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steviewashere · 6 months ago

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If It Has to Happen, Let It

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Emetophobia, Vomiting, Panic/Anxiety Attack, Negative Stimming as a Form of Self-Harm/Self-Regulation Tags: Post-Canon, Established Relationship, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Sick Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Has Migraines, Steve Harrington Has Emetophobia, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Cuddling, Steve Harrington Has Good Parents

Okay, I wrote this while enduring a migraine. So we'll see how good this actually is. But I couldn't shake this idea, so here it is. Also, this is based on experience and I have pretty debilitating migraines and emetophobia. I'm asking y'all to be kind about this, that's all. <3

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🤢—————🤢 Steve used to have normal, everyday headaches when he was younger. They’d last a few hours. Be kind of an annoyance, prickling him with an undercurrent of ache. Sometimes make it hard to focus on tasks at hand. But they weren’t life changing. They didn’t affect every aspect of his day to day life. They didn’t linger or take over or knock him down for the count. His headaches used to be normal.

Now they aren’t. They’re debilitating. Humiliating. All consuming.

It wasn’t the concussions that resulted in the migraines, surprisingly enough. Everybody seems to think that and they’re not wrong, not really. But his mom had them. And his dad had them. And his nana had them.

The migraines started out as being mainly genetic. It sucked, sure. They’d come and go. Once every few months, maybe. At most. Just for a day. Isolate him to his bedroom. Leave him to spread on his bed with an ice pack on his forehead. That sort of thing.

Then the concussions came. One after the other after the other. They got worse. Astronomically worse. It wasn’t just a day that the migraines would hang around. It was multiple days. It was an entire week. Even once, it was three weeks in a row. He was sensitive to everything, sometimes nothing. The smell of Robin’s perfume. The sound of Dustin’s voice. The lights inside Family Video, inside Scoops Ahoy, inside his own house. He’d hole away. Lay in the expanding darkness of his bedroom. Curtains closed. Bed stripped of his sheets. Ice on his head, under his head, wrapped around his neck. He’d sleep shirtless, sleep nude, sleep fully clothed—his body couldn’t regulate. Would barely get up because the world would swirl around him like he was standing in the eye of a hurricane.

Worst of the worst, though, was the nausea.

When he was little, he remembers his nana taking him out for his seventh birthday. Pancakes—Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes, topped with fruit and whipped cream and as much maple syrup as he wanted. He drank orange juice, bubbled the liquid with his straw, took bites of his nana’s egg salad, giggled and snickered and cried with joy. It was fun. A good day. And then no less than eight hours later, he couldn’t keep himself standing. Could only kneel, stripped to his dinosaur themed underwear, hair stringy to his head, his mom cooing softly in his ear—hurling and spewing and coughing on and off for hours. Until, eventually, he landed himself a pretty uncomfortable spot in the emergency room, IV in his vein, and tears on his cheeks.

He remembers the all consuming fear when his stomach would flip. When his mouth would begin to salivate and his throat would burn with the bile that came up through burps, and how his hands would shake. Remembered all the times between being seven and now where he’d kneel on the tile of his bathroom, head stuck inside his toilet bowl, clamping to the porcelain with his slick palms, heaving until there was nothing left to give. And then he’d hack some more, just to see if he was done. If it was over. If he could be relieved instead of walking on glass.

He’d ruined plenty of Pyrex bowls. Dirtied plenty of blankets. Stained several mattresses. He’s apologized through tears as his mom helped clean up the carpet in his bedroom. Let her pet his sweaty hair and say it was alright, even though he knew it wasn’t. Even though it would scare her when he’d dissolve into hysterics.

Steve doesn’t do nausea. He doesn’t do throwing up. He doesn’t even do burps. That’s how afraid he is.

The migraines don’t help. If anything, they make him anxious. Make him trapped inside his own body, shaking and breathing shallowly. Knobby knees and burning tears. Flapping his hands out at his sides as if the stupid movement could will the feeling away. Sometimes, when he’d get really upset and he couldn’t calm down, he’d take to slamming his closed fists over his thighs. Trying to distract himself with another sensation. Something else that should bother him. Steve would slam his palms into his chest. He’d claw at his stomach until he’d either bleed or tire himself out. Would tangle his fingers into his hair and pull, hard enough to leave long strands in his palms. He’d hurt and hurt and hurt until he could forget what it was like to have bile coat his throat.

And he knows, by all means does he know, that to any ordinary person he looks like a basket case. He knows that sometimes it seems like he’s overreacting. That he’s making something out of nothing. But he can’t help it. He can’t help the little freakouts or the rapid breathing or the sound of skin smacking against skin.

Sometimes he knows how to regulate. When he’s feeling even the slightest bit sick. Open a window, stick his head out and take several long gulps of cold night air. Stick himself under a near third degree burning hot shower. (Because his mom had said that hot water helps. Not this hot, but she doesn’t need to know.) He keeps a case of ginger ale. Has a new addiction to peppermint gum. Shoves his big head between his knees and just prays. He’ll say over and over in his head: “You will not throw up. You don’t need to throw up. You aren’t sick. You won’t throw up.”

It’s all worked. Kept himself puke-free since sixth grade.

But now he gets migraines.

And today’s the worst one he’s ever had.

——— If he doesn’t open his eyes, he won’t throw up. Because if the light gets in his eyes, the pain will worsen. And if the pain worsens, he’ll throw up. But he won’t. Because he doesn’t do that.

It’s 9am on a Monday. He woke up nearly four hours ago, head throbbing, lights infuriating, and body aching. His sheets have been pulled away. And his blanket is tossed somewhere on the floor. Down to his underwear and nothing else. Very briefly, he considers stripping those off, too. He’s sweating, even though the A/C is on, even though his window is open, even though it’s something like forty-three degrees out.

He can’t take the smell of himself. Or the pillow under his head. Laundry detergent, sweat, and the lingering ghost of cologne. His stomach is churning like crazy. Every little movement makes his insides flare. And he thinks, at any moment, he’ll upchuck onto his mattress. Maybe he should go lay on the cold bathroom tiles, wrap himself around the base of the toilet.

I won’t throw up, he thinks behind the deep furrow of his eyebrows, I can’t throw up. I don’t need to. Don’t throw up, Steve.

He should get up. Get an icepack. Something to snack on. His medicine.

But if he stands up, he’ll be slammed by vertigo. If he’s dizzy, he’ll throw up. And if he throws up, he probably won’t stop. And then his heart will try to burst out of his chest and he’ll still be throwing up and then he’ll have a heart attack all by himself, but he’ll be covered in his own puke. He gently turns his head into his pillow, where the cold is running from him, and groans.

Something clatters to the ground downstairs. Followed by the thud of several footsteps. But he can’t get up. Vertigo means throwing up. I won’t throw up, I won’t throw up, he repeats, a mantra.

Then, all at once, his bedroom door is swung wide open and the bright amber light in the hallway is bleeding into his room. It’s lighting up the hand by his head, the hairs dangling over his eyes. He doesn’t bite back the whine that erupts from him. Somebody’s walking closer, their shadow overbearing and large over him. Their body heat like the lick of a freshly lit campfire. He’s burning in their orbit—crisping, boiling, ready to be eaten alive.

“Christ, Steve,” the person states. The person is Eddie, once he hears the voice back in his head. A familiar rasp in his voice. And that’s when Steve picks up on the scent of a recently lit cigarette. He kind of wants to reach up and strangle Eddie, choke him until he promises to never smoke again. Maybe this is how Robin feels about him, too. “It’s fucking freezing in here. Why is your window open?” He steps away towards the window, the light coming back full force. “You’ve got a shift today, y’know? Robin’s already there. Called me to come get you because you’re late and—“

“Shut up, Eddie,” Steve finally gets himself to grumble. It doesn’t have the bite he wants it to have. Weak and small and breaking. He opens his mouth again to add more, but his mouth begins to salivate. He shuts up, swallows and swallows and…It doesn’t work. His stomach clenches harshly and he whimpers, hand traveling down towards his overheated middle, digging into his soft flesh, nails sharp and biting. I won’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

Eddie heaves a disappointed sigh. “Dude, you have to go to work. I’m sorry if you didn’t get enough sleep, but you have to go.”

Steve’s chest rises and falls a little too quick. He can’t catch his breath. Can sense the tremor in his hand through the back of his neck. Too hot. Sweating. Drooling onto his pillow. Kind of wants to cry, but can’t do that. Can’t do that in front of Eddie—he won’t understand. Won’t be able to calm him down like his mom can or give him words of comfort like his dad sometimes does.

Instead of dignifying Eddie’s conversation with a response, Steve sits up hastily. Legs dangling over the edge of his mattress. Vision swimming. Tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. His stomach swoops deep, then sloshes up towards his lungs as if it’s trying to break free. The throbbing is back full force, pulsating and overwhelming. He can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t get himself to wade away the nausea. I won’t. I can’t throw up. I can’t. I can’t.

He groans, reaching up to the sides of his head, gripping himself harshly. Fingers in his hair, pulling and tugging and pulling and tugging. Head tucked towards his knees. Swallowing and swallowing and…He tugs as hard as he can on his hair, eliciting a loud whine from his throat.

The window doesn’t close. The curtains don’t even move. But Eddie does. His body swarming Steve, his heat engulfing him as if he’s a house on fire. Hands flittering out. “Steve? You okay?”

“Mi—Mi—“ Steve stutters before gagging. He cries through a quick exhale from his nose. He can’t make it all stop. His heart’s beating too fast. His chest hurts from how fast his breathing has gone. He can’t. He can’t.

“Sweetheart? Are you gonna be sick? I can get you to the bath—“

“No, no, no,” Steve rushes out. “Not gonna—Won’t throw up. Can’t.” He tries to take a breath through his mouth, but with his lips agape and his tongue working to make words, saliva floods out of him. The heat of his own spit warm on his thigh, it glistens in the little bit of light from the hallway. “Head,” he whimpers, “hurts.”

“Shit,” Eddie softly curses. He crouches down in front of Steve, his hands floating above his trembling knees. “It’s a migraine. Okay,” he whispers, “what can I do, sweetheart?”

Steve sobs. “I dunno,” he wetly murmurs. Another wave of nausea crashes over him and he leans forward with his next gag. He’s not going to throw up, but the more the pain increases and the more his stomach flips and the warmer he gets, he may just do the opposite. That thought alone makes him cry harder. He detangles his fingers from his hair, flaps his hands out in front of him like mimicking a bird, and then thrashes them down onto his thighs. In front of him, Eddie visibly winces. But he does it again, harder.

He can’t see that well, but notices the way Eddie’s hands scramble out to stop him. But he flinches away. Fisting his hands tighter, enough that his nails bite into his palms, and punches down on the surely forming bruises. “Steve, stop it. You’re hurting yourself, stop it,” Eddie scolds firmly. But Steve doesn’t. Eddie visibly is shaken up, rocking forward on his heels, hands stuck between actions, and his voice warbles when he speaks. “I think,” he states slowly, “we should get you to the bathroom. And you should go ahead and try to flush out your system—“

“No!” Steve yelps with a whine. “No, I don’t need’a—“ He takes a quick, shuddering breath. Chest caving in with his panic. His thighs are sore and his hands sting. But he slams down again. “—don’t wanna—“

“Stevie,” Eddie murmurs lowly, placating, “you’ll feel better if you let it out. I promise, sweetheart, you will feel better, okay? I’ll sit with you. Put a cold rag on your neck. I’ll—“

Steve’s saliva dribbles from his mouth again, more this time. His stomach gurgles. And it’s like somebody has an iron grip on his brain, squishing the organ between their fingers, toying with it like Play-Doh. I’m going to throw up, he realizes in panic. “Eds—Ed, ‘m gonna—Gonna—“

Gently, though purposefully, Eddie grabs Steve by the elbows. Half-walking, half-dragging them to Steve’s ensuite. He shoves them down in front of the open toilet bowl. And lays his left palm flat on the center of Steve’s back, wincing at the first jarring wet-heave that comes from the back of Steve’s throat.

He pets his palm up and down Steve’s spine. “Get it out, Stevie. I’m right here. You’ll be okay.”

