#⎯🪶my writing

[fairytwles]

LENA ANGEL BUSHWICK (the pastors daughter)

𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥. Straight A's, head of the yearbook committee, avid attendee of her father's weekly sermon; her life was turning out just as her parents expected.

face claim: natalia dyer a yellowjackets oc!

WARNINGS + B4 READING INFO!

(all about my little bundle of an oc! she is very much still in development, haven't fleshed her out as much as i would like to yet, but she is the furthest i have gotten with an oc! 8 chapters actually! will probably update this time from time ◡̈ )

(this is a natalie x oc! story that is published on both ao3 and wattpad, though their relationship is not the center of attention, it's more about lena herself and how she survives out there ◡̈ also, this is a character whos story heavily surrounds religious trauma, if you arent comfortable with that i would recommend not reading this )

NAME MEANING

LENA - ray of light / torch ANGEL - heavenly messenger BUSHWICK - 'town in the woods'

FAMILY LIFE

"She'll graduate high school, maybe go to college, marry a nice boy from their church, Laura Lee will be her maid of honor, she'll become a pastor's wife, have some babies, be a homemaker, and then she'll die as Mrs. whoever, devoted wife and mother on her headstone.and honestly, that's how Lena sees her life too, she doesn't know any different, so why stray from the already violently forged path?" (prologue)

Lena Angel Bushwick was born to Pastor John and Nancy Bushwick on august 25th, 1979 and was their only child.

Lena grew up in a very strict household, with her being an only child, all eyes were on her 24/7, all the attention and expectations were on her. Every step she took, every breath she breathed, every skirt she wore, the Bushwick parents made sure she did with God in mind.

her mother always wanted more children, but was unable to have anymore, which only added onto the overwhelming amount of pressure Lena was under.

her mother was the main perpetrator for most of this, always snipping at lena for almost everything she did, wanting not only her daughter, but also her family to turn out just the way she pictured.

because of this, she distanced herself from her daughter, always keeping lena at an arms length, not wanting to care too much incase she forgot of God's role, not wanting to care too much so she would forget her religion, she plans on keeping her relationship with God first and foremost.

everything she did for Lena she did with her faith in mind.

her father, Pastor John Bushwick was not spared of this pressure and distance from his wife.

though a man of faith, John did not push like Nancy did, did not punish or obsess over appearances like Nancy did.

He knew of the pressure, the strictness, the distance Nancy put on his daughter, his only child, but he rarely ever intervened, not wanting to come in line with the wrath of his wife,

he knew it wasn't fair to lena, he knew he should intervene more, but instead, he abused the fact that he had an escape in his job, his ability to be out of the house, his ability to drink.

John Bushwick loves his wife, he loves his daughter, he loves his faith, so he'll never divorce, never intervene with the way his wife parents, it is the wife's responsibility over the children after all.

he regrets that mindset every day his child is gone.

CHILDHOOD + LAURA LEE

"Laura Lee, her saving grace, must've sensed her distress because all the sudden she grabs Lena's hand and squeezes tightly, her other hand gripping leonard with such ferocity that Lena has never seen before, she thinks Laura must be thinking the same thing she is, so she squeezes back." (chapter six)

Lena met Laura Lee when they were babies, laura’s family attending Lena’s fathers service. They clicked instantly, from crawling around in diapers to driving around in Lena’s car, they’ve been inseparable.

the two always go to Sunday mass together, sitting in the 2nd row, at the corner nearest the wall, "their spot" some would say.

the two were normally very attentive during church, both girls taking their faith very seriously, but sometimes they couldn’t help the giggles that escaped during mass.

they also attend sunday school together, always making sure to sit next to each other in class.

they were two peas in a pod, the only two who would, who could understand each other, other than god himself

their bond never lessened over the years, even once they got to high school

it got so bad that people started to assume they were sisters, in fact they started to introduce each other as sisters, in their mind, that's what they were, so why not.

when Laura joined the soccer team freshman year, she begged Lena to try out, and despite her obvious weariness of playing the sport herself, she obliged

safe to say she did not make the team.

not that it really bothered Lena, she never really wanted to play soccer anyway, by freshman year she was already laser-focused on the school's yearbook club... and it's not like her mother would've allowed her to play anyway, Nancy Bushwick always thought soccer was "too dirty" of a sport for a girl to play and was absolutely appalled when Laura Lee's parents allowed their daughter on the team.

despite their differing schedules throughout high school, the two still saw each other almost daily outside of classes, Lena made it a point to attend almost every single one of Laura's games,

Lena never really interacted with the rest of the yellowjackets other than when she had to for yearbook, it was never in a cynical way, though she can't lie and say she didn't feel a little bit of bitterness towards the soccer team.

its unwarranted, she knows that, she's prayed every night to try to get rid of the stupid jealousy that bubbles in her gut,

Laura was always the more outgoing one, though most at Wiskayok High were steered away from her due to her overwhelming devotion to her faith, the ones who weren't deterred by this always stayed, and that included the yellowjackets

Lena was never able to make friends that easily, always too shy, too unsure of herself, she felt as if everyone else got a "how-to book" on making friends and socializing that she never ended up reading, no matter how hard she tried.

that's the true reason of her distaste towards the soccer team, one that she hates herself for having

HIGHSCHOOL

"Lena is also very active with the making of the yearbook, being the editor-in-chief...she oversaw the entire operation, the pictures, the layout, the descriptions, all of it had to go past her before it could be finalized." (chapter one)

Lena Bushwick wasn't popular, nor was she "unpopular" she was sort of just... there.

people knew of her of course, being editor-in-chief of the school's yearbook made her a likely figure to run into,

the job put a name to the face, an excuse to talk to the meek religious girl with a camera stuck to her 24/7

she's come into contact with every group at Wiskayok high, the jocks, the preps, the nerds, the loners... they all know her name, they also all use that fact as a way to try to bribe the girl for good candids of them, a little extra time to get their "good side" so to say,

sometimes she would be asked to go over to the middle school, to help take some photos over there in her free time, which she always accepted

that's where she met her future protégé, javi martinez

she recognized the last name and soon connected the dots to Travis Martinez, Javi's older brother, who she's shared some classes with and often saw at Laura's games due to his father being the head coach

she was taking photos down at the middle school when the 8th grader came up to her, asking her about yearbook if he could join next year.

he was so genuine and shy that Lena immediately started spewing all the information that he would need, telling the boy that even though she would be graduated by the time he got to high school she would make sure he got in, always eager to get the younger kids into the club.

it was a refreshing change, talking to someone who was actually interested in what she did, which javi obviously was, in comparison to those she usually bumped into in highschool, the phrase "but lena! i thought we were friends?" from some random jocks were enough to make lena's eyes roll to the back of her skull permanently.

she was always kind to the other girls on Laura's soccer team although she never knew them that well, she gave them more grace than any of the other jocks she came in contact with.

she saw the girls from the team almost daily, walking down the halls, at lunch, she always had at least one class with one of them,

none of them really stood out to her, and not in a bad way, their paths just never crossed despite their connection to Laura Lee, and Lena was ok with that, she never felt the need to get close with any of the girls

except for one

Natalie Scatorccio.

the girl wouldn't leave her mind, not since the first time she saw her freshman year

she had nothing against natalie, but she so desperately wished that the blonde girl could be scrubbed from her memory, or at least, not at the forefront so often.

