ear plugs and a pinching her nose to keep the water from bugging her.

she feels so proud of herself when she swims from one end of the pool to the other without stopping all on her own, a gleeful grin on her face as nayeon cheers for her, telling her she’s doing great.

“practically ready for the olympics!” she calls, making dahyun giggle.

#ask #anon #twice #dahyun #nayeon #dayeon #cheer au

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schnees-and-schnugs · 4 years

Text

I’m going to create a canon divergence that is so self indulgent- *insert willow-whitley and kitty AU*

This is a concept I want to write in multiple short parts until I get bored and wear it out- so consider this just a pt. 1

I also wrote this with these last few fics in mind, so you can think of this as a continuation of those. Or not. But a lot of the same themes do apply.

This is probably going to be first fic that I don’t write in one/two sittings but my classes are a pain in the ass ;_;

tw: eating disorder, alcoholism

_______________________________________________________________

“I want a cat.”

Willow blinked. “What?”

Her son fidgeted nervously on his feet. “A cat. I want to adopt a cat.”

Well this is a... surprise.

Despite her and Whitley having lived on their own in Patch for a few months, he’s hardly spoken a world to her since the fall of Atlas. Or spoken a word to anyone, really. She put it up to the radically new environment, and well, the fact that Atlas is gone, the SDC is in shambles, and Jacques had been MIA (probably dead) since the fall. Winter and Weiss had insisted that Willow and Whitley settle down somewhere quiet and safe, and the islands off the coast of Vale weren’t exactly next on Salem’s attack checklist.

It was two of Weiss’ teammates who suggested they head to Patch, even offering to let their father know about their arrival. Willow had gently denied the kind offer, saying that Tai Xiao Long didn’t need to bother with them. They’ll be fine. She pretending not to notice the look on all their faces: a depressed alcoholic and her previously isolated, emotionally traumatized son? Fine on their own?

She had then turned around, gathered Whitley (who was sitting on the bench behind her, ignoring attempts made by a few of Weiss’ companions to cheer him up even a little), and bought tickets for the next ship going from Vacuo to Vale.

Yet when the ship docked on the shore of the island, there stood a blonde, muscular man with a sign that read: Willow and Whitley Schnee, Welcome! in sharpie. He must have saw the confusion (and honestly a little fear) on her face from his standpoint on the harbor because he had quickly flipped the sign over and scribbled on it before holding it up again. My name is Tai Xiao Long. Yang and Ruby’s Father.

It seems that Weiss’ friends didn’t listen to me.

Nevertheless, Willow had breathed a sigh of relief. She had quite a few run ins with people on the journey east who recognized her and/or Whitley. The interactions have ranged from stares that were a little too long to pure hostility. It also didn’t help that some people thought it was okay to just grab any well known person they see- she almost broke a man’s arm after he had suddenly seized Whitley’s wrist and jerked him around. He’d probably be dead if Winter and Weiss were there, but Willow had settled on ripping the mans arm away with a glyph and dragging Whitley off quickly.

And now here they are, three months later and Willow was drinking a can of soda while enjoying the afternoon breeze on the front porch of their little cabin when Whitley approached her.

“A cat. I want to adopt a cat.”

She looked up at her son’s face and saw a familiar look of apprehension that everyone in their family had when faced with the prospect of having to ask for anything. Of course, before it usually involved asking Jacques, or begging more so. Willow had to approach this carefully or else Whitley is just going to recede back into his shell and not speak a word for another three months.

“Well... we can ask Mr. Xiao Long about it. He surely would know about any animal shelters around here.”

He scrunched up his nose, a face that she knew in Whitley Terms meant yeah okay... but I’m not happy about it.

Willow knew better than to suspect that Whitley disliked Mr. Xiao Long specifically. He avoided everyone these days- friendly neighbors, SDC businessmen, etc. Tai had made sure they were comfortable every step of the way. He had shown them around, introduced them to soon-to-be friends, brought them into his home for meals until Willow figured out her way around a kitchen, even invited Whitley to study at Signal Academy. He refused, but Willow appreciated the offer. And she knew Whitley appreciated it too, but he’s having a hard enough time coming to terms with Willow’s protectiveness of him, much less accept the fact that a stranger may also care slightly about him.

