#the cloak is a little shit

[rainbowfalls37]

[piece-of-pierce]

Danny picked up some traits from his parents. He got his mom’s flexibility and reflexes, his dad’s love of anything chocolate flavored and abnormally great cardiovascular health. The trait they both passed on (to Danny AND Jazz) is an intense need to learn everything they can about what they don’t like.

Jazz remembers what it was like when Uncle Hammond passed and Aunt Alicia got different. She’s terrified of her own emotions effecting her like that some day, so studies psychology like there’s no tomorrow.

Jack and Maddie bonded over their shared fear and death and resulting desire to learn everything they could about it.

Danny can’t stand clowns. They’re dishonest and hide who they are behind heavy makeup and outlandish costumes. Freak show kicks that dislike into a full-on phobia though, so he goes all in on learning everything he can. How does clown school work? What are the requirements to be a clown? What rules do they have to follow? If he knows their limitations, he knows their weaknesses. He will not be caught off guard again.

That knowledge sits in the back of his mind like a comfort blanket. Every so often he’ll dip back in and research if there’s anything that’s changed. He wants to keep on top of any information about his greatest enemies.

Finally, he manages to graduate high school with a 2.7 GPA and 31 on the ACT thanks to his Math and Science scores (and a carefully managed brawling schedule with his rogues). Thanks to those, he managed to get a partial scholarship to Gotham U for Physics and Engineering. He still isn’t sure how he managed that, but he’ll happily take it.

What he won’t take is this FALSE Clown trying to cause trouble right before finals! He’d kept on top of his shit all semester and wasn’t gonna let anyone kidnapping him and some other people off the street get in his way.

Later, the Bats manage to find where the hostages were held because one of them waved down Robin. As in, all the captives had gotten free and when they found the right warehouse, it was to one young man berating the Joker.

“You’re nothing but a modern rendition of the town fool!”

[just-null]

pet..... pet au....? you have.... a pet au for the clones....?

PLEASEEEE SHARE SOME THOUGHTS AB IT😭😭😭😭❤️ I was reading a pet au Hantengu fic way back when and the person never got past chapter 3 and it's been rotting my mind. I love love love pet aus when the dynamics are just right and not weirdly predatory with the pet characters and I love your little ideas for stuff🤗🤗 Share if you feel like it, I'll be eagerly awaiting.

(Also please don't exclude Zoha in this endeavor I love that little man)

The Hantengus!! A lot of cat boys..

Context behind a lot of the language in my pet au!

[Cw! Angst(?), referenced sedation, obsessed catboys.. yandere behavior]

Upon meeting them, they're veryyy excited and sweet on you, to the point where they seem TOO familiar. As if meeting a long distant lover.. With their overly friendly greetings, all the warnings and caution from staff seem like an exaggeration, if not a complete lie.

Records show that they're not even related despite sharing eerily similar features, and having only met not too long ago. You'd never guess by how they're so perfectly coordinated. Using said coordination, they simultaneously surround you.

Constant brushes, crowding, wanting your hands on them so bad, they take whatever you're holding. It's not uncommon that they begin purring just because you're around. They quickly flip from being sweet to eager entitled of your time if allowed.

To say they're overwhelming is an understatement, but the staff practically beg you to help with the bunch.

The boys aren't complaining! They're extremely pushy and insist on staying at your place instead of the hybrid shelter, maybe a few times a week? Please!? Regardless, if you say no, you might find them in your home—and a patched up broken window—when you've been gone a while.

Ah— if you hear knocking at your door, just don't tell anyone that they're here, yeah..? Y'know what? How about you just forget about answering it at all!

