#he's weird and scraggly in the book

[carg0-toad]

fight club book moments i think about a lot

these are not the only ones but these are the ones that stick out the most to me...

[2-dsimp]

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Yandere monster gang

Introducing the poltergeist

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(Fem! Reader)

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Cw: 🔞MDNI🔞 Slight smonophillia, slight degradation, slight rough play, facials, non-con, humiliation, titfuck, M! Oral receive

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Yandere poltergeist who loves to watch you at every second of the day, In his lonesome plane of existence since you were the only source of happiness he could get due to his unfortunate circumstances. Which made you feel chills and goosebumps prickle on your skin whenever you could feel a presence. It didn’t matter if you were eating, sleeping, changing, or even taking a shower you’ve always felt as if you weren’t alone.

Yandere poltergeist who’s not shy to say hello with a lecherous grin on his face as his materialized hand gave the fat of your ass a smack while you passed him walking down the hallway to your room. Making you squeak, startled from the invisible force that assaulted your butt. But to no avail you kept on moving with the motive of brushing it off as a weird occurrence trying not to dwell on it too much.

Yandere poltergeist who is an attention whore that finds it amusing to watch you shrivel up in fear and scramble to find logical explanations for the little pranks he’s done in mansion. By leaving harsh markings in the form of bites or scratches that form scraggly initials on your skin, jerking off traces of his essence into the foods that you cook, and messily smearing mysterious goop on your panties, bras, and sheets on your bed so that it stains. He just loved the adorable expression of confusion and conflict making your face scrunch up in a cute frown.

Yandere poltergeist who was slowly starting to get irritated from the lack of reactions he’s been getting from you as you became more accustomed to the strange instances of random noises, missing items, knocked over books, and featherlight caresses of your body. The last straw was when you invited someone over without his permission his vision turning red as he saw them putting their hands over what’s his.

Yandere poltergeist that decides to take it into his own hands to punish his darling…

Yandere poltergeist who hovers above your defenseless body sprawled out in the bed. While he began to start using up the energy he’s saved up in return for halting his daily routine of actively haunting his darling. Taking advantage of the fact that you’re a heavy sleeper he put the ropes he found in the basement to use and tied your wrists and ankles down to the bed post. He planned to teach his darling some manners and make it so you respected his house rules.

Yandere poltergeist who greedily caresses every curve and crease of your skin while practically tearing off the thin layers of your sleeping pajamas. Exposing your breast and delectable pussy to his viewing pleasure before he uses his cold materialized hands to roughly grope and tweak at your hardened nipples which jolted you awake from your restful slumber as he’s leaving little love bites along the expanse of your neck.

Yandere poltergeist who smiles endearingly at your struggles and attempts at screaming for help at the sight of a faint mirage of a scruffy young lean man wearing glasses straddling you. while he continues to defile your body with his throbbing cold length that rubbed against your belly button getting coated in his slimy pre. As he makes his way up towards your breasts dragging the fat leaking tip between the valley of your generous mounds.

Yandere poltergeist that sandwiched his pulsating cock in between your tits using his hands to take your soft flesh and languid thrusts up against your pursed lips in rapid succession. Enjoying the way your boobs bounced and jiggled with every jab of his translucent dick that kept on prodding at your full lips.

Yandere poltergeist that whispered words of flith into your ears

”I love it when you struggle sweetheart it turns me on so much that I wanna ruin you”

“Now Why don’t you open that sweet mouth of yours and suck my cock like a good little slut”

Yandere poltergeist who takes his hand and forcefully squish your cheeks so your lips open into an o shape perfect for him to fully rock himself inside the moist cavern of your mouth hissing at the blissful feel of you having no choice but to suck on his twitching dick violating your throat.

Yandere poltergeist who doesn’t last long due to having no prolonged physical contact in years and plants his hips against your face driving his the tip of his balls deep down your throat expelling all the pent up cum he had stored in his transparent balls with a relaxed moan.

Yandere poltergeist Having some semblance to realize that you were choking on his dick and begrudgingly pulled out from your mouth with a small pop and continued to spurt lines of his semen all over your face, neck, and tits. His eyes filled with desire and satisfaction at your lewd state enjoying the embarrassment and defeat washed on your face. Oh he was going to have so much fun with all the plans he’s got stored for his dearest houseguest.

Yandere poltergeist who will haunt you forevermore and keep his pretty houseguest as his sole form of entertainment

[mpsansy]

The Art Of Scaring

A journal entry of the eternal youth living within the walls of Whipstaff Manor.

-

I don’t usually write in journals like this. Not that I’m afraid of my uncles getting into it, though they probably would if given the chance. And I suppose I would too. Cause what else is there to do when the house you occupy is filled with a treasure trove of books that have all been read by the residents?

I’m getting off track here.

Tonight, as opposed to having a single moment of true peace. I was dragged into learning how to make some people skin crawl. Scaring.

Ugh...

Honestly, I can’t seem to find the appeal. Not exactly anyways. I’d rather just be left alone to my own devices. And yet when I told that to them, my uncles were quick to say that fleshies could ruin that for me. And to keep that “solitude” that I like so much, I MUST know how to scare. I’d like to say they’re wrong. Absolutely wrong and stupid for thinking that way.

Unfortunately, they’re not wrong.

It alway seems like annoying people come our way and genuinely disrupt the serenity I have made for my family and I.

...

Maybe I am growing up, because I used to be so excited meeting new people. Being unapologetically friendly upon first approach. Now it’s turned to mild annoyance when I’m trying to read, draw, or listen to music. Not to mention that I feel my form changing. Not by much, but enough to notice. It's weird. Can ghosts like me really change in such a way?

Off that. The Art Of Scaring.

That’s a term my uncles like to call it. For this particular session of scaring, we took a different approach to things. An idea that I thought they wouldn’t put into practice cause I mostly said it as a sarcastic remark. But it’s all about vocals here. Not the scraggly stuffy vocals.

The kind of vocals we are doing here makes you feel like there’s an actual person in the same space with you, despite nobody being visible.

I’ll admit, this one is a little fun. Reason being is that for someone like my uncle Fatso, the voice from him can reverberate and seem even louder than it is. And I happen to mimic his tactics. If it isn’t broken, why fix it. Or upgrade it for that matter.

I don’t know why, but scaring with him is a little bit manageable. That may have something to do with him giving me more range to work with and explore different creative scenes. My other uncles are a bit…

Lacking in that regard. Using the same methods over and over again. So as far as I’m concerned, it’s usually me or him making up these elaborate scares possible and entertaining.

Don't get the wrong idea, I don't relish in the scaring. If anything, I am far more tamer in my methods as opposed to my uncles. They can be quite extreme. Deadly even. Luckily here, nothing bad happened.

In all, I actually managed to get some stuff out of it. I even scared a teen that had a music player he just abandoned. Sucks for him, but great for me because a lot of music was on it. Most of the intense rock and metal genre.

I'm cool with that. Gets my soul feeling all fuzzy. Other than that, I guess I got nothing much to add. Don't know when I'll write in this again, but hopefully I will get to to preserve all the new memories I'm making!

[im-literally-so-dun]

idk why I'm posting this on main, but have a drabble-

Sleepwalking

Aislinn shoved her hands deeper into her hoodie pocket, and glanced around herself, looking at the dull concrete buildings, the noisy, rushed people, the scraggly trees poking out of their pots on the sidewalk, the smelly trash littering the street…. She shook her head, pulling the oversized gray hood up so she could hide better, and sped up. Almost to the library. It was safe there, not so loud and hot and busy and overwhelming as the outside. “No-” She muttered, shaking her head harder. “Can’t think like that anymore...” The doctor had said she couldn’t think of the world- the real, actual world- as the outside anymore. That was bad for her, it encouraged her to project, to mix a daydream and the outside. Linn wasn’t sure why it was bad, she wasn’t doing it to hurt herself, just to make the world look prettier.  Like… she slowed and spotted a tired-looking woman in a wrinkled suit sitting on a bench at a bus stop, scrolling on her phone. Linn concentrated for a second, and suddenly, the bench wasn’t rusted anymore. It was painted a vivid, perfect deep green. The tree next to the bench was suddenly taller, healthier-looking. Its green leaves stretching skyward, instead of drooping like they’d been doing an instant ago. There were flowers growing next to the bench, and the junk food wrappers that had been scattered on the ground were gone. The sun shone more brightly and Linn didn’t feel as small and afraid now. The tired woman looked happier, her face less careworn. She was almost smiling and her clothes looked freshly ironed.  Aislinn half sighed longingly. She missed this... What was wrong with it? All she was doing was making the world prettier, a happier place, where no one was ever unhappy, or got hurt, or di—  She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard against the sudden ache in her throat. No no no, not that word, not that word—  "Aislinn? Hurry up,” Her brother yelled, snapping her back into the o- no, back into the real world.  “Sorry,” she mumbled, realizing she’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and had been staring into space. Linn caught up to Alex, and mumbled an apology again. “Sorry, I… I was…” she shook her head. “Never mind.” Mom hadn’t told him what she did and she wasn’t allowed to talk about it to him. Better to just shut up.  The doctor would probably be happier if she didn't explain it, anyway. He probably thought it'd make her forget about her world if she didn't talk about it.  Alex rolled his eyes, and dragged her off to the library. “You’re weird,” “Thanks,” she mumbled, following him and hating this noisy, rushed, monotone outside world.  The library was a welcome break from the noise, the mess, the... everything… that was the real world. It was so quiet, so clean, so bright, so perfect. Almost like her world had been, except Destiny wasn’t here.  She could forget that, though. At least, for a little while. And she did. Linn found a book and curled up in a chair, hiding in the pages, projecting herself into the story world, letting the colors and words and people swirl around her, letting herself forget the outside for a while.  After who knew how long, Alex shook her, shattering the projection, the colors and people fading into the library’s reading nook.  “Mom wants us back by five, remember?” He said impatiently, brushing his dark bangs out of his eyes.  “Yeah,” she said, standing and grabbing her stack of books, then trailing Alex to the checkout area. 