At Laura's games she would try to focus on her best friend, at the game in general, but every so often her eyes would glance towards #7 and her stupid blonde, almost white, dyed hair.

its like she sought the girl out, everytime she saw her in the halls, at games, at lunch, her eyes immediately managed to find the grunge-looking girl.

this never happened with any of the other girls on Laura's team, she was never unable to look away from vanessa palmer who shared science with her, or jackie taylor who shared math with her, it was only natalie.

she kept this close to her heart, not even telling laura lee of this weird infatuation she had with her teammate,

Lena would spend hours trying to wonder why the girl wouldn't leave her mind, why she couldn't stop thinking about her,

she came to the weary conclusion that she just wanted to be friends with the girl, that this was all this was, not even considering that more could be an option

THE WILDERNESS

"The end is coming, Lena can feel it, though her and Laura still pray in sync, for the comfort of one another more than anything.... as they get closer to the ground Lena’s hand tentatively leaves Laura Lee’s and the two girls put their hands over their heads, bracing themselves for the inevitable impact, though their prayer still falls from their lips." (chapter four)

the wilderness was the first time lena wasn't being watched over like a hawk by her mother along with the first time lena questioned her faith, questioned herself.

question why god would crash their plane, kill the flight crew, coach martinez and rachel goldman

its also the first time she allows herself to think of natalie scatorccio, allow herself to talk to natalie scatorccio, question why the girl won't leave her thoughts in a way she would've never allowed herself to think back home

Lena, alongside travis and javi martinez, was one of the only people out there not on the team, travis and javi had each other, lena had laura lee, and that's what kept her sane.

the wilderness was the first time she truly talked with the yellowjackets, allowed herself to get close to the rest of the team who seemed so far way from her the entirety of high school,

she knew javi of course, was getting somewhat close to natalie, a surprise to herself and everyone else who saw them, jackie taylor who was kind to her and made her feel like part of the team, and taissa turner, who didn't even act like she wasn't a part of the team in the first place.

i don't know how to summarize the rest of this without spoiling the entire book/ all my future plans, sorry divas this is all you're getting for wilderness storyline rn

WHERE TO READ + official story summary

𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐰𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥. Straight A's, head of the yearbook committee, avid attendee of her father's weekly sermon; her life was turning out just as her parents expected, When Lena gets the opportunity to photograph the Yellowjackets Girl's Soccer Team during their highly anticipated nationals game, she jumps at the idea, the experience will help her exponentially with her future plans, and it'll allow her to get to go on a trip with her sister in everything but blood Laura Lee. She doesn't think of the grunge girl that she photographed last week for the team's yearbook page, no, not at all. Natalie Scatorccio is at the back of her mind.

Ao3: ANGEL by @ whirlydreamgirl

wattpad: 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 ʚ ɞ natalie scatorccio by @ sabsgoodgraces

a little more explanation!

I always adored Laura Lee as a character, as someone who grew up religious (though not religious anymore) and went to catholic school her entire life as a gay girl, I found myself relating so much to her (i know laura lee is not a canonical lesbian but look at the way she interacts with lottie.... she wants to kiss her so bad)

I also found the idea of how her faith would impact lottie's wilderness faith, if she would reject the idea (once it gets worse like the cannibalism, the hunts etc.) or if she would fall right into step with it. We obviously never see that because she died before it really even started, so i wanted to write a lil something about how i believe someone with immense faith would react to the wilderness (and i had to make it gay obviously, wheres the fun without it?)

I had the idea of Lena stored in the back of my brain and decided to make this story surrounding her and since then I've fallen in love with her.

pls pls pls ask me questions if you have any or just talk to me about her!!! i love this silly gal i made up

I always adored Laura Lee as a character, as someone who grew up religious (though not religious anymore) and went to catholic school her entire life as a gay girl, I found myself relating so much to her (i know laura lee is not a canonical lesbian but look at the way she interacts with lottie.... she wants to kiss her so bad) (I've also gotten comments saying that this would also make sense as a lena x laura lee story and though i agree to a certain extent i am also so deep into my lottielee bullshit i cannot see laura lee with anyone else)

I also found the idea of how her faith would impact lottie's wilderness faith, if she would reject the idea (once it gets worse like the cannabilism, the hunts etc.) or if she would fall right into step with it. We obviously never see that because she died before it really even started, so i wanted to write a lil something about how i believe someone with immense faith would react to the wilderness (and i had to make it gay obviously, wheres the fun without it?)

I had the idea of Lena stored in the back of my brain and decided to make this story surrounding her and since then I've fallen in love with her.

pls pls pls ask me questions if you have any or just talk to me about her!!! i love this silly gal i made up

if you actually ended up taking the time to read all of this thank you!! i kinda rambled on and I'm not sure if it all makes sense, this is my first time making an oc! introduction after all, i hope yall enjoyed learning about my silly closeted religious lesbian

[featheredcrowbones]

the cast of OM after my MC makes them gayer except for the kids whose only worries are crayons and cookie dough

[devourable]

you swear to god that professor cygnus had it out for you. he’d always call you out for being distracted in his class, give you the harshest marks on your tests, pushed you the hardest during recital practice. things he never did to the other students.

it was like he had made it his mission to make your life awful, so long as he was in it.

you had enough one day. so just before classes started, you approached him to ask why. why did he treat you the way he did? what exactly did you do to deserve the treatment he was throwing your way? you thought you were a good student, and you were respectful enough, did you do something to upset him?

sterling tried, he really did. but he couldn't stand that look on your face. you really didn't know what you did to him? what you were doing to him now? he had to take it out on you. you needed to learn just how fucking crazy you made him.

you really didn’t expect to end up bent over his desk, desperately clutching at the edge of it, getting rutted into from behind so hard that you swore he was trying to fuck you through your clothes. you could feel every rock hard inch straining under his pants, forcefully pressed against your ass while one of his hands pushed you harder against the desktop, every movement sending stationary clattering to the ground.

you drove him crazy, he’d huff in your ear, it was your own fault. he had no choice but to be harder on you. you came to his class every day, acting all innocent, like you didn't know that he struggled to do his job with you around. and here you came, asking why he treated you the way he did?

he hated you, he hissed. he hated how he couldn't get you off his fucking mind.

you were lucky he had enough sense not to cross the line by fucking you senseless right on his desk. god, how he wanted but you knew this wouldn't be the end of it — he sent you off with a slap to your ass and a heated look in his eye just before the rest of his students began filing into the room, leaving you both hot and unsatisfied.

you left on shaky legs, shying away from the curious glances of your peers whilst professor c. returned right to his cool, unbreakable demeanor, hoping that the flush in his face and the hard-on he hid under his desk went unnoticed.

[sun-snatcher]

And when I write that Shay Cormac has unresolved PTSD from the horrors he encountered from Lisbon, what then?

That he gets severely claustrophobic in dark tunnels because it feels like the world has caved in on him.

That the sensation of soft earth sinking under his boots sometimes makes him seize because for a terrifying moment he thought the ground would give way and swallow him whole.

That his nightmares of rumbling, shifting tectonic plates beneath his feet are simply manifestations of his scarred mind mistaking the innocent creak and groan of the Morrigan over waves.

That sometimes when the sun beats down too hot, he thinks he can still feel the dust and debris coating like a layer on his skin, itching beneath his robes and his boots and his gloves; Choking up his lungs and suffocating him, kicking him into a panicked flight to get out, get out, get out, Shay, before the building collapses and takes you down with i—

Haytham never quite understood why after Shay had managed to bring down an enemy Fort once, he’d stood silently in the outskirts of its rubble and ruin, looking horrified at what he’d done all over again his mighty victory.

[keigo-chan]

Can I Be Close To You? (Takami Keigo x Reader)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.6k

Tags: Cockwarming, Codependency, Hurt/Comfort, Slightly Subby!Keigo, Vaginal Sex, Felching, Creampies, Oral Sex, Affection, Intimacy, Slight Somno (Consensual Falling Asleep During Sex)

Being inside someone is the closest you can be held, isn't it?

FULL TAGS/NOTES ON AO3

It was just intimacy, really. Desperately needed. Two stressed, lonely people trying to seek warmth wherever you could find it. It graduated quickly enough. There were no titles or promises to what you had, just a key to his place for ‘emergencies’, which really consisted of being there for him when he got home from a long or particularly grueling mission. The ones where you needed to help scrub the blood from under his nails or feathers, the haunted look from his eyes. He always eased inside you soon enough after that.

You knew that most people would have perhaps assumed the opposite- that your ‘relationship’ was brought about by the mechanical wants, pushes and pulls of a simple, primal breeding urge. You didn’t find it particularly different that you used each other to fulfill a different one- the need to stave off the loneliness. You liked falling asleep in his arms and slipping away in the morning. You liked that there was skin that he bared for you, and only you, and that he spoke nil of that to the reporters. Nothing needed to complicate that.

Keigo was careful with the mask he wore in public. You were careful helping him shed it. It came off in pieces. His visor, his jacket, that compression shirt of his, his smile. Keigo was a smiley person, and they were beautiful and genuine, but his true resting face held a coldness that he never deigned to let the outside world see. It was something you had grown accustomed to.

You also grew used to the way he would take you, pumping slowly at first, just wanting to feel your warmth, illuminated only by the bathroom light. You felt his panting breath, smelt his skin and the sky and smoke it carried, heard quiet, needy, ‘love you, love you’s that he gave, though you both knew he was saying it only to hear it back. His pace would grow faster and faster, more and more desperate, until he would cum inside you, finally whole and complete as he spent himself.

