#even the vet is so impress by him and everytime he tell us how good we are to him and how glad he is that he’s still with us 🥺

[yoohyeon]

Puppy is 14yo today !!! 🥳

I though i wouldn’t I had the luck to say the number 14, we’re so lucky he’s still here with us and I love him so much, he’s a little miracle and no words can describe how much he means to me 💚💙💞💕

[tsuraiwrites]

The Uses of Sorrow: Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness - tell me it doesn't smell of voiles to you?

for this prompt meme. this will be up on ao3 in the evening.

A Box Full of Darkness (½)

The thing about corporating out of some bandages onto that wooden floor… the thing is that no matter what Noshiko and her oni say, no matter that the oni’s hold on him felt like they were scraping claws on the inside of his skull and deemed him free of corruption, Stiles doesn’t feel like a real person. 

He’s got all of his memories, sure. Even the ADHD came through fine. PTSD and nightmares are real winners too.

But there used to be a small scar over the knuckle of his index finger, where Mrs. Peterson’s pomeranian bit him when he was eight. He had to get stitches because it kept spurting blood everytime he twitched his finger. There’s no faint line above his eyebrow where Erica bashed him in the face. He has no scars now, except onore, the “self” the oni branded him with.

Stiles is a copy, and he can’t forget it when his own body is a testament to the truth. He traces the kanji when he’s distracted, wondering if the mark is supposed to fade at some point. He doesn’t think it will.

Maybe the oni missed something vital, something still curled around the back of his brain. 

When he finally turns to Google to answer the questions still buzzing around his head like that fucking fly, Stiles finds himself staring at a webpage full of Japanese and reading it as easily as English. He tabs away, checking emails before typing another search term into the browser.

After a while he realizes he’s reading a PDF of the original Kojiki, combing for references to the god of foxes, kitsune, or nogitsune. The old Japanese holy text is already liberally annotated. The corner of his screen reads 4:30am and he has to be at school in less than four hours. Stiles sucks in a breath, clenching his hands into fists until they stop shaking.

He slams his laptop shut and faceplants into the bed, packing away this new horrifying revelation and shoving it into a dark corner. 

The visualization helps a little, even if his skull starts to feel scraped out and raw again. 

Stiles tries to forget about it.

He won’t be able to, but he tries.

-

“Stiles,” a voice whispers in his dream, and the sad thing is Stiles thinks he’s actually able to tell it’s not real without even counting his fingers. The figment of his own brain speaks into his ear, and Stiles waves it away until it disperses like so much mist.

He knows he’s not possessed. He’s too empty for that voice to be real.

-

Then Scott calls them to Derek’s loft. 

“And everything looked fine, his door was locked, nothing out of place, but…” Scott trails off, distressed. Stiles looks around, but everything is just as open and lifeless as ever.

“But what? Did you find something that points to this kidnapping theory?” Stiles finally snaps when Scott doesn’t continue. 

“Of course he didn’t find anything. This place has been professionally cleaned. That cobweb that’s been there since he moved here is gone,” Lydia says, pointing to the corner by the window. Scott squints like his eyesight isn’t perfect, and Stiles can read his frustration with missing cues that only Lydia could deem ‘obvious’. 

“So what, you want Lydia to run her hands over everything in the room to see if someone capped Derek? Seems like just asking for tetanus.”

Scott shoots him a look full of exasperation and Lydia brushes past him, rolling her eyes as she prepares to listen. 

For about five minutes, Stiles has hope they can resolve this quickly. 

-

He can’t say why he comes to the clinic, his thought process not much beyond every minute that passes is another Derek may be dying.

They have nothing. No leads. No new impressions. No one they can really reach out to. Isaac and Argent fucked off to France to run away from their grief, practically gone dark but for the few texts from Isaac over the last weeks. So far they’ve received no reply about their worries for Derek, and if Stiles is honest he’s not sure Argent is up to making all the calls necessary, not with Allison gone.

(And that hurts too because even when he feels unreal he can still feel his hands gripping the blade that sank into Scott the same way it must have sunk into Allison and it hurts-)

But he finds himself picking the lock into the vet clinic almost absent-mindedly, his thoughts focused on fending off that twist of grief threatening to drown him if he lets it. 

Deaton isn’t in, but it’s not like Stiles needs him to get past the mountain ash lines or whatever other supernatural traps the druid laid. 

(And he feels unreal again because how can he be human after getting puked out his own body or when he feels like there’s a subtle awareness of his own energy like something buzzing under his skin and reminding Stiles how hollow he is)

He comes back to awareness while popping open a padlock with steady hands. He curiously lifts the lid off the metal chest and peeks inside.