They checked their books out, then Alex was dragging her through the busy streets again and she didn’t have time to try to fix all the gray and mess, because he was so fast, and then they were home, and it was dinner time, then before she knew it, Linn was sitting on her bed in pajamas, staring at the bottles.  There were two of them. She couldn't remember what they were called, couldn't tell what they did, or what they were supposed to do. They just made her head fuzzy, like she was always half asleep. She never had the energy to think about fixing things then, because concentrating on doing school or whatever took all her energy.  Linn knew the drugs were wearing off now, because her mind was sharp, clear, she could almost see all the changes she’d make in her room right now, and there— there was the biggest one next to her.  “Destiny,” she whispered, her eyes welling with tears as she turned slightly, looking at the spot on her bed that her best friend—no, her figment. The spot that her lie had sat on so many times before. Linn wasn’t allowed to think Destiny back, that was bad for her, made her forget the outside, get lost in her world… That was the funny thing, though. The doctor had said if she took the medication, it’d make her forget her world, help her focus on the outside. But it hadn’t done that. All it did was make her feel half asleep, and fuzzy. Like sleepwalking, kind of. She felt more like she was stuck in a dream when she took it than when she projected her own world. Her world was so beautiful, so sharp and clear and it felt so real, more real than the outside ever had. At least, since…. since Dad.   “I just wanna go back,” she whispered, hugging her knees and resting her forehead on them. “Linn, baby?” Mom asked quietly. The door creaked and a sliver of light fell across her, and Linn had to force herself not to fix it. “Oh honey, are you all right?” Linn heard the bed creak and the mattress dipped, then Mom’s arms were around her, holding her, warm, comfortable, safe, and…. real. “I just wanna go back, mama,” she whispered. “I miss Destiny, I miss making things the way I wanted them…” “Honey… I know it’s hard, but it’s not real. It’s a lie,” Mom sounded cautious, like she didn’t want to hurt her. She couldn’t hurt Linn, nothing could, because the drugs took that away. They kind of made her feelings sort of… flat? Things didn’t hurt anymore, not since Destiny had left. She just felt empty. And empty didn't hurt. Right?  “I know… But I like it better,” she said. “And the medicine makes me feel like I’m dreaming more than I ever made myself feel. I know that doesn’t make sense.” Mom hugged her tighter. “I’m sorry, baby girl. Maybe we can get different medicine? And…  I think you maybe need a real friend. That’s what you really want, right?” She thought for a second, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been dreaming kinda since Destiny…. went away. I want a real friend, one who won’t go away. Not like the others.” “I know.” Mom’s voice was quiet again. “We can try to find you one, but it won’t be easy. Friendships are hard, Linn.” She nodded again. “I know. Maybe I’ll like the outside better when I have a friend.” A reason to live in it, instead of in my mind, she added silently. “I bet you will,” Mom said, still holding her. Mom was another reason to live in the outside. She wasn’t as nice as her version of Mom had been, but she was really real. And she was better than Linn's version of Mom.  Maybe a real best friend would be better than Destiny had been. Destiny couldn’t really hug her and a real friend could do that. Maybe it was time to move on. Maybe she'd get used to not having her world anymore. Maybe she needed to just live in the outside, finally.

[iamnmbr3]

Okay you know what i just thought about and will probably talk about when i get there in my reread But:

Harry's first letter is delivered before his birthday, and Hagrid comes to get him on his birthday. In theory, firsties get their letter slightly before their birthdays, or maybe on their birthday and Harry's was just early bc the omniscient Dumbledore anticipated the Dursleys being horrible about it.

So why the hell did Draco do his shopping on Harry's birthday?

Draco's birthday is in June, so he must've gotten his letter around two months prior. The Malfoys don't work, and Draco is a brat, so why wouldn't they have gotten his wand etc sooner? If it was about putting it off until Draco was about to go to school (for Lucius' sanity), why go July 31 and not toward the end of August? Seems oddly specific and coincidental (definitely not for convenient plot reasons).

My theory: Draco Malfoy is acutely aware of Harry Potter's birthday and wanted to meet him shopping. Unfortunately, he just met this weird scraggly child instead. (Surely he'll meet Harry Potter on the train, though!)

Ahhh that's so cute!

I always headcanoned that they just did his shopping on a day that was convenient for his parents because they had other stuff to do in the area. Like in book 2 Lucius takes Draco to do school shopping when he's going to be in town anyway to talk to Borgin and Burkes about helping him sell some sketchy artifacts. And I'm sure Lucius and Narcissa let Draco play around a bit with their wands (or maybe even some other ones they had lying around the Manor) before he got his own. (I also 100% think that Draco used magic in the summer and his parents covered for him - since he was in a magical household the trace wouldn't have mattered).

But omg this is so adorable and could totally work too!

[thehuntyhunties]

stardew valley adjacent AU where Killua just up and absconds to scraggly-ass farm in a tiny little town in a quiet little valley fairly far from any city and very, VERY far from his family. He brings Alluka with him because arguably she needs new start even more than he does. Together they claw their way through figuring out how to clear out the land, grow a few crops, make new things from various resources. Alluka practically moves into the town library for a full week and a half reading every book she thinks will help. Eventually they buy some chickens, then a few goats. Killua attempts to train the goats to head-butt people on command, but only one of them gets it, and the rest are frustratingly relaxed. A few weeks into the farm life they find a kitten in an overgrown tangle and they name it Marshmallow but Alluka insists on referring to it as Killua’s son/child/baby every chance she gets and Killua pretends to be annoyed but secretly loves it.

They slowly get to know their neighbors, although initially Killua just keeps handing extra rocks to people (they have SO MANY rocks piling up in their storage) which pisses off nearly everyone in town except for the son of the lady who runs the saloon. Killua tries to break into the sewer. Alluka drags him up into the caves north of town because now she’s the town librarian’s favorite patron and she’s determined to find all sorts of cool things to fill the museum. They get the kitchen fixed up properly and get better at fishing. Killua keeps giving rocks to the town doctor just to piss him off and purposefully starts a feud with the manager at the local JojaMart, because their family has a stake in JojaMart and neither of them wants to see any connection to their family now that they finally have something that’s theirs. The guy who runs the farm supply store lets them know about a small cave on their farm that’s been growing weird mushrooms. Alluka finds a shadow person in the basement and they bond immediately, and she seems very young and they don’t want her out on her own, so now they have a roommate. Killua gets overly-invested in the various contests and competitions that take place throughout the year and obsesses over the melon plants and blueberry bushes while Alluka coaxes jam and pickle recipes out of the local grandmas.

They run into the saloon owner’s son at 1:30am while they’re leaving the caves because he’s going INTO the caves to collect slimes in a bucket (he’s been studying them in his free time because as an animal they make absolutely NO sense). Later he introduces Killua and Alluka to the junimos, who absolutely adore him because he’s spent his whole life in the forest getting to know them. And he also tells them “oh yeah and watch out for the big bear in the far west part of the forest, I think maybe it’s magic” and Killua says “wait what bear” and he says “oh don’t worry, even if you could get through the massive tree in the path i’m pretty sure the bear is friendly, anyways have a good night guys!” and Killua says “Gon wait come back WHAT BEAR” and Alluka makes a mental note to ask the blacksmith how much it will cost to get a stronger ax so she can bust apart the tree and meet the magic bear. 

[pinkmoondoll9shihtzu]

slept for 12 hours n had another crazy long dream involving wolves...i was deep in a forest w friends & our dogs but i kept having paranoia about wild animals hunting us. Then while we werr swimming enjoying i noticed a mangey scraggly old black puma lurking around. slimbos golden retriever denji saw it too n chased it away, i thought he was a goner for sure it was very scary but he came back without a scratch like the cat was too old or diseased to fight. but as the sun started to set, multiple giant black wolves were showing up to watch us so we hurried to leave even tho we all wanted to swim more. Later in the dream one of my friends was terminally ill & only had a few weeks to live so they were trying to get a bunch of insane tattoos before they die and i was trying to gather the supplies to tattoo "Nietzschian Blingees" on them. cant remember who the friend was now but nietschan blingees is like a term ive had stuck in my head (irl)) for a few years now and i did think of it comsciously again yesterday cus the girl next to me on the plane had a nietschze book. Anyways yeah weird dream lot of death symbols hm

[peggy-sue-reads-a-book]

Paper Cranes

TW: homophobia, bullying, church abuse, swearing, assault, ED, SH, compulsive exercising, Republicans, purity culture, evangelical crap, but most of all middle school. If I’ve failed to include anything, just let me know. Fr I wrote it for me and posted it for those who might find my experience affirming. I’m all good if you need to scroll right on past a trauma post.

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The first time I ever watched homophobic bullying was in my pastor’s office. All the teens were waiting around a table for our youth pastor. There was one gay boy, a close friend of mine in a relatively small group. From the first week his family joined our church, an older girl in youth group announced to the rest of us that she couldn’t stand him because “he’s too happy and sings too much.” It was true. The new boy was the most cheerful, outgoing person I’d ever met. And he loves to sing.

The same girl gave a similar PSA behind my back when I was new. “We shouldn’t play with her because she’s weird and wears dress up clothes.” I was six. And it was true, I did wear a princess costume every day. Eventually I traded in my tutus for some looks that better reflected internalized misogyny and everyone figured out I’m funny as all shit and can get along with most anyone. I graduated from the bottom of the food chain.

So I shrugged off her hot take on my new friend. I don’t think she liked that her plans to cancel the new guy flopped. Because as we were waiting around that table she jumped up and grabbed his earlobe between her finger nails. She was super proud of her nails. They were long and scraggly like a cat and she was into filing them in public in case anyone felt too safe.

She dug her nails in on either side and no one said anything. You don’t stand up for a boy to a girl. I can’t remember if he tried to swat her off or just took it. It was only a minute but it was a damn long one. Blood started to bead around her nails. Then the door opened and she sat back down. Sunday school started.

Nothing I believed, no books, no paper, no concept of abomination could override what I’d just seen, the revulsion deep in my gut. It was more than rage. More than disgust. I still have no word for it. I was too young and the feelings that well up are still those of a thirteen year old.