Sekido is tolerant when you're around. All the fire left his body, leaving small smoldering embers. His flare ups are only a real issue if there's someone unfamiliar around or giving you a hard time. Otherwise, he's pretty content with lazing about or helping with any work you have. He likes being of use to you. He gets irritated, stressed, when you lift a finger, a habit you can tell he's used to, and swats at you for any bad habits you have. Though that goes out the window if your hand's on him. It's a wonder if he's more of a dog than a cat until he starts scratching. He's just really tired.. Karaku is mischievous but doesn't cause trouble. At least, not like he used to, not as long as he has his daily dose of you. It's like he did a complete switch, the staff say, smiling randomly and rambling in an airy tone about how this is heaven on earth! How could anyone feel down around you? It must be those charms of yours. Staying indoors is okay, but he constantly nudges you to go out with him, or entirely dragging you out. Show him around places you like to frequent so you two can experience it together, maybe have some souvenirs? Wouldn't that be fun? On the days you decline, you can find him staring at the little trinkets from past dates with fondness. Urogi always has so much he wants to tell you. He can honestly talk and pace for days without stopping if it'll keep your attention. If it doesn't, he WILL cry. His mind is faster than his mouth, and stories end up garbled and hard to follow.. Sometimes, they aren't about this life, and when referring to you, it's like he's remembering a version of you.. It always ends the same. His expression gets bleak then snaps back to blissful. A content smile replacing the strained one he wore prior as he embraces you, taking a moment to feel your weight against his. Aizetsu sits in corners and watches you through cracks in the door. You can find him somewhere in your room or general area.. looking at you.. his pupils so dilated that you barely see the blue ring at the edge. He can stand still for hours until you get up or reach for something. He's already got it for you. He's combative with Sekido for that service role. Unlike his "brother," Aizetsu's movements are measured, rushed. Like something will be taken away if he doesn't act fast, so he one ups everyone and reads you before you even ask for something. Zohakuten is annoying but doesn't try to give you a hard time. He's the most demanding, always extending his arms for you to come over and hug him. At first, you can feel the tension he holds all over his body, digging his claws into your side, then like goo, he melts. It's a double edged sword since letting go makes him twice as irritated as before. He'll brat occasionally, pushing something off a counter or banging on the windows, yelling at the stranger on the other side to get lost. No one is the victim of this more than the other four. Whereas Zohakuten would start a fight with anyone else, he just annoys the other four.

The weariness hangs heavier in their eyes than the usual hybrids, but they dont like talking about it in detail. As you could guess, prior to this overwhelming clinginess, there were rivers of agonizing desperation.

———

In this life, the boys didn't have the liberty to grow up together like usual. They were born of different parents scattered throughout the region. This wasn't the first time it happened, but they hated when it did, especially Hantengu.

Each second Hantengu's away from his boys is agony. He spent so long waiting for them to be reborn just so that they're so far away!? All he can think of are the possible ways he might die and restart the damn cycle without even having the chance to see you. He's been alive for a while now, but he's too terrified to go far on his own, so he's barely made any progress!

What if something happens and he doesn't even get to meet you? now THAT would be a fate worse than the cycle.. His caretakers are stumped on what to do with him. Any attempt at calming him down were met with opposition.

The boys are as you expect. They kept acting out in hostility and showed no sign of calming down the longer they're apart. Being moved from shelter to shelter didn't help, neither did getting handled like feral animals even if, in a way, they were.

Only the thought of you kept them going, so did the knowledge that if they found you, there's a high chance they'd find each other. You always seemed to fix everything just by being there, didn't you? So they kept hopping from shelter to shelter, some familiar, some new.

Hantengu was the first to end up in the hybrid shelter near you, then the others trickled in. It would've been decades since they've last seen each other, and based on how they're fairing, no one had it easy.