With Eddie’s words and the soothing touch, Steve finally allows himself to expel. Bile burns through him. And he shakes through the first splatter into the toilet bowl’s water. He could never stand the smell, the sound, or the look of vomit. Yet here it is, sour and salty and yellow. Chunky and swirling and fresh. The next heave makes him start crying again, but he doesn’t care anymore. Doesn’t care about breaking down in front of Eddie because he now has to deal with this—the overwhelming anxiety that floods through him, out of him with each hurl. The rabid beating against his ribs and the gasps through sobs.

There’s so much coming out of him. Too much.

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, “holy…You’re okay, Steve.” He leans across to the toilet paper dispenser for a few sheets. Folds it with one hand and wipes away at Steve’s face between short bursts of vomit. Barely draws his hand away before it starts up again.

Steve spits big globs of saliva-puke. Angles his head so Eddie can catch his eyes. Meekly says, “‘M sorry, Ed. ‘M sorry.”

“Shhh,” Eddie soothes. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. You gotta do this, it’s alright.”

“Yucky,” Steve sighs. “’T’s…I hate this.” He closes his eyes as vertigo slams sideways at him, T-boned by the dizziness. Takes a burbling breath through his mouth.

“If you have more, let it out, Steve. It won’t do you any good to keep it in.”

He cries softly with his next exhale. “‘M sorry,” he keens. And then he’s convulsing forward with his next gag.

Time stretches, it feels like, for hours. His knees ache and his skin is cold and his hands are slipping with how wet the toilet bowl is from his sweat. Throat sore and stomach empty. But the malaise from gagging for so long lingers, making him dry-heave when there’s nothing left to give. He rests his forehead over his left forearm over the back of the toilet seat. Sniffs and keeps his eyes closed. Shaking through the last bit of it.

Distantly, the sound of the sink goes off next to him. He’s so out of it, he didn’t even realize that Eddie stood up and left him momentarily. Wishes he could leave this, too. Wishes he could step outside of his body and not experience this anymore, for the rest of his life, for the rest of time itself.

Eddie crouches down beside him again. Gently grasps him by the chin and pulls him up to be face to face. He runs the lukewarm rag over his chin, his lips, and under his nose. “Good job getting it out, Stevie,” he whispers, “how are you feeling now?”

“Tired,” Steve mumbles, “and gross and in pain.”

He gets a nod in return. “Okay,” Eddie mutters, “let me get your migraine things, alright? I’ll take you back to bed.”

Steve sighs. Closes his eyes in exhaustion. “‘M embarrassed, too.”

The rag and Eddie’s hand slowly comes off his face. The cloth is crumpled in Eddie’s palm when Steve glances. “Why’re you embarrassed, Stevie? It’s okay to throw up. It’s fine.”

He shrugs. “Just—“ And Steve looks down towards his lap. At the mottled bruises on his thighs, peeking out from his two day old underwear. The light scratch lines on the soft give of his belly. “—It’s stupid, isn’t it? I’m afraid of vomiting. Of vomit. I—I have a meltdown like a toddler when I feel like ‘m gonna puke and…and I get all hysterical and whiny and I sob like crazy. And I—I dunno. I was overreacting and I made you have to take care of me and it’s just…I’m just being dumb.”

“Hey,” Eddie says softly, that scolding edge back. “It’s not dumb, Steve. Vomiting is traumatic, I get it. And—Before you try and interrupt me—you didn’t make me help you. I helped you because I noticed that you were struggling. And had I not, you probably would’ve made a big mess in your room. I wasn’t going to just leave you in a state like that.”

“But it is stupid, Eds,” Steve urges, voice wavering. “It’s stupid because I’m a grown fucking adult. And I should be able to handle this. I should—“ The tears come back. “—Just fucking look at me. Crying, again. I’m so—“ He groans in frustration, fingers clenching into his palms, cutting them up again.

Gently, Eddie unfurls Steve’s hands. “Look at me, Steve.” He does. Fiercely, softly, Eddie continues, “You are sick right now. You didn’t feel good. You were scared. You were anxious. In no way, shape, or form were you stupid for reacting like this. Alright? Steve, you were overwhelmed with it all. I’m not going to judge you because you’re afraid of vomit. The only thing I’m concerned about is the hitting, but we can talk about that a different time, okay?”Eddie’s thumbs work tenderly into the backs of Steve’s hands. There’s a glimmer of protectiveness in his eyes and Steve latches onto it. Lets himself begin to believe that it’s actually okay. Even if his circumstances are concerning. “You wanna know a truly dumb fear?” Eddie murmurs lightly.

Steve almost wants to cry more with how caring Eddie is, but he pushes it to the side. Favors the distraction. “What?” He mumbles.

“I’m afraid of birds. And not them existing or being in my space or landing on my shoulders. I’m afraid of birds flying above me and pooping on my hair,” he states genuinely. Steve can’t help but snort, albeit weakly. “See? It’s kind of dumb, y’know? When have I ever cared about my fucking hair, Steve? Never, that’s when. Well, unless there are birds nearby.”

“I guess it is a little dumb,” Steve whispers.

“I know,” Eddie murmurs, grinning. “Vomit isn’t dumb, though. I promise, Stevie. We can talk about it later, if you want. Or never, if you prefer. Let me get you settled in bed and I’ll grab your stuff.”

He lets Eddie guide him back to bed. Fluff his pillow. Lay him supine. When he returns, he’s holding three ice packs, a bottle of prescription migraine medication, a plate of toast, and some water.

Steve watches in silent infatuation as Eddie lays it out all careful on his bedside table. As he tucks the icepacks where they need to go. Helps Steve take his medicine, eat, and drink. And almost begins crying again when Eddie rubs gentle circles on his chest.

“Lay with me?” He quietly asks.

Instead of making up some long winded excuse, Eddie immediately strips down to his t-shirt and boxers. He slides right next to Steve, not touching, but not too far away, either. Rolls over onto his side to face Steve and gently places his hand over the cold compress on his forehead. “This okay, baby?”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as he tries to relax back into his pillows. “Yeah,” Steve whispers, “‘m just nauseous still.”

“Okay,” Eddie mutters, “I’ve got some Altoids in my jacket if you want them. Your chewing gum might agitate the migraine more.” He reaches over the side of the bed and fishes out the tin can of mints. Pinches three with his index finger and thumb. And requests, “Open your mouth, Stevie.”

Steve lets him place the mints on his tongue. He spreads them out so that one is in the center and the other two are on either side. “Will this help?” He asks around the Altoids. As if to mock him, a feeling of malaise washes over him. Immediately, he lays his hands over his stomach and digs his fingernails in.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie whispers urgently, abandoning the ice pack and grabbing Steve’s hands instead. Soothingly rubs his thumb up the back of his hands and down to the underside of his wrists, where his pulse is hot, fast, and concerning. “No more of that. No more making yourself hurt.”

“Don’t wanna be sick,” Steve pants, breathing heavy through his nose.

“You won’t be sick,” Eddie says like a promise. Somewhere deep within Steve he knows Eddie’s saving face, saying something false. But he can’t bring himself to come to that realization. It sounds like the voice in his head. I won’t throw up, he thinks in tandem. “Just keep your eyes closed, alright? I’ll keep the door closed. I didn’t shut the window. Focus on the icepacks for me, sweetheart.” Steve squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they’ll go, relenting when it only makes the migraine pulse alive. He tries to center the cold spots. “Where are they, Stevie?”

“My��My forehead.”

“That’s one,” Eddie whispers, “two more.”

“And my neck. And—“ He takes another deep breath. “And under my head,” he breathes out.

“Good,” Eddie praises softly. “That was good, baby.” He gently squeezes Steve’s palms. “Tell me what usually helps. Let me help you through this so that you don’t…I don’t like seeing you hurt yourself.”

Steve quietly whines. Digging back into the icepack underneath him. Breathing out the last little bits of nausea from that particular wave. But he knows it’ll be back. It’s how his migraines always are. “I like the cold air on me,” he confesses near silently. “And I need to make sure I have mints or gum in my mouth. And I—It’s stupid.”

“Nothing’s stupid, just tell me.”

He huffs. “I have to tell myself I won’t throw up. Like I need to hear that I won’t, I guess.”

Gentle and nimble fingers massage his hands and wrists. Small circles, little vertical stripes, horizontal strokes. “I’m getting the box fan from your parents’ room. And then we’ll just lay here. You won’t throw up, Stevie.” As Eddie gets up, he leans down and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek—even where it’s sallow and tacky.

There’s something in the way Eddie says it, nonchalant but not dismissive, that makes Steve believe he’s right. Something in the way he’s not disgusted or afraid of Steve’s everything after, something in that kiss like a vow. So he indulges. Lays with his eyes shut, the box fan eventually blowing the cold air from his window onto his too warm skin, and Eddie’s fingers massaging his hands. Every single time he tenses, Eddie soothes him with that same promise.

He keeps Steve away from harm. Squeezing his hands firmly when he tries to hit or scratch at himself. Pets his hair and coos softly in his ear. And holds the icepacks when Steve goes boneless with sleep, mouth agape and drooling, snuffling softly into the calm silence stretching between them.

At the end of the day, he’s still afraid of vomiting. It’s probably something he’ll never get over, something he’ll be challenged with for the rest of his life (or however long these migraines last). Though, Eddie doesn’t judge him. Doesn’t let the negative in. He’s braver with Eddie. Safer. Afraid, but comforted.

That’s all he could ask for while going through this.

🤢—————🤢

#stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #tw emetophobia #tw negative stimming as self-harm #angst and hurt/comfort

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as-de-spadas · 2 years ago

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An small essay on what I think the hermits audiences look like in game:

Grian: Intrusive thoughts that look like purple eyes. Only he can see them and only when he closes his eyes. Staring. Watching.

Mumbo: redstone particles that give him ideas and light up a small redstone lamp that hovers above him every time he comes up with something particularly stupid.

Scar: Normally, its mouses that Jellie hunts down and eat, burping their messages out after. But when he's HotGuy, he can hear whispers as he flies through the air or draws an arrow.

Bdubs: The little soot guys from Spirited Away but they're made of moss.

Doc: Messages that appear in his cyborg eye and manifest as holographic wasps around him, forming the, you know, HIVEmind.

Rendog: A giant pack of different breeds of dogs that follow him everywhere. They are VERY loud.

(may do more of these on the future)

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beefrobeefcal · 11 months ago

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Beefro Proudly Presents:

a Chubby!Dave York one shot

Dave York & Kitten: Make Me, Yorkie

Pairing: Dave York x Fem!Reader (Kitten) Summary: Dave get more than he bargains for with a playful Kitten. Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI) Word Count: 2,821 Content Warning: Smutty smutty smut smut, swearing, snack cake eating, belly stuffing, naughty Kitten business, fingering, spanking, brat taming, domestic dom/sub dynamic, p in the v, chubby teasing, light degradation, implied consent, established relationship

Author's Notes: I promised a Dave-&-Kitten-Cookie fic way back in 2023 (okay, it was only a few weeks ago), and while there aren't Christmas cookies, Dave does has his fill. This started out as a Frankie & Mouse one shot, but I felt Dave energy trying to come out. Thank you to @softpascalito & @umnitsa for beta'ing the first draft. Thank you to @neverwheremoonchild for beta'ing the final draft. This is dedicated to our resident Dave York apologist, @theywhowriteandknowthings - beef 💜 knowy

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩��˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

“Oh Dave… do you know where all the cookies went for the neighbourhood bake sale?”, you cooed, reaching forward from your seat at the kitchen table and poking his belly. “Oof baby… look at how big you’re getting.”

*****

Dave was in a bad mood. He’d had a terrible day at work, and he’d come home to an empty house with unlabeled – and unsupervised – cookies in the pantry.

You’d spent most of the day baking and prepping for the neighborhood bake sale, waiting patiently for him to get home, only to receive a text halfway through the afternoon, stating that he was having “the shittiest day”. You knew he didn’t send texts like these lightly, and you braced yourself, purposely putting aside a dozen or so cookies in the pantry for him as a treat. But by the time you’d returned from dropping off your baked contributions at the neighbour’s house, you walked in to see Dave with his dress shirt pulled unreasonably tight across his now full belly with his belt undone.

