#feedback and comments are welcome

[too-much-tma-stuff]

This idea sort of burst out of me like Alien so it's unedited. There will probably be more.

In short, Cas picks up on the fact that Danny is pregnant at a Wayne Gala and have the right idea but the wrong context.

Masterpost

------

Danny was barely holding it together and really he had been for a long time. It had sort of been fun and games at first when he became a hero. Sure his accident had hurt like hell but he'd sort of repressed that and for real? Lunch Lady? Box Ghost? Even Skulker was sort of a joke and he hasn't actually felt threatened. Sneaking around behind his parents backs and sneaking out with his friends had been fun. It had all felt like a game at first, and then somewhere in there things had gotten very real.

He'd known he couldn't count on his family to protect him but they couldn't even see Vlad was a threat. And he felt like he had lost the last of his innocence when he saw the clone Vlad had made of him melt. He hasn't been in time, he had panicked and he had only managed to save a couple by taking them into his own body to shield their still forming cores. Ellie and... should Danny name the other one or would he name himself when he was ready?

He kept touching his stomach over where he could feel the little balls of his mirror children hovering just below his own core. He was so tired all the time as they relied on his energy, he was eating more then ever and he knew his family was worried. He didn't think he could hide this and he couldn't predict when they would emerge. What if they did in front of his parents? They definitely wouldn't react well. And Vlad kept trying to use this against Danny. Promising to look after him and the babies if he was really insisting on carrying them, as if Danny could rip those tiny 'lives' out of himself now.

And no matter how many times he tried to tell his parents that Vlad was bad news, that he creeped Danny out and made him feel unsafe they wouldn't listen! Dad didn't even hear him and mom made sympathetic noises and then told him to bear with it for Jack's sake because he didn't have many friends.

So of course when Vlad had asked if 'Daniel' could accompany him to a gala in Gotham his father had agreed! Even his mother had agreed when Vlad promised it would be educational and safe! And here Danny was, hanging on by a fucking thread in a suit that felt uncomfortably tight around his middle, having just escaped being paraded around as Vlad heir like a particularly expensive watch. He was behind the snack table having piled a plate as high as he could and scarfing it down before Vlad could find him again and scold him for being rude. He hadn't noticed yet that a family of dark haired socialites kept giving him worried looks. A young woman with dark eyes signing frantically to a man with blue eyes and a dimpled frown.

It was the man who slid up carefully next to Danny trying not to startle since he seemed to have genuine food aggression.

"Yeesh kid you seem like you're starving! All those fancy Hors d'oeuvres are fun but not very cooling and I feel like I'd be a poor host if I didn't offer you something more filling! If you'll come me to the kitchen I'm sure our family butler would be happy to whip something up for you?" The man said with an inviting some that did nothing to sooth the way Danny's hackles raised instinctively.

He was about to say no on reflex when he spotted Vlad heading towards them with an expression like a thunder cloud. Danny's back went ridged and the other man followed his gaze with a frown. "You know what ya that sounds great let's go now!" Danny said dropping his half full plate on a nearby tray and dragged the stranger away with him as Vlad shouted after him.

"Daniel come back this instant! Unhand mister Wayne! Daniel this is unacceptable!"

'Mr. Wayne' took over leading them and spirited Danny through a back door as a bubbly blonde intercepted Vlad and a small woman slid in behind them like a shadow.

"So, Danial I assume?" The man asked, amusement crinkling around his eyes as Danny grimaced.

"Mr. Wayne I assume?" Danny returned, unaware of the way one arm was protectively wrapped around his stomach, but the girl noticed. It was Dicks turn to grimace.

"Okay ya, I go by Dick. What about you?"

"Danny," he said not reacting to the name, he'd heard far stranger. "And what about you?" He asked Cas, startling Dick a little because she was doing her 'shadow thing' and not many people would have noticed her.

"That's Cas, she has a hard time talking sometimes," Dick explained as Cas materialized and gave Danny a reassuring smile and wave.