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Willow couldn’t help but to smile at his childish apprehension. She relished any show of adolescence in her son these days. After years of walking on eggshells and maintaining a facade just short of perfection, he needed to clumsily blunder around like any young teenager would do.

Whitley tugged at his long red sleeves. “There’s a stray kitten that comes around here at night...”

“You have that one in mind?”

He nodded. “I always hear it meowing outside my window. I want to try to bring it inside- I leave scraps outside my window but it always disappears by the time the sun rises. Maybe if I could get it to come to the porch... In Atlas, they said in the animal shelter that it takes a few weeks to socialize a kitten.”

He started at her expectantly. Willow had forgotten that Whitley would occasionally volunteer at one of the few animal shelters in Atlas. Jacques only allowed him to go just so he could milk all the PR he could out of it, obviously. But to this day, she had never actually heard Whitley speak about it unprompted. It must have been something he genuinely liked if he was so quiet about it. He knew full well that any hobby that he actually outwardly enjoyed was the first on Jacques’ chopping block if Whitley ever slipped up.

Willow stood up on the porch steps and faced her son. “Very well then. Tonight we’ll leave food out on the front porch and watch to see if it comes by.”

Whitley’s face brightened for the first time in months. “Really?”

“Mmhm.” She hummed. “Hopefully soon enough the kitten will like us and come inside...”

Willow’s chest ached at the overwhelming surprise on his face. Asking Jacques for anything always came with a catch, a quid pro quo. Looking back, Willow always knew love was a transaction to him. But being young and blinded by the man- she just accepted it as a slight character flaw. Whitley didn’t know anything other than this.

She was going to get him this kitten even if she had to crawl in the shrubbery at midnight looking for it.

For the next few hours he assisted Willow in the kitchen for the first time since they got to Patch. Mostly because he wanted to get the kittens food out as fast as he could, but she wasn’t complaining. She watched as Whitley cut up a cooked chicken breast into bite sized little pieces, his tongue slightly sticking out as he concentrated. She wondered, briefly, if it was safe to allow him to handle a kitchen knife. Willow shook the thought away. He isn’t a child. She wouldn’t insult him by treating him like one. But she still had to be a mother... if it wasn’t too late.

She tried to be as hands off as she could in these last few months while trying to muster what parental authority she could without scaring Whitley away. He was free to spend his time to do whatever he liked just as long as it was safe and he went to bed on time. Eating three solid meals a day was also a requirement, but that was a sensitive issue that Willow didn’t know how to approach with conviction. He has been cooperative for the most part in this aspect- which came as a surprise since Whitley has spent years trying to maintain whatever little control he had over his own life by strictly regulating what went inside his mouth and when. Which often meant very little eating.

Willow didn’t want to name the condition out loud. If she did, then it would become a problem. Then she would have to admit that all of this still wasn’t enough to fix everything. Then she would start wanting a drink-

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe her and Whitley were simply too broken to be able to live on their own.

But they haven’t been living on their own, have they? Mr. Xiao Long still came by a few times a week to “check up on how y’all are adapting”, as he says. More like to make sure I’m not passed out drunk and Whitley hadn’t taken the opportunity to jump off a cliff, Willow thought bitterly.

She still didn’t know how much Weiss and her friends told him - but they must have been pretty honest if he was going to be this concerned. Willow cringed at the thought of how he must see her - a failure of a mother. Not only that, but one who’s too afraid to confront the fact that her son is sick and needs help, but she can’t help because she’s not enough-

“I’m done.”

Willow blinked out of her increasingly chaotic thoughts to see Whitley holding a small bowl of chopped chicken, staring at her expectantly.

Maybe I should stop thinking so much.

“Lets put it out on the front porch then,” Willow grabbed both their plates of spaghetti off the kitchen counter. “We can eat by the window and watch for the kitten.”

Whitley frowned. “Can we keep the front door open? Maybe if it sees us enough times then it will get used to us eventually.”

“Whatever you want darling,” She replied, already on her way to the living room.

And so they sat eating dinner, she on the edge of the couch and he on the floor on front of the open door. They sat in silence, but it was a comfortable one - Whitley watching the outside intently for the kitten and Willow watching him absentmindedly eat. A few minutes turned into an hour and she began to wonder if the kitten was going to show tonight, but a tiny scampering sound brought her and her son back to attention.

The kitten emerged from the shrubbery.

It was beautiful.