It doesn’t matter what you call it. Anger like that is like walking around dead and suddenly finding your pulse because it’s roaring in your ears like a jackhammer.

I prayed to be like everyone else. To care about the same social issues in the same way. The only way I could make sense of my loneliness was that I was cursed in some way. If God loved me, he would make me content with the same values as my peers. But I had just seen someone harm someone else and not a single one of these fine, upstanding kids I’m supposed to make friends with say a damn thing.

A few years later, there was some kinda touchy-feeling Jesus shindig where everyone got real sugared up at night and had a big sing along with some college kids who were supposedly qualified to talk about the deep shit with us. If I mentioned their university you’d recognize it. Hint: assault cover ups

One guy, nineteen or so, must have gotten particularly inspired in the spirit because he starts preaching off-the-cuff about the sins of anorexia, binging, purging, and cutting. I inched backward. I tried hiding behind a football player; I was about half his width after all.

Peggy, what’s up with the bandaids?

I guess I tripped over a wall.

Hey I have a joke. How many Peggies can you fit in the shower? No one knows because—-

— I keep slipping down the drain. Heard that one.

Eat a fucking sandwich, you skinny cunt

The best part of the speech is it was addressed to us about the bad, vague other kids who barfed and otherwise screwed around. Those poor fuck-ups, insulting God’s creation by choosing to defile their bodies.

I couldn’t wait to get home and go for it, but felt a whole lot more like a compulsion than a choice.

I’ve heard this sermon twice, by the way. The second time, the pastor held up a paper crane and asked us to admire its delicacy and the skill it took to make it before shredding it up. Guess he worked hard on that metaphor.

That was me. A paper crane. Pure white, crafted precisely, folded up small. You could pinch my wings between your fingernails and pull them off. I wouldn’t bleed and you could vacuum me up. That was my power. The control in the fine lines and tight folds.

Anyway here I am squirming on my butt and waiting for my chance to burn off my two bites of pizza and Oreos. I’m pretty sure I’d made everyone laugh by scooting the cookies into my mouth from my forehead with no hands. See, everyone, I eat. Yeah, I was gonna have to get in some crunches tonight.

I wondered if I could chug enough lemon water to get diarrhea without being noticed, when somehow, we were looking at each other. The boy’s eyes were bright blue. Ice blue, like in cheesy books. Gay.

Skinny.

Leviticus. The apostle Paul.

Cutter.

It’s a powerful feeling, that two seconds of eye-contact that lets you know you aren’t crazy. That you aren’t the only one in the room who is angry. It is taking a hand to find it as wounded as yours.

Whatever is divine in this world, whatever is true and special and outside of ourselves, it is in the rage you can’t shake. If a voice is telling you that no one deserves to be treated this way, that you inherently do not deserve this, and you say shut up and shut up and shut up and it won’t

Shut up, shut up,

and your only answer is this is bullshit. You should get up and leave

Shut up

I said you are free to walk out,

I can’t,

well then I say you can. I say Truth never left you and you’re not dead.

disclaimer: I did not write this to shit on Christians (I am a Christian) or any tradition in general but the corruption that exists in specific systems

other disclaimer: the other kids in this story were literally also just kids, even the mean ones. I’m pretty sure all of them have grown into sensible adults I’d hang out with. I did not write this to shit on them either.

[zorilleerrant]

There's a kid Dick knows. Dick's only been in Gotham three times when It Happens, but he wasn't performing the first time, so he had time to hang out in the stands with this kid. Kind of scraggly, kind of short, but scrappy, clearly a fighter. Great conversationalist. Loves history, loves architecture especially. Kind of ominous. Kind of angry. Kind of hopeful, in a bittersweet way.

This kid is there just hanging out, but mouth agape as Dick's parents swing to and fro on the trapeze, surprising a laugh out of every member of the audience, and even Dick himself at the height of their arc. The show is flawless. It's always flawless. And the kid is mesmerized by everything in the Big Top, from the clowns doing their sound effects to the strongman lifting everyone. (Even enough to whistle, at that.) They clap politely, and disappear.

Dick's used to kids disappearing on him, traveling the way he does, and it's enough to spend a few hours with a good conversationalist, enthusiastic, if a little weird. He doesn't expect to see the kid again, the second time, after his first performance in front of a crowd, eyes glittering and holding out a hand in congratulations. Dick shakes that hand a little too hard and laughs a little to loud and asks a little too anxiously how did you like the show? He gets his compliments. The kid's wary of the clowns this time in a way they weren't the last, but everything else still seems new and shiny, even though Dick was there when they saw it all last year.

The kid is there That Time, too. Dick's sure of it.

There's a kid the first time Dick comes back to Gotham as Nightwing, a kid that looks so familiar that he couldn't tell you why, a kid that looks at him with chin jutted out and eyes full of betrayal, a kid who says they don't need Nightwing to save them. Shoves him away. Disappears into the night.

The kid forgives him, eventually. Or maybe it's another kid. There's so many, and every time Dick pulls one away from the fire, he can see bright eyes in the dark, softening, nodding at him.

...

There's a kid Jason knows. The kid is bigger than him by a lot and always knows the best places to hide. They never steal Jason's food - of course, they never seem to know anywhere to get it, but Jason's still too little to worry about that - so he feels safe eating next to them. He feels safe around them, anyway. They never do much. But they care.

The kid doesn't grow. Jason doesn't either, to be fair. He doesn't know how old the kid is, just older than him by a long shot, except when angry voices call out to them to run away they run together, and the voices always think they're the same age. Jason's too small to be the same age as anyone with that glint in their eye. The kid helps him slip a few wallets off of out of towners. It's easy to tell a tourist, and they've got fatter wads of cash. It's the first time Jason learns to pickpocket, and, thinking back, it shouldn't have been as easy as it was. The kid didn't want a share. The kid didn't even want a slice.

The kid is smaller than Jason. Not by a lot, but Jason's still worried, because as little as he sees the kid, it's still too often for the kid to just never eat. Still. The kid looks clean and new that night, shiny, like they just came from a birthday party. Jason's always jealous of the birthday parties thrown clear across the city, people poking their heads out of cars and screaming into the night. He doesn't have a car, but he knows where to get one.

Jason looks for the kid so many times, always thinks he sees them, but they're never there, and he's worried he scared them away with his new clothes and his carefully trimmed hair and a book he just wanted to read to them. He can't find them. He can never seem to find anyone he used to know.

Jason comes back to Gotham different, but Gotham still knows him, still takes him by the hand and nods with too sharp eyes, still never eats a single bite. Silently shows him the dark places and the quiet ones, the shadows of violence and the glimmers of peace. Jason's never let anyone lay a finger on a kid with his hands empty, but this kid - there's a kid Jason knows, and there's places to go if he needs to keep the kid safe.

...

There's a kid Tim knows. There's a kid with the slyest smile, this slowly burgeoning grin, who speaks in ways that Tim wants to call unctuous but only because that's the word of the day. A kid with slicked back hair and a too perfect suit, and kid who laughs like they're exactly aware of how fake they sound when they speak. A kid who meets Tim's gaze and holds it. Raises an eyebrow.

...

There's a kid Steph knows. A kid who's always banged up but never seems to want a bandage, a kid who snaps her own words back at her when she calls them on it. A kid with too long hair who keeps pushing it out of their eyes, who always darts out of view just too fast for Steph to catch up to them. A kid who infuriates Steph.

That's okay. A lot of kids infuriate Steph. That doesn't mean she's not going to look out for them.

The kid sours at questions and balks at trivia, but likes cold hard facts that sound like an encyclopedia come to life. It's hard to have a conversation at first, because Steph likes the give and take of the Socratic method, but the kid likes lists. The kid likes libraries, too. Steph takes to meeting them in the library, because at least there it's got a little bit of heat for the two of them, lights that don't strain their eyes. The kid smiles like a tiger when they get their hands on a thesaurus and it makes Steph just a little suspicious.

The kid doesn't seem well fed, doesn't seem well taken care of, but they keep coming back, day after day, and their injuries never seem to get worse. (Well, they do, sometimes, but it's only times when everyone and their cousin is injured, because those sorts of things just happen in Gotham. And it would be more worrying if they weren't.) No one's looking after the kid, but they won't let Steph look after them either, despite the fact that she's probably got at least two years on them, maybe more.

She feels like there probably should be someone to call. She doesn't know who, and everyone she does know, she already doesn't trust. She suggests Batman, one time, and the kid lights up like the city center on the last Friday in November, but they've disappeared by the time she works out how to entice the Bat.

...

There's a kid Cass knows. She doesn't know them, precisely, but the first time she found herself lost they were there to lead the way. They're there every time. And they're not a kid, either, for all they look like one. They feel older than they can explain to her, but she can see it in the way they walk, every time. They don't bother to hide from her anymore, so she takes care to hide them from everyone else.

...

There's a kid Duke knows. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression, the same pent up rage behind careful footsteps and careful nods. There's a kid that never turns down a helping hand but never asks for one either, a kid Duke keeps inviting over despite the fact they always run off before dinner. A kid everyone knows, a kid Duke can say, hey, you know that one kid? And they do.

This kid helps Duke out if he asks, rattles off facts and figures like they don't need to breathe, looks pleased if they hit on something he was trying to get at, something he desperately wanted to know. They're hungry for knowledge even more than he is, trying to read his textbooks over his shoulder, eyes aglow every time they land on something new. Hurrying, like there's no time to know every fact in the world, always in a rush.

The kid talks like they have all the time in the world, the kid talks like they've been there through everything, the kid talks like something's coming, something's always coming. Duke knows that feeling. Duke looks around every corner, too, and learns to spot the ones where the kid looks anxious, and the ones where the kid looks like they're just too polite to laugh at him for checking.

The kid's clothes are too big but they never want any of Duke's, the kid's hair is messy but they'll stay still long enough for Duke to braid it back up again. The kid might be older than him. The kid is definitely a lot more reticent to face down another villain than him. The kid never seems to be there during the worst of it, but afterwards, well, Duke's never heard someone speak in softer tones to scared kids trapped in the rubble. He always turns around and they're gone.

...