You would cradle him close in the moments after. You would run your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp and soothing him until he finally pulled out, rolled over, and fell right asleep.

You never blamed him. You knew exactly how exhausted he was. You would pee, wipe yourself off, get one glass of water for you and one for him, and then cuddle up next to him. But even in his sleep, Keigo reached for you. It made things a little more bearable.

You didn’t realize just how exhausted he was these nights until you were on top once. He had come in, as always, under the cover of darkness, sliding his hands against your skin. “Wanna be inside you-” He’d whispered against your neck like a prayer. “Wanna be inside-” So you let him lay back, his hands on your hips, thrusting and rocking up and up into you. He usually liked to take control, even like this. In fact, you knew the position was only taken just because he was so sleepy. He fucked up into you as you supported yourself, squeezing and grinding in careful sync with him-

At least, until he stopped thrusting. You took control quickly enough. You grabbed the headboard, focusing on your hips, riding him up and down and up and down, panting with exertion and pleasure- until he began snoring. 

“…Keigo?” You marveled. Head tipped back onto the pillows, mouth agape, he was asleep. You couldn’t help but laugh incredulously. “Poor guy,” You muttered, kissing him on the cheek and slipping off of him.

In the morning, you woke to Keigo brushing his thumb along your cheek, staring so quietly and adoringly that it made your heart ache. With nothing to soothe it, it was uncomfortable. The first thing out of your mouth was, “Y’know… you don’t have to fuck me if you just wanna be inside me.”

His brow furrowed. You almost felt bad for ruining the picture of peace and serenity he had been. ”Wha’d’ya mean?”

So, that night, even though he had been home all day, even though there was no dirt or sting of a mission to scrub off of him, you took him inside of you. You laid on top of him, and you rested, chest to chest, face in each other’s necks.

He pumped into you a couple of times, and you squeezed him in turn, but he caught on quickly. He wrapped his arms around you and cuddled you close. Still inside of you, he fell asleep in record time.

In the morning, you woke first, a rarity you were happy to indulge in. You were still on top of him. Keigo was golden in the sunrise. His blonde hair fanned around his face like a halo. The sun shone through long, thick, dark eyelashes, making them glow amber. His eye-markings were stark and beautiful against his tan skin. His lips were slightly parted in sleep, kissable, sweet and soft like ripe fruit. His grey shirt clung to him, the collar having slid aside to reveal a sharp collarbone, the top of his hard chest.

He was gorgeous, radiant, practically statuesque. 

When you pulled apart from him, your bare legs were a sticky, entwined mess. Your thighs were sore from where they’d been parted around his hips for so long. It was clear Keigo had cum at some point during the night. Strands of your slick and his emission connected you still as you lifted away with a groan. It was a beautiful, filthy mess. The sunshine caught in the fluids, in the sheen of filth and sweat that had spread amongst both of your inner thighs in equal measure.

It was perfect. And though he had slipped out much earlier in the night, you didn’t feel bereft until you were next to him instead of on top. 

Keigo opened his eyes as you laid down onto what had long since been your own pillow. Your side of the bed was cool and crisp with unuse. You didn’t know if  you enjoyed the feeling or not.

”Mornin’” You murmured, smiling at him. A trail of the slick that had once connected them fell across his thigh and onto yours. “D’you sleep goo-?” You were cut off with a kiss.

Oh. This was different.

Keigo kissed you, ignoring both of your morning breath, frantic and seeking, again and again and again. He had never done this in the daytime, especially not with the blinds still partially open. What you were at night, desperate and alone, was supposed to be hidden, a weakness you both had different reasons to be ashamed of.

You expected to feel more fear about the action. You didn’t. It felt right- to have him in the daytime as well as the night time. What was your Apollo without the sun? What was Icarus?

Safe, maybe. But his name would have gone unspoken.

You pulled your hero closer, and he took it as a sign to kneel above you. His tongue slipped into your mouth and an electric frisson began somewhere behind your eyes, somewhere down your spine. You hissed in pain as he tried to spread your legs, so he held them together for you, even as they shook like jello.

At first, he just slid between your thighs. Pressed so tight together, the slick between you hadn’t dried out all night. He fucked the tight, inviting pocket of your legs. He groaned, and the sight of him, brow furrowed and desperate, humping against you like he couldn’t get enough, all in the daylight for you made something click in your mind.

This was how it was supposed to be.

You were still so slick and open for him. You whined wordlessly until he got the message and pressed in once more. The empty feeling you didn’t know you had- it went away at once. 

“Fuck,” You whimpered, grabbing for his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” His eyebrows flew up for a second, but only a second, and soon he entwined his fingers just as readily.

”Good?” He whispered, eyes golden and desperate, seeking a confirmation only you in the world could give to him. The freckles across his nose were a constellation, perfect and scattered like stardust. Your gaze slid across them as you took him in.

“So good, Keigo.” You nodded, “So, so good.”

When he had finished, he removed himself at once. He pressed your legs back, gently but insistently, and you allowed it as much as you could. The soreness would be a bitch today, you could already tell. But it was clear Keigo was interested in something. You were curious until his face neared your pussy, gaze hungry.

”Hey!” You snapped, pressing him back with your foot against his shoulder. He pouted, sticking his lip out as he rubbed his cheek against a dry part of your inner thigh. He’d had to move far up, around your knee to find a clean patch. It was easy to tell what he was thinking, at least for you. Your cheeks burned, and you attempted to close your thighs with a wince. “It’s all… gross!” You could smell the scent of the two of you- musky and pungent with last night and this morning’s release- heavy in the air.

He began to kiss his way down your leg, despite your protests, ”I don’t mind. I just wanna taste… please?” And it was always impossible not to give into those doe eyes. With a put-upon groan, you spread a little more for him, your feet planted back against the soft sheets. When he came to the creamy mess on your inner thigh, his tongue flicked out to taste, his eyes still peering up through his lashes, as if to gauge your reaction. However, this slightly smug show changed at once as his eyes rolled back and he gave a little moan. His tongue came out again, this time sweeping across the length of your soaked pussy, savoring it like he had tasted ambrosia.

”You’re so gross,” You whimpered, but you couldn’t look away from the sight. His head fit perfectly within the only position that didn’t make your muscles scream in protest. Keigo licked at you once more, mouth open, as if he was showing off what he was ‘cleaning up’. He seemed to wear the insult like a badge of honor. Those eyes of his were molten, lids lowered and like liquid heat. 

His mouth made the most obscene noises against you, slurping and sucking and smacking against your pussy. When he remembered to, he took breaks from enjoying his treat to flick his tongue against your clit, right up until you trembled and gasped and pulled at his hair- and then he would stop. You huffed at the unfairness, but it was far from a real complaint.

It was good, yes, when he finally tipped you over the edge. He sucked at your clit and moaned like he was feeling it himself when you did so. But it wasn’t what you would remember most from the day, not by a long shot. What mattered was the heat, the way he looked at you, the closeness and warmth you felt as his tongue was buried inside you, licking you out.

You showered together, then ate together, then curled up on the sofa together for a nice afternoon snooze. His wings spread around the two of you like the warmest, softest blanket. 

Nights came and went. You spent less and less time away at your own place, and when you came back, he always seemed expectant, eager to see you. Soon you spent more evenings entwined in the same way as before, with you warming his cock. 

You realized quickly that it had become just as much for you as it was for him. The nights that he was away on missions were now almost painful, and you felt the emptiness like nothing else before. You tossed and turned in the sheets, aching for something to fill you, aching for the sun’s warmth at 3am. You tried to sleep with toys inside of you a couple of times, but their inorganic stiffness hurt in ways you didn’t enjoy. There was nothing like falling asleep in any position with Keigo still inside of you. And, nothing soothed him quite like it. 

You didn’t realize how important it had gotten to the two of you until you’d woken up once in the middle of the night. He was soft inside you, and you pulled away with little fuss. He shifted slightly, but there was nothing besides that. You’d awoken with a full bladder and dry mouth. You hurried off to use the restroom, not bothering with any bottoms. You cleaned yourself up, happy to save yourself the mess in the morning. 

You were getting water when you heard it. You thought you imagined it at first. “Dove? Where are you?” You almost didn’t recognize it as Keigo’s voice at first. It was so- so small and pitiful, practically pathetic.

