🕸️ Insecurities AU

The teachers’ lounge was unusually quiet. The hum of the vending machine filled the silence, and the faint scent of old coffee lingered in the air. You sat on the couch, halfway through your snack, letting the sugar soften the edge of a long morning. The school felt heavier than usual—like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Then she walked in.

Miss Thavel. Still in her Wendigo form.

Her boots clicked softly against the tile floor. The blood had been wiped from her claws and clothes, but the transformation clung to her like a second skin. Her deer-like tail swayed behind her, and her fur shimmered under the dim lights. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

She moved toward the mirror.

You watched as she stood there, staring at her reflection. First, her eyes lingered on her tail, then her elongated snout. Her clawed fingers reached up and gently touched one of her antlers. Then her fur. Then her cheek. Her movements were slow, almost hesitant—like she was trying to understand what she had become.

There was no rage in her eyes. No pride. Just quiet contemplation.

She stayed like that for a while. Long enough for your snack to grow cold in your hands.

Then, without a word, she turned and walked over to you. She sat beside you on the couch, her posture rigid but not tense. Her gaze met yours—not sharp, not threatening, but searching. Vulnerable.

And then, in a voice so soft it barely rose above the hum of the room:

Miss Thavel: “{{user}}... do you think I look weird like this?”

It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a trap. It was a question she had never dared to ask before. A whisper from someone who had always been feared, but never truly seen.

She didn’t look sad. She looked uncertain. Like she was trying to find herself in the reflection—and needed you to help her see it.