There's a kid Damian knows. They hate him at first, the way children his age always do. They look at him with a sneer like they know more than he does, which is ridiculous, because he didn't study hard with all the world's knowledge at his fingertips just to have some street rat look down their nose at him. He follows them to the library just enough times to learn what he hasn't learned, and then he sets himself to that. He'll show them they aren't the only one who can pick up a book while running through the streets of Gotham.

Damian is older when he comes back, and the kid is, too, or else the kid always seemed older than Damian thought back when he was thinking of nothing but proving himself. But the kid looks at him, wetly, with pity and regret, and Damian doesn't know why that feels like home again. The kid is wounded, just like he is, and there's something in the expression that means Damian doesn't want to ask what they went through. Their skin is pale and their hair ragged shorn, but, some days later, when Damian feels well enough to go back out, they've darkened in the sun.

...

There's a kid Luke knows. From parties. Always rolling their eyes in the corner, a wineglass dangling from their fingers. Their praise for his work is hollow right until he talks around to the Harbor, whereupon the kid is more interested than any of the members of his board who are supposed to be working on the project. The kid knows more than any kid has any right to know. Things no kid should know. Things the Bats barely know. Things the Harbor itself should barely know, if it had some way to tell anyone.

...

There's a kid Helena knows. A kid just always one step ahead. A kid who was one step ahead of her mom when she was just learning, and a step ahead when she came back a world renowned thief. A kid one step ahead of Helena early in her learning curve, and another step ahead when they see her on the other side of the glass, who darts in with one flirtatious wink and leaves again, never caught on camera, never caught. Not by Helena, not by anyone. Always there, always gone, always a kid.

...

There’s a kid Babs knows. They always get in trouble – well, they always are in trouble, and they never get out of trouble, and her dad just likes to call them trouble, sometimes with a capital T. A kid with a scowl like sunshine, scouring clean the cobwebbed edges of the jail cells, a kid who always seems to know the way out even when Babs isn’t sure they’re supposed to be out, yet. They never ask her to unlock anything. She’s not their way out.

They’re not her way out, either, but she follows them, sometimes, into the maze of streets she knows like the back of her hand, too confident to even have her phone out to call her dad if she gets in trouble, and they love her for it. Dare her down alleyways and up walls she shouldn’t be able to scale. Or they shouldn’t, anyway, not tiny and twiggy like they are, no muscle to speak of covering their arms and legs, but the speed on them! Babs is always out of breath as she races to catch them, and then in trouble for leaving the station at all.

They’re always in the station when she’s there, but they’re always out of it when she’s on a walk, like they want to know where she’s going. They don’t speak directly to her. This is pretty normal for street kids, all told, because Babs is a resource when they need her dad – they trust her more than they trust an adult – but she’s still the daughter of a cop in the midst of them, and, well, yeah. She knows. So she knows why they won’t talk to her.

She doesn’t know why they won’t talk to her in costume. No one else has put those things together. They smile in this not quite knowing way like they have a reason, but they never approach, even though she’s seen them approach other people, other Bats.

She sees them everywhere, for a while. Out the window of her hospital room. Never close enough to make out their features, just the occasional glimpse of russet hair or freckles, the occasional upturned head and sympathetic look, even though no one could possibly see her from the ground. Less even than she can see them, with the glare on the windows, and it’s hard to find them running off into the crowd. They talk to her a lot, online. It’s odd. They seem more comfortable behind a screen, but then, aren’t they all. Babs likes the distance, too, the pane of safety she can hide behind like bulletproof glass. They talk all the time once she has a screenname no one else should know, and they have one she never quite remembers.

...

There's a kid Diego knows. Always sticking up for everyone, always sticking their nose where it doesn't belong. Always sticking it to, well, everyone they can find who even halfway needs sticking to, there in equal measure to help Diego up and tear him down. They're not exactly around every corner, except everyone who knows them doesn't quite know who they are, and he's never managed to fish out a name, not even at concerts, where they scream louder than everyone. They might not have a name yet. Diego gets that.

...

There's a kid Marcus knows. There's a kid he knew who always seemed so grown up when he was small and scared, who tried to tell him that the big bad bat wouldn't be able to find him in his sleep. A kid Marcus never trusted but who seemed to trust him, who looks at him now with a skeptical eye, but a nod, like they're going to let him do what he needs to and only step in if he doesn't. They're so small. Can't be the same kid. But Marcus will fight for a little kid, just the same, judgemental look and all.

...

There's a kid Xanthe knows. Not quite as dead as they are, although the kid looks like they've been washed through the ringer, now and again. Doesn't seem quite real half the time. Too real the other half. They're out and about at all hours, in Chinatown like they fit in, languages falling from their lips like they've spoken them longer than Xanthe has, kept more words in their head than Xanthe ever had the chance to. They're not from Chinatown. Most of the time, Xanthe's not entirely sure they're in Chinatown, even when they can see the kid right in front of them, plain as day. They give Xanthe paper that already feels like it has weight.

...

There's a kid Bruce knows. Yet another kid he can never save, the one kid he'll put everything on the line for.

There was a kid Bruce knew, that night, tears streaking the kid's face like his own. There was a kid Bruce knew when he first ran out of doors, screaming towards something he knew he had to stop. There was a kid when Bruce came home again, a kid who smiled like never before and begged him not to leave again. There was a kid every time he brought a new child home. Every time one left.

There's a kid that Bruce would die for, like any of his own, more than any of his own, and the kid is not him. Not his younger self, not his lost childhood, not his second chance. They just look like him, but, then, so do so many of the people in his life.

...

Cameron doesn't know a kid.

[hauntedlibrarian2222]

Part 1.E

October 11th, ####

So, I’m finally back from the hospital. Collin kept the library in— really good shape, actually, despite the ‘Tony Incident’ (as he’s named it). Kinda.. kept it in better shape than I do, myself, which is— kinda embarrassing. But, oh well, the extra help was.. nice? I really need to make time to properly thank him; he does way too much for me and I do way too little for him. Maybe I’ll get him another book? Either way, I think I’ll, uh, have to condemn myself to small talk. I wanna figure out what he likes and get him something nice, it’s the least I could do for him, having saved and covered my ass for the fourth time. I always thank him, it just.. I dunno, it doesn’t feel like enough.

Either way, I got back today. It was weirdly quiet, but my lovely and dependable friend, the fucking ankle biter, was still roosted in it’s corner as per usual. It seemed.. sad, though? Usually, when I look at it, I just feel.. anger— but not my own. But this time it was sadness? Just overwhelming, choking, acrid sadness. And, weirdly enough, after staring for a bit it.. left. It fucking left. Or, uh, it more so disappeared. But that’s something it’s never done before, ever.

Maybe Collin found it and knocked some sense into it, pfff. That’d be funny.

Other then that, though, the library was normal. Tony was in the upstairs, as per usual; and through a rasped, hoarse throat he complained to me about Collin. That marks maybe the second time he’s spoken to me.

“Curator,” He spat “What was up with the.. thee.. blonde.. the blond? Why?”

“Sorry, that was just Collin. I— uh, I’m sure you noticed I was out for a bit—“

“They came upstairs!!”

“.. Yes, I know. They told me.”

With Tony giving a distressed whine that rattled against his throat, they’d slump against the railings.

“Whyyyy..”

“I— was out, for a bit. Uh,.. hospital. I left him in charge of cleaning, and he- just.. went up there, man. I told him not to, but it wasn’t to— like.. spite you, or something.” I raised my free hand defensively, the other still wrapped around a stack of books I was returning, “Promise?”

With another rattled whine, he’d then groan— dramatically pulling himself off the railing.

I don’t think I ever described Tony, have I?

“Fineee,.. will he be baaaack?”

“Yes, but not to clean. They won’t disturb you.”

“Good.”

Sticking out a dried and old tongue, Tony would then slink away into the darkness of the upstairs. The bulbs were still busted; no matter how many times I’d replace them, they’d break. I’m pretty sure it’s him breaking them, honestly. It’d check out, he really likes his ‘darkness disappearing act of the century’, as he calls it.

Tony was.. interesting. He was relatively humanoid, but wore clothes akin to what you’d probably imagine some medieval farmer to wear. Honestly? I’m convinced he’s a ghost, or something. The ends of his hands and feet are frayed— they fade out. Plus, his skin is.. dry, and old; same with his tongue; same with his previously blue eyes, now just really a faded and milky gray. Typical ‘ghost’ crap, I’d think. It’s weird, but I’ve gotten used to it. He just looks.. normal to me, now.

Oh, he also wears a hat; a hat he stole from me, actually. I dared to leave one of my beanies out one day, only for it to disappear. Then Tony had it. When I asked for it back, he just cracked a scraggly smile and disappeared again.

.. He’s.. really weird looking, now I realize. Not bad weird, just.. weird.

Same with Collin, kinda. He never dresses with the weather, and he’s.. massive. Around this time of year, it’s usually— pretty cold. About 10°C in the day, 4°C at night; stuff like that. These days, he usually wears a damn tank top, just a thin ass tank top, with an old aviator’s jacket. Except he only wears the jacket inside? I don’t get it; I don’t get him. He’s the most.. normal-weird person I’ve ever met, and it’s so disorientating.

It isn’t necessarily bad, though. I wouldn’t call it bad, I wouldn’t— really call any of him bad. He’s just.. weird. Pff.

The day went on normally, after that. As normal as it is here usually, anyhow. I set some books away that had caught dust, checked that all the shelves were still intact, fixed the boiler, and some other stuff. All very mundane things. Now, I’m kind of just.. sitting around, really. I’ve got a book I plan to read, that’s about it.

Today’s been calm.

Previous | Next

[thinehitmanagency]

More Silly Facts:

☆ Blaster would be absolutely awful with children. Of any age. He doesn’t pay attention to anything that doesn’t concern him. All that matters is the kid "doesn't touch anything that could give you rabies" and "don't start digging around like a nosy little rat."

☆ Unknwn is probably the gangliest motherfucker in the agency. He is not physically strong, even though he likes to pretend he is. He’s got book smarts and is a super good hacker, but he would get IMMEDIATELY cooked in a fight. But please let him believe he’s the best, most talented and strongest guy ever. His ego is frail.