”I’m in the kitchen, baby, I’ll be right there.”

”Come baaaack,”  He whined, and it drew you over at once. He was a sight to behold. Keigo’s pout was visible in the yellow bathroom light. His hands were around his cock, squeezing and tugging himself up to hardness once more. “Why’d you leave?” His voice was thick and high with sleep, and he still seemed dazed and half out of it. He must have been, to squirm and plead like that.

“Was just getting water, honey- d’you have a nightmare?” You crawled back into bed, kneeling by him on your side.

He shook his head. “N- no, just woke up and was so cold and- and alone-” The words caught in his throat. He was so much more worked up and upset than you had expected. “Didn’t know where you had went-” And he was still touching his cock, almost holding it, like he was trying to regain that warmth.

“You want me back-” You looked pointedly at his cock. He nodded frantically, a distressed, warbly, little chirp escaping his mouth. “Oh, baby,” You cooed, saddling back up onto him. You were still wet and open enough from earlier, even though you had mopped up most of the external mess. “There you go,” He gave a little gasp as you slid back on. When you relaxed once more onto his chest, he clung to you tightly, the motion rocking his hips up into you, pressing deep against you.

“Don’t leave, dove,” He muttered, half-mindlessly in exhaustion and need. “Don’t leave me again, please- ‘t’s cold without you,” And his voice was so soft and pleading in your ear you could do little but nod.

You hushed him, running your hands through soft, blonde tufts, ”’M here, I’ve got you,” You nuzzled against his neck. “I’m not going anywhere, if you don’t want, baby. Get some sleep.”

Soon, the nervous coos and whines began to subside, and Keigo slipped back into unconsciousness with his cock still buried within you. You didn’t know what he’d say about this in the morning. You didn’t know what you’d say about this in the morning. But right now, Keigo was sweet, and soft, and bare, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to keep him safe like that, inside of you. 

*****

A/N: credit to @ star-spirit-mayhem for the thoughts on cockwarming keigo :33 (I didn't want to tag them just in case they didn't want that lol, but i love all of their stuff abt keigo)

[manticorecure]

Did u ever explain some of your design choices for Zam? Can u link a post pls Prayge if not, why do you draw Zam with a red heart visible?

i dont remember if ive ever explained on this account but i think i may have mentioned it on my main once or twice. either way i may as well answer this on this account for ease of access LOL

short answer is, its a lifesteal zam thing. long answer is below the cut

now i assume you're talking about my tr!zam design but my ls!zam designs also have her chest split open: i was intending on it being a development that happened in zams gay joker arc, to present her losing her own self control and exposing her own heart to her enemies despite them being stronger than her just to show how intent she was on fulfilling her goals. i honestly think it should stay that way for all my ls!zam iterations, just that it's larger during jokerzam and it slowly closes up as zam grows and changes during the following arcs and seasons.

tr!zam as said by cc!zam himself is post a hypothetical ls!s7, which is why ive decided to give her the little hole in her chest to signify that she's still very much fresh from the wounds of lifesteal but able to show her heart more willingly now on a safer (relatively) server. it's smaller than it was during gay joker because she's healed from the wounds of the past and i just think its a baller design.

[ohbo-ohno]

kicking my feet giggling so hard about price breaking down a total bitch into his bitch. yeah. anon who said that ur a genius. just breaking down and shattering a woman's psyche and reshaping it into an obedient, sweet little pet? purely for the power trip???? they need to strengthen the bars of my enclosure i am breaching containment

- 🪶

i've just been STARING at this ask because i dont know what to add like. yeah. i am fucking insane for this horribly cruel and mean version of price. i actually hate him and need him dead.

won't talk about this price too much because it's a little darker/meaner than i usually like :)

he's soooo fucking mean, so fucking harsh. horribly rough punishments for the slightest infractions, wants you to feel like you're on eggshells constantly.

wants you conditioned to think constantly of him and his wants and needs, never your own. keeps you locked up in a chastity belt and only unlocks it to fuck you or let you use the bathroom, never lets you cum. gotta teach his bitch that her pleasure is entirely unimportant :/ maybe even fucks your ass more than your pussy because he knows you hate it

makes you into a total housewife - cooking, cleaning, the whole nine yards. big bad bitch standing naked except for an apron and making his favorite meal

keeps you in a posture collar - no slouching around him, you'll show him the respect he deserves

stuffs a cock gag into her throat and doesn't let her speak for days. only takes it out to shove food and water down her throat, never any other time. beats her soundly if she tries to speak during those breaks. gets her throat trained up nicely for him too

[admiringlove]

@ mm readers. i'm doing something. y'all are gonna have to put up with me. there's heavy changes in epilogue two :3

[fairytwles]

Oooh please tell me about your OCs!

HOLY SHIT WHY DID I JUST SEE THIS?? IM SO SORRY??

BUT AHHH I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY

thank u for asking about her!! im so proud of her and i love talking / getting questions about her!

her face claim is natalia dyer!! (think season one of stranger things!)

so Lena is best friends with Laura Lee, practically sisters, they've known each other since they were babies because laura's family went to lena's father's sunday services

laura lee and lena were inseparable, seriously, you almost never saw one without the other, lena often went over to laura lee's house so she could escape her mother

Lena grew up in a very strict religious family, surprisingly her father, the pastor was not the strict one, it was her mother.

lena's mother was the big stressor of her life, it seemed like nothing she ever did would ever be good enough, her mother had the eyes of a hawk, always making sure lena was acting up to her mothers standards.

she has a four month old (by the time she left for nationals) goldendoodle puppy named goose :)

she's your sterotypical "girly girl" i guess you could say, she always dresses in light colors, taking a liking to pastels, she liked ruffles and florals, and her favorite color was a light pink! i'll put some photos of what i would imagine some of her nicer outfits would be at the bottom !

she's not actually on the soccer team! she's the head of the yearbook committee and the school (with some plea's from laura lee to help the cause) asked her to go to nationals with the team to photograph it!

she's super artsy! she loves to paint and make crafts (though some things shes better at than others) (she tried to make a little clay cow for laura lee one time and she couldn't even figure out what animal it was...)

she was never seen without her camera, that thing is her baby!

she can also sew (which defintely helps her out in the wilderness) she brings a little sewing kit (a tiny bit bigger than a travel sized kit but barely) in her carry on just incase of emergencies, the dress laura lee brought for the dinner rips easily, so she made sure she had something to sew it back up when that inevitably would happen.

she was never really close with anyone on the soccer team, she knew their names because of laura lee, just like they knew her name, but she wasn't friends with them before the crash.

she was a lesbian... though she didn't realize it.

she was never interested in boys, to the excitment of her parents, who said she could only date when she was older, when she could date for marriage.

she thought she was just a late bloomer, she didn't think anything of the fact of how her heart would speed up, or how she would choke on her words at the sight of one of laura's teammates, Natalie Scatorccio.

when the plane crashes, her entire life turns upside down, obviously, but genuinely in her eyes, this was the first time that her mother's intense and critical stare wasn't burning into her skin, as bad as it sounds, she felt a little bit more free.

she was still scared shitless though, it would be worrying if she wasn't, she just survived a plane crash, watched 5 people die right infront of her, is stranded in the middle of who knows where with people she barely knows except for laura lee and the only adult there has one leg now.

its that moment, when she witnessed the death of the flight crew, coach martinez, and rachel goldman that she would question her faith, it was just an inkling in the back of her mind, an inkling that she felt incredibly guilty for, but it was still there.

it's kinda hard to explain the rest of the wilderness storyline because i haven't written all of it, but i will say that she changes completely after laura lee's death, that moment is a big switch for her character, for her relationships with other characters etc. i CANNOT wait to write it.

first pic is what she typically wears/looks like before the crash and the second pic is what she wears/looks like in the wilderness :)

[quillandink333]

The Other’s Choice • Pt. 1

Credit to @winterxisxcomingx for the beautiful banner ♡︎

SPOILERS FOR HAZBIN HOTEL ~ Read ahead at your own risk!

Faced with the harsh reality of Heaven’s steadfast opposition, the angel of joy is forced to make a drastic decision with gruesome consequences, but luckily she isn’t alone for long.

WARNINGS: Abrahamic imagery (obviously), pseudocest, assault, extreme heights, hunger

Part I • Part II • Part III

An eternity seemed to have passed since Emily had taken the irreversible dive from Heaven and begun her journey through Purgatory before finally manifesting in Hell’s scarlet sky. And yet there was such a long distance left between her and the ground that she still couldn’t make out a single thing happening down below. Her stomach was achingly empty—how many days had it been? It was impossible to know without the light of the sun to let her.