While Dave was trying to behave and resist treating himself regularly in the pantry, you knew he wasn’t winning that battle, given that his middle had filled out enough that it was more than the softer middle you’d grown accustom to that would become a little more when he ate; Dave now had a belly that was apparent whether he’d eaten or not and you’d only just recently sized up his wardrobe over Christmas because of it.

With a sly glint in your eye, you made the decision to have some fun tonight.

You gave him several chances to admit he ate the cookies, but he didn’t budge. So, because you were playing dumb to his refusal to come clean, you dutifully served him a full, hearty dinner. The whole time he shoveled food into his face, you teased him, getting in the odd tummy poke here and bratty remark there.

Dave let out a huff in response, trying to ignore you as he sat next to you, scrolling through his phone. Standing up, you leaned over his shoulder from behind him and kissed his neck.

“You’re gonna need some new clothes again soon. Been eating too well lately and it shows”, you grinned against his skin, smoothing your hands over his middle, curling a finger into one of the puckered openings between his shirt buttons. “Look at your poor shirt!”

“Knock it off, Kitten.”, he grunted, shrugging you off him before bringing his closed fist to his mouth to stifle a burp.

His refusal to play with you left you feeling a little hurt, but it mainly left you feeling pent up and needy for his attention. And the thought of him being too full to deal with you acting up made you squeeze your thighs together as you watched him hold his aching belly as he walked out to the den.

Dave sat back heavily on the couch, almost painfully full. And now, on top of his frustration over work, he was uncomfortable and bloated after eating his whole dinner to not look like the guilty party, trying to stifle belly-shifting hiccups. He thought he’d get some peace once he was on the couch, but he then let out an irritated sigh when he heard you making your way to the den.

“Dave?”, you called out in a singsong voice.

“Jesus Christ…”, he muttered under his breath, rubbing his face.

“Dave baby?”

“Not now!”, he snapped, not looking away from the tv.

You walked around in front of him, blocking his view of the tv, and you smiled mischievously at him. He gave you a glare with a tight mouth and shook his head.

“So you’re meaning to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”

“You’re being cranky… didn’t even give me a kiss when you got home.”

“I’m not doing this with you, Kitten. I’m-“

“Ma’am.”, you corrected him, challenging him for control.

“No…”, he warned, his eyes boring into you and his mouth pulled tight into a scowl.

“Excuse me?”

Your harsh snap back at him caught him off guard.

“You’re really asking for it. Do not make me get up off this couch.”

“David… you’re not getting off that couch any time soon.”, you purred, moving slowly towards him. Your head nodded towards his bloated middle. “What you got in there?”

He rolled his eyes, not taking the bait. “You fucking know what it is! You made it and served it to me!”

He shifted in his seat and winced, hand going to his belly.

“Awe, Dave got greedy and now he’s got a tummy ache.”, you cooed in a mock-pout. You stood above him and smirked. “Look at you. How much weight do you think you’ve put on in the last month? You really treated yourself over Christmas… Just bought you that shirt and it’s already getting too small, honey.”

His brown eyes looked like molten copper from the rage you incited; you were really hitting his buttons and it only made you bolder.

“Do not do this, Kitten. I am not playing. I had a shitty day, and-“

“Did you enjoy all those cookies? It looks like you did…”, you interrupted in a soft, smug voice, nodding your head to his middle.

“Last warning.”, he growled.

“You’re too fat and full to do anything about it.”

“Knock. It. Off.”, he snarled through his clenched teeth. “Behave! I fucking mean it!”

A grin spread across your face, and you licked your lips.

“Make me, Yorkie.”

“Oh, you fucking brat! You’re gonna get it.”

His harsh tone mixed with huffing and grunting to stand up made your knees feel weak, and you backed away. When Dave stood, his heavy middle made him lose his balance and he fell back onto the couch with a grunt. The force caused a few of his buttons to pop open on his shirt and you covered your mouth to hold back your giggles.

“Getting pretty big, Yorkie.”

He raised a warning eyebrow and pointed at you. “Hey!”

You couldn’t help it. The flames in his eyes were addicting and you needed more. “Like I said before, you’re eating too well … you filled out and now you’re just getting fat…”

His breath hitching and his pupils dilating didn’t go unnoticed by you, and it emboldened you further. You stood your ground and didn’t move towards him yet, knowing that he’d take any chance to grab you and set you right back in place if you got too close.

“Think your coworkers notice all the weight you’ve put on? Think they talk about how heavy you’re getting? Think they notice how you’re growing, making your clothes pull tight?”

His breathing had picked up as his hand moved across his underbelly and palmed his crotch, trying to adjust his too-tight pants over his erection.

“Fuck…”, he panted through gritted teeth. “I outta fuck that mouth to get rid of that attitude.”

“Like to see you try… too full and fat now to even get off the couch.”

That seemed to be the ignition for him. He let out a grunt and hoisted his large frame up from the couch. You felt your cunt clench at watching him and you began to breath shallowly through your mouth.

His eyes were dark and ripped right through you, and you swallowed thickly, managing to whimper out, “Dave? … baby?”

It only took him a few quick steps and he was towering over you.

“Not so tough now, are you?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You could feel your core drooling and Dave watched your eyes glaze over as they stared up at him.

“What was it you said? I’m ’too fat and full to get off the couch’? Didn’t get that right?”

You didn’t know Dave could move that fast. Before you could answer, he grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him. He fell back to his spot on the couch, pulling you down with him. You had no idea how you ended up across his lap as he sat back on the couch, his large hand shoving your dress up over your ass.

“Fucking brat. All I want is a quiet night on the couch after a shitty fucking day and you’re just doing the most to piss me off.”, he growled.

You squirmed on his lap, his belly pressing heavily against your side. He shoved his hand between your legs, and you whined.

“I fucking knew it! You’re soaked. This pussy’s just begging to take a beating, isn’t it?”, he snarled, pressing harsh circles against your clothed clit. “You get off on making me mad, Kitten?”

“Fuck! Dave! Please!”

“Please what? You got my attention now, Kitten. You can’t handle it? What else d’you want from me?”

You yelped when you felt a sharp sting on your backside. You turned and looked at him, shock written all over your face.

“David! Did you just fucking spank me?”

“I asked you a question.”, he said sternly.

“I thought you were just gonna finger me and-“

Despite the scowl planted on his face, the look in his eyes was begging for this. You gave him a small nod in agreement. Another sharp sting from his palm landing on your ass.

“I said I asked you a question.”

When you yelped out at the last smack, he smoothed his palm over your reddened skin, his tone shifting low and menacing.

“Come on, baby… you got my attention… now be a good girl and answer my question. What else do you want from me, kitten?”

And there it was. He was finally in the ring, towering over you and ready to spar. It lit your insides on fire and your core throbbed. You let out a staggered breath and croaked out, “Just… just want… you… your attention… don’t wanna be ignored.”

“My baby’s feeling ignored, huh? Probably because she’s being a little shit and not behaving…”

“I tried!”, you whimpered. “I made cookies and had some saved just for you! I… I just wanted-“

His hand guiding your leg off his lap, opening your clothed core to him. He cupped your mound in his hand, massaging it gently. It stopped you from finishing your sentence and you whimpered instead.

“Go on, Kitten…”

“I just wanted to make you- ugh!”

“I thought I was being pretty clear that tonight was not a good night for your bratty bullshit. Yeah, you made a good dinner, but your attitude is way out of line. Trying to make me feel bad about how much I enjoy your cooking and baking. S’not nice, baby...”

“I-I’m sorry!”, you whined in response.

He spanked you a few more times, the final one coming down a little harder. Each one forced a yelp from you between panting breaths and you rutting your hips on nothing. His cock was hardening under you, pushing against your hip.

You suddenly felt your panties pull harshly against your hipbones then snap off, and Dave tossed them to the side. His middle and index finger dove into your folds.

“So fucking wet… Jesus, Kitten… you’re a needy fucking brat…”

You wriggled your hips, begging for more friction against his fingers.

“Such a bad girl… getting me fat and thinking I’m slow… feeding me till I’m too fucking stuffed to get off the couch? Then you give me attitude about how big you made me?”

His tone was slipping into his usual ‘dominant’ voice, and it was almost too much mixed with his adept fingers and the soreness of your backside.

“I know you just love it… thinking you’re in control when you heap plate after plate in front of me… thinking you can feed me until I’m pliant and yours to fuck around with… no such luck, baby.”

He pushed two fingers into your weeping hole and began to pound into you relentlessly. Your back arched as you cried out.

“Yeah, baby… this is what you needed, isn’t it.”, Dave snarled through his clenched jaw, continuing his relentless pace. You could feel that the bulge from before was now almost painfully digging into your hip bone – the fact he was enjoying this so much made you love it even more. You let out panting moans as your walls began to clench on his digits.

“Oh god-fuck!… I’m-oh fuck!”

He ripped his hand away from you and another spank landed on your backside, stinging further from his wet-with-your-slick hand. You cried out and buried your tear-streaked face into the arm rest.

“You gonna behave?”, he barked as he pulled your hair back, forcing you to look at him.

“Yes! Yes, I’ll behave!”, you cried out. “Please Dave!”

“You done being a brat?”

“Yes! Fuck, yes, I am!”

“Stand up.”

You shakily pushed yourself up off his lap, and his hands came to steady you. You looked at him, your cheeks flushed and damp, lips pouted, and you sucked in a small sob.

“There’s my kitten.”, he smiled menacingly, looking you over and the mess he’d made of you. “So fucking desperate. What am I gonna do with you?”

“Fuck me and let me come!”, you huffed back. God, you wanted him to keep this up.

“Mind your manners!”

His voice was dark and his eyes even darker as he drank you in. Fuck, you needed him in the worst way. His hand came up and gently touched your chin before his hand went around your neck, pushing your back against the wall. His other hand went to his belt, unsuccessfully trying to undo it to get his pants off. His intensity in his eyes started to melt, giving way to desperation.

“Dammit!”, he grunted, removing his other hand from your throat and you moved forward to help.

“No baby… please… fuck, just stay there… j-just act like you’re pinned…”, Dave pleaded, eyes wide and screaming with arousal as he tried sucking in his belly.

You did as you were told, keeping yourself against the wall, watching as he fumbled with his pants, finally getting them down around his thick thighs, his boxer-briefs barely containing his rock hard, leaking cock. His hand went right back to your throat, and he mashed his face into yours in a fevered kiss. He kept your mouth locked onto his as he pulled you away from the wall, only breaking to turn you around and push you over one of the large standing speakers that framed the TV. Without warning, Dave spat into his hand and freed his cock, pumped it a few times, then ran the head through your folds. He finally pushed into you, making you keen and grip the speaker.

“Fuuuuuck…”, he breathed as he seated himself deep within you. “God dammit…”, he hissed as he began pounding into you. “I needed this, baby.”

“Oh god- Dave! So big… fuck!”

“Good girl… come on, Kitten… come for me…”, he grunted. “Touch your clit, baby… play with it… not-not gonna last long…”

“Da-David…”, you whined, as your fingers rubbed circles on your nub, thrusting you just enough to fall over the edge. You panted erratically as your long-time-coming release ripped through you, making your walls clench and spasm around him.

He let out a groan. “Good girl… good fucking girl…” and kept pounding into you. He was beginning to falter in his pace, and his breaths were coming out in short, hurried pants. He pulled back from you, jerking his cock, and came on your reddened ass cheeks.

You were slumped over the speaker, breathing hard, when you heard Dave fall back onto the couch, making it groan and creak under his sudden weight.

“Hey… baby?”, he panted. “You good, Kitten?”

You pushed yourself upright, feeling your dress sticking to his release on your backside.

“You dick.”

He looked up at you with a raised eyebrow in warning. “Excuse me?”

“You spanked me and came on my ass!”

“Yeah? And where did it get me? Panting and fat on a couch… you still got an attitude.”, he huffed out in a laugh.

“Guess you’ll have to try harder next time.”

You tried keeping an angry front, but failed as you sat down on his lap, smearing his spend on his bare thighs. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you close to him as you fell into a fit of giggles.

“Fuck, if I try any harder, I’ll pop a seam or come in my pants.”

You grinned and then giggled again, “Please, Dave - try harder!”

He laughed and pressed a kiss you your forehead. “You’re such a shit. Behave!”

