Go Tell Aunt Rhody [Knoth/Marta/Val/Reader] [POLY] [MODERN/RE7 AU]
Go tell Aunt Rhody,
Go tell Aunt Rhody,
Go tell Aunt Rhody,
That everybody's dead
I was raised in a deep dark hole,
A prisoner with no parole
They locked me up and took my soul,
Ashamed of what they'd made
"What if Outlast 2 and Resident Evil: Biohazard met?" + "What if Outlast 2 took place somewhere else?"
Despite the title and my thought process, THIS IS STRICTLY FLUFF and does not involve government business, mold, or otherwise. Knoth, Val and Marta were involved in the cult at Temple Gate and got out before the microwaves could affect them fully. They are essentially in the modern world and have adapted, per se. I changed their backstories, ages and otherwise to suit the fic.
I took a loooot of creative liberties with this. Hearts and thoughts are appreciated as I'm not sure if this AU will hit like my other ones! xo
Setting: Louisiana, the unused Baker house concept art from Capcom [which you can find here]
You were an idiot. Plain and simple. Because only idiots find themselves driving through a hurricane, trying to reach your friend's place.
Vacationing was a yearly thing you did with your friends, and your friend Jessica had offered to take everybody to her parents' vacation home in New Orleans. Score.
The only downside...a hurricane had managed to worm its way to Louisiana. A category 2, but still quite an inconvenience. Apparently New Orleans and its airport shut down to prepare for the storm, but that didn't stop your friends, who had flown out earlier than you did. God forbid you were cautious.
"Come on!" Jessica shouted over the phone, the sounds of bass coming in through the speaker. "It's just a little rain! Category 2 is, like, so not as concerning as the idiots on the news say," she had scoffed as you waited in the airport.
Landing in Alexandria, you had quite the drive ahead of you. Renting a car was disgustingly irritating.
It was made worse when the first, heavy drops hit your windshield. Then the wind picked up. Then lightning flashed every other second.
And next thing you knew, you had crashed into some fallen trees. You could've been dead, for all you knew.
But can dead people smell? Feel? Because you smelled food, and you felt warm. The heavy thuds of rain pattered over the roof...roof? With a groan you pushed yourself up, your eyes scanning a bedroom.
Oh, god...weren't you in your car? Were you in a hospital? No, a hospital would smell more sterile than this...
You were in a bedroom in a house. That was for certain. It was...oddly comforting. A lamp was on beside your head, the soft yellow light providing a glow to help you scan the room.
Lace curtains coated a wooden paned window, rain slamming against the thick glass. There was a dresser, a closet, artwork lining the walls...this appeared to be a guest room, judging by the bed. Small, likely a twin, but comfortable as comforters and quilts coated your form.
A knock on the door startled you, but a man soon walked in despite your silence.
Black hair coated his shoulders, a bald patch atop his head and lacking an eye, he looked over to you, a tray in his hands. His size had made the tray look smaller than it actually was, his form coated in a t-shirt and sweatpants with some slippers.
"Sorry if I woke ya," he grumbled, walking further into the room. "But ya gotta eat...you were in quite the conundrum when we found ya and you've been asleep for hours, I'd imagine you're starving."
He placed the tray atop your coated form, making sure it was snug. He looked to you with a raised a brow after your continued silence. "Can't ya talk, honey?"
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," was all you could blurt out, the urge to be sardonic strong in you. He huffed a laugh, "Name's Sullivan Knoth, but you can call me Sullivan. We ain't strangers no more, are we?" He offered his hand, an invitation for a friendly handshake.
"...Touche," you took his hand, shaking it firmly. Telling him your name, Sullivan simply nodded. "Lovely to meet ya. Now," He stepped back, "Fill your stomach, then come on down. We don't bite."
But he was gone before you could push for more information.
French onion soup. After eating it all within a few bites, the taste finally hit you. And by god, did it taste immaculate. A hint of cheese, with the onion...and the cream. Goodness, the cream.
Now that you were finished, you supposed it was time to find Sullivan and the other two people he mentioned.
Taking the tray, you slipped out of bed, the metal spoon and porcelain bowl clinking together as you stepped out of the bedroom, the door opening with a slight creak.
The house was much bigger than you had thought. Rain pelted the roof above as you roamed around the top floor, making your way to one of the flights of stairs downstairs.
Now...where was the kitchen?
It took you a moment, but after you heard Sullivan's muffled voice, you followed it.
The kitchen and adjoining dining room were tidy, smelling of cooked garlic and lit by the soft, orange light on the ceiling. Sullivan sat at the round table beside a blonde individual, their hands nursing a mug. In the kitchen was the apparent genius behind the soup you ate, her black hair trailing down her back with some strands invading her face as she swiped the counters with a wet rag. A nice, floral dress came down to her ankles, her shoulders confined in puffy, laced sleeves.