Her windswept hair obscuring her vision as she fell, she reflected on the moments leading up to this. They’d done it! Now even Sera couldn’t deny the reality proven by the unrelenting efforts of the Hazbin Hotel. Yet to Emily’s fury, the old hag was still too stubborn to allow word of it to get out even among the archangels.

The newly redeemed sinner, whose name she’d learnt was Sir Pentious, had appeared suddenly in Chastity Palace, somehow becoming the first human soul in history to bypass Saint Peter and the pearly gates. While the senior seraph didn’t take well to his arrival, the younger was over the moon, wasting no time befriending him and giving him the grand tour of his new, and rightful, home above the clouds. The conversations she’d shared with him were not only groundbreaking but deeply upsetting. The upsetting part, however, wasn’t the story of his noble sacrifice nor was it Adam’s brutal and shameless acts of fascism, but the fact that she couldn’t share any of it with the rest of Heaven.

Faced with this, she’d done the only other thing she could have. If there was no way for her to serve the sinners’ worthy cause in Heaven, she would simply have to leave. And so she would, but first, she’d penned a note to her elder.

Word Count: 0.8k

“I hereby vow never to return until the right changes have been made. This is not my choice, it is my duty. Thank you for protecting me, Sera. Goodbye.”

She’d never been so cold and blunt to anyone in all her aeons of life; it had destroyed her to write it, but soon regret would serve no purpose to her anymore. With a deep breath, she steadied herself and stepped with resolve toward the edge of the rainbow bridge. She closed her eyes.

Out of nowhere, all the world came to a screeching halt, the jarring loss of momentum causing her heart to nearly leap out her throat.

“I got ya.’”

A few seconds earlier, Lucifer had looked up through the glass walls of his new suite at the hotel just in time to see what could only be likened to a falling star.

Without thinking, he’d bolted into action, racing to catch the little one right as she’d started to descend past the city skyline. She could’ve been shish-kebabbed by the spire of a skyscraper if he’d taken any longer to spot her.

His heart was pounding after his miles-long sprint through the air. “You alright?”

Emily ogled up at her saviour with wide eyes, failing to realise he’d asked her a question for a good several seconds. “Y-Yes. Uh…thank you.” He didn’t look much like a demon, dressed in white from top to bottom with strawberry blond hair and a warm red gaze. If she didn’t know better, she would think this gleaming, six-winged stranger was a seraph like herself.

“You’ve fallen,” he inferred with frantic eyes and a heavy heart. “What happened?”

But her attention was already fixated elsewhere. As the angel of joy, she possessed a divine gift that let her feel the emotions of others as if they were her own. Down below, there were people on the streets, and every last one of them was miserable. It was so much worse than she could’ve imagined. There truly wasn’t an ounce of joy to be found here. She watched as one of the wretched souls was violently defiled by another before her eyes, their cries of terror ringing in her ears clear as day. The latter’s hand clenched around the former’s neck, and suddenly she couldn’t get a breath in, a scream trapped in her throat as she could do nothing but watch. She felt sick.

Lucifer sensed her rising panic and held her closer. “Hey, look at me, you’re okay,” he urged, cradling the poor, lost princess in one arm while cupping her colourless face in his free hand. She met his gaze, her own filled with the all-consuming fear she’d had the privilege of never knowing until now. She looked like a deer in the headlights, her expression like an arrow straight to his once broken and unfeeling heart. “C’mon. Let’s get you inside where it’s safe.”

Her frail arms clung to him with a vicelike grip as she nodded and tearfully hid her face in his shoulder. At once, he set his sights on Pride Castle and took off soaring.

[bleach-your-panties]

I bet y'all can't name one work of mine that you really liked.

[devourable]

✎ the prodigy

sfw | tags : male!yandere student x gn! reader (only prn used for reader is ‘you’), obsessive behavior and thoughts, bullying, slight classism, gaslighting? i think

surprise! i came up w the idea of this guy like,,, two days ago and had to get him out my system 😭 i feel like all my yandere ocs are too nice (save for althea) so heres one thats an asshole. enjoy! reblog to support me :]

sterling cygnus has it all.

good looks, a wealthy family, and a place in one of the most prestigious private colleges that one could go to. aptly dubbed the ‘prince of ice’ by his classmates thanks to his cold demeanor and disdain for interpersonal connections, the young man had one goal in his mind since he started attending school.

to be the best!

sterling dedicated himself to his studies. nothing was more important to him than ensuring he got the top scores on every exam he took, sealing his place as number one in the academic field by any means necessary. no one dared to breach that. and anyone who even tried received his ire.

no one was going to stand up to him — why would they? they’d hate to end up like the poor guy who’s dorm was raided after he surpassed him. or the girl who did the same, resulting in her being forced to drop out after her father’s suspiciously sudden arrest left her unable to pay tuition fees. but of course, there was no real proof that sterling had caused both incidents. it was just a coincidence! right?

well… the day you came onto his radar was a day that left the entire student body tense.

everyone had gathered around the bulletin board where the latest exam results were posted. there were gasps of shock, murmurs, and even a small ripple of laughs floating through the otherwise quiet crowd. it was unusual. and when sterling had pushed his way to the front to gaze upon the list of student names with their scores beside them… he understood. and in an instant, he was furious.

he was in second place. and above his name, with a pretty 100% score next to it, was yours.

who the fuck did you think you were? coming to his school, earning the grade that he worked so hard to receive, and daring to take his place as number one?

sterling knew in an instant that you had to be a new student. he had all of the names of those who ranked just under him memorized, and yours wasn’t one of them. were you a transfer? a latecomer? he had no clue what the circumstances behind your sudden arrival was, and honestly? he didn’t care. you had taken his place, after he had worked so hard to get there. after he had been there for so long. you had taken his place. and he knew for a fact you didn’t deserve it.

but just as he resolved to figure you out so he could plan his revenge?

there you were. passing through the the slowly dispersing crowd to look at the leaderboard, your eyes locking with the name — your name — at the very top of it.

when sterling first saw you, he couldn’t even begin to understand the feeling that had suddenly flooded his senses. it was so strange… and why did the world suddenly feel a lot slower? why could he only notice you and him in the hallway? why did his heart skip in his chest when you glanced at him and your eyes locked?

if you had tried to say something to him, sterling didn’t even notice. he had hurried off before you could even speak.

he was sure he despised you after that point. he had to have, he told himself. the way his mind always drifted back to you when he was trying to study, angrily clicking his pen and gritting his teeth as he thought about your stupid hair and your dumb, adorable eyes, the way your uniform looked better on you than anyone else in the college — he didn’t even realize he was thinking about you so much until he snapped out of them and noticed how much time had passed.

he hated you. he had to. you had taken what was rightfully his, probably with dumb luck or cheating, and now you were invading his thoughts in such a way? was there nothing you wouldn’t take from him?

he was colder to you than anyone else. he had to be — you needed to learn your place around him. he’d ignore you in the halls and during class, and when you’d innocently ask him for his input on something, you’d be met with a sneer and a condescending retort.

“i don’t fraternize with people like you. don’t bother me.”

despite this, he’d always wander around near wherever you went. going to the library at the same time as you so he could snatch whatever book you had planned to check out away from you and take it for himself, making sure to go to the cafeteria just before you arrived so he could take what he knew was your favorite snacks, and he’d always be at the dorms before you — trying so hard to not stare at you when you passed by in your pajamas, fresh out of the showers.

your stupid body wash smelled so good… he couldn’t help himself when he snuck back to the locker room after hours to snag it for himself.

weeks after your arrival and sudden climb to the top, everyone was confused to see you were still attending the school. sterling would’ve taken out anyone else by then, what was so different about you?

but no one would ask, obviously. nor would anyone come to your aid when all of your pencils and pens were all mysteriously snapped in half one day. or when you’d find your notes torn into pieces and haphazardly stuffed back into your bag. and when you tried to alert staff about your dorm room’s door being ajar for some reason, they brushed you off even though you knew for a fact someone had gone through your things (‘nothing important’s gone? no bother pursuing the matter, then’).

with how much disdain and contempt he seemed to hold for you, it was so strange that sterling didn’t like the idea of no longer catching daily glimpses of you. or having access to your things.

so even though sterling went out of his way to make your school life nearly unbearable as revenge for coming along and doing just that to him first, he didn’t make the move to actually have you removed from the school and opted to torment you instead.

you deserved it, he told himself. far more than anyone who came before you.

he’d show you what happens when you bother sterling cygnus.