“Make me, Yorkie.”

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊

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janedoeswriting · 5 months ago

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

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: 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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(Wicked Game by Chris Isaak)

"You have to go to school, Rhi. It's the court's decision, not mine." Mr. Stilinski said sternly.

"The court doesn't care about me getting kidnapped?"

"No, they don't. It's been two weeks, and you've done nothing but lay around the house." "I cook and clean!" She said indignantly.

Mr. Stilinski rolled his eyes. "And you aren't our live-in maid."

"Well let the girl cook if she wants to," Stiles said through a mouthful of eggs and sausage. He was clearly enjoying their current living situation. Two weeks of nothing. The thought didn't make Rhiannon comfortable. She was beginning to think the Darach had forgotten about her little murdering spree, and Rhiannon desperately didn't want to get caught off guard.

"I could be," she said, but with the sheriff's look she knew she had been beat. She sighed and took a bite of her apple. She hadn't been able to stomach the boisterous breakfast, despite the fact that she'd made it. The truth was-- she was nervous.

School wasn't exactly her definition of relaxing. Especially when murderous teachers lurked the halls. "Go get dressed. Now." He said sternly, pouring a generous mug of coffee. Rhiannon huffed and marched back to her room angrily. There was no more putting it off. The past two weeks had consisted of a strange combination of growing more comfortable and more weary. With each passing day Rhiannon was coming to the horrifying conclusion time passed differently when she was actually within the TV show, and that she may have altered the timeline beyond repair.

However, she had also become more comfortable at the Stilinski's than she thought she would. She had settled quickly. She had even begun walking around freely in her pajamas. In front of Stiles.

The first time she ran into him at midnight in the kitchen was an accident. He was wearing baggy plaid pants and no shirt. She had stopped dead in her tracks, trying to pull down her t-shirt to cover her cheesy mickey mouse patterned pajama shorts. They stared at each other in the light of the refrigerator, the gallon of milk frozen on his mouth.

"Don't tell me you do that all the time." She'd said, changing the subject smoothly. He gulped and then wiped his mouth with his hand as he shrugged. "That's disgusting." She stated. He responded with a burp.

And with that, they had since cared less about such things as being in night clothes or sharing a bathroom. That very morning, she had slipped into the bathroom as he was showering and grabbed her hairbrush. He yelled, "Hey!" and something clattered on the floor of the shower. When she'd slipped out she had to stifle her laughter at his yelling at her.

As he came out later, waist wrapped in nothing but a towel, he shook his wet hair on her. She punched his arm hard, and he held it whining and complaining before she slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it firmly.

Him being shirtless all the time was certainly a shock, since she hadn't seen him shirtless in the show at all. She had to admit-- it wasn't exactly something to complain about. She managed to keep her eyes averted whenever she was in his line of sight, but any time his head was turned she couldn't help but steal a glance or two. It was hard not to have a crush on him. It had developed swiftly and sharply. The more she tried to stifle it, the more it seemed to rear it's fat head at her.

"Come on, we're already late." Stiles demanded, blowing through her door without a care in the world. For an only child he certainly didn't care about privacy.

Rhiannon was tying her dumb shoe. Her wardrobe was straight out of thrift stores-- which wasn't exactly bad but it wasn't great either. There were nice stores around town, but she didn't think she would fit in with Lydia's fancy dresses or Allison's feminine allure. Instead, she stuck to the variety of vintage shops that offered things that were both more her style and cheaper.

She looked in the mirror and couldn't help but compare her wardrobe to Elena Gilbert-- all layered long sleeves and low rise jeans. It felt like an ironic twist of fate that she had adopted this style, with the town being infested with werewolves and not vampires.

"Make yourself useful and grab our lunches from the fridge," Rhiannon said, brushing him off. He had gotten caught on the sight of her, with Rhiannon oblivious to the way his breath stopped. He shook his head and stumbled out backward almost tripping over his own feet and running face first into the threshold when he tried to walk out. She'd learned to tune out his clumsiness in the weeks she'd been staying there-- it was always so prevalent. Unbenounced to her, she was the cause.

She met him at the front door, grabbing one of the brown paper bags out of his hand with her new backpack slung over her shoulder. "I thought we were gonna be late?" She asked, sucking him back to reality after he'd struggled not to breath in a deep breath of her perfume when she'd breezed by him in the front doorway. He quickly fumbled with the lock and they were on the road. The truth was, on the third night of Rhiannon's return Stiles had gone to Scott's house. "I can't sleep with her around." he'd claimed.

"Oh?" Scott had asked with a knowing smile. Stiles shook his head and collapsed on Scott's bed like he owned it. "I can feel her through the walls. Lurking." "Lurking?" Scott asked. "There's something off about her." Stiles claimed.

"Like, what?"

"Her hair." Stiles said, and then realized how stupid he sounded. "It's always...crazy. Messy."

"Huh. That's weird, because I think it kind of suits her." Scott said. Stiles ignored him and continued. "And she's always wearing pajamas. I don't think she's ever worn real clothes."

"Well, she was missing for nine days."

"And, she hogs the TV. We only have one, and she wont stop watching stupid cheesy TV shows."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something with vampires." Stiles said, waving his hand like it didn't matter. "Vampires? Maybe she's studying up." Scott responded with a playful humor. Stiles glared at him.

"And my dad bought her a brand new phone. Like, I don't even have a smartphone, but she can have one?" He demanded. Scott shrugged, and let Stiles continue to rant.

"And she's always talking on it late at night."

"To who?" Scott asked.

"Oh that's just it! Lydia and Allison came over twice. To see her. They're, like- friends now."

"Oh?" Scott said, his attention renewed. Stiles made a face at him.

"They go shopping and spend all my dad's money."

"Do they... have sleepovers?" Scott had asked, mind clearly stuck on Allison. "No. I hope not. Having her and Lydia at my house would be horrible."

"Horrible?" Scott asked, laughing. "Wouldn't you like to have Lydia sleeping at your house?"

Stiles shifted. "Well. I mean- Lydia... Well I don't know. I just don't want them over." "Why? Lydia sleeping at your house? Isn't this like, everything you've ever wanted?" Scott asked. "No! Not like this! I mean, how come Rhi has to come in and change everything up? She's like- like a witch or something."

"A witch?!" Scott demanded at his friend's absurd accusation. "She's everywhere! She yelled at me last night for drinking out of the milk carton. Like, why does she just show up and get to tell me how I can and can't drink milk?!"

Scott couldn't help the grin. "Do you have a crush on her?" he asked Stiles. Stiles' face ran white and he looked at Scott with a horrified expression. "What?! Have you not been listening to anything I've said?!"

"I mean, she is really pretty. Like, really pretty." Scott said.

"So?!" "Sooo..." Scott insinuated. Stiles threw a pillow at him, and Scott of course caught it expertly.

"Yes, she's pretty. I mean- gorgeous, really... But! That doesn't change the fact that she could be the darach."

"Did you talk to Deaton, like you said you would?" Scott asked. Stiles shook his head, looking more serious now. "No, I tried to take her to the clinic the day after we got back. But... she just looked too scared. I couldn't make her go in. Something seriously must have happened to her when she was gone. Something bad." Scott nodded. "Do you remember how scary it was? When we first found out about.. well, about everything supernatural? Remember how scared you were of Derek?" Scott asked, and Stiles sent him a glare. "I wasn't scared of Derek." "Right." Scott replied sarcastically. Stiles ignored him and moved on.

"Anyway, we haven't brought it up since. I don't think she wants to talk about it with me."

"Why do you think that?" Scott asked. "Because everytime I try she comes up with an excuse. But I always hear her on the phone with Lydia talking about banshees. And she has a ton of old books on the supernatural hidden under her bed."

"You spy on her?" Scott asked. "She won't tell me, so--!" Stiles threw up his hands.

Scott shook his head. "Maybe that's why she doesn't want to talk to you." Scott reasoned.

Stiles scoffed. "She doesn't know."

"Right."

"You're missing the point, Scott. I can't stay there and get any sleep."

"Well you can't sleep here forever." Scott said. "Why not?!"

Scott threw the pillow back at Stiles, but this one hit him in the face and sent him flying down onto the bed.

After two nights, Scott put his foot down and kicked his friend out. Stiles tossed and turned, and crept down the hall to press his ear to her door. When he heard nothing, he gently cracked it opened and peeked inside. Her light was still on, and books were sprawled all over her bed. She had notes and papers everywhere. Overall, it looked quite like Stiles' own room half the time.

He watched her sleeping face for a moment. She was neutral and silent, mouth slightly open and arms and legs sprawled out everywhere. She wasn't glaring at him for being dirty, or slamming the door in his face when he tried to ask her questions. She wasn't bickering with him or asking him what he wanted for lunch. She was quiet, and asleep. And Stiles let himself stare while he had the chance.

She really did look like a supermodel. Without even trying. In this light with drool running down her cheek and t-shirt stained with pasta sauce, Stiles even thought for the first time that she was prettier than Lydia. The thought shocked him so much he turned off the light and left in a hurry.

As he lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, he came to the tragic conclusion that his restlessness was not borne of suspicion, but a burning desire kindling deep within him.

This tragic realization didn't change the reality. He couldn't get a good night's rest while she slept just down the hall.

"You're such a pain in the ass, you know?!" Stiles demanded, bringing the car to a screeching halt in the parking lot.

"Turn the car around, I need them!" She exclaimed. It was much easier for Rhi to argue with him than suppress her desire to be close to him. Stiles also happened to enjoy fighting with her. It kept his stupid attraction for her at bay. "They're headphones. You can last the day without them." "No, I can't."

"You're not even allowed to wear headphones in class." Stiles reasoned.

"I need them." She said, crossing your arms. "We're already here, and we're almost late. If you want your stupid headphones, go back home yourself." "Gladly," she said, holding out her hand. "Oh, no. No way." Stiles said, getting out of the car and slipping his keys into his pocket. She followed suit, but just to try to step in front of his path and beg him for them. He ignored her dutifully, and when she tried to lunge for his back pocket they got into a wrestle that consisted of smacking and dodging. Neither realized they were making a spectacle of themselves until Scott cleared his throat. Stiles was firmly holding her wrists in place from the back as she strained against him. They both looked up at Scott, frozen. They simultaneously leapt apart at the sight of students staring and whispering.

"It's nine in the morning and you two are already fighting?" Scott asked. They began to walk toward the school, Scott in between them to keep the peace. "I forgot my headphones at home," Rhiannon said, crossing her arms.

"Oh, please, you'll live." Stiles said.

"And what if our english teacher from hell has other plans?" She asked in a hushed whisper. "And your headphones are gonna magically save you?" Stiles bit back. "You can borrow mine," Scott offered kindly. Rhi looked up at him like he had just descended from heaven.

"Really?" Rhiannon asked, her voice swelling with happiness. Stiles loudly scoffed, and crossed his arms.

Scott dug them out of his pocket and handed them to her, and she thanked him profusely and told him she would return them after school. "What a gentleman." She added loudly, and stuck her nose in the air at Stiles as she passed them to walk into the front office. Stiles jabbed Scott in the side.

"Hey! What was that for?!" Scott demanded. But Stiles didn't say a word and walked faster so Scott had to jog to keep up. "So much for being nice." Scott muttered.

"She's the enemy," Stiles said. "She's your foster sister." Scott reasoned.

"She's not my sister. Let's get that cleared up." Scott rolled his eyes and adjusted his bag. "Whatever. You still have to take care of her, okay? 'Keep an eye on her', remember?" Scott was echoing a lecture they'd both received from Sheriff Stilinski after Rhiannon's return. He was more of a helicopter parent than Stiles even knew his father was capable of being. Now, he'd single handedly assigned Scott and Stiles as Rhiannon's personal bodyguards. Unbeknownst to Rhiannon, of course.

"Doesn't mean I have to like her." Stiles said viciously. "Riiight." Scott said, poorly stifling his sarcasm and smirk.

Stiles decided to take the high road, and pretended not to notice.

Rhiannon was eternally grateful to Scott. After she'd gotten her schedule and a tour from an overly friendly cheerleader, Rhiannon was lead to her first class of the day. To her utter delight, Lydia and Scott were both in it. And, the only open seat was in the back. Perfect.

