Work Text:
The house had been drowsy all evening. Curtains breathing softly, the hearth humming like a cat, the corridors curling into themselves in a way that made you think the whole place might be asleep. You were curled in your corner of pelts, plush council gathered close: Annie, the ragdoll with her frayed hem, and the hare stuffie, Rinty, his bell mute but steady.
And tonight, one more. A new friend.
You held it in your lap: a strange little plush, cartoon raccoon stitched with a zipper across its belly. When you tugged it open, soft felt organs slipped out into your palm, like secrets a toy wasn’t supposed to have. You stuffed them back in gently, zipped it closed again, then hugged the whole thing against your chest.
When Rio entered the room, her cloak trailing twilight behind her, she paused at once. Her eyes flicked to the plush in your arms, her lips curving in something between amusement and disbelief.
“Cariño,” she said, her tone the kind she used when she was trying not to laugh, “what in Death’s name is that?”
You squirmed a little, cheeks warming. “It’s a RoadKill. You can, um… keep the organs inside, or outside. I used to like them when I was younger. Thought it was funny. And… safe. Like even broken things could go back together.”
Rio raised a dark brow, crossing the room until her shadow fell over you. She crouched, one hand braced against her knee, the other reaching to flick a fingertip against the toy’s zipper. “You’re offering me a… stuffed corpse. With removable entrails.”
You nodded quickly. “Would Lady Death like one? I mean, as an offering?”
For a long moment she just stared, unreadable. Then her lips parted into a slow, crooked grin, sharp as it was tender. “You’re absurd,” she murmured, plucking the raccoon from your arms, holding it up by the scruff so its felt intestines dangled slightly. “Absurd. And precious.”
She lowered it again, letting the toy rest in her hand, dark eyes glinting. “Death doesn’t need toys. But I…” She tapped the zipper closed, carefully. “I think I’ll keep this one. Guard its organs with my life. Unless it starts staring at me in the dark.”
You giggled, curling smaller in regression, thumb brushing your lip. “It doesn’t stare. It just… wants to be kept. Like me.”
Rio’s gaze softened, cutting through the gloom like a candle. She tucked the plush under her arm like a talisman. “Then it stays. And perhaps Lady Death will smile, just this once, at being given something so… ridiculous.”
She leaned closer, brushing her cool knuckles over your cheek. “You keep finding ways to make even me less frightening, little moth. One day, I’ll have to thank you properly.”
The raccoon plush was ridiculous. Everyone agreed. Everyone who saw it, at least. But the house did not laugh. It accepted. From the moment you laid it on the pelts beside Annie and Rinty, the walls seemed to hum a little differently, like another note had joined the chord of your presence.
Rio tried to act unimpressed. She carried the plush under her arm like a grim officer with an unwanted package, muttering things like, “Why am I, a cosmic being, saddled with stuffed intestines?” But the truth leaked through in the way she placed it carefully at the end of her desk when she worked, the way she adjusted its zipper so the felt liver didn’t dangle out awkwardly.
One evening, she was tracing runes across the surface of her mirror, guiding a lost soul’s memory back to its rightful place. The plush sat beside her ink pot, staring with button eyes. The soul paused mid-passage, flickering faintly, and whispered: “What… is that creature?”
Rio didn’t miss a beat. “A sentinel,” she said, flat as stone. “Guardian of entrails and innocence. Keep moving.”
The soul obeyed. The plush gained a title.
Later, Agatha dropped by, trailing sarcasm like perfume. Her gaze landed immediately on the RoadKill raccoon perched on the mantle.
“Oh,” Agatha purred, “how dreadfully chic. Did Death herself finally embrace Etsy?”
Rio’s eyes narrowed. “Mock it again and I’ll hex your tongue to taste only vinegar.”
Agatha smirked. But she didn’t mock again. Not after the house growled softly when she reached too close.
For you, the plush became a ritual. Sometimes you would unzip its belly, carefully remove a single organ, and set it on the table like an offering. A small felt heart placed beside Rio’s tea. A kidney on the windowsill when the night felt too heavy.
Rio always noticed. She never laughed. Once, when you left the toy’s tiny stuffed lungs on her pillow, she tucked them back into the raccoon’s belly and whispered, barely audible: “Still breathing.”
The arc ended or maybe began on the night Rio invited you into her circle. The coven wasn’t there, only her and the hearthlight. She traced sigils in ash, laid out stones that hummed like distant bells. Then she placed the RoadKill plush in the center.
“You wanted Death to have it,” she said, her tone as serious as when she named the stars. “So let’s see if She’ll take it.”
You watched, wide-eyed, as Rio spoke words older than language. The plush twitched. Not alive, not moving, but its seams tightened, its zipper gleamed faintly, its felt heart pulsed once before settling back to stillness.
Rio exhaled, slow. “She accepted.” She pushed the toy toward you. “But she gave it back. Said it belongs to us.”
From then on, no one questioned the raccoon. Not the house, not Agatha, not even the Goddess of Death. It sat proudly with Annie and Rinty, as another sentinel, another relic, absurd and sacred all at once.
And every time Rio guided a soul, every time she whispered to the dark, the RoadKill plush sat beside her, button eyes unblinking. Guardian of entrails and innocence. Guardian of you.