[sun-snatcher]

Idk how else to say it but you made me a lover of Haytham with that x reader fic you made. I'm just curious if you are able to write simple fluff on the guy, preferably comfort fluff? But that's only if you're comfortable doing it of course! Love how you write ❤️

( all credits to @bankaizen from this phenomenal gifset ! )

✠ | DARLING, DEAREST ; HAYTHAM KENWAY

summ.  You fall asleep in Haytham’s office. He’s vexed. or:  Haytham refuses to admit he’s been… charmed. pairing.  haytham kenway / ex-assassin!f!reader w.count. 3k. tags.  tooth-rotting fluff , slow burn, Haytham-centric POV , cat-&-mouse established relationship , Haytham is SMITTEN & fighting his demons   a/n.  Thank you requesting dear anon, & I hope this was to your satisfaction! I tried my best </3

        WINTER SEASON HAS set in, and so they’ve lost the light quicker these days. 

“How fares your progress?” Haytham muses, by the… fifth? Sixth? hour of his and yours’ meticulous decryption. 

The Brotherhood’s cipher both you and Shay had (very painstakingly) misappropriated has proven tediously difficult to crack— even for an ex-Assassin such as yourself. Your partner in crime had already conveniently vanished sometime ago under the pretense of ‘stretchin’ my legs’ or so the Irishman claimed.

“I think my eyes are going to fall right out of my head,” you answer, candid. “This has been as dreadfully dull as watching Gist try to woo a woman.”

A wild scatter of encoded papers— more specifically, documents, annals, and missives of the Assassin’s— surround your temporary workspace: Haytham’s astonishingly comfortable chaise lounge, and a rounded tea table you haphazardly dragged noisily to your side from the opposite end of his office as a makeshift secretaire.

It’s crude and admittedly messy (“It’s an organised mess, Master Kenway,” you’d argued when he first fussed on the clutter on his hardwood floors) but, well, it’s proven sufficient.

“These are practically hieroglyphs,” you continue, sounding defeated. Symbols are soon to begin swimming in the air from your delirium at this point. The dim light of the moon filtering through the sleet-frosted windows and the waning, flickering fireplace didn’t help with the sleepiness either. “Either that or I’ve completely gone mad.”

The Grandmaster cocks his head. “I seem to recall you confidently stating you’d be able to decipher this, considering you’re an Ex-Assassin.”

“And I seem to recall you confidently saying you’d help,” you counter, lazily waving your lorgnette.

He vaguely gestures at his own chaotic desk. “I am. I have.”

“You’ve been staring at that page for the last twenty minutes, Master Kenway,” you say, astutely, which made his jaw tick. “How many times have you reread the same line, I wonder—?”

“It’s certainly more help than Shay can say he’s offered,” he deflects, reclining defiantly back into his seat. Haytham had been staring at the page, but it’d been for the past thirty. “And it was ten minutes,” he lies.

“Even so,” you stretch your arms above your head, languorously feline-like, and pop your knuckles and back with a relieved hum, “eventually, is what I specified. I never promised speed in untangling this absolute mess.”

“No,” Haytham agrees, distractedly. “I suppose you didn’t.”

You look— 

Different, he notes. 

Insolence is intrinsic to all who live in a world as fierce and deceiving as you and he do, and so the Grandmaster has always allowed a little leeway for your challenging of his authority, especially whenever cerebral. (He figures, too, that your temerity and back-talk must be how you ever lost favour with the Brotherhood in the first place.) But now— 

Fatigue has made you less of the spitfire tigress he constantly butts heads with, now tempering you into a more tamed, domestic cat that’s pillowed and lounging against an armrest. You’ve disrobed the unnecessary layers of your usual Templar mufti in favor of moving freely, too: 

Sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists, hair loosened from its usual tidy updo. You’d even gone as far as abandoning your shoes and folding your legs underneath yourself to keep warm, cushioned into the chaise as you studied and pieced together your translations. 

Open informality. Proverbial unarmoring. 

Not different, Haytham realises. You look at home. 

Soft. Subdued. Serene. It’s a rarity to see you with your guard down. 

(There’s something to be said about you allowing him this at all.)

…It’s rather charming honourable to witness.

Haytham’s arguably in a similar state himself; weary and worn out— half from taxing his mind, and half from putting up with your usual snarky remarks— tricorn long since set aside and cloaked coat hung by the door, spine sinking into the backrest of his seat. 

Had anyone else been in the office, they might’ve considered the scene domestic— borderline intimate. Colleagues shedding their armour in the dead of night, focused and working closely; two souls lost in their own shared world as they orbit back-and-forth each other’s tables— each other’s spaces— to dismantle the shroud of information before them together.

“Christ.” You fail to stifle an unbecoming yawn, long and drawn out as you hide your face behind a piece of wrinkled parchment. “Oof.”

In another time he would’ve ignored it, but he’s looking for an excuse not to return to the mind-numbing journal belonging to some Assassin scribe before him, and so: 

“How ladylike,” he compliments dryly. 

“Oh, forgive me, Grand Master Kenway of the Templar Rite,” you scowl, though your spiteful tone is too bleary for its intended effect, “for being unbecoming and feeling rather run down after staring at ink and paper for the last…”

“Five hours,” Haytham says, flatly, from where the gilded table-clock sits ticking incessantly at the corner of his desk. He doesn’t dare tarry in his mind on how quickly and how easily he had finished your sentence, other than a quiet and abrupt realisation: When did we become this in tandem to one another?

But he shelves the thought away. It isn't the right occasion yet to rationalise or introspect. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to. (Or, even more accurately, he’s simply afraid to.)

Haytham couldn’t blame you for losing track of time, anyway; not only had you been tasked with the decryption, but you’d also been the one sanctioned and responsible for leading the theft of the material from the Brotherhood’s hands that early morning.

“...Five hours!” you cry, and exaggerate by dramatically slumping further into rest. “I almost fell off a roof, too, thanks to Shay. You ought to give dear-old-me a break.”

“I did give ‘dear-old-you’ a break,” he deadpans. “And you rather vehemently declined my offer because you were insistent on ‘gaining headway of the bastards lest we lose their trail’,” he quotes, pointedly.

A beat. 

Then you’re laughing. It’s gentle; the first Haytham’s ever heard of you sound that way. 

It shouldn’t have stuck out to him— but it did.

“Did I say that? I sincerely don’t remember,” you say, gaze affixed on the crackling fireplace. “I suppose I was right when I said I’ve completely lost my mind. Or perhaps you’re just a liar, Master Kenway.”

Then, more quietly, as you begin to doze off: 

“Mh, no,” you retract. “…you never lie to your own, now that I think about it.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” he agrees, half-heartedly. “And watch yourself. That sounded dangerously like a compliment. I might just hold you to that.”

…No witty quip. 

No ‘you flatter yourself!’ nor ‘you must be hearing things!’— Just silence. 

He tilts his head from his seat to catch a proper look at you. 

“Don’t you dare fall asleep here,” the Grandmaster declares, suddenly. “I will not hesitate to drag you out of my office myself.”

You inhale. Sharp. Blinking rapidly. Haytham has stood up to round the desk and lean against it, broad arms crossing his chest as he narrows his unimpressed gaze down at you. Had your eyes closed? 

“I wasn’t. M’eyes were just resting,” you sniff, turn your nose up, and shift your resting position once more to fight the grogginess out your body, “you big British—”

Haytham cocks his head warningly. Go on.

“—brute.”

He snorts. “Charming. And what does that make you, lying over my lounge like a discarded coat?” 

“Why, your very own brilliant genius, Master Kenway,” you say, sagely, to which Haytham had rolled his eyes and resisted from replying with, I don’t want you to be my very own anything. (Because, well. Hadn’t he just said he doesn’t make a habit of lying?) 

“Right. Where were we? We’ve gathered they still use a mixture of rotating keys and mask letters,” you revise drowsily, reaching for your most promising endeavour yet: a suspicious letter about some vessel coming in from the Johor Sultanate. “And they usually send these through separate couriers, so I’ve been trying to do the guesswork on which might match,” you explain. “But that also means there’s a good chance the letter hasn’t even been sent— if we’re lucky, and we can intercept it— or worse, already been received, read, and destroyed.”