Sekido was a stray trying to stay out of shelters altogether. He did his best to keep his features hidden, both gathering info about you and the others. He made good progress, pretending to be a potential housing candidate, but he'd always get hostile with people eventually, exposing himself and having the authorities called to force him into a shelter. Each time, it felt like prison because of all the restrictions and drugs.. Like hell if this was gonna stop him. Once his limbs stop feeling like jelly, he's going to find a way out of this damn place!! Again!! In his wait, at least he can pass the time by thinking about his favorite memories of you. Karaku was mostly alright, but transferred often because his very presence made the behaviors of those around him worse. He always used the "I didn't throw the first punch" excuse, but never mentioned his constant goading and spreading seeds of doubt about forgiveness that led to agitation amongst his peers. Not only towards other hybrids but staff as well. Call it sadism or nihilism, but Karaku's favorite pass time was making everyone believe that these rehabilitation shelters were nothing but a waste. The dull, empty eyes staring back at them proved it. In reality, Karaku took pleasure in the fragility of other hybrids. It took the edge off of his own anguish. Urogi always talked about you no matter where he ended up, usually causing a wave of eye rolls. But there's always that one hybrid who doesn't know how to keep their thoughts to themselves. Thus starting Urogi's rampage, watching the red streaks of other hybrids drip down their wounds, spitting at them for daring to talk bad about you. Then came the forced transfers. He loved it, honestly. His mind floated, feeling like he was a bird again, flying to you.. then the plummet when the drugs wore off that he didn't enjoy as much. With a renewed sense of determination and a strong longing for his wings, he began yapping again. Aizetsu, like Sekido, hid his features, calm enough to stay hidden. He kept to himself, mindlessly walking anywhere and everywhere with the tiniest grain of hope that he might find you there. No terrain, weather, or event would stop him from trudging through miles of land, following his intuition to where he thinks you could be. He'd be so focused on you that he'd go days without water or food, feet covered in blisters from the endless dragging across the ground before everything went dark. Waking up in a shelter always reminded him how disappointing his body was for collapsing on him. Hm.. he'll stay and recover for now, once he feels ready, he'll take some food and go again. Zohakuten raised hell, frequently ending up in confined spaces. Because he was young, he had more restrictions to ensure his safety. That only made escaping a huge hassle.. He hated being treated like a foolish boy when he's been through horrors worse than adult scissors! The confinement and restrictions ended up being for everyone else's safety after staff realized how common Zohakuten destroyed and mangled anyone in his vicinity. A familiar prick on his skin came after his small bruised hands demolished the common area, then the heaviness of his limbs settled in. Loud thumps came from the deepest part of the shelter as he banged on the walls to be released once the drugs wore off.

Their status as "lost souls" is no secret when they began tormenting anyone who tried to house them and the employees. It seems they've met the other lost and guiding souls in the shelter before with how they interact. For better and worse, at least the guiding souls temper their mischief.

They try forming a plan on how to find you next if this shelter doesn't show any results. It'd be faster to get transferred now that they're grouped up. And like the heavens opened up, they quickly realized that won't be necessary anymore once they catch a glimpse of the light they yearned for these three recent lifetimes, you. It's you.. You!

Any and all complaints are cut short when they make a habit out of gathering near the front glass of the shelter, waiting for you to walk in or pass by. Their demeanor shift is so sudden the caretakers worry they might've accidentally dropped some pills into their food. It's not like that, unless your presence counts as a drug!

[areyouscaredyet]

big things cooking so here’s a little caracalla in a caracalla to satisfy you freaks!!!

[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?”

[lesbianfakir]

So consumed with lust to own one of the princess tutu official keychains that I sat down and started designing my own goddamn stickers/possible keychains in a burst of hyperfocus madness

[lanternlightss]

henlloooo my mutual. a ven with the slightest seasoning of jester about them for u :3

helloooo my lovely mutual !!!

AWAAGAHH ??? OH HE LOOKS SUCH A JOY !!!!!!! oh the way you put outfits together is AMAZING and phenomenal every time, like the SHOES ?? how his bows form the classic jester shape omg, and how it creeps up his leg, that’s such a look. very very fun imagining him meticulously wrapping his ribbons around his ankles, like no.. not silly enough…..