Except, the horror of having to be introduced in front of a classroom of curious teenagers made her stomach do a horrible flip. Of course, single handedly taking down a wendigo and hitch hiking across the country was no problem. But this? This was torture.

She looked to Lydia and tried to pretend she had the girls' confidence. "My name is Rhi. It's nice to meet you." Was all she got out. The teacher nodded, and gestured for her to find her seat. All eyes stared as she walked. The room had erupted into whispers. A reassuring smile from Scott actually helped her to keep her head high.

At her old high school she didn't have many friends. She had switched schools a couple times, and never seemed to find any friends genuine enough to hold onto. But now, for the first time, she had someone to look to. Two someones, actually. She smiled to herself as the teacher brought the classroom back to silence. She subtly slipped an earphone into one ear and tuned out the world for a moment.

The lyrics wrapped her like a blanket.

The world was on fire and no one could save me but you It's strange what desire will make foolish people do I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you

She was forever grateful to get her hands on an actual iPhone (even if it was practically a brick), and even more grateful she finally had music again. She was so wrapped up in this strange new world that she'd almost forgotten how she'd always needed song to get her through her days.

She hadn't even noticed class had ended until Lydia approached her as students were filling out. She was leaning long in her chair and staring out the window.

"Earth to Rhi? Don't go emo on me, now. Not after all that work we did to get you something cute to wear." Lydia said. Rhi smiled at her sarcasm.

Their couple of shopping trips had consisted of Rhiannon insisting they remain in vintage and thrift stores in the city, which Lydia had complained endlessly about. She'd even offered to pay if they could just go to the mall. Rhiannon had refused, and insisted that she had to stay at the cheapest stores possible. "Besides," Rhiannon had said, "there are plenty of hidden treasures here."

Lydia and even Allison had cringed at the more "rugged" styles Rhiannon had adopted. Rhiannon thought they were cute and alternative, but Lydia had scolded her for not being fashion fluent in the current styles that were popular.

At the very least, Rhiannon had given in and bought a few skirts, dresses, and jewelry. Rhiannon had been particularly partial to an old charm on a beautiful chain. After polishing it a bit, it looked much prettier and she hadn't taken it off her neck since. It depicted a whales eye shell.

"I'm glad you like it. What do you think of my first day of school outfit?" Rhiannon said as she stood, and did a turn for Lydia. Lydia rolled her eyes and sighed. It wasn't horrible. Jeans and a top, but Lydia had wanted her to wear a dress for her 'debut'.

"It's not bad," Lydia said, relenting. "But this school is crawling with beautiful boys."

Rhiannon scoffed as they walked side by side to Rhiannon's next class. Lydia had taken the slip of paper that had Rhiannon's schedule on it and was evidently keen on leading her to her next classroom.

"Cute boys? Where?" Rhiannon asked in disbelief. "What about him?" Lydia whispered, and looking at a tall muscular boy wearing all black. He sauntered down the hall, and was clearly an athlete of some kind. He met Rhiannon's eye and looked her up and down with a smirk as he passed. Lydia giggled, and Rhiannon huffed. "Too muscular." "Okay... him!" Lydia said. Another boy with glasses but a rarely handsome face.

"He looks like he'd mansplain Catcher in the Rye to me." Rhiannon commented, earning a snort out of Lydia. When their friendship began Rhiannon found that Lydia was very taken with the way Rhiannon was familiar with reading. She had told her it was refreshing to talk to someone about books-- something she'd scarcely done before. Among the many developments, Rhiannon was also surprised to find that Lydia and Allison had swiftly taken Rhiannon under their wings in different ways. Allison was kind and welcoming, yet had a strength to her that normal high school girls didn't have. Lydia on the other hand was simultaneously girlish and wise which complimented Rhiannon's lack of either of these traits. It seemed she found Rhiannon particularly endearing and took it upon herself to make her popular. Rhiannon had shuttered at the thought, but in this moment she was endlessly happy.

Everyone looked and stared as they walked, but with Lydia by her side it was clear to see that Rhiannon wasn't the only subject of interest. Lydia was like a walking idol. Girls and boys alike worshiped the ground she walked on. Rhiannon didn't feel so scared anymore.

"Hmmm. Oh? What about him." Lydia said after scanning the bustling crowd. Rhi raised a brow. "Isaac? Are you crazy?" Isaac was at his locker and looked up to meet their eyes. "Oh come on. He's single." Lydia said, as if this were reason enough.

"You do realize he can hear us?" Rhiannon sent a sideways glance at Lydia. She blinked. "Hi, Isaac." Rhiannon said just as silently as they had been lowly whispering. Isaac smiled and waved with a smug boyish smirk.

Lydia glared at him eavesdropping on their 'private' conversation. "Werewolves and their stupid hearing." Lydia muttered as she led them into the classroom. Rhiannon stopped in her tracks. Lydia gave her a stern look, and Rhiannon forced herself to move her legs.

Jennifer Blake stood writing at the chalkboard. She hadn't noticed Rhiannon's sputter of surprise.

They all had already talked about it as a group one night at Stiles' house. They were to act normal around her. Pretend they knew nothing. "Until we prove it's her." Scott had claimed. Rhiannon had been partial to the idea of just catching her by surprise and dropping her into an oubliette and be done with it all. "How many more people have to die before you realize being nice isn't a good strategy?" Rhiannon had demanded angrily that night. "We don't know if it's her. We can't just go off your word, Rhiannon." Scott had said sternly. It was hard to hear, but Rhiannon could tell that the others in the room had agreed with him. "Fine. Whoever dies next is not on my hands."

She couldn't expect them to trust her word, or to drop everything and kidnap their english teacher. But they didn't know that Rhiannon knew. Knew for a fact.

She would just have to play their little game, and hope that she didn't get caught in the crossfire. To be fair, they did have the advantage that Blake didn't know what they knew. And that if they played the part, Blake wouldn't find out until the time was right.

It didn't stop Rhiannon's blood from running cold at the sight of her. And it didn't help when Jennifer Blake laid eyes on Rhiannon. She smiled kindly, ever the nurturing teacher. "You must be our new student." She said. "I'm Miss Blake, your english teacher. Do you want to introduce yourself to the class?"

Rhiannon shook her head as students continued to file in. Thankfully, it seemed she had taken Rhiannon's fear and detestment for shyness. She nodded and directed Rhi to take a seat.

Lydia laced her arm in Rhi's and showed her to their seats. "Move." Lydia had said to a puny-looking boy, who seemed all-too-happy just to be spoken to and immediately offered his seat to her. Lydia sat down gracefully, and Rhi took the seat next to her. Allison came in and sat in front of Rhiannon. She looked on her guard, but it was so subtle nobody would have noticed unless they were paying attention. In fact, all of them were somewhat withdrawn and alert. Stiles sat next to Rhiannon on the other side and Scott in front of him. Rhiannon forced herself not to look at Stiles-- still angry from that morning's argument. It was better to be mad then at risk of catching lingering feelings. It was just a crush from a TV show, she dutifully reminded herself. He kicked her chair lightly and she found herself glaring at him as if it was a mechanical response.

"What?" Rhiannon bit out fiercely under her breath. Students were still filing in, but she didn't want the curious gazes to link her to Stiles. Especially after the fool she'd made of herself that morning when she fought with him in the parking lot. "Dad wants you to answer his text." He had started calling Mr. Stilinski 'dad' instead of 'my dad'. It wasn't uncomfortable, but it strangely made it seem as if she had become his sister, which Rhiannon detested. She held back insults and scathing responses, and instead pulled out her phone to glance at her messages.

'Everything going okay?' he'd asked. She smiled to herself. He had been so doting and caring, especially after her return. She quickly typed back a response. 'Yes! All good, thank you'

Stiles was leaning across the aisle to look over her shoulder and read the messages. He had no sense of privacy it seemed. She elbowed him off the edge of her seat, and he unceremoniously fell with a crash onto the floor. Students laughed, and Stiles grumbled to himself as he got back into his chair.

The class proceeded as normally as it could have. Rhiannon couldn't stop feeling uncomfortable, but at the very least had grown used to the discomfort. She regretted not sitting in the back of the class so she could listen to music, but being surrounded by new friends (some more than others) made her more at ease.

As they made their exit not a moment too soon, Scott and Stiles hung back a bit from the female trio in front of them. Girls always traveled in impenetrable hoards, and this one was particularly solid with not only Lydia's firm grip but Allison's presence. Scott longed to be near her, but held himself back.

A group of boys leaning against lockers began to punch one another and laugh loudly as the girls passed. Stiles caught a hint of, "Dude, go ask for her number," and other things along the lines of 'She's so hot'. Anger flashed ferociously. He couldn't help but glare at them, and speed up to keep closer to the girls.

"What's up with you?" Scott asked, taking notice of Stiles eccentric behavior. Of course, he was almost always eccentric, but today more so.

"Nothing." Stiles grunted out, pulling at his backpack straps with tight fits.

Scott took this as a hint that it was none of his business. Of course, when Stiles inevitably blew up, Scott knew he would hear all about whatever was irking his friend. No need to burst a balloon that was already about to pop.

"Rhiannon's pretty popular, huh?" Scott asked offhandedly. Stiles grunted again. Isaac Lahey approached them from the opposite direction. Scott smiled and opened his mouth, ready to greet him. But he instead stopped in front of the girls with a suave sort of smile. "Hey," he said. Scott and Stiles stopped as the girls did. Isaac glanced at Allison, who glanced back at Scott.

"Hi Isaac." Rhiannon said, sounding resigned.

"Listen, what we were talking about earlier had nothing to do with you." Lydia stated matter-of-factly. "Of course," Isaac said, and the corners of his mouth lifted in that devilish smile of his. The girls brushed past him, and Isaac met the boys' eyes.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"Don't tell me." Stiles said bitterly as they began walking again side by side. "Well... your sister is really hot."

Hot? Stiles thought resentfully.

"She's not my sister." He said firmly.

"Your right. She's your step sister. God, what I would do to have her down the hall." Isaac commented, not shying from his liberties of taking in her figure from behind. Scott smacked him upside the head, and Stiles was inwardly pleased by this. "You're horrible."

"'You're the best step brother I've ever had!'," Isaac quoted in a feminine imitation. The reference to the porn intro that all of them had probably watched but would never admit to was enough to light Stiles up red.

"She's not my step-sister either!" he exclaimed louder than intended, and other students turned briefly to stare. He only became more red. Thankfully, the girls were far down the hall turning the corner. "Then you don't mind if I..." he raised a suggestive brow. Stiles scoffed and stuttered until he got out a pathetic, "Wha- hah! No. Have at it! She's not even that pretty!"

Isaac pursed his lips and raised his brows at him as if to say 'Riigghtt'.

But then Isaac shrugged and said, "Good! Because I wasn't even gonna ask," and turned to stalk down the hall in the other direction.

Stiles watched him go with a mouth agape. "Can you believe him?" He demanded.

Scott shook his head with a laugh. "Yes, actually. Yes I can."

"Not even that pretty?!" Rhiannon repeated in a needled tone. The stranger nodded. She was one of Lydia's many friends. Well.. more like minions, but Rhiannon liked to think of her as a friend lest she think about the idea of herself being one of Lydia's minions.

After Lydia, Allison, and Rhi had gathered at the lunch table, a bubbly girl had come up to tell them the newest bit of gossip she'd heard in the hallways earlier that morning. She recounted a story of how Stiles apparently insulted Rhiannon's looks very loudly.

"Who does he think he is?!" She demanded.

Lydia shook her head as if she expected nothing less of Stiles. "He's an idiot."

"He probably didn't mean it like that," Allison offered.

"Don't defend him!" Rhiannon demanded while shoving her sandwich into her mouth. "He's a dickhead."

"Manners," Lydia reprimanded at Rhiannon talking with her mouth full. Rhiannon swallowed and started to rant.

"Like he's one to judge. He's hardly skin and bones. I bet he weighs eight pounds soaking wet!"

The bubbly stranger giggled as if this was the funniest thing ever, and Rhiannon wished in that moment that she would just go away. Thankfully, Lydia seemed able to read her mind. "Thank you, Jessica." It was clearly a dismissal. Jessica took her tray and left. "I'll show him whose not even that pretty. I mean, I know I'm pretty!" She exclaimed, nodding to herself in reasurance.