He slams the lid again, clicks the padlock in place, and runs out the clinic as fast as his legs can carry him.

-

First is the fear. How did Stiles know it was there? Did it put him in a fucking trance- but no, he’d seen the runes all over that chest, so surely Deaton was using that to contain its influence. Surely. But then how did Stiles know where to find it.

Close on fears heels comes anger, because Argent was supposed to take care of it, to make sure it never hurts anyone again-

But that’s too much to ask of a man whose daughter died because of that thing. Because of Stiles. 

He hisses, hitting the wheel with his open palms until they ache and then gripping for all he’s worth.

“Stiles,” his dad says on the other side of the door and Stiles yelps, banging his knee hard into the dashboard. “You okay, kid?” 

Damn it, even his paranoia isn’t good for anything if he didn’t notice his dad walking up to the Jeep. Stiles scrambles to unbuckle and get out. His dad’s raised eyebrows don’t help the embarrassment he feels when they both realize he’s wearing just his pajamas and a pair of sneakers. He didn’t even put on socks. 

“Hey, you haven’t been sleepwalking again, have you?” John asks, his face twisting up with concern. He sets a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and Stiles can’t help how he flinches. The next moment he’s being reeled in closer and pulled into another of those hugs – the ones that happen when they’re both thinking about things better left unsaid. “No, not sleepwalking, I promise,” he mutters, not quite sure how true it is. “There’s just, been a lot going on and…” Stiles mentally flails, casting about for a suitable lie, and John pulls away to look him in the eye again. This is the part where Dad asks what’s going on, and Stiles comes up with some high school drama, some small werewolf thing, a story about how he had a nightmare and wanted to grab some coffee and didn’t think to change clothes…

But his dad just looks at him, doing his best to be patient without walking on eggshells. Stiles’ next breath hitches on a sob he can’t quite choke down.

“It’s about Derek…”

-

It’s easier to convince his dad than Stiles thought it would be, even with their paper-thin conclusions that Derek has been kidnapped. 

His dad files a missing persons report and reaches out along the few contacts he has that haven’t yet burned their bridges with the Hellmouth that is Beacon Hills. In the process they finally reel Peter into things, which is in hindsight a mistake. He has nothing helpful to add but snarky comments and an intense fixation on watching Malia. Stiles keeps an eye on them, and Malia may as well be bristling at the attention. He carefully keeps himself between them, even though she probably won’t hesitate to go through him if Peter says something to piss her off.

It should be a red flag, how little that prospect frightens him. Instead Stiles is forced to push it aside for that clock ticking down somewhere in the back of his head, telling him that Derek is running out of time. He’d think it was just anxiety giving him a panic-inducing imaginary countdown, but… somehow Stiles is just sure. 

Nothing good will happen to Derek if they don’t find him in time.

-

No leads, no leads and the clock is ticking. Argent still won’t get back to them. 

He keeps going back to the loft, even though Lydia got nothing more than blood, gunshots, and a woman’s voice. Nothing helpful, and Stiles keeps getting stuck back on the floor, shining with a faint lemon-scent by unknown hands. They only have assurance that Derek didn’t die here, despite probably being shot. 

Even Kira’s mother has little to say in the matter. It doesn’t surprise him – celestial kitsune have never been very useful aside from summoning oni and some flashy cleansing powers… and if that’s not thought Stiles ever would have had before, he shakes his head and ignores it. 

The way he’s trying to ignore the knowledge that there is someone – something – that could touch the featureless concrete and know, because it deals in pain and suffering and feeds on it even years later. 

It’s Peter who finds him there, still standing in the middle of the floor an hour later. The sound of his name breaks Stiles out of his thought process. Peter grabs his arm when he tries to brush past him and Stiles can’t help his flinch.

He’s immediately let go, and can’t quite process what’s happening for a moment when Peter takes a step away from him. Bewildered, Stiles finally meets his eyes.

“Are you alright?” 

It’s the last thing he expects to hear from Peter and he blinks hard. “What- I…” he stops, straightens a little to look at the wolf on the same level. “I’m fine. I am,” he insists when Peter squints at him. Stiles’ heartbeat is as steady as it ever gets. He isn’t lying. 

-

It’s easy as anything to download a Japanese keyboard to his phone. Even with shaking hands, he has a few emails sent out before he unlocks the door to his dark, empty house. His dad is on shift, and with everyone out looking for any sign of Derek he can’t expect company for the evening. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes once with an incoming email. 