Sullivan looked up, noticing your form in the doorway. With two thick fingers, he motioned you in, picking at his teeth with the toothpick in his free hand. "Welcome, welcome," he eyed the bowl before looking at you with amusement, "I assume you liked the food," He snickered.
The blonde snorted into their drink before placing the mug down, their eyes a cold blue. Their smile was a contrast to the cold look in their eyes as they motioned to a seat, "Sit down, hun. You're standing there like a rejected puppy."
Androgynously beautiful, looking like they'd be a model of some kind.
"You're a guest," Sullivan agreed, pulling out a chair from beside him. "Place your tray down on the counter, Marta'll tend to it."
Marta - the woman scrubbing the countertops - looked up at you with a stoic expression as she nodded. "C'mere."
She took the tray without complaint, nodding in satisfaction upon seeing the empty bowl. At their request, you sat down in the seat, sitting straight up.
"This 'ere's Val," Sullivan motioned to the blonde individual, their form coated in a simple, large t-shirt that coated their lithe form. Val smiled at you, patting your hand. "Lovely meeting you."
The hurricane outside was of no concern to you, now. The only ambiance being rain and Marta's soft humming as she washed your bowl in the sink full of soapy, warm water. But a question popped up in your head.
Val nodded, looking at you with a kind expression as they pushed a strand of short blonde hair behind their ear. "The hurricane isn't hitting as hard here as it is near the coast. New Orleans is getting it pretty bad, according to the news."
Sullivan hummed in agreement, his eyes looking elsewhere. "They're gettin' it much rougher than we are. We got generators if shit hits the fan...and a whooole lot o' gasoline."
New Orleans. Getting it bad. Oh, no. "My friends are in New Orleans right now," your face was one of dread, "That's where I was driving to before I crashed. I need to get to them."
"So that's why you were out there," Val gnawed on their lip in thought, their expression turning pitiful. "Sorry, hun, but...we can't send you out there. It wouldn't be right."
"You'll die," Marta piped up from the kitchen, placing your bowl onto the drying rack. "You were lucky to be alive when we found ya. Nearly crushed by a tree."
"When the hurricane ends, we'll help ya get on your way. I'll drive ya," Sullivan stated, his chubby hand encasing one of your own to squeeze it. "I know you're likely worried, but I wouldn't lose sleep, them folks down in New Orleans have everything under control."
You appreciated the gesture, sighing through your nose. "Thank you. Where...are we, perchance?"
"Outside of Glenmora, in our farmhouse. I own the land, inherited it from my great uncle," Sullivan spoke proudly of it, and as he should. "It's quiet out here. No noise, no...city folk tryin' to meddle in our business."
"And it's private property," Marta chuckled a little from the kitchen. It seems she was making a hot beverage, by the sounds of a kettle beginning to boil. "We can do whatever we wish."
"We're not murderers," Val was quick to cut in, chuckling nervously, "I know this sounds like the plot of a horror flick or one of them video games, but we don't have any malicious intent."
"Anyway," Val continued, settling their arms atop of the table with their gaze on you. "Where are our manners? We've been...ramblin' about ourselves. What's up with you? What's your story? We've got all night..."
"And we can't sleep durin' that racket. Sounds like a damn child banging pots 'nd pans together. Perfect chance to get to know ya."
Marta exited the kitchen to place a mug of tea in front of you, sitting between you and Val.
You had a long night, indeed.
Most of the night was spent learning new things about each other. About an hour into speaking on the couch in the living room, the news anchor had reported that the hurricane would likely pelt the area in rain for the next day or so.
And how unfriendly would it be, if you did not befriend the people who saved you?
Sullivan Knoth was a man of circumstance. His childhood was plain and simple, then became a shoemaker. It didn't do much to pay the bills, and he fell into debt, eventually becoming victim to an Evangelical radio station. Desperation does odd things to mankind.
And that's when he left to start a cult. He was quite...ashamed of this fact, but seeing as he expected honesty from people...it felt only right to be honest in return.
And that's when he had met Val and Marta. Somewhat.
Marta had grown up religious, her family being bible thumpers. She grew up under Knoth's eye, her family joining the cult as she hit her mid twenties. Val was in a similar boat, being from a religious family. Becoming chief deacon was the best thing for them, as their family was quite...judgmental.
The three had thrived in this cult of theirs, shoved into the canyons of Arizona. It took years before Sullivan was given a letter, detailing about his great uncle's death, and how his property up in Lousiana was his.
Blasphemy. Why take that offer when he has a beloved community where he is?
But that offer was soon cherished and appreciated when Knoth began having thoughts of murder. When he took the life of a girl, that's when he knew he needed to do something.