"Oh come on, you're gorgeous. He's blind if he doesn't see that much." Allison said. Rhiannon nodded and thanked her, though it didn't stop the sour taste in her mouth at being insulted behind her back. "Does this mean you'll let me give you a makeover?!" Lydia exclaimed. Rhiannon cringed back, clearly getting too ahead of herself. "No." "Why not?!" Lydia whined.

"Because I'm fine the way I am." She retorted, and took another large bite of her sandwich.

"Exactly. Don't stoop to his level." Allison agreed, taking a bite of her own food. "Am I the only one who things this is a great opportunity for revenge? I mean, honestly! You hate him!" Rhiannon shrunk back in surprise. "I don't hate him."

"Yes, you do! That's all you talk about. Stiles did this, Stiles did that. I mean, seriously. Enough about him. You need someone new to occupy your mind." She said this last part with a devious tone, suggesting she had someone in mind. "Oh, no. No no. Not Isaac."

"Why nottt?" She wined. "I thought Allison liked him," Rhiannon suggested, gesturing to Allison in front of her. Allison's eyebrows scrunched together and she scoffed. "Me? No way. No more werewolves." She said firmly. Rhiannon knew this wasn't necessarily true and raised a brow at her.

Allison pressed forward. "I'm serious. You should go for it. What do you have to lose?"

Rhiannon's brows furrowed in confusion. Either Allison was a really good liar, or she actually didn't harbor any attraction toward Isaac. "Yea, Allison's still got gagga eyes for a different wolf boy." Lydia added. Allison's cheeks went pink, and she ducked her head. "What?" Rhiannon demanded in a hushed whisper. "You like Scott still?" Allison covered her face with her hands. "I don't know. Maybe..." She said. "Definitely. She talks about him almost as much as you talk about Stiles. Wait... you don't like Stiles do you?" Lydia asked suspiciously. Rhiannon made dramatic retching sounds. It wasn't hard to actually be disgusted by this statement at that moment, especially after Stiles had hurt her ego. He was a dick.

"Good. Because someone is coming over." Lydia said in a much quieter whisper. Rhiannon turned and saw as Isaac waltzed into the cafeteria, with Stiles and Scott not too far behind. Stiles looked angry and Scott amused. Rhiannon fought a scowl at the sight of Stiles, and instead turned quickly away, picking at her food.

Isaac walked around the table and sat in front of Rhiannon, next to Allison. Allison made a suggestive face to Rhiannon. "Hello girls." He said, smugly. His confidence was so palipible it was bordering on obnoxious.

Scott came and sat next to Allison on the other side, and she went immediately more quiet. Rhiannon briefly wondered what had happened between the two. How had Rhiannon’s presence in this world somehow reignited Allison's feelings for Scott?

"Isaac." Rhiannon said curtly, pretending to be very interested in her bag of chips. Stiles sat beside Lydia and she leaned in toward Isaac eagerly. "Hello boys."

"What're you guys talking about?" Isaac asked. Rhiannon hoped desperately that he and Scott hadn't been eavesdropping on yet another embarrassing conversation.

"Homecoming committee." Lydia smoothly said. Rhiannon raised a brow to herself but said nothing. "Rhi is gonna join it with me." Lydia added, grabbing Rhiannon's arm to pull her unwillingly into the conversation. "Oh?" Isaac asked. "News to me," Rhi said dryly to Isaac, but he must have found this funny because he lightly laughed.

"Since when are you joining-," Stiles attempted to interject, but Rhiannon swiftly rebuked him. For the sake of proving him wrong, maybe she would joining homecoming committee.

"Since right now."

Stiles shut his mouth and with-took his head in both annoyance and offense.

"So that’s what you’re all about? School dances?” Isaac asked playfully. He was still taking her in like she was some prey to analyze.

Rhiannon raised her chin. “Maybe.”

Isaac scoffed as if he could see right through her. The truth was— Rhiannon had zero interest in being involved at Beacon Hills, much less joining the homecoming committee. Back in her old life she hardly even spoke to other students, much less participated in stupid dances or joining clubs. Her days were instead spent with her nose in a book and earbuds drowning out the noise.

“I’m not buyin’ it,” he commented. Rhiannon just took another bite of food because she couldn’t bring herself to lie and say that joining the homecoming committee sounded like a “fun time”.

“What do you think I’m into?” She suggested. What would a little bit of harmless flirting do?

“I don’t know— something cooler?” Isaac suggested. Lydia rolled her eyes and Rhi scoffed.

“Like what? Howling to the moon?”

Everyone laughed except for Stiles, who was growing more and more annoyed with each passing second.

He grumbled as he picked through his brown paper sack. It didn't help that the subject of his annoyance was the same person who had made the lunch. He wanted to eat it even less, but the sight of a fresh BLT with crispy bacon was too much to resist. He begrudgingly bit into it and accidentally let out a groan from how tasty it was. Unfortunately, his moan just so happened to sound at the very moment the laughter had died down. Everyone stared at him. "What?" He asked, bacon falling from his mouth.

Isaac cleared his throat and brought the attention back to himself.

"Do you... like music?" He asked, noticing Scott's earbuds plugged into her phone. Rhiannon tried to reach for the bundle of chords and phone, but Isaac had managed to snatch it up first. Allison and Scott had begun conversing about whatever it was they playfully smiled and whispered about. Lydia was watching Isaac and Rhiannon with proud excitement.

"Boston?" he asked, taking notice of the artist that she had been listening to earlier between her classes. His smile was contagious.

"Yes. Why, what do you listen to?" "I like Boston. Pink Floyd, AC/DC, Led Zeppelin. You know... the works."

Rhiannon nodded and smiled at his list of favorites.

He set the phone back down in front of her and she took it. "What about playing music?" He asked further. She met his eyes.

"Rhiannon doesn--," Stiles started to interject, but Lydia tactfully elbowed him in the ribs and cut off his voice. He wheezed into silence.

"I play some guitar." She admitted shyly.

"Really?!" Isaac asked in pleasant surprise. Stiles was staring at her in surprise as well, but his lips had tugged into a slight frown. Why hadn't she told him that?

The rest of the lunch hour was spent talking to Isaac about music, trying to conceal her smile at Allison and Scott's awkwardness, and Lydia tactfully distracting Stiles so he wouldn't interrupt conversation. It was light, and fun. When the bell rang, Rhiannon jumped in surprise. She had never sat through lunch without glancing at the time and wishing the school day would end faster.

"What's your next class?" Isaac asked as he shrugged a backpack over his shoulder. Rhiannon took the rumpled schedule out of her pocket.

"Pre Calc." She commented.

"Oh, you're smart huh?" Rhiannon scoffed at his comment. "Stiles helped. He let me borrow some notes so I could study before the placement test. They wanted to see where to put me since..." Isaac helped her out after she struggled to explain. "Since you can't remember?" He offered. She nodded and ducked her head not from shyness but from embarrassment.

"I was wondering how you were in high school classes, if you have amnesia. Wouldn't you, like, not be able to remember school stuff?" Isaac asked with unabashed curiosity. He didn't mean to sound accusatory, but it felt like it. Rhiannon was about to say something self deprecating and pitiful to steer any possible suspicion from Isaac's mind, but Stiles had inserted himself despite Lydia's efforts.

"It's muscle memory. Amnesia isn't all the same." He said in her defense. Rhiannon would have been grateful to him, but she was still simmering from his offense earlier. "I have precalc too Rhiannon. Come on, I'll show you." Stiles added, walking rather fast as he linked his arm around hers. He was more so dragging her away from Lydia and Isaac. Rhiannon turned and gave a pathic wave to the rest of her friends as Stiles left them behind.

As soon as they were in the hallway full of bustling voices and out of earshot of werewolf hearing, Stiles intently whispered, "Don't hang out with him. He only wants one thing." "And what's that?" Rhiannon snapped back, with-taking her arm. He dropped his hands at his sides like he didn't know what to say or do with them.

"Well-- you know-...," Stiles said, nodding his head in suggestion.

"Well what if I just want one thing?" Rhiannon retorted.

"But-... well-..." he began to stutter and stumble over his words.

"At least he knows I'm pretty." She added ficiously, refusing to look at him and holding her books tightly to her chest.

"Wha--," he started, and they reached the threshold of the classroom. Rhiannon swiftly turned to him and looked him in the eyes with a stormy expression.

"Oh, come off it. I know you were talking shit about me in the hallway earlier."

"I was not."

Rhiannon rolled her eyes but held her chin higher. "I don't care what you think, Stiles. And just because you're visually challenged doesn't mean your friends are too." She whipped her hair and strode into the classroom without glancing back. She missed his stunned expression and the cringe of realization.

He stormed in after her and took the only seat available-- one a few rows down behind her. She could feel him staring a hole into the back of her head. She pretended not to notice and forced herself to dutifully take notes and pay attention to the teachers lecture. When the teacher said to break off into pairs to work on a problem, Rhiannon was horrified to find Stiles had practically leapt out of his seat.

"Eager, Stiles?" the teacher asked with a raised brow.

"Rhiannon and I will work together. She's... new and all." He couldn't have said it more awkwardly.

Rhiannon finally turned and glared up at him. The room had melted into chatter as students paired off. Stiles looked down at her scary expression but he made one of expectation right back at her. The girl in front of her had moved to a different seat and Stiles sat in it, turning around so fast Rhiannon was shocked he didn't get whiplash.

"What I said in the hall was totally taken out of context-," he began, eager to clear his name. "It's fine. I don't care." "You... don't?" he asked skeptically as she began to set up the equation written on the board. She still refused to look him in the eye. "Nope."

"Oh. Okay. Good." Stiles said slowly, a little disappointed and confused.

He couldn't stay quiet for long. "Because you seemed angry." "Angry?" Rhiannon scoffed nonchilantly. "Why would I care if you find me pretty?" Stiles shrugged, and pretended to be copying her work. A few moments of excruciating silence passed. Rhiannon commented on the problem. Stiles filled in the blanks of her confusion. She corrected a miscalculation of his, and he watched her as she double checked the answer. Her hair fell into her face, but she was too engrossed to notice. Stiles almost moved to tuck it away, but inwardly scolded himself for how stupid that would be. Instead, he forced his gaze away back to his sheet of paper.

The rest of the day went by quickly. Almost all of Rhiannon's classes were with Lydia which was a relief. By the time the day had ended, Lydia had offered to give Rhiannon a ride home. They were walking down the hall side by side when Allison and Scott rounded the corner. Pleasant smiles bloomed on their faces at the sight of their friends.

"Hey, there you are. We've been looking for you." Lydia said to Allison. "Ready to go?" Lydia asked. Allison nodded and went to stand by them. Scott nodded to them, but as Rhiannon began to walk out, Scott stopped her. "Hey, wait. Stiles is supposed to take you home." Scott said. "What, why?" Rhiannon asked.

Scott sucked in a breath and scratched the back of his neck. "Mr. Stilinski kinda said you weren't allowed to ride with anyone else."

"What?!" Rhiannon demanded. Stiles, ever on time, rounded the other corner. He was dressed in lacrosse gear and bounded up to Scott. "Come on, man. We have to practice before tryouts." "Arn't you supposed to take Rhiannon home?" Scott asked. "You can wait for us to finish, right?" Stiles asked, as if the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. "Are you kidding me? No way!"

"I can take her," Lydia popped in, just as eager to rescue Rhiannon as Rhiannon was wishing to be rescued. "No, sorry. My dad said Rhiannon isn't allowed to ride with anyone else." "Isn't allowed?!" Rhiannon asked incredulously. Stiles shrugged. "You did kind of get kidnapped by getting into someone else's car." He said, raising his eyebrows at the word 'kidnapped'. It was their secret that she had left willingly, but he knew she'd had to escape in the end. Of course, she hadn't discolsed her methods of escaping. "But, it's me." Lydia said.

"Yeah, he knows Lydia. He won't care." Rhiannon said.

"Uhh, no way. Not until you talk to him first." Stiles said.

Rhiannon clenched her fists. "Why didn't he tell me this? How come Scott knows, and not me?!" Stiles shrugged.