“Have any of these been checked for Sympathetic Stain yet?” Haytham asks, flipping through some of your transcribed material. The stain only reacts to direct heat; gaps in the leaves of pamphlets and reports could easily reveal hidden messages between the lines. 

“Shay was supposed to work on that,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I’ll get to it. I hardly think he’ll understand the cursive anyway.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Haytham threatens mildly, before sliding a lit candle close to his side to assume Shay’s abandoned duty. “A shame. It was rather nice knowing you.”

“Watch yourself, Master Kenway,” you parrot, amused. “That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

“I— tolerate you,” amends Haytham, meanly. But there’s that low, doting laugh of yours that he can’t help but find himself lingering over again. It fills up the hush of the room. Echoes in his mind. 

“Well, Shay’s self-aware, anyway; so he won’t kill me for saying that,” you dismiss. “I, ah, don’t know the word for it…”

Hm? You hear the Grandmaster hum. And even with your eyes trained to your papers, you can imagine the lift of his brows as clearly as you can hear the invitation in his voice to continue your story. 

“When we were younger, Shay always complained that the alphabet would switch places whenever he reads,” you recall. “He could read perfectly fine, ofcourse. Just… took a little more time than usual. But, well, you know how kids are. They gave him a hard time over it.”

“I’m assuming you were one of those kids, given your character.”

“On the contrary,” you scoff, feigning offense. “I defended him. It was mostly—” Liam, you catch yourself. The grief of losing him is still far too near, even after all this time. He’d also been a childhood friend. There’s no such thing as knowing Shay Cormac without knowing Liam O’brien. “—other kids,” you soften.

Haytham glances at you. 

Your elbow is propped against the armrest, fidgeting with the edge of a document; there, but not really. Your eyes are half-mast and shadowed by the firelight, distant in some memory he isn’t privy to. “You should retire for the night,” he says, finally. “You’re no use to me half-dead like a damsel in distress, after all.”

“One last paragraph,” you insist, shaking your head stubbornly. And he knows you’re truly tired now, because you hadn’t even bothered to bite back at his attempt to provoke you. “Then I’m done for the night.”

He says your proper name. Your heart stumbles over itself. “Go now,” he asserts, “before I make it an order.”

“No.”

“Mind yourself,” Haytham snaps, to no avail. You know him too well— well enough to read when he was genuinely upset by your penchant for insubordination and overstepping.

“You’ll have to drag me out here yourself like you threatened before,” you volley, flicking through your dog-eared pages busily, “or write me a formal decree, as Templar Grand Master.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” he says, frostily. But he eats his words when you finally set your quill pen down your table, and hand him the suspicious letter from earlier. “What’s this?”

“A terribly insipid report about some Dutch shipment coming in from the East Indies. I reckon there’s something else hidden at the space where the signature borders,” you nod to the candle as he moves to activate the stain. “It might be a key or atleast give meaning to one of our dozen useless decryptions. Read it out.”

(He glares at you over the blatant demand, to which you’d courteously added a humble “Please and thank you, Master Kenway” immediately after.)

-- To the Esteemed Officers of the British-American Trade Commission… Haytham skims the text. It reads out like the humdrum routine of a ship’s manifest, listing numbered figures and commercial cargo: Chinese textiles and silk, Singaporean porcelainware marked for auction, Indian spices meant for export, and other trades and assorted goods from neighboring countries. There’s nothing out of the ordinary at all; remarkably unremarkable.

“Ah. Here we go,” Haytham says, when the true script had finally revealed itself. “To you, my Brother,” he begins to read out:

“ ‘I’ve planted three of our finest to guard it— you shall know them when you see them— and have already arranged with our informant the finer details of this operation. Worry not and ensure only the hand-off shall take place smoothly. The Fortuyn will arrive in time for you, and will be there waiting to depart with you aboard once all is said and done with the deal.’ ”

“Signed by… no one. Ofcourse. How painfully theatrical,” Haytham adds, and skips over the last line of the message deliberately: ‘Nothing is True; Everything is Permitted.’

The Grandmaster turns to rifle through his desk of useless Assassin-ledgers before pulling out the sketch Shay managed to swipe along during the mission. “I assume the ‘it’ mentioned is yet another artifact. A piece of Eden the Assassin’s intend to get their hands on,” he muses aloud. “Troubling. The Fortuyn would’ve already docked by now. I can send for Gist to see what he can gather from the Harbour Master.”

He turns to address you. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose any of your decryptions have mentioned a hand-off date or location? Perhaps a possible name for said informan…”

The Grandmaster trails off.

You’ve— fallen asleep.

Soundly.

Lullabied by the crackle of the small office hearth, the calming tick of the desk clock, and the lilting croon of Haytham Kenway’s smooth-stone voice.

“Ofcourse,” he declares, bluntly. But a small part of him had instinctively mellowed his voice to not rouse you. He decides not to ruminate on why. “I thought I told you not to dare sleeping in my office?” he mutters.

No answer, still. Pure exhaustion has finally caught up to you, rendering you boneless with relaxation in your disarrayed bird-nest of papers and handwritten scrawls. What an insufferable woman you are, he wants to chastise, despite the alarming warmth demanding to bloom somewhere in his ribcage at the damning sight and unspoken implication: 

You felt safe around Haytham.

You trust him. Wholeheartedly. Enough to drop your defenses, it seems. How foolish. How—

—at home you look, Haytham concludes the second time that night, listening to your slow and evened out, susurrus breaths. (Soft, subdued, serene.)

You’ve curled into yourself like an oversized cat, seemingly warding the chill of the Winter that’s seeped into the bones of the office by tucking close as humanly possible. Loose papers threaten to slip through your slackened grip, and the lorgnette you’d been using has already tumbled its way silently to the carpet floor. 

“I ought to oust you for this utter display of unprofessionalism,” he grumbles uselessly, and strides towards you with half the mind of jolting you awake. (He doesn’t, ofcourse. That would’ve been ridiculous.) 

For once, you don’t look like you have a sharp retort for him; your lashes are fluttered down to your cheeks in a dreamless sleep, and your peaceful face is swathed in a chiaroscuro of shadow and the dwindling firelight. You look, as much as he refuses to allow himself it, as stunningly graceful as a baroque painting. 

Haytham blinks away and exhales. Ignores the thrum of… something, in his chest. 

Distraction from it comes with slowly cleaning up the mess of your making: He puts himself to action and moves in complete silence, light-handed as he delicately removes the papers between your fingers, gathering up the remains of your hard work into stacks, where he sets them all under a paperweight on his desk. Then the candlelights and oil lamps are put out one by one, lorgnette kept away, and the tea table returned soundlessly back to its designated spot. 

In the aftermath of his time-consuming tidying, Haytham spares a minute more by your side, lingering. 

You’ll sleep yourself stiff, here, he debates to wake you. You’ll wake with a crick in your neck tomorrow that’ll end up with you complaining to me the entire day about. Maybe you’ll make sleeping here a terrible habit; or claim I’ve overworked your dear-old-self into exhaustio—

A lock of your hair is tickling the apple of your cheek. 

He could brush it off. He could. You’re already deep in your sleep, and you haven’t stirred an inch.

Haytham’s hand twitches.

“Gone soft, Master Kenway?”

He straightens up so quickly he might’ve gotten whiplash. 

“…Nice of you to finally join us, Cormac,” Haytham censures, clearing his throat as his face sets back to something unreadable. He doesn’t deign to ask how long he must’ve been standing there. “Your ‘darling, dearest’ here has succumbed. Make yourself useful and collect her, why don’t you?”

“My dearest, aye?” Shay raises his brows. He hasn’t yet been able to drop that knowing tone in his voice. “I wouldn’t wake her if I were you, though,” he cautions, before Haytham can fill in the pause by berating him, “it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken up from her slumber, y’know? An’ your dearest is no ordinary woman, either.”

“Your dearest,” the Grandmaster corrects, sternly.

Shay glances at you. More specifically— 

At Haytham’s cloak that’s curiously been draped over you.

“Aye, Master Kenway,” he smirks, innocently. “S’what I said, no?”