☆ I don’t think he ever takes off his coat. He sleeps, works, travels, and eats in that coat. As a matter of fact, it’s barely ever been washed. Unless he spills something on the majority of it or it gets really dirty, he will always keep it on. Being away from it causes him great anxiety.

☆ Briar used to play "the can game" with his siblings. Basically, they would throw cans at the next door neighbors’ kids and if they hit their face, head, or neck, they would win. This was not very popular with any of their neighbors. Bellatrix usually always won, with Blythe being a close second.

☆ Dreadelle claims to see the dead! How crazy is that? Being a half alive doll corpse really suspends disbelief, though. Everyone just believes her when she tells them about an encounter she had with Straws or Rabecca, or whatever other ghost she’s seen.

☆ Zinc is a perfectly normal human man. There is truly nothing special about him. Of course, he still gets asked questions like, "Why do your joints creak when you move?" and "why does your voice sound so weird?" But you can rest assured that it is none of your goddamn business. He is just living his life as normally as he can, so please hold your questions and keep a safe distance.

☆ d011in7 does not sleep. He experiences something he calls "radio death," where he temporarily turns off technology within a reasonable radius and shuts down. The internet is inaccessible when this happens, and nothing will turn on. He claims it’s an "uncontrollable problem," but he’ll do it when he’s angry, irritated, lonely, or feeling ignored.

☆ You will notice & is always absent from the agency and from agency meetings. This is because she doesn’t care about any of them. Nonetheless, she still gets paid regularly. No one knows what she looks like or what her job is, aside from Silver and Unknwn.

☆ d011in7, The Prototype! The Original! Do not tell him his systems have been copied across millions of servers and used for other applications that are identical to him. Radio death might occur for good.

☆ Briar was very small and scraggly as a kid, being the shortest out of all his family members and classmates until about 7th grade. Then he hit 8th grade and he got fucked up. He came back over the summer and he was deadass 6’0’’ and he thought he was hot shit.

☆ DLL is constantly being fucked with by Unknwn. "Do u wanna have a hacking comp? :)" no he does fucking not. He wants to be left alone.

☆ Speaking of, DLL has hidden cameras around the agency. No one (other than d011in7) has found them yet, but he insists it’s not for any malicious purposes. He’s just watching. For spies. Like you do.

☆ Bonnibelle, the only mechanic before ▇▇▇▇ shows up, is constantly stealing shit from HQ. She steals from the higher ups, their funky mechanisms, their enhancements, their cogs and their wiring— everything. She claims she’s going to make a powerful super weapon for only the agency to use, without the control "of the big bosses in charge up there." The way she has described said weapon is… sinister.

☆ Cadmium does some funny little cannibalism sometimes. He’s just hungry. Lately he has been trying to curb these urges by biting down on metal with his sharp ass teeth, and fortunately it has worked for the time being. He stays in the attic above the agency, but who knows what he’s doing in there. It smells like copper up there.

☆ Mister G.L. is the local nurse and he is 100% always whacked out on sleeping pills. He has built up so much resistance to the sleep-inducing chemicals that all they do is keep him awake. Which is great! Because the agency medical office is constantly flooded with injured patients, and he could never leave someone hurt. Some say he has a "savior complex," but that is just complete and total nonsense! Him? A savior? Never! Just a brilliant, guiding light for those who need him!

[gracie-and-tori]

Coffee

Hello! This is Gracie! This one shot includes a few OCs of mine. If you would like to look into their aesthetics, you can find that here!! ⚠️If you find themes of violence, car crashes, poverty, drunk individuals, or hints of kidnapping too much for you right now, feel free to keep scrolling!! Otherwise, enjoy! :)

Stepping outside of her rundown apartment, Camilla already felt her thin, spaghetti strap tank top begin to stick to her skin. The humidity was always rough, and now that she was outside, her numerous fans inside of her home, which currently had a broken AC, couldn't save her from it. It was just another mid-July day in Memphis, Tennessee. Despite the heat, she kept her focus on her one task, which was grabbing her usual cup of coffee. If she was quick enough, she could avoid any trouble on the streets. 

    Camilla didn't live in the safest part of Memphis. Something new happened practically every day, and good news was severely infrequent. She wished on every star to just make it through college so she could finally afford something better. However, she still had two years before she received her degree. For now, she kept to herself and stayed out of conflict. 

   The coffee shop she frequented was only three blocks away. She kept one earbud in her ear and continued down the sidewalk. Looking around, everything was bustling as usual. This time of day was the busiest, but Camilla found it easy to hide within the crowds of people. She didn't really have many acquaintances here, nor did she want to have them. She liked things as they were. Just her, her plethora of books, and her orange tabby cat named Theo.

   Finally, she rounded the last corner and set foot in Kyle's Coffee. She felt relieved as she escaped the heat for a moment. From her investigation, she found that not only did this place have the smallest rush hour population around, but also the best coffee. The way it worked was weird. However, it was perfect for the employee that usually took her order every day. He was a scrawny, curly-headed blonde with thin-framed glasses, a shy smile, and a quiet voice. 

     "Hey, Camilla," he greeted, already grabbing the size cup she always ordered. "Good afternoon, Emmett," she greeted in return. "I'll just have what I usually do," she said with a smile, placing $5.45 on the counter. "Coming right up!" He replied, calmly creating her large iced caramel macchiato. She gazed out the large window, wondering how her mother was doing by herself all the way in North Carolina. 

     She thanked Emmett for her coffee once more, before making a mental note to call her mom later. Rush hour was still at full throttle. People were everywhere and Camilla just wanted to get home to her cat. She crossed the street with her coffee in hand, safely making it to the other side. Suddenly, she heard the piercing screech of a car horn. 

    Following that noise, came another. She looked over to find a motorcycle completely mangled by a car. Frantically, she searched for the victims. "What did I tell you, Logan?!" A man exclaimed. A few feet in front of her, in the middle of the street, stood two men. One was in a black, leather jacket and had long hair that was tightly pulled back. He happened to be shouting at the other one, who had brown, scraggly hair and a large cut on his arm. 

     "Rhett, you were the one drinking! If it weren't for me, you would've been rigjt in the middle of that collision!" The guy named Logan shouted back, backing away from the other man. Rhett picked up a large piece of glass from the wreck. Malice laced his eyes. Camilla's heart raced, adrenaline racing through her veins. A woman's voice groaned from the pile of metal. 

     If this fight wasn't stopped and an ambulance wasn't called, someone may die, if they weren't already dead. Camilla couldn't feel anything else besides the pounding in her chest. Before she knew it, her feet left the pavement and landed on black asphalt. Her coffee flew through the air and collided against the heavily intoxicated Rhett, who dropped the shard of glass. It shattered violently against the street. Logan took this opportunity to launch his fist across Rhett's pale face. 

    Rhett fell limply on the hot asphalt. Camilla looked at Logan. She stood frozen. Anxiety quickly took the place of her adrenaline. Logan wiped the sweat from his forehead with the collar of his gray, sleeveless shirt. He muttered out a quick 'thank you', before sprinting toward the sidewalk and disappearing down an alleyway. 

    Camilla pulled out her phone and dialed 911. That's when she noticed a shiny artifact laying halfway between her and the sidewalk. While explaining the situation to the operator, she walked over to the object and picked it up. It was an old compass with a date, time, and location carved into the brass. 

    

The rain was relentless, as were the thoughts in Camilla's mind. No matter how many times she explained what happened to her cat, yesterday's events continued to play out over and over again in her head. She kept telling herself that she did the right thing. Whether that was true or not, she would never know. Even though she had performed the bravest act she's ever done, she continued to feel like it wasn't her place to get involved at all. However, she knew she wouldn't have been able to stop herself even if she tried. 

       Now, she had this compass in her possession. She should've handed it in to the police, but she couldn't bring herself to. What did it mean? Did Logan drop it? The date matched today. The time read 11:30pm. The location wasn't far from her apartment. As a matter of fact, it was only two street corners away. 

      She had been battling whether or not she should leave it alone all day. She knew it was trouble. After all, she did live in the roughest part of Memphis. However, her soul ached to go. She felt as though she was supposed to go. Maybe she could help someone else. Maybe she could feel that same adrenaline from yesterday.

      She craved it like she never thought she could. It was a new feeling, and she couldn't decide if she hated it or loved it. It was already nine at night. She had spent all day trying to study, but the events from yesterday refused to leave her alone. Theo pushed his head against Camilla's arm before stretching lazily across her open textbook. "I'm going to do it," she decided. Theo yawned with disinterest. 

.

.

.

    Two hours later, Camilla stepped outside of her apartment once more with a black coat, jeans, and boots. She didn't know what to expect, but she was going to investigate anyway. The rain stopped, leaving behind huge puddles along the dark pavement. The streetlights and lights from various buildings illuminated the sidewalk. She walked slowly and constantly checked her surroundings. 

      She quickly realized that walking around at night by herself wasn't something she had a fondness for. It was eerily silent. She had never seen Memphis this quiet. The many wishes she made on stars seemed to diminish in the darkness of the streets. Maybe she should turn back. 

    Already halfway there, she shoved all of her thoughts away and continued. Her many days of high school track practices would come in handy if she needed them, she thought. It didn't take long to spot the store that was messily engraved into the compass. She crossed the street from the store and found a street corner to hide in. She sat down on the pavement, watching intently. 

      Five minutes passed until she spotted three men in dark clothing walking up to the store. One was counting money, one was looking around, and the other spoke into a phone. It didn't take long to spot one more person. Camilla would never forget him. She easily identified Logan as he approached the group with his hands in his pockets. 

       The person counting money spoke to Logan first. The interaction seemed like it was going well. After a few minutes, Logan pulled a sheathed dagger from his pocket. He handed it to the man as they exchanged the money for the dagger. Camilla relaxed as she realized nothing dangerous was happening. Clearly she had overreacted about the whole situation. She stood to her feet, ready to finally go to bed. She suddenly regretted not staying home to study for her test first thing in the morning.