Rhiannon groaned in exasperation. "Do you want to call him and ask?" Lydia offered. Rhiannon nodded and went to put out her phone but Stiles added, "He's in a meeting right now about the investigation." Rhiannon glared at him. Why were Scott and Stiles on babysitting duty? Without any notice?

"I'm not waiting around here while you two practice lacrosse."

"Oh 'cmon, its normal for people to watch practices. Just sit in the bleachers and read or something."

"I shouldn't have to. I have a ride home!"

"Not according to my dad," Stiles said, making a face and turning to fall into step toward the locker room with Scott. "Ugh!" Rhiannon exclaimed, practically stomping her feet with indignation.

"I'm sorry, girl. Maybe have a talk with Mr. Stilinski?" Lydia offered with a sympathetic rub of Rhiannon's arm.

"I'll watch practice with you," Allison offered. Rhiannon could tell she really didn't want to so she shook her head. "No it's alright. I'll just finish my homework. My teachers gave me a lot of catch-up work."

Rhiannon sat at the bleachers in the warm late-summer air. Her books and papers were spread around her, and she used rocks as paperweights. Her earbuds blocked out the noise of shouting and whistle blowing. It was actually quite pleasant and refreshing to study outside.

Rhiannon had never been so devoted to studying. But she had to complete this work in order to catch up with the other students in class, and if she didn't she'd be forced to repeat the school year-- a consequence Rhiannon didn't even want to consider. Lydia was a big help. She'd made a timeline and study plan for Rhi to ace her classes. If she followed it, she'd be all caught up by the end of the month.

A presence approaching caused her focus to snap. She didn't realize how zoned in she had been until a large hand waved in front of her face.

Isaac was sweaty and wore pads over athletic clothes. He motioned for her to take off her headphones. She did. "Did you see that?" He asked, out of breath.

"See what?" She asked. He let out of breathy disappointed laugh. "Figures," he muttered, looking down.

"What did you-," Rhiannon started, but there was a distant shout from the field. Before Rhiannon could even process what was happening, Isaac had lunged forward with a hand in front of her face. There was a long moment of silence as everyone seemed to hold their breath. Isaac slowly with took his hand, where he held a lacrosse ball. He had caught it just inches before it collided with Rhiannon's face.

Coach immediately began to scream at the top of his lungs. To Rhiannon's utter horror, 'Stilinski' kept being repeated. Rhiannon caught a glimpse of Stiles' winces and cringes. Instead of apologizing to her, he was shrinking away from Coach's harsh scolding.

Rhiannon's anger flared again. She couldn't get a moment of peace. If Isaac hadn't been there, she would have gotten smacked in the face by a ball going who-knows-how-fast. She could have broken her nose or knocked out a tooth. After Stiles had been the one to force her to stay and study in the bleachers. Her body moved without her own permission.

She grabbed the lacrosse ball out of Isaac's glove and launched at as hard as she physically could straight at Stiles.

She had been aiming for his head, but it fell about ten feet short and pathetically landed on the grass and rolled to his feet. Rhiannon began to scream. "UGH!! You almost killed me and you're not even gonna say sorry?!" She demanded. The entire team laughed. Even Isaac stifled a chuckle next to her. Coach muttered something Rhiannon couldn't' hear to Stiles.

Stiles began to approach her with open hands and wild eyes of worry. "I-I'm sorry-," he started. Rhiannon had already begun to shove her things into her black backpack. It was vintage and looked cool at the time, but now she noticed the fraying edges and tiny holes in the bottom. One of her loose pencils slipped through. She left it for dead.

She stormed down the bleachers and began to stalk off as Stiles hurriedly began to follow her with an elongated apology. She didn't want to hear it at all. Isaac called out a farewell and Rhiannon simply lifted her hand up without turning back. A distant whistle resumed practice. "Please, just calm down." Stiles demanded as they reached the edge of the field and breached the parking lot.

"Calm down?!" Rhiannon demanded, rearing around on him. He ran straight into her and staggered back as she yelled at him. "Calm down?? You've got to be out of your goddamn mind. I almost just had a heart attack, and you want me to calm down? How about you, oh I don't know, be good at lacrosse?! Or maybe tell me when dad wont let me ride in a car with anyone but you. Or how about, 'Thank you, Rhiannon, for packing my lunch and making me food everyday. Maybe I won't call you ugly in front of the entire student body on your first day of school.'" She did a poor impression of Stiles' voice and inflection.

"I didn't call you ugly!" He whined. Rhiannon ignored him and continued. "You also didn't hit me in the face with a lacrosse ball! But guess what? You. almost. did."

"It was an accident," he pleaded. "I'm sorry."

"I'm walking home." she said simply, and turned to storm away again. He grabbed her arm with a gloved hand and pulled her back firmly.

"No you're not." "You can't force me to stay." "I'll call dad," he said.

"Oh, you're gonna tell on me?" Rhiannon mocked him.

"Yes. You got kidnapped last time I left you alone." "I ran away," Rhiannon said firmly but quieter than she had been yelling.

"Hardly. You were stupid, but if you think I am too you're even dumber than I thought." "I'm not stupid." Rhiannon said sharply and wrenched her arm out of his grasp. "You are. Who the fuck gets into a strangers car on the side of the road, huh?" "Someone desperate to get away from you." "Yeah? You seemed pretty desperate when you came crawling back a week later."

"I didn't come crawling back to you. I came back because--...." But she cut herself off. She hadn't talked about it. About Austin and what she had done. Or what he had attempted to do to her. "Did-..... Did he hurt you?... Did he....," Stiles insinuated it without saying it. His hardened voice had grown simultaneously softer and angrier. He had taken a step toward her and lowered his voice when he spoke.

"No. No.. he didn't....Do anything to me." Rhiannon quickly said. She hadn't realized how her voice had dropped too. How her anger melted into embarrassment and something else that was more vulnerable. Softer and defensless.

"But he tried to." Stiles concluded. He was able to read her better than she'd thought. Rhiannon looked away from his intense eyes and didn't say anything. Her silence confirmed his theory. His fists clenched at his sides. "He got his ass kicked." She said, lowering her chin and staring at Stiles' feet.

"Who was it?" "What?" Rhiannon looked up and met his eyes in surprise.

"What was his name?" Stiles said. Normally Rhiannon could read his expressions like a book, but now he looked like a stone wall.

"Why does it matter?" "Why? Because my dad is looking for him, that's why." Rhiannon shuffled and turned her head away.

"Why wont you tell us?!" Stiles demanded. His voice was growing angrier.

"Because I don't know!" Rhiannon said again, lying that same lie.

"Bullshit. You do know."

"It doesn't matter!" Rhiannon tried.

"It does. I'm going to find out why you're lying. And when I do, you better hope it doesn't matter."

"What, you're gonna hunt him down? Throw him in jail?" Rhiannon demanded.

"Yes." Stiles said very slowly and darkly. Rhiannon's stomach flipped. For the first time Rhiannon thought that maybe she shouldn't be worrying about the FBI or police finding her out, but Stiles.

"Why are you protecting him?" Stiles asked. Rhiannon stepped back, but Stiles stepped closer in return.

"I'm not." Rhiannon said firmly. "I do hate him. You're right. I was stupid, okay? I should have never gotten into that truck. I shouldn't have ever gotten out of your jeep." She hoped this confession would satiate that suspicion in his eyes. That predatory hunger that seemed to read her mind. He was smart. Smarter than anyone else around here. She could get away with lying to the cops, to the Sheriff, but not to Stiles.

There was a heavy silence in the air as they stared at one another. Eventually, Stiles nodded his head. Rhiannon breathed in shakily and turned around to walk away. "Where are you going?!" Stiles demanded.

"Library. Wouldn't want to get knocked out by stray lacrosse balls."

"The library is under construction." Stiles said. Something lurched in Rhiannon's stomach. She was reminded of the time that Stiles would killed someone in the library while it was under construction. By accident, of course, but it would still traumatized him so profoundly. Of course, it wouldn't be for the distant future. For a horrifying moment, Rhiannon considered what his reaction would be to discovering she had murdered someone. Not by accident. But by the brutality of her own hands.

Rhiannon sucked in a shaky breath and concealed all thoughts with an easy, bored tone and neutral expression.

"Then it'll be in the courtyard. Come find me when you're done."

Notes: Whoop!! Finally got in another update! I hope you guys don't get confused by the whiplash of this chapter haha. Lots of teenage angst and mood swings. Gotta keep you guys on your toes. As always, thank you for reading!

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thegoodthebadthealternative · 6 months ago

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The Good, The Bad and The Alternative: a homestuck fanfiction. Chapter 37, an excerpt.

John narrowed his eyes at Rose as well, and Rose glanced between him and Jade. After a second, she broke, letting out a defeated laugh.

"I believe I see the family resemblance now." she said. "Thought I'm curious when you all found time to plan th-"

Dave let out a choking noise that sounded somewhere between a hiccup and a gasp and a burp.

"Woah, dude, are you alright?" John asked, taking a step towards Dave, who'd doubled over.

He held up a hand, taking a deep breath.

"What'd you just say?" Dave asked, looking at Rose. She blinked a few times, confused.

Jade realized it a split-second before Rose did.

"Dave! We never told you!" Jade shouted, catching the attention of some passerby. She winced at herself, continuing at a more reasonable volume. "Gosh, I guess with everything happening, we forgot."

Dave's eyes were wide, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Forgot... What exactly? Just run that by me real quick." he said.

"Dave, me and Jade are related." John said, gesturing at her. "Her dad was my grand-uncle. We're, uh, demigods."

"My grandmother is the Empress of Magic." Jade said quietly.

Dave's expression was unreadable.

Rose's expression was... Frighteningly curious. She was staring Dave down like a snow owl watching a mouse decide whether or not to leave its burrow.

"You made no remarks upon their physical familiarity with each other, Dave." she said. "What did you believe was occurring?"

Dave coughed, then disappeared in a blur. He reappeared a short distance away trying to reenter the apartment building, frantically jamming the code into the keypad. He was too slow. In three long strides, Rose was on him, blocking the doorway with her wingspan.

Jade looked at John. He shrugged.

"Nothing! What's some bicep stroking between long lost friends! Get your hands off me!" Dave struggled against Rose's implacable, pneumatic social pressure as she herded him back to the group.

Jade looked at Dave expectantly, though he seemed to be more worried about John's concerned stare by the way he pointed his shaded eyes away from her cousin.

"Well," Rose prompted from behind him, "tell us. You're among friends."

Dave glanced around for another escape route.

"Dave, what's wrong?" Jade asked. At her side, Bec barked, in a way Jade thought was encouraging, but Dave jumped at the sound.

Any guesses why Dave is reacting like this? Check out Chapter 37: My Friends (Part 1) and find out!

#homestuc4 #dave strider #homestuck #john egbert #rose lalonde #jade harley #homestuck fanfic #monsterstuck #pepsicola #johndave #davejohn #our friends part 1

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mini-mousey · 1 year ago

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Here's my 2 liter chug!!

OP uses he/him pronouns

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justhilary123 · 5 months ago

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Yummy! You’re Making Me Hungry!: Episode 66

One day, Mickey and Minnie are getting ready to go on a camping trip together. So, we decided to help them pack for their trip. We need jackets to keep us warm and sunscreen to protect ourselves from getting sunburned. We also packed sleeping bags and a storybook.

Minnie explains that they’re gonna go on a lot of adventures and that they’ll be really hungry. Mickey explains that they like to pack lots of nutritious foods, tasty treats and healthy snacks, such as granola bars, fruit and nuts. Eventually, Minnie was getting hungry, so, Mickey gave her an apple. But, then, Minnie burped (Eww! Gross!), but, despite that unladylike action, Minnie excused herself.

Moving on, Mickey explains that for safety, they like to bring a first aid kit full of bandages just in case they get hurt. However, Mickey overpacks the first aid kit and gets bandages on him. After shaking it off, Mickey realized that their almost done.

The only thing left is the tent, Mickey tries to fold the tent, but, he was having trouble, so, Minnie lends a hand and helps pack up the tent. Mickey wonders if they have everything. But, realized that he almost forgot his house keys. Thankfully, they were in his pocket. We had a lot of fun helping Mickey and Minnie pack for their camping trip.