AGH AND THE POOFY SLEEVES AND PANTS !!! those are so !!! so wonderful !!!! especially the little frills on the sleeves and how they have green lined threads on them too, its all just very charming and endearing 🥺🥺 ESPECIALLY especially the dotted pattern of the other leg omg

[maldupay]

tw close up eyes / specifically weird shaped eye contacts under the cut.

i'm just thinking about how cool these star shaped eye contacts would be for a sif cosplay

[meredoubt]

Dirge de Riva, about to fight two blighted dragons: "finally got a fit together that matches Emmrich's. I look hot as fuck and unkillable as hell. My weapon is huge and my ragemeter immense. This will show Elgarnan and Solas the error of their ways."

Theron Thorne and his bf Davrin: "that's. Those are our Wardens dying behind you. Can you help them. We just went thru Weisshaupt there's like, tens of us."

Dirge, flexing entirely for himself, literally invisible to anyone else because he's in armor: "this battle isn't about them and neither is my outfit"

[mementokore]

You wanna know how my guardians and me cope with the loss of Cayde?

They will forever wear their Memory of Cayde class item. Forever. There will be ornaments and shaders on it from time to time but at its core, it will always be with them. Just like Cayde

[hua-fei-hua]

was working the clicker counter for our halloween trick or treat event last night, and the amount of harry potter costumes was like. frankly baffling, and the only reason i didn't go home depressed abt it was seeing all the young weebs coming through in their cosplays, sometimes with their parents also in cosplay... i love you second generation weebs...

[ehlnofay]

updated my full body drawing of torr since I didn't have time to do it before artfight. now they're all ready for next year!! this image takes place sometime after joining the brotherhood and sometime before that whole concept went to shit. you can't see but they have so many weapons on them rn

[just-null]

Thinking….. thinking of yandere noritoshi

me too....

Noritoshi is suspicious of you at the worst of times. The same faint crease on his brow always appears when he's trying to hide being bothered by something.

This time? Because you've been focusing on your phone rather than him for a little bit too long...... He trusts you, of course he does! its just, he doesn't trust others. What if you end up talking with somebody for too long and they try whisking you away?

Obviously it's most likely nothing and you're enjoying your time doing who knows what on the phone that he's not allowed to check because you told him he couldn't no matter how many times he asked. Noritoshi still stares at your phone intensely when its sitting somewhere, itching to take a quick peek.. it'll be harmless, you don't even have to know!

Yet, his mind wanders to the possibility of getting caught. He'd rather spear arrows through his palm than be gazed at with disapproval by you. Its only natural to have privacy, he tells himself. So, begrudgingly, Noritoshi obeys and watches you on the stupid little phone.

The phone that contains a lot of mindless entertainment and important files. The same phone that holds a lot of personal information you keep to yourself. The same damn phone he's been itching to get his hands on ever since you began smiling at the device.

Why aren't you showing him what's so funny? Oh, right, because he could care less. All he cares about is that your attention is off of him and onto something else that could easily lead you to interact with someone else. It becomes too much and he acts emotionally, tilting the phone down and confronting you. It's not an accusation, just a question. Tell him he's wrong, he's almost begging you to tell him he's wrong. He just wants your attention again, so forgive him if he acts irrational. He'll make up for it, he promises.

Though, if you're alright with Noritoshi looking through your phone, his looming shadow over your shoulder will be a common occurrence every time you turn on your device. He might as well stop using his own with how much he likes holding onto yours. It's just to help you carry your things, of course. He's so gentlemanly isn't he? Go on, praise him!

[vullcanica]

god but i cooked so hard with Constance and the Tower. hi, this planet's personification of balance isn't a god or a person or some creechure, it's a random building on your block that's the highest fixed point of entropy on this plane of existence and it Knows You like Really Knows You. It's aware of every special little guy on earth and keeps creepy little tabs on them and because it can't shamble its way over to bother them about incorrectly parking their antichrist or apocalyptic war plot on its terf, it spat out a badly duct-taped cardboard cutout-looking mini me with the legs and eyes necessary to go and clean up this planet's messes. i love them sm

[midnightwind]

sighs wistfully I need to get back to her

[bladeunlock]

also while i'm thinking about it (just rewatched ntlive r&gad) Why did they dress hamlet like that i'm crying