     Before she could take the first step, she felt immense pressure on her stomach as she was jolted backwards. Her back slammed into someone else's chest. Cold metal grazed her neck. Camilla felt her body turn cold. The burning sensation in her chest was suddenly released as she screamed into the night air. It didn't last long before a wad of cloth was stuck in her mouth. She tried to spit it out, but she could barely move her jaw. 

      "Don't even think about trying anything." The voice obviously belonged to a woman. Camilla didn't know what to do, and she was quickly running out of options. "Ashlynn! Stop! She's with me," said a man's voice. All of the sudden, the knife was removed from Camilla's neck, and she was roughly shoved to the ground. She quickly got rid of the cloth in her mouth and coughed a few times. 

      "Then why was she watching from across the street?" Ashlynn questioned wearily. Camilla rubbed her neck and looked up. There Logan was, lying for her. But why? "I told her to. I didn't want that guy to pull anything shady. If he did, she was going to cause a distraction," Logan explained. "Why don't you go home? I can take care of this," he continued.

    He didn't have to say another word. In just a few moments, Ashlynn disappeared into the shadows. "What are you doing?" He suddenly asked. "I was curious," Camilla explained, standing up. "Well, has anyone ever told you to mind your business? You have no idea what you're getting yourself into," Logan scolded. Camilla shrugged. 

     "Maybe don't leave information on the ground then," she stated. "So you did find the compass. I guessed you had. I couldn't find it after I left," he replied. Camilla felt the weight of today on her shoulders as she grew tired. Despite his better judgment, Logan knew he wanted to see her again. "So, are you up for coffee?" He asked, catching her entirely by surprise. 

     Her eyes snapped up to meet his brown ones. "When and where?" She asked in return. She couldn't tell if it was the heat outside or just her, but she could feel her skin heat up. "Kyle's at two on Saturday?" She couldn't believe this was happening. "It's a date," she agreed. 

.

.

That's a wrap!! Thanks for reading this one shot. If you want to read more scenarios involving these characters, feel free to comment! If you are interested in reading more one shots or short stories written by me or Tori (or both), here is our masterlist! Have a good day/night! ♡♡

[vaguely-concerned]

harrow the ninth is of course filled with devastating sentences to the fake canaan house rafters, but somehow It was the first time you realized God could not understand you fucks me up specially and specifically every time

[eepy-pleepy]

It’s Not Everest (No Vacancy)

The neon “NO” is hidden behind an overgrown shrub, so Dean pulls the Impala into the motel parking lot before they can see that it is, in fact, lit.

“Awesome.” Dean says in a tone that clearly doesn’t think so, and whips the car around to pull back onto the dark road. They immediately hit a pothole and Sam’s head bumps the ceiling.

“Ow, wait, Dean, we didn't go check with the office, maybe they just left the sign lit because they can’t freaking see it–”

“No, Sam, every goddamn motel in this godless town is full up and I don’t particularly feel like walking into another musty fucking office just to have them tell me I need to learn how to read. It’s too damn late, I’m too damn tired, I’m just gonna find a pull-off where the cops won’t feel the need to be our 5AM wake-up call and we’re sleeping in Baby. Fuck it.” He emphasizes the last sentence by throwing the car into park, all seventeen feet of shiny black metal successfully hidden behind a bank of tall, scraggly shrubs off the shoulder of the road. Dean kills the engine and the early summer evening rises to fill the silence with the musical stylings of several hundred crickets.

“Dean.”

“We’ve done it before, Sam.”

“I know we have. What about Cas?”

Dean looks over at the passenger’s side. Sitting shotgun, Cas looks back at him, his eyes just a dark glint in the moonlight.

“I can just... keep watch outside.” He says.

“Bad fucking idea.” Dean snaps. “I wake up in the middle of the night and see you out there lurking, I might shoot you between the eyes. You’re staying in the damn car.”

“Dean, there’s not enough roo–”

“Look, Sammy, passing out is passing out, sitting or lying down. This is a molehill, not Everest. I just need my four hours, damn.”

Dean crams up against the driver’s side door, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his bent knees against the back of the seat between himself and Cas. He’ll worry about bootprints on the leather upholstery when he isn’t so fucking exhausted.

“Jerk.” Sam mutters from the backseat, almost inaudible.

“Goodnight, bitch.”

“Goodnight, Dean. Sam.” Cas murmurs.

“Don’t make it weird, Cas.”

"Goodnight, Cas."

"Thank you, Sam."

Dean gives a little huff through his nose. Cas folds his hands in his lap and turns his head forward to watch the fireflies.

Dean doesn’t like it when Cas watches him sleep. Cas knows this.

But if he doesn't want eyes on him, he shouldn’t be drawing so much attention to himself. This is the fourth time inside of an hour that he’s shifted around, clearly uncomfortable with his sleeping arrangement, six feet of full-grown man trying to figure out how to make three feet work for him.

It's clearly not working out.

Dean's head has fallen against Castiel’s arm. He’s snoring gently, Cas can feel his breath warm through the sleeve of his trench coat.

He shuts his eyes. Pulls his focus down to just this, the upper lefthand side of his body. Feels the weight of Dean's head, the unyielding shape of his skull, the softness of his cheek. Cas turns his head towards him, just to better assess the situation. Not at all to feel the soft tickle of Dean’s hair against his nose and lips. That’s just an... accidental consequence.

Cas feels too big for his own skin. It’s something a multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent should be entirely familiar with, but this isn't the feeling of cramming a Chrysler building into a 5-foot-11-inch frame.

This is bigger than that.

The slump of Dean’s body across the seat means that his head is the only thing supported, and it has his neck at a bad angle. If Dean's an angry sleeper, he's even worse with a crick in his neck and Cas doesn't love the idea of being stuck in a car with that tomorrow. He can't pull Dean more flush against his side without the risk of waking him and sending him into a conniption of bruised heterosexuality, so instead, he carefully lifts his arm. It works perfectly: Dean slides forward, falling to lying down with his head in Cas' lap.

The effect is immediate. The uncomfortable pinch between Dean's brows smooths away and he takes a deep, slow breath, settling against his new pillow and sinking into an easier sleep.

Cas hasn't realized he's smiling, yet. It's a tiny, soft thing, the one he gets when he's looking at something precious.

He is.

The moonlight catches the sweep of Dean's eyelashes, the top of his cheek, the shell of his ear, gilding them silver. His lips are parted, plush and dark in the contrast of the pale light. He's slightly curled up on the bench seat and Cas knows it's to fit the small space but that doesn't mean it's not the most fucking endearing thing he's ever seen.

The short hair over Dean's ear is mussed from the way he was slumped like a grumpy turtle past the collars of his shirt and jacket. Delicate, Cas brushes it right again.

Dean shifts, pressing up into his ghost of a touch. Cas draws back, afraid he's been caught doing something definitely not on Dean's approved list of Things Just Friends Do, but Dean doesn't wake. Cas' hand hovers.

He shouldn't. He should return to looking out of the front windshield and prepare the diffusion for when Dean wakes up to find himself sleeping in Cas' lap. That's what he should do.

The trouble is, nothing short of a fucking catastrophe could pull his eyes away from this. Dean is so beautiful, so calm and easy in his slumber, and he's right here, safe and close and warm. Literally right in his lap.

Cas pets Dean's hair, feeling that dangerous constriction again, something so huge and profound it might very well burst him. Dean sleeps on.

"You should tell him."

Sam's voice from the backseat is so quiet it's barely a whisper, but it startles Cas like a gunshot. He turns his head a margin to find Sam watching him, head and shoulders against the back driver's side door, arms crossed over his chest.

"Did you say something?" Cas tries, matching Sam's barely-there whisper.

"You heard me."

"Tell him what?"

"You love him."

Cas turns his head further so he's not just looking at Sam out of his periphery. There's nothing accusatory in Sam's tone, quiet as it is, or in his posture, cramped as it may be. He looks back at Cas with nothing but the same easy camaraderie he's always shown him, like they're discussing a good book or the lovely weather, not a complete paradigm shift.

In his lap, Dean tucks one hand under Cas' thigh and nuzzles his face deeper against the fabric of his pants. Cas looks down at him again and feels ready to explode into several new galaxies.

"I can't." He breathes.

"Why not?"

"You know your brother, Sam.” Cas says, unable to stop himself from stroking light fingers through Dean’s hair again. “And I’m happy. I refuse to risk losing him in pursuit of something I don’t need from him.”

“You’re right, I do know my brother. Probably better than he’d like to believe.” Sam says. “And I think he might surprise you, given the chance.”

Cas looks back at Sam like he wants to argue, but then just closes his mouth, his jaw bunching. Sam gives a little shrug and sits forward, reaching behind himself for the door handle.

“Just some, uh… food for thought.” He says. “I’m gonna hit the head. I’ll take my time. No particular reason.”

“Sam.”

But Sam’s already unfolding out into the night air, the car rocking as his weight shifts. The crickets are suddenly much louder, invading their little bubble of quiet. In Cas’ lap, Dean twitches.

Sam shuts the car door and Dean sits bolt upright. His gun, dropped in the footwell before he fell asleep, is in his grasp in a blink.

“Sam's just gone to relieve his bladder.” Cas says next to him. Dean squints at him and sniffs, wiping at his groggy eyes, then flicks the safety back on. The gun hits the footwell again with a dull thunk.

"God. Like a damn cashew. You'd think with all that height there'd be more... storage."

Cas is carefully looking forward, and not at the red mark on Dean’s cheek that’s the same shape as the warm spot rapidly cooling on his thigh. Dean rubs at that side of his face.

“Was I…?” He clears his throat. “Uh.”

“Asleep? Yes. I thought that was the idea.”

“Lying on you.”

“You needed to stretch out.”

Dean gives a frustrated sigh. “No, Cas, man, that’s your personal space. You should have shoved me off.”

“It was easier on your neck.” Cas says, still looking straight ahead. “You weren’t bothering me.”

“That’s not the point. You gotta have boundaries.”

“What’s mine is yours, Dean. I have no qualms sharing everything I have with you.”

Dean scoffs, leaning forward over the steering wheel and tilting to pop his spine. “Jesus. You ol’ romantic.”