It was small, only about a few weeks old. Its pitch black fur made it almost impossible to see without the aid of the moonlight. Its little white socks on its paws and glowing eyes gave it away as it inched slowly towards the now cold bowl of chicken.

Willow held her breath, and she knew Whitley was too. The kitten tentatively ate from the bowl, unaware of the two humans watching it. It seemed about half way through when Whitley, unknowing, leaned forward- causing his now empty plate to slide off his lab and hit the wood floor. The sound wasn’t loud, but in the silence of the night it was like a gunshot.

The kitten’s head snapped up, ears perked in attention. For an almost comical millisecond, the kitten stared at the two of them and they stared back, everyone wide eyed. Then it turned and ran off back where it came, leaving behind nothing but a bowl of half eaten chicken.

Willow braced herself for Whitley’s inevitable disappointment. But instead, when she turned toward him she saw an expression of joy. His eyes are brighter than she had ever seen them, not since he was a child.

“She’s a girl,” He said.

She furrowed her brow. “How do you know that?”

“When she turned around and ran - I saw her backside. I think she’s a girl.”

Willow smiled. “Very well then. One discovery is good enough for tonight.”

Standing up, she reached for both of their used dishes and softly closed the front door shut. “Time for bed.”

Whitley didn’t complain. He headed off the bed while Willow cleaned up the kitchen- a menial task that she never had to do back in atlas. But she found a peace in it. If given the choice, she would take a lifestyle of chores over the decadent one she had before. Ten times out of ten. This felt real.

In the back of her mind, she remembered the chicken left outside. After considering, she decided to leave it out in case the kitten came back. She would make sure that Whitley would have this kitten eventually. It was the least she could do.

#rwby #my fic #willow schnee #whitley schnee #its 2 am and i barely proof read bear with me

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orangerosebush · 4 years

Text

On minds and matters

It was a bit disheartening to spend years working towards an MA in psychology, only to then use it on hour-long glorified eye-staring contests with the moody adolescents of the UK’s Vieux riches. His job paid well, though, and as such Dr. Po was willing to grit his teeth and soldier on through each meeting on his list.

He’d had plenty of patients who came to him determined not to progress. These were the boys who had a few too many write-ups on their files; the ones whose families were tired of their son being too 'emotionally high-maintenance'; the students who had consigned themselves to being one of the ‘troubled’ boys. The problem with elite boarding schools was that they sometimes served as the dumping grounds for wealthy families who would prefer to not be reminded of their screw-up children — as such, Dr. Po’s target demographic was made up of boys determined to ‘win’ therapy by going home just as bitter and in pain as they were when they started sessions with him.

He didn’t always make a breakthrough. Sometimes, he had patients who showed up to a session with a note from Dean Guiney excusing them from further meetings, and that was that. Dr. Po firmly believed that every single student he’d met with was capable of finding some coping mechanism or outlet that would help them — and he hoped that the students whose sessions stopped before any progress had been made found happiness in the future. Or, at the very least, that they found something that would bring them peace.

There were certain patients he’d had that stood out from the others, both for good reasons and bad. Artemis Fowl II was one of those patients — and standing out for reasons ‘both good and bad’ described Artemis perfectly.

Following a series of disastrous sessions when the boy was thirteen, Dr. Po had simply stopped seeing Artemis. The boy hadn’t even shown up with a note terminating their sessions. One day, a new boy had shown up in the time slot usually reserved for Artemis, and that had been that. Dr. Po hadn’t seen Artemis since. He vaguely remembered hearing the news that the Fowl patriarch had been found — alive — and not been sure whether to expect Artemis to get better or worse.

Would the return of his father foster the growth of the nascent emotional maturity that Artemis had exhibited in their final sessions? Or would Artemis’ worst traits — his tendency towards arrogance, his dismissal of others, his budding narcissism — firmly take root, defining Artemis’ personality for good? These questions nagged at Dr. Po, and truthfully, he was too cowardly to ask around the staff to confirm just what sort of person Artemis had become.

Thus, Artemis remained an enigma.

An enigma that just so happened to be sitting in the armchair across from Dr. Po, boring a hole through the doctor with his unflinching gaze.

In true Artemis Fowl fashion, the boy had shown up for a session that had been reserved without a name. Dr. Po had nearly dropped his clipboard when he’d opened the door to usher in his new patient and been greeted with a now fifteen years of age Artemis Fowl standing before him, looking simultaneously defiant and sheepish.