-

The hostess only raises an eyebrow as Stiles skids through the restaurant door two minutes before closing. He musters his best sheepish smile. “Uh, pickup for Stilinski?” 

“Of course,” she says, picking up a large bag and setting it on the corner before him. “Cash or card?”

Stiles pays and quickly leaves again, hoping that the sheer amount of karaage and inarizushi he bought will make up for it not being warm when he finally eats it. But no, he can’t think about that right now. Focus is what’s needed here. 

He drives with both hands on the wheel, counting his breaths just so panic won’t cause him to run off the road. The Jeep’s beaten up enough as it is, it probably won’t survive another head-on collision with a tree. 

He could swear the wards and mountain ash prick at him as he picks the lock again. The quiet snick of the last pin sliding into place echoes ominously, reverberating in the hollow space carved into his chest. The plastic bag in his hand grows heavier. Nevertheless, Stiles makes his slow way to the dark office, counting his breaths.

He drives the screwdriver into the lock and it clicks open in time with his thudding heart.

Shock, an emotion screaming into Stiles’ brain like a livewire the instant his hand touches the box. A moment later that clears and rage hammers into him, the quiet thunk of a buzzing fly throwing itself mindlessly against the lid, trying to get at him. 

It takes every ounce of self-control to set the box on the floor instead of dropping it, and he has to wonder if Deaton or Argent could feel this too, or if he’s just special. Stiles gratefully lets go but the buzzing only grows louder. 

“Chill out,” he says, voice as steady as he can make it. He may be shaking, but the fly doesn’t need to know that. 1-2-3-4… he keeps counting on one hand, touching his thumb to each finger in sequence. With the other hand, he takes two styrofoam containers and opens the tops before turning the containers to face the box.

The buzzing stops. 

Got your attention now, don’t I, you bastard. “Kitsune-tsuki,” he says, and if his accent is a little archaic, it can’t be helped. “Willingly, this time.” 

The box actually twitches from how hard the fly buzzes, and Stiles doesn’t need to touch it to get the impression of rage and betrayal from it – it spent far too long wrapped up in Stiles’ neurons for him not to get to know it back, at least a little toward the end. 

“It’s not a trick,” says the human kid to the monster, and Stiles wants to laugh, reassuring the only being he hates in this world more than Gerard Argent that he’s being sincere. Half a giggle slips out before he strangles it. “I know what it means to be kitsune-mochi. This can’t be a trick.”

In the quiet, the fly buzzes once, almost petulant. 

Stiles scoffs. “You tricked Noshiko first, you don’t get to be pissed when she tricked you back.” His mouth pulls into a grin and there’s no one to see how strained it is at the edges when Stiles leans forward and negligently flicks the box of sushi with a finger. “Well?” he finally hisses at the silent hunk of wood, trying not to let his desperation show. 

Somewhere in the next room, something drips loudly. The invisible clock ticks on. 

Then a high, long buzz he can’t interpret, but he doesn’t have to when he’s already reaching to open the box with the yes ringing in his ears. 

“Onegaishimasu,” he remembers to spit at the last minute, and then there is pain. 

It’s not the slow invasion of dreams and backsliding sanity Stiles experienced before. It strikes like lightning, but inside, a rapid expansion of shadow driving seeking tendrils through all his veins and up his spine, curling tight around nerves and bone alike. The brand underneath his ear burns hot. 

All is quiet for a long moment. The dripping faucet is dry and the pain gradually fades.

There’s an almost physical sensation as the nogitsune wends their way through his memories until they come to the reason Stiles has been so desperate in the first place. 

Their laugh is full of razor blades, but he knows they’re amused at his petty need to save a pack member, even one that doesn’t like him very much. 

So soon after you were rid of us, too.

Stiles wants to scream, and they can see his want and his restraint both. 

Stiles reaches for a piece of inarizushi. Onegaishimasu, they sigh, in the same tone as someone settling into their favorite spot on the couch after a long day.

His mouth opens without his will behind it, tofu and rice accepted from a human hand as he feeds it to the fox. 

They are bound.

-

Cultural notes:

kitsune-tsuki - possession by a fox spirit

kitsune-mochi - a person or family willingly possessed by a kitsune in order to bring fortune to their family

karaage & inarizushi - both traditional foods (fried chicken and a type of fried tofu on sushi rice) associated with kitsune and the god of foxes and rice, O-Inari

“onegaishimasu” - a phrase used by two players before starting their game of Go; a phrase used when someone has agreed to do something for the person saying the words, with the implication to “please do me this favor”