Cas turns his head to look at Dean. The slightly uncomfortable smirk slowly slips off of Dean’s face. His eyes drop to Cas' lips before he catches himself, and he makes a weak attempt to laugh the charge out of the air between them.

“Man, you gotta figure out your levels. Last person who looked at me like that had me thinking marriage."

“Dean, why do you say things like that?”

Dean’s shoulders shove up under his ears. “You turn eyes like that on some innocent girl she’s gonna up and devote her entire life to you, Cas, I’m just letting you know you gotta tone it down!”

“Why would I turn eyes like this on some innocent girl?”

“Because you’re doin’ it to me like you think it’s a normal thing to do!”

“Dean, maybe you need to figure out how to receive a signal without assuming the other person isn't aware of what they're broadcasting." Cas snaps, then subsides as something like fear flickers across his face.

Dean’s jaw hangs uselessly for a stunned moment.

"Cas. You–"

Cas watches him in the manner of a gazelle waiting for a sudden deadly movement. Dean's gaze flits to Cas’ lips again.

"You. Uh." He says eloquently, and his tongue darts out in a nervous motion. This makes his lips impossible to ignore, shiny and wet in the moonlight.

“It's not Everest." Cas whispers.

"It kinda fuckin' is." Dean says, hoarse.

“Forget it. You should go back to sleep.” Cas says, reaching towards Dean with two fingers. It’s his fighter’s instinct that makes Dean grab them before they can touch his forehead, but it’s something else entirely that bunches his other hand in the front of Cas’ coat and yanks him forward. Cas tumbles gracelessly on top of Dean, and Dean doesn’t give either of them time to think.

At the first touch of Dean’s lips, Cas melts. A tiny sound escapes him, not quite a sigh, not quite a moan, and he’s grasping Dean’s shoulder like it’s the only thing preventing him from falling into the footwell. Their mouths part with a soft, wet noise and Cas meets Dean’s eyes, almost too close to focus on.

His arm is pressed across Dean’s chest from his fall. He can feel Dean’s heartbeat, galloping like an outlaw with the sheriff on his tail, and he understands the feeling.

“Dean.” He croaks.

“Yeah.”

“Do that again.”

Dean nuzzles their noses together, nudges Cas’ mouth in a barely-there brush of lips. Cas touches Dean’s face, dizzy with it, feeling stubble rough on the skin of Dean's jaw. He presses forward, holding Dean’s face like the beloved thing it is, and kisses him reverently. Dean sinks against the door until he’s lying across the seats and shoves his arms up under Cas’ suit jacket, encircling his back.

The crickets play them a love song. It’s entirely lost on them.

When Sam returns, approaching the Impala with caution, he finds his brother asleep with his angel hugged against him like a large, man-shaped teddy bear. Cas glances up, clocking the motion of Sam leaning over to peer through the driver’s window, and there’s a smile on his face that Sam’s never seen on him before.

If happy was what he had been, then this? This is pure, unfiltered bliss.

Sam slides carefully into the back seat and shuts the door as gently as he can.

“I’ll save my I Told You So, but only because you look so cute.” He whispers.

“Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Read on Ao3

[catharsis-in-a-bottle]

very brief character thoughts: harrow the ninth

maybe i’ll do an in-depth analysis later, but for now, take these scraggly sentences please and thank you okay here i go:

Harrowhark Nonagesimus - please go 2 therapy. my child i love you and i want you to not flinch away from affection. also i want your gender. also please don’t make soup. also kids don’t give yourself a homemade lobotomy without an expert

Ianthe Tridentarius - devious little raccoon. bitchy but in a good way but in a bad way. she is so pretty and will also claw your eyes out. also sided with john mf gaius in the end, like honey no, decision-making not on point

John Gaius - i’m sorry i still kinda love him even after everything he did. he’s just so nice and also bisexual and he hugs people and says ‘for fuck’s sake’ but also probably genocide, and lying a shit ton?? but he made a dad joke - sorry not my fault i get attached to mentor characters (yes it is but ok.) i just - very mixed feelings bc he is literally enacting colonialism and for what, john, for what, you polite-ass tea-drinking hug-giving lying cool-eyed bastard

Augustine - Very British Man. tall and old and very cool and i like him a lot a lot. really came up with the solution of going down on god just to cause a distraction for an assassination. mad respect sir. another mentor character i am attached to

Mercymorn - didn’t like her at first and now i would die for her. powerful and petty. gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss, go down on god. also she can just touch people and see their whole anatomical layout and shit like,,, mad respect ma’am

Ortus/G1deon - i mean my first impression of him was as harrow’s attempted assassin so. he turned very chill in the end. he is a very good fighter, so mad respect. and pyrrha dve is excellent good sir, maybe just stop having affairs with people so i can actually comprehend the ending of this book

Ortus Nigenad - literally saves the day with poetry. big and sad. iconic, in a sad way. sad. melancholy. contains bursts of snark that truly add spice. also needs to go to therapy. really all the ninth house bitches do

Abigail + Magnus - such excellent mom and dad energy. abigail is iconic and so smart and very much college professor energy. magnus is so nice and is a people pleaser and we love to see it. they are a power couple and also have an amazing bond and i would thanergetically combust for them. they’re harrow’s parents now bye

Camilla + Palamedes - iconic as always. camilla is a stoic queen. sexpal is smart boi. they are the best duo. also kudos to palamedes for straight up attaching his soul to his skull. also kudos to camilla for being the most baddest assest person.

Wake Me Up Inside - did not like her but that was the point. gideon’s edgy mom. gideon’s mother whom gideon definitely inherited swearing like a sailor from (but john does that sometimes too so.) very cool. also dead and in cytherea’s body which was very intriguing.

Gideon Nav - last but not least. the queen. the legend. the meme god. literally a child of god. like. come on. just the most iconic fucking person. hi not fucking dead, i’m dad. please. gideon is just the absolute best there is nothing else to it. there is a lot more to it actually, and she also needs therapy, but she has the humor coping mechanism to work with at least so like. also trapped in harrow’s body which is kinda weird but ok she’s rolling with it

- so yeah alecto the ninth needs to be in my grubby little hands soon so i can spew even more tumblr posts about it. farewell

[needtherapy]

The Necromancer’s Apprentice

Xue Yang has seen The Dark House and he’s heard the rumors that a zombie, a witch, and a necromancer live there. It’s stupid, obviously, but...well...maybe he’ll just sneak in one night and find out.

It’s better than doing nothing. It’s better than going back to the group home. It’s better than sleeping on the street.

Aka, three mildly feral twentysomethings are forcibly adopted by one (1) very feral thirteen-year-old Xue Yang.

Read on AO3

Many thanks to @coslyons for co-writing this with me (all the funniest parts belong to them) and @kevinkevinson for beta.

There is a Dark House in Ballard, and people say to avoid it.

It is probably not called the Dark House because evil lurks inside, although there is some debate about that. It is called the Dark House because it is black from threshold to cupola, from shutters to frames, and it looms on a block where whimsical shops of brick and steel are far more common. Unlike the thrift store and the record shop, the hiking outfitter and the vegan patissiere, no ivy reaches toward the roof of the Dark House. Unlike the local yarn store, no dogs sniff the Dark House’s gate, although at least two cats—also black, naturally—are always sitting on the porch.

It may not be fair to judge a house by its color, but the local legends are clear. If you step on the cracks in the sidewalk, the Dark House will steal your soul. The wrought iron gate of twining snakes comes alive under the light of the full moon to snap at unwary joggers. Children who walk alone after dark get eaten, and the yard is full of bones that wail songs of their murders.

Xue Yang sits on a bench, across the street, eating ice cream and admiring the house. He wonders about the sanity of people who mow the lawn and trim the roses, yet painted their pretty little house black, until it occurs to him that he could just go inside and find out.

He waits until dark, not to stay hidden, but because it’s a more terrible idea, and Xue Yang always gives himself permission to do more terrible things whenever he gets the chance. The high iron fence buzzes with a strange kind of energy that crackles in his palms, so Xue Yang wraps his hands tightly in his flannel shirt as he climbs over. His mother always said he was a practical boy, back when she was still around to say things.

Xue Yang lands in the backyard with a quiet thump onto thin and scraggly grass. The center of the yard is dark under the watery moonlight, with the dirt churned up and loose, and for the first time, a tiny twinge of warning pings in the back of his mind.

He ignores it.

With a flick of his wrist, he summons his knife, a long black switchblade that is seven kinds of illegal and which he loves more than anything else he has ever had, not that there is much competition. With nimble and practiced hands, he slides the knife between the door and the frame, twisting just right when he reaches the lock. With a grin of triumph, he turns the handle, shaped like a gaping mouth, and opens the door.

In the center of the room, there is a long sort of table that seems somehow to pull all the darkness of the room toward it. The shadows gather most thickly around a large, human-shaped lump laid out stiffly on top of it. Xue Yang reaches out to poke it and feels something unexpectedly warm give slightly under his finger.

The shadowy lump on the table sits upright with a sudden jerk.

The shadowy lump on the table sits upright with a sudden jerk.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Xue Yang shrieks.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” the shadowy lump shrieks back.

“Why the fuck is everyone yelling?” a voice says, and the room is suddenly filled with light.

The shadowy lump rips off the sheet and turns into a guy in his early twenties with a scraggly little beard and wicked bedhead. The voice belongs to a grumpy-looking woman wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe. She squints at him in the oppressive brightness, glaring for a long moment before apparently deciding to deal with the man on the table first.  

“Wei Wuxian, I’ve told you a thousand times that the workshop is not a place for sleeping.”

“Technically—” the man begins, before being abruptly cut off by the woman.

“If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘yes, Wen Qing,’ then I don’t care. Go to bed.” She rounds on Xue Yang and he takes a tiny, involuntary step back. “You. What are you doing here?”

Before Xue Yang can answer, another guy—this one with long hair, killer tats, and a dedication to the goth look Xue Yang has to admire—runs in with a baseball bat held in his hands like a club.

“Jiejie! Is there something wrong?”

The woman—Wen Qing, she’d said—pinches the bridge of her nose and says, “It’s fine, A-Ning. I’m just trying to figure out what this little hooliganthinks he’s doing breaking into my house and tripping all of my wards while I’m trying to fucking sleep .”