They’d both walked into the room wordlessly, waiting in silence as Dr. Po awkwardly rummaged around in his desk for his old notes on Artemis while the young teen sat gingerly in the patient seat in the middle of the room.

“You’ve not switched to a digital filing system?”

Dr. Po started, looking up at Artemis.

“No psychiatrist or counselor uses iPads or digital notetakers,” Dr. Po explained hesitantly, brow furrowing.

Artemis wasn’t one for small talk, usually.

Shaking his head slightly as if to right himself, Dr. Po continued. “It’d be convenient, but there are concerns about the patient being recorded."

Artemis seemed satisfied with that answer.

Flipping his notes closed, Dr. Po studied Artemis, who raised a single brow.

“I’ve never forgotten our session that you left in the middle of,” Dr. Po remarked, and the frown lines on Artemis’ face deepened. “You were such a smarmy child. But you… made this joke.”

Artemis leaned back in his chair, tapping a foot in annoyance. “What a wonderful memory you have.”

“Not really. But it’s hard to forget a patient like you, Artemis,” Dr. Po sighed. “I tried to ask you about your feelings — you responded by telling me a family heirloom was a blatant forgery.”

The memory caused Artemis to smile genuinely for the first time since he’d stepped into the office. “The fake Victorian?”

The doctor grimaced. “Yes.”

“Despite its lack of authenticity, it was a perfectly nice armchair,” Artemis assured, a gently teasing note worming its way into his voice.

Edged on by Artemis' demeanor softening, Dr. Po pushed on. “But back to the joke. I remarked on the loss of your father — insensitively, I now realize — and you shut down. You started jerking me in this way and that in order to prevent me from getting a real reading on you. You said something along the lines of, ‘I’m depressed that I’m going to therapy,’ I believe. Quite a bon mot.”

“I was impudent as a young boy, I’m afraid,” Artemis said breezily, sounding more amused by the tale than remorseful. “I hope you’ll forgive me for a poor first impression.”

“Artemis, why are you back in my office?”

Artemis didn’t even blink, taking the challenge in stride. “My mother believes it will be beneficial.”

“Your mother? Not you?”

“Correct.”

“And… beneficial? To what end? Elaborate on her reasoning, perhaps,” Dr. Po asked, trying to keep his tone light.

“She believes I am emotionally maladjusted,” Artemis said, giving a small shrug.

“Are you?”

Artemis blinked owlishly, the question not quite computing. “Am I what, doctor?”

Dr. Po clicked his pen idly. “Unhappy.”

“Well, of course.”

Dr. Po was unable to keep his face neutral, and Artemis chuckled slightly at the doctor’s wide-eyed gaping.

“Dr. Po,” Artemis sighed, sobering as if he were explaining something evident to a child. “Of course I am unhappy occasionally. I’m a very busy man. My intellect has made it so I’ve moved beyond the carefree days of adolescence — I’ve matured past an age where my mother could treat me as a child, and although I don’t mourn the loss of simpler times, I suppose she does.”

Dr. Po forced himself not to ask if Artemis had ever truly been treated as a child, deciding to steer clear of the topic of family based on how unproductively the discussion had gone years ago. Instead, he elected to place his clipboard on the floor, looking at Artemis bluntly.

“Artemis, I’m not diagnosing you with anything,” he began, holding up a hand when Artemis opened his mouth to say something. “What I want to discuss today, however, is that right now I see the same pain in you today as I did when you were thirteen — and since I’m no longer getting complaints from department heads, that means you’ve taken that frustration and turned it somewhere else.”

Artemis’ lips quirked upwards, but his eyes were mirthless. “You share my mother's theory that I am some variation of the tortured genius stereotype.”

“How about this — I think that you believe that there isn’t a person alive smart enough to help you. Because to 'fix' you, someone would have to look inside you, and you think you’re the only person that’s able to understand how you work.”

“How narcissistic of me.”