[solitaireships]

Charming

So in honor of me finishing Dis/honored. Here's a fic I wrote this past week about Corvo and my self insert, Astoria, meeting for the first time. I'm still trying to figure out how I want to write Corvo since he doesn't have much dialogue (only a couple things in some scenes to determine what choice to make), so until I play the second game, I'm just going off my own reading of him

Rating: Teen

Genre: Fluff

Words: 1756 words

Divider by saradika

Content warnings: mentions of plague, injury, a child being missing, and death

Despite everything, Astoria’s happy with the life she’s managed to put together for herself at the Hound Pits pub. It’s not the nicest place to live, but it’s better than having to be constantly on the run from people accusing her of witchcraft— though she has caught Havelock giving her looks from time to time as if he’s convinced she might try to put a curse on him. She couldn’t actually do that even if she wanted to, though. Regardless of what anyone says, she’s not actually a witch, she just knows how to make bone charms. But that may as well be witchcraft to the average citizen of Dunwall, even jumpier now than they were a year ago.

Still, Astoria’s safe here. Even if Havelock doesn’t seem to care for her work with bone charms, he’s not throwing her to the city watch, and that’s good enough for her. Instead he and the other Loyalists put her to work, having her piece together what charms she can and study them to figure out what they’ll do and if they might be able to help them. Her room is small, and a little cramped, but it’s better than nothing, and she’s able to spread out her tools for charm making without having to keep them hidden away. 

And, for the most part, she has more privacy now than she did living with her parents. Why they wouldn’t let her live independently is beyond her— she’s thirty years old, but still they insisted she should stay with them. No doubt because she hadn’t managed to marry herself off yet. Maybe if she had managed to find someone she could at least tolerate living with, her mother never would have dug through her room and found her bone charm collection. 

Astoria’s thoughts of what could have been are interrupted by a knock on her door. It’s unusual— usually she doesn’t have visitors to her room. But she gets up from her work desk, making her way to the door.

“Yes?” Astoria says, as she opens the door and takes in the sight of the person on the other side.

Astoria knows of Corvo. Most people in Dunwall do. The empress’s royal protector turned assassin, though Astoria never fully believed that last part. She was never a part of high society, but still the relationship between Corvo and Empress Jessamine was a subject for gossip, with many noting their close relationship and how the empress’s daughter, Emily, has eyes that look suspiciously similar to his. Nothing has ever been proven, but people tend to wonder about how could have been the young girl's father.

Astoria’s sure he misses the girl. They’re trying to find Emily to restore her right to the throne, but it’s probably not just about that for Corvo. Her loss of her own family is different from what he went through— at least she’ll be able to hold out the hope she’ll get to see them again one day. He might be able to find Emily, but the empress is buried and gone. There’s no chance of a reunion with her.

“Lady Fortunato,” Corvo greets. 

“You don’t need to be formal. Just Astoria is fine,” she replies. Besides, it’s not like she was ever called Lady Fortunato before. Her family did well for themselves, but certainly not the the level of such a title being warranted.

“Piero said that you might know more about this,” Corvo says, cutting right to the point as he fishes something out of his pocket.

“Oh, a bone charm!” She nods towards her desk, where bits of bone, twine, and beads are organized. “Yeah, I know a bit about them.”

“Then you can tell me what this does?” he says, half question and half statement. 

“If you let me take a closer look.”

Corvo offers her the charm. Astoria turns it over in her hands, making her way back over to the desk. He follows behind her, looking over her shoulder as she examines the marks carved into the bones. 

There’s a pattern to making bone charms. It’s mostly been lost to time— that or instructions about how to make them have been locked away and banned by the High Overseer's office. But Astoria has managed to teach herself how to figure out what the placement of the bones mean, what each etched mark into the bones means, how every knotted bit of twine binding them together shows what the charm’s purpose is. 

“This one’s a healing charm,” Astoria determines after a moment of study. “It’ll make it so eating can help speed up the healing process and relieve some pain. Of course eating still won’t be as helpful as using elixir, but it should help in a pinch.”

“Hmm.”

Corvo doesn’t seem to be a man of many words. It’s something that Astoria can normally appreciate. She’s not the most talkative even on the best days— the only times where she can get herself to talk more are when it’s about something she’s interested in, like bone charms. 

But now she does wish that Corvo would say a little more. She can never tell what people are thinking about her, and it’s even harder to tell with him. A good quality for a royal protector to have, but nonetheless one that can be intimidating. Especially with how he seems to loom over everyone— even if Astoria were taller than she is, she’d still have to look up to meet his eyes. 

He is rather handsome, though. In a scruffy way that’s no doubt a result of the months he spent in prison. She doesn’t remember his hair being quite so long before then, or hearing anything about messy stubble along his jaw. But he has pretty brown eyes that make it easy for her to imagine why the empress would have wanted to keep him by her side.

Astoria reminds herself that having such thoughts about a man she hardly knows is inappropriate, especially when he’s no doubt still grieving. She clears her throat, offering the charm back to him. 

“If you find any other charms, you can always bring them by and I can help you figure out what they are. Sometimes charms can get corrupted too if someone breaks one to change around, and those charms can have some pretty unpleasant side effects to use often. So I can at least help you figure out what downsides there might be to using those,” Astoria says. 

“I appreciate it,” Corvo says. 

When he takes the charm from her, Astoria notices the mark on the back of his left hand. She can immediately recognize the mark of the Outsider— it’s similar to the marks that she carves into her charms, with their magic drawing from that of the dark-eyed god. She wonders where he would have gotten a mark like that. Worshiping the Outsider is considered heresy, and she doubts he would have gotten away with so brazenly following him when so deeply embroiled in the politics of Gristol. Perhaps it’s another change that’s fallen upon him since his time in Coldridge Prison. 

“You might want to cover that mark on your hand, by the way,” Astoria says. “I know you’re not going around in many circles where people might see that mark as a problem, but still. It’s better to not get accused of witchcraft along with everything else you’re doing.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” Corvo replies.

“Good. I want you to stay safe.”

“I will,” he says with a nod. “I’ll leave you to your business now.”

“Oh, wait,” Astoria says. She goes to her desk, searching through the drawers before her eyes land on the charm she’s looking for. She takes it from the desk, offering it to Corvo. “Here. This might help you.”

“What does it do?” he asks, looking at it as if he’s trying to figure it out on his own.

“I’d keep it somewhere where you can touch it easily. It gets warm when there’s danger nearby,” she explains.

“Huh.”

“I know you’re probably in a lot of danger as is, so I don’t know how much it’ll tell you things you don’t already know. But I don’t know. Maybe it’ll make it a little less likely for you to be caught by surprise,” Astoria says. 

And it’s not as if she needs it anymore. It was helpful back when she was terrified of catching the plague, and it was helpful when she was hiding from the city watch. But now that she’s in the relative safety of the Hound Pits, she doesn’t need to constantly watch her back. Corvo, however, will need to as he seeks out his targets and Emily. 

“It’ll help. Thanks,” Corvo says. He takes the charm, fingers brushing against her own as he does. 

“Of course. And remember, if you need any help with anything else bone charm related, just let me know. I’m working on making some other ones, so maybe I’ll be able to put something else together that you can use,” Astoria says.

“Then I’ll make sure to bring coin next time.”

“You don’t need to,” she replies, though it certainly would help her to get more supplies for making them. “I’m just doing my part to help make things right after everything that’s happened.”

“You still deserve to be paid for your services,” Corvo replies. 

“I get by fine.”

“You’ll get by better if you don’t refuse to get money for your work.”

Astoria frowns. She’s stubborn, but she can also recognize when there’s no point in arguing with someone. “Only for any charms I give you, then. It’s not that hard to figure out what the charms do.”

“Whatever you say,” Corvo says. He starts towards the door. “Be careful.”

“I should be saying that to you,” is the last Astoria manages to say before he leaves her room. 

Corvo’s an interesting man. It’s still hard for Astoria to know exactly what she makes of him. But she does hope regardless that he’ll stay safe. The fate of the empire hinges on him, and she can’t deny that the mark of the Outsider on his hand has only piqued her interest in him more. 

Astoria sighs, looking back to her desk. She should get back to work. After all, she may not be able to go to help Corvo while he’s out neutralizing whatever targets Havelock and the others throw at him, but she does have her own ways she can contribute.

[jellyfilledeyes]

I love being a writer because I can just vent out my trauma about mlp creepypastas into my work by making unicorns zombie, flesh eating abominations of the gods (literally) and no one will ever know

[featheredcrowbones]

spending the last day of 2024 the same way i started it video game