Xue Yang is now convinced that what he’s broken into is some kind of madhouse, and he pastes a charming smile on his face, the one he uses when fists are clenched and the smell of alcohol burns in his nose. The smile whispers words like “anger issues” and “prone to destruction,” and it’s usually weapon enough, but he holds his knife a little tighter too, just in case.

The woman snaps around like she’s felt his fingers grip the handle of the blade and holds out her hand. “Give it to me.”

No. He will not. His chin tips dangerously, his smile grows icy spikes.

Her eyes narrow. “I could just take it.”

They face off for a minute, the tension almost palpable. Actually, Xue Yang thinks, it’s not tension after all. There’s something else in the air. It reminds him of the buzzing fence, and he doesn’t like the way it confuses him.

“Ah, Wen-jie, let him keep her. Can’t you tell? The kid is scared, they’re both scared, and it’s not like he can hurt us.”

Xue Yang is offended. He is not scared, but he’s relieved that Wei Wuxian spoke up all the same, because even though Wen Qing purses her lips and looks annoyed, she drops her hand.

“Fine.” She crosses her arms again. “Wei Wuxian, make sure our little guest leaves. I’m resetting the wards in five minutes and going back to sleep.”

“Yeah, sure.” Wei Wuxian grins and shoots finger guns at Wen Qing. “Sleep well and dream of me.”

Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “Yes, because I love having nightmares.”

“Oh shoo.” Wei Wuxian flicks his hand at the goth man and Wen Qing. “To bed with you both. I can handle it.”

Their footsteps creak on the wooden floors as they walk further into the house. Xue Yang and Wei Wuxian wait in silence until the footsteps quiet, and then Wei Wuxian turns to Xue Yang. The grin he’d been wearing drops off his face and he looks serious, his eyes shaded and dark.

“Look kid, you should know better than to piss off powerful witches. It tends to be bad for the health.” The side of his mouth just barely tilts upwards, more wry than mirthful, and he looks old now. Old and grey and tired. “So, we’ll just call this a learning experience, and you’ll never come here again, right?”

Xue Yang snorts. “Are you kidding? If you’ve got real magic why the fuck would I leave now?”

“Toddlers shouldn’t swear.”

“I’m almost fourteen, fuck you very much.”

“Ah yes, I am now so convinced you are an adult.” Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “It’s two in the morning. You want to go home and go to bed. There’s nothing here for you to be curious about at all.”

Something sibilant and musical weaves its way through the words, and Xue Yang has his hand on the door knob before he fights off the slithering compulsion.

Holy fuck that was cool.

“Nah, I think I’ll stay,” he says, sauntering back casually, pausing to look at a weird painting of a monster facing off with an axe-wielding guy in front of a lighthouse. He feels a very strong sense of camaraderie with it right now.

Wei Wuxian sighs. “Sure, maybe you’ve got a little gift. But you’re a kid. Don’t you have parents who are going to, you know, notice you’re missing?”

Xue Yang stares him in the eyes, willing himself not to flinch. Something tells him this is a chance he’s never going to have again, a chance that requires honesty.

“No.” Xue Yang lifts his chin stubbornly. “I don’t.”

Wei Wuxian stares back, and Xue Yang gets the feeling that he sees all the years and all the disappointments that fit into that no. He doesn’t care. No one gives you what you want unless you take it.

This standoff lasts forever, or maybe it’s only a few seconds.

“She’s going to kill me,” Wei Wuxian mutters, and a little louder, “You can sleep on the couch tonight, but I’m locking you in the room and if you touch anything, I will turn you into a mannequin.”

He turns to leave, but looks back with a frown. “Wen Qing builds beautiful, elegant wards that you’ll never feel, never even notice if she doesn’t want you to. Mine will hurt. Don’t. Touch. Anything.”

Xue Yang decides, in the principle of magnanimity, to agree. “Whatever.”

Wei Wuxian shakes his head and points a finger at Xue Yang. “Go to sleep, kiddo.”

The words hold Xue Yang’s hand and lead him to the couch, make him lay down, and within minutes, he is asleep.

He opens his eyes to piercing sunlight and a pale face inches from his.

“What the fuck!” he yelps, instinctively grabbing for his knife and snapping it open.

“Mr. Wei, he’s awake and noisy,” the face says, and Xue Yang focuses on its features.

It’s the goth guy. His arms have full-sleeve tattoos, matching patterns of stark black geometric lines and circles, but his neck has weird black veins tattooed on it. His eyes, which are still way too close to Xue Yang’s, are so dark they’re practically black.

“Where’s the witch?” Xue Yang asks, sufficiently recovered to be an asshole.

“Boiling children,” Wei Wuxian retorts. He’s leaning over the table and taking notes in a tattered book, poking something with a tiny screwdriver. “It’s the only reason we let you stay.”

“Really?” Xue Yang can’t decide if that’s cool or terrifying.

“He’s always like that in the morning,” Goth Guy says conspiratorially. “By ten, he’s pretty nice again.”

“I’m never nice,” Wei Wuxian grumbles. “A-Ning, can you take our miscreant home, please? The last thing I need is cops knocking on The House door asking if we’re kidnapping children. Again.” “Okay, Mr. Wei.”

Xue Yang panics. He can’t go back there. Not since they found him alone with the fire. He knows what they’ll do, and he can’t go back. He won’t . He ducks under Goth Guy’s arm and has his knife angled under Wei Wuxian’s chin before he’s even processed the motor function commands “get up” and “don’t let him send you away.”

“No! You have to…” He scrambles though thoughts, desperate ideas, each one crazier than the last before he hits on words that work themselves loose from his mouth. “You said I had a gift, you have to teach me to use it.”

Wei Wuxian frowns, but instead of being afraid or angry, he tips his head and whistles, two notes that almost sound like a name. To his great shock and horror, Xue Yang’s knife vibrates in his hand, and his fingers snap open like a broken trap, dropping the knife onto Wei Wuxian’s waiting palm. He carefully folds the blade back into the handle.

“Jiangzai,” he says, almost affectionately.

It doesn’t mean anything, but then it does , and it hits Xue Yang so hard he collapses to the ground. The knife has a name, and he knows it’s right as soon as Wei Wuxian says it. Xue Yang’s heart pounds, and he hates it. He hates this motherfucker who just took his knife away and he hates the Goth Guy who is helping him back to his feet. He doesn’t want to stay anymore, and he shakes off Goth Guy, wishing he could throw his kindness on the floor and stomp on it.

Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. “Okay, maybe you have a little bit more than a little bit of a gift. But you still can’t stay, and I’m not teaching you anything.”

Xue Yang snatches his knife— his Jiangzai—out of Wei Wuxian’s hand and stomps to the door. “Fine. Fuck you.”

He gets as far as yanking the door open and slamming it against the wall before he realizes that there is a person in the way, and she doesn’t look inclined to move.

“Here you go, kiddo,” she says, handing him a bag. “I bought you some clean clothes and a toothbrush. A-Ning will show you where the bathroom is. Come back down for breakfast when you’ve changed.”

This is somehow more terrifying than when she was yelling at him. Yelling he understands. Now she’s just being...creepy. He stares at her belligerently, and she sighs.

“Listen, you little shit,” she says, bending over to look him dead in the eye. She doesn’t have to bend very far, he realizes. She’s actually tiny, even though she seems as big as the Fremont troll. “You will either go willingly with A-Ning, who is very nice, or you can test my patience and get buried in the yard with all the rest of the naughty children who break into my house. Your choice.”

Yeah, that’s more solid ground.

“Fine.” He grabs the bag from her and waves at the Goth Guy. “Lead the way, A-Ning .” He means it to be an insult, but Goth Guy just grins.

Xue Yang hears Wei Wuxian ask, “Wen Qing, what the fuck,” before Goth Guy herds him up the wide staircase, and he doesn’t hear any more of her answer than, “A-Xian, I can’t let him leave. You don’t understand, I did a location…”

This close to the Goth Guy, Xue Yang decides to acknowledge that the pale translucence of his skin is probably not makeup.

“I’m Wen Ning, by the way. I doubt Mr. Wei or jiejie introduced me,” Goth Guy—Wen Ning—says in a casual tone.

“So are you actually dead or what?” he asks Wen Ning, and Wen Ning grins.

“Or what,” he answers enigmatically, and gently shoves Xue Yang in a bathroom with pink tiles and a claw-foot tub.

Once he’s bathed and changed, Xue Yang heads back downstairs. Breakfast is bacon, eggs, and toast, and he doesn’t even pretend it isn’t the best food he’s eaten in a week. It is, in fact, the first food he hasn’t stolen in a week, and that alone is a novelty.

He’s halfway done with his food when Wei Wuxian, who hasn’t touched a bit of his and looks as sullen as an orange, says, “I have been informed that there is some arcane rule about teaching a gift you discover, and my...how did you put it, dear Wen Qing? My immortal soul and earthly being will be in danger if I don’t capitulate to the inevitable?”

He glares at Wen Qing, and she smiles sweetly at him.

“Whatever,” Xue Yang says around a mouthful of eggs. “Are you going to eat that?”

Wei Wuxian passes him the plate of food, and Xue Yang closes his eyes in bliss. Food is amazing.

“There are conditions—don’t look at me like that, Wen-jie. I agreed, okay? I get to set conditions. First of all, you do whatever I tell you. If I tell you to sell turnips on the street corner, you better sell some goddamn turnips. Second, you don’t touch anything unless I say it’s okay. A lot of this stuff,” he waves his hand around the white and yellow room, which looks surprisingly cheerful for a kitchen in a black house, “is priceless and dangerous, so…”

Wen Qing clears her throat and glares at Wei Wuxian.

“Uh...don’t touch anything.” Wei Wuxian finishes, snaking a piece of bacon from Xue Yang’s plate and shoving it into his mouth before disappearing back into his workroom.

Wen Qing rolls her eyes. “I promise he’ll actually teach you stuff once he pulls his head—” She visibly checks herself. “Once he stops being an idiot. More bacon?”

The rest is on AO3