If you’re a big fan of camping, the great outdoors and being prepared, "Getting Ready for a Camping Trip", is the one for you.

Mickey and Minnie are both in top form here. It’s one of the Me & Mickey vlogs where they appear together.

First the mice pack jackets, sunscreen, sleeping bags and a storybook for bedtime. Then, the mice pack some snacks in case they get hungry and when Minnie asked what our favorite camping snack is, we get her best line in this entire vlog, "Yummy! You’re making me hungry!", the gross part was when Minnie belched when she ate an apple, which wasn’t very ladylike at all.

Another bright spot is when Mickey overpacked the first aid kit, resulting in him getting bandages on him. Then, he struggles to fold up the tent, but, he is having trouble doing it. Mickey almost forgot his house keys, but, thankfully they were in his pocket. And as they were leaving at the end of the vlog, Minnie asked Mickey if he got the sleeping bags, causing him to go back inside for a sec and get them.

And with nothing else left to say, let’s take a look at some screenshots.

So, here’s our dynamic mouse duo of Mickey and Minnie. Those two do everything together!

Anyone who remembers watching the Bedtime Story vlog from season one would surely remember the story, "Minnie and the Moonbow".

It’s always important to pack snacks when you go on a camping trip.

Whenever I think of this vlog, my mind immediately goes to the part where Minnie rubs her tummy while saying, "Yummy! You’re making me hungry!", which is her best line in this entire vlog. Almost reminds me of when Mickey said, "Aww! You’re making me thirsty!", in What’s in Mickey’s Fridge?, another season one Me & Mickey vlog.

You know you’re in for it now when the gross part suddenly comes in when you at least expect it. It was so gross when Minnie belched and it wasn’t very ladylike. But, at least she said, "Excuse me!"

"You can never have enough bandages.", says Mickey before the unthinkable comes in.

Next time when you try to pack a first aid kit, try your best not to overpack.

Mickey tries to fold up the tent, but, it’s hard for him to do. But, for a girl like Minnie, folding a tent is a piece of cake.

Anyone who remembers watching Vacation Routine would surely remember this bit. Mickey had gotta start not losing his house keys.

Closing Line: "Till next time we can play.", "Have a camping-riffic day! Mickey! Did you get the sleeping bags?", "Whoops! Hehe! See ya real soon!"

#meandmickey

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drpeppertummy · 9 months ago

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Morty and marianne would be intriguing. :3c

i triedddd idk if i did either of them justice but i triedd

[hunger, stuffing]

Morty's belly rumbled as he pondered the extensive menu. It was a late Sunday night, so late that there was next to nobody in the little diner. It was strange to be there when it was so quiet; he normally went during the daytime, when it was noisy and busy and crowded. Now, where there would ordinarily be too much chatter and clatter to hear himself think, he could hear only soft music coming through the radio, punctuated occasionally by a little bit of noise from the kitchen. And, of course, his stomach.

Unable to process the ridiculous diner menu, Morty was just about to close his eyes and pick something at random when a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see a large, sturdy waitress smiling down at him, tall and broad, with a look in her eye that reminded him of a cat who's just cornered a mouse. He returned the smile.

"And how are you doin' tonight, cutie pie?"

"Starving," he answered honestly, and she laughed.

"I'll bet," she grinned. "I could hear your tummy growling all the way from over there. Don't you worry, sweetheart, you'll be lucky if you're not stuck in the booth by the time you're done."

Morty liked the friendly waitress--Marianne, her name was--and he was a little disappointed when she finally left the table with his order. After some hemming and hawing, she'd talked him into spaghetti with a side of broccoli and a baked potato, a bowl of Manhattan clam chowder, and an appetizer of mozzarella sticks on top of it all. You look like you could use a little extra, she'd teased, and he'd laughed and agreed. He was a scrawny little thing; weight just never seemed to want to stick to him.

It wasn't long before Marianne returned with the chowder and a Shirley Temple, and Morty perked up a little at the sight of her. His belly rumbled loudly as she set the bowl down before him. She giggled, and he smiled sheepishly up at her, a soft blush creeping onto his face.

"You better get eating," she said, giving him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "I'll have your mozzarella sticks out in a few minutes. You go ahead and start filling that poor tummy up before it eats itself!"

Morty watched her go, still blushing, then gladly obliged. His empty stomach welcomed the hot chowder with open arms, the gnawing ache of hunger slowly fading as he wolfed it down. While his noisy belly made it plenty clear that he was hungry, he hadn't realized just how ravenous he'd been until the bowl sat empty before him not two minutes after Marianne had brought it out. His tummy felt taut after eating so quickly. He felt a gurgle bubble up inside him and just barely managed to stifle an enormous burp. His stomach deflated noticeably--he'd swallowed more air than chowder in his frenzy--and he let out a soft little sigh of relief.

"I bet that felt good," remarked Marianne, and Morty jumped. He hadn't noticed her approaching. He looked up, startled, and she laughed, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sweetpea, I didn't mean to scare you," she chuckled, giving his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "I hope you saved some room for your appetizer, because they're nice and hot." She took her hand from his shoulder--he found himself missing it quickly--and replaced the empty bowl with a plate of mozzarella sticks. He wasn't nearly as hungry as he had been when he'd first walked in, but his mouth watered at the sight of them. Marianne smiled, amused and enamored by the way his big dark eyes followed them.

"I was worried that chowder was gonna fill you up," she teased. "I'm glad you still look ready to eat. I'll be back in a little bit with your dinner, alright, pumpkin? Make sure you save a little room." Morty nodded obediently, then, after she left him once more, gladly dug into the appetizer.

The mozzarella sticks were exactly as good as they looked. They were fresh and hot, as Marianne had said, and they were perfectly melty and stringy and crisp. The marinara was particularly good as well. Having sated his immediate hunger, Morty ate more slowly now, making sure to enjoy his food; it wasn't often he had such good mozzarella sticks. They were one of the few things he was picky about. If they were just a hair too cold, if the cheese was a smidge too firm, if the breading was a touch too soggy, he couldn't stand them, but these were some of the best he'd ever had.

By the time he finished his appetizer, Morty was feeling comfortably full. His belly felt warm and snug, and he could've called it quits right then and there and left perfectly content. Right then and there wasn't the time to quit, though, because no sooner had he finished than Marianne returned with his dinner.

"Hope you're not too full yet, because this smells fan-tastic," she beamed, sweeping away the empty plate and replacing it with the spaghetti, a vegetable on either side of it. The dish seemed dauntingly large, but the cozy aroma of it wafting up around him enticingly made his mouth and his stomach yearn.

"Y'know, that sweater seems awfully big on you," she teased, her voice dropping almost to a whisper as she leaned in closer. "I bet we could fill it out a little before you go, what do you think?" Morty blinked up at her, caught off guard, then grinned.

"I'm taking that as a challenge," he said, picking up his fork, and Marianne laughed and patted his back approvingly.

"Alright, that's what I like to hear! Eat up, cutie pie," she said, smiling brightly.

Morty took care to pace himself as he ate, not wanting to push his small stomach to its limit too quickly. He picked at his vegetables here and there, but his main focus was on the pasta. It felt hot, heavy, and bulky in his belly, which tightened ever so slightly with each swallow, but it wasn't an uncomfortable presence. He found pasta easy to eat a lot of, particularly when it wasn't overly rich, and the spaghetti, perfectly coated in a delicious tomato sauce, went down like a dream. Still, the portion was enormous, and he'd barely made a dent when he found himself slowing down.

He paused for a moment, holding one hand against his belly. It poked out round and taut. It didn't ache yet, but he could feel the discomfort looming on the horizon, and he knew he'd have to be careful if he wanted to finish a substantial amount of his dinner. As swollen as his belly felt, it was barely visible under his oversized sweater. He'd have a ways to go if he wanted to fill it out like Marianne asked.

"Oh, don't tell me you're full already," Marianne pouted, approaching the table.

"I'm just getting started," Morty lied confidently.

"Oh, good," she said, smiling slyly at him. "You had me worried for a second there!"

Morty was, in fact, full, but he wasn't going to let that stop him; not yet, at least. Determined, he dipped his fork back into the spaghetti and pushed on. His stomach felt undeniably and strikingly overstuffed now, stretching tighter and tighter as he forced more pasta into it, and the snug waist of his pants was beginning to grow uncomfortable as it hugged his bulging middle tightly. He could feel his belly bumping out against the soft fabric of his sweater, though, and he supposed Marianne would be happy about that. The thought made his heart flutter.

He rested a hand atop his belly as he ate, a little surprised at how sharply it curved outward under his chest. His stomach ached now, and that was no surprise; Morty was a small man, and his belly wasn't built to hold so much. The pressure inside it was tremendous. He paused again for a moment, bringing a hand to his mouth as he forced up a small burp. It didn't help much. His stomach was packed tight as a drum and then some with a solid mass of food.

Morty supposed he ought to quit before he made himself sick, but for some reason--maybe it was the crush he was rapidly developing--he wanted to give Marianne his best effort. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure nobody was looking, then leaned back in his seat, snuck his hands under his sweater, and unbuttoned his pants. The waist was pulled so tight around his belly that he had to suck it in to get enough slack to undo the button, a feat he could barely achieve at this point. His sweater was fortunately big enough to hide his open fly--he doubted he'd be able to get it back together again--but no longer big enough to hide the disproportionate curve of his distended tummy poking out from his skinny frame.

"Ooh, sweetie pie, you are looking stuffed," Marianne remarked, looking delightedly at his belly as she sauntered back over to the booth. "I think that cute little tummy's gonna pop if you eat much more." Morty couldn't argue with that. His stomach felt like it was straining to hold itself together around the enormous meal. Marianne leaned in close, a sly look on her face, and he looked up at her, his big dark eyes locking with hers.

"I bet you could fit just a tiny bit more though," she said, her voice soft and low. "What's your name, honey?"

"Morty," he responded, suddenly feeling a little shy.

"Morty," she repeated fondly. "Think you can squeeze in a little bit more, Morty? I'd hate to see you leave without eating your fill."

Morty thought about it, resting a cautious hand on his belly. It was taut and firm, pushing out hard, and he would've sworn he could feel the vibration of his stomach's restless gurgles under the tightly-stretched skin. He wasn't sure he could fit any more. His face felt warm under Marianne's stare, though, and he couldn't bring himself to say no to her. He nodded. She smiled approvingly, then gave his bulging side a gentle pat.

"You're a doll." She stood upright, squeezed his shoulder affectionately, and left him blushing and bewildered. He watched her go, feeling almost hypnotized, then returned his attention to the rest of his spaghetti. As he picked up his fork, he noticed Marianne out of the corner of his eye, watching him as she slowly wiped down the counter across the restaurant.

His stomach let out an uneasy gurgle as he twirled up a forkful of spaghetti, almost as if to beg him not to eat any more, but he ignored it. His belly groaned as he swallowed the big bite, and he thought he could feel it push out further as it strained around the new addition. Slowly, he managed another bite, and then another. The pressure inside his tummy was becoming unbearable. It was rock solid, far too full to suck in, and ached badly now, stretched well beyond its comfortable limit. He didn't think he could hold any more. Still, he was determined to get down one last bite.

His hand faltered as he scooped up one last bite. He stuck it in his mouth and chewed, but almost couldn't bring himself to swallow. Finally, reluctantly, he did, and his stomach gurgled miserably as it hit its absolute limit. He set down his fork and leaned back in his seat with a groan, looking down at his belly. It bulged out absurdly, and he felt certain that his pants would've popped open on their own by now if he hadn't unbuttoned them himself. It was so swollen that he barely had the space to inhale, and it quivered unsteadily with each shallow breath.

"Well, I'm impressed," said Marianne, leaning against the seat opposite Morty. "I'll tell you, Morty, I didn't think you'd get that much in there. Course, I don't think you're even gonna be able to get up, but that's alright. Now, how about some dessert before you go?" Morty groaned and let his head fall back against the seat, and she laughed.

"I'm just teasing, cutie pie," she giggled, stepping forward and patting his belly as she passed. "I'll go ahead and grab you a box."

#writing #belly kink #tummy kink #stuffing #stuffed belly #hunger kink #burst mention #message #suggestion #xmortyx #xmariannex

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