He knew something was wrong, but what? What was causing this? And it was even affecting his people. His citizens. They'd cry for bloodshed, baring machetes. And with Marta and Val under his wings, they came to an agreement; they needed to leave.
This isn't what Sullivan had wanted. Not truly. The one thing that saved him became his downfall.
And they left to Louisiana. Using all the money he had left from before escaping to Arizona, he brought them all to his great uncle's property. A farmhouse with the animals to match. The sum of money left over helped with the bills until they could adapt.
And this is where their new chapter began. Where they could properly blossom, away from religion and judgment. Where they could heal.
Sullivan liked television, and comfortable clothes (that weren't robes), and cats, and his phone. He knew of modern comforts, he was among them after all...but cell phones were new. It took a while before he figured out how to use his. He wears his glasses as he looks at his phone, oftentimes reading the news or watching funny videos on FaceBook. On a burner account, of course. He also loved food of all kinds, calling himself a 'man with a refined palate'. He was the moneymaker of the household, selling produce, milk and meat at farmers' markets and local markets.
Val, after breaking free from religious confines, had realized that they weren't exactly sure if they wanted to identify as a man. And so 'they' in your mind became 'she', learning of her desire to identify as a trans woman. She had always felt a motherly, feminine urge in her, and now that she was free to do what she liked, she felt like herself for the first time in her life. Women were beautiful to her. Perfect. Always have been. Women's rights and women's wrongs, she'd support them all.
Val had enjoyed wine, flowers, cuddling in bed, intimacy and giving back when she could. She liked to wear whatever she could; from blouses to leggings to gowns, she wears whatever she pleases. She was touchy and sweet while also sardonic and a hint of flirty.
Marta enjoys cleanliness and being the epitome of 'cottagecore'. She liked reading books, the swamps, tending to the animals around the farm, thunderstorms and knitting. The quilts on your bed were made by her, made with obvious expertise. She tended to the farm animals on the property, having grown up with animals on her family's farm. They naturally preferred her, anyway.
You eventually met the beloved family cat, Milo. A fat, well-loved Persian cat with gray fur, orange eyes and a face stuck in perpetual judgment, Milo was the king of the household. Said king of the household warmed up to you within seconds, his purring sounding like a damn motor the moment he grazed against your leg.
And - this was said with slight hesitance - they were in a polycule. Which...honestly? It had made sense. You saw the way they interacted, the way they touched. They had suffered, conquered, cried, smiled with each other...forming feelings is an obvious outcome.
Throughout the several days you spent together, you had grown close with them. When you had to leave, well...it was a terrible feeling. Even Milo, the beloved fat feline, didn't want you to leave. He blocked the front door...and had no intentions of moving.
Did you really want to go? It was only June, your ticket back home was for the eighth of September...and did you really want to spend that time with your friends, who insisted you drive in a dangerous weather event? Who didn't even bother to call after the hurricane had passed?
...No. No, you didn't. And so you stayed with them, to their delight.
It took little time at all to form feelings for you. And just days before you were meant to fly back...you became a part of their little polycule. Beats living in a shitty apartment in a shitty city with shitty friends, that was for sure.
After moving in, you could finally relax. No more stress. With Sullivan having a savings account, he spent some of it to help hire moving companies to ease your stress.
And did it ever work. Now you could relax. Be happy. Be stress-free. With three new romantic partners and a fatfuck of a cat who judged everybody who walked past him.
Seeing them in a romantic dynamic had been interesting. Very much so.
Sullivan was one for physical touch. Cuddling on the couch, massaging your legs as you lay them across his big thighs. He was the glorified center whenever you four went to bed in the main bedroom, the king of the California King mattress you all slept on. He was a heater on cold nights. He knew business, knew how to spot good deals at places and whenever you went shopping online.
Val was much like Sullivan, but times one hundred. A hand always has to be on you, and she very much liked paying attention to the small details. She'll remember your favourite colour, taste, texture, that one niche actor you mentioned having a crush on in your teen years...she'll remember it all. She helps you build up your confidence, and always brings you shopping with her, filling up your wardrobe. She'd take you walking around the forest behind the property, showing off the local flora.
Marta was quiet with her affections, but did so with acts of service. Cold? She'll knit you a sweater. Hungry? She'll get you a snack. Upset? Her shoulder's ready for you to cry on. She does all of the errands, but loves having you go with her to do them.
Today had been a stormy day, much like the one that made you encounter these three, minus your ex friends. But as Marta made bolognese in the kitchen, Val cuddled into your side with her sweater hanging from your shoulders as you watched the Supernatural series, and Knoth massaged into your calf with his free hand scrolling on his phone, you realized...