“I’ve met with a lot of people since our last session when you were thirteen,” Dr. Po stressed. “I’ve not met anyone quite as clever as you, but I’ve met people who fit the same profile. You’re well versed in my profession, so you’re able to view your pain as both a participant and as an outsider — and that strangely voyeuristic relationship to your mind makes it so you and all these other folks think that you’re objective. Logical, even, in your analysis of your mind. You understand every tick, every tiny mechanism, every structure of your psyche. And if you understand it all and you still can’t will yourself to be happy, then why the hell should I be able to do anything for you? After all, I’m just some idiot who decorates his office with forged antique furniture his grandfather was gullible enough to purchase. Why should I know better than you do?”

Artemis was silent at that.

“If someone can, say, convince themselves that all their peers are 2D caricatures of people, they’ll never have to think about why they struggle to feel any pleasure from social interaction. If they can look around and see how far their family has come, then they can force themselves to box up and discard the baggage of the past. If they can convince themselves that pain and genius are twins, that the torment is part of the gift by which they define themselves, then the fear they have that maybe they’re destined for a life marked by paranoia and apathy no longer has to be confronted,” Dr. Po tried, searching for some way to express his thoughts before Artemis decided to snap at him. “Maybe you’re the only one who sees the world as it really is. But maybe your mother is right to be concerned. I get why… that’s an unattractive possibility to you. It would mean your analysis of yourself was incorrect. And if you were wrong, if your mind has tricked you into running away from the change that you need to feel happier, then you’re just as human as the rest of us. Pain tricked you into believing its integral to your ‘youness’. You’re... just human. And let me tell you, Artemis, that feeling ineffectual, and frustrated, and sad is... so very painfully human.”

By the time he’d finished his spiel, Dr. Po’s voice was soft. Pursing his lips, he tried to see if he’d garnered any sort of reaction from Artemis. The teen remained stony-faced.

“I can recommend a therapist from outside Saint Bartleby’s,” Dr. Po finally said. “If you don’t want to work with me, then I don’t want to waste either of our time.”

Artemis seemed to be broiling with unreadable intensity, and for a moment Dr. Po worried that he’d start going on a diatribe.

His fears soon were proven unfounded when all of the sudden, Artemis seemed to deflate.

“I do not choose sadness for myself, Dr. Po. I can assure you that,” Artemis remarked, sounding weary in the way men twice his age did when confronted by the prospect of the world having moved on past their prime.

“I would never imply something so insensitive,” Dr. Po insisted. “But there is a difference between me saying something of that sort and me asking you to believe that I could help you. Or if not me, then someone better suited to working with you.”

Artemis ruminated on the statement, his tapered fingers tapping out an unfamiliar rhythm on the arms of the ornate chair he was sitting in.

“I will come to my session next week,” he finally decided, and Dr. Po almost sagged with relief.

Carefully, the two of them continued on with the session. Although it felt as though they were both walking on eggshells around one another, the hour-long session ultimately ended in a place where Dr. Po felt like they could work with. He walked Artemis to the door, and after awkwardly bidding him goodbye, Dr. Po retreated back into his office.

For a while, he simply sat at his desk, thinking.

It wasn’t as though he’d made groundbreaking headway with Artemis today. Frankly, they’d been only nominally productive following Artemis’ promise to give therapy a genuine attempt.

The day stretched on, and Dr. Po was no closer to making sense of the ever-present Artemis conundrum.

After all, how does one describe Artemis Fowl?

Various psychiatrists have tried and failed. The problem is Artemis’ own intelligence. He bamboozles every test thrown at him. He has puzzled the greatest medical minds, and sent many of them gibbering back to their own hospitals.

Dr. Po paused, reaching back for the clipboard he’d discarded at the beginning of the session.

Artemis Fowl II was fifteen. He had various, tremendously important responsibilities, the details of which he refused to elaborate on. His best friend, to Dr. Po’s knowledge, was his paid bodyguard. Frankly, Dr. Po didn’t think they’d talk about Artemis’ family for a long, long time.

Dr. Po couldn’t really describe Artemis Fowl, because he didn’t know him. He didn’t think many people knew the boy, not really.

All the same, Dr. Po wanted to try. He wanted to try to understand Artemis Fowl a bit better. Not because Dr. Po wanted to a hero, but because he wanted Artemis Fowl to just get to be a boy instead of whatever impossible, confusing role Artemis seemed to be trying to fill.

Artemis Fowl was fifteen. Dr. Po hoped that he’d hold onto boyhood a little while longer.

#my writing #artemis fowl #long post #hi hello im zoe and i write awful fanfiction <3

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