The teen harrumphed but he did follow them down to the kitchen where Alfred was drinking a cup of tea, staying well clear of the foolishness upstairs. "Ah, hello young masters," Alfred he said, glancing between the three with a raised brow. Though the two who knew him could see the way his expression softened when Danny shrunk in on himself. "What can I do for you?"

"Hey Alfred do we have any leftovers from dinner or something filling we can whip up fast? Danny here is too hungry for just the fancy font for upstairs." Dick asked cheerfully.

Alfred raised his eyebrows again and looked at Cas who was standing behind Danny. Glancing at Danny to make sure he wasn't looking she grimaced then touched her stomach and mimed holding an infant.

Alfred's expression turned stormy for just a moment then smoothed. "Of course we do, Why don't you make our guest comfortable and I'll see what I can do. Do you have any allergies young man?" Alfred asked and Danny shook his head mutely.

"You're the best Alfie!" Dick said, hovering a hand over Danny's shoulder rather then actually touching him as he leas him towards the comfortable breakfast nook.

The boy seemed tight lipped and gaunt, his eyes flicking around them as if he expected a threat to pop up at any time. Dick slipped into the booth across from him. Trying to think of the best way to ask this kid how... why, and who hurt him.

Cas has stayed in the kitchen, but not for long. She came to them with a tray of mugs moments later and slipped into the booth next to Danny. Gently she took his hands and pressed the warm mug unto them. He blinked and focused of it, as if on autopilot he lifted it to his lips, Cas keeping a hand on his elbow to steady him as he drank.

The warm comforting drink, and hand on his arm, presence by his side as Cas slid imperceptibly closet and closer till she was pressed against Danny's shoulder, felt like they were taking him apart from the inside. Thawing out the cold numbness he shielded himself behind. Half way through his tea he glanced up, at the worried blue eyes so like Jazz, so worried and warm.

He put down the mug suddenly as a sob shook his body. Cas wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, cooing comforting wordless little sounds as she let him bury his face into her chest and just sob heaving, exhausting outbursts of repressed emotion.

"Are the babies okay?" She asked and he froze, his breath catching in his throat. She clicked her tongue and rocked him gently. "Okay, okay, not in trouble," she promised.

"They- I don't know, they were so weak, I’m trying, but I don't know if I can keep them alive." Danny sobbed lifting his hands to cover his face.

"The stress can't be helping," Dick pointed out, climbing across the table like it was nothing to sit next to them and rub Danny's back. Danny gave a little hiccupping hysterical laugh. "Do you have support, or like, do you know your options?" He asked awkwardly.

"I'm not getting rid of my babies! I don't care if the man who made them is an obsessive creep who drugged me! I love them they're MINE!" The feral protectiveness seemed to startle Dick even as Cas continued to make soothing sounds.

"Your choice, only yours," she promised. "Have help?"

Danny sniffled and shook his head. "Safe?" Another shake of the head.

"The man who... did this?" Dick asked as delicately as he could. Another hysterical laugh.

"I've tried! I've tried to tell my parents he's a creep, he's dangerous but they don't listen! My dad thinks he hung the fucking stars, mom says he's harmless. They don't believe me! I-I can't tell them about the babies. They'd make me get rid of them or worse! I can't." Danny sobbed and Cas soothed.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to." She promised. "You stay with us, you and babies safe, never have to see him again."

"Ya right. Wait, your serious? What" Danny asked, pulling back and looking at her with wide bloodshot eyes.

"She's very serious young master," Alfred said as he approached making Danny jump. there was a hard set to the old man's jaw and steal in his eyes that left no room for questions as he set a plate of eggs, sausage, and fruit in front of Danny. "Master Bruce has a foster license and is a mandatory reporter. I'm sure once he hears even a fraction of this he will insist you stay. I will prepare a room for you. Am I to assume the man who's shouting demanding your return upstairs is the source of this distress?"

Danny swallowed and nodded, Alfred nodded back and paused to rest a gloved hand gently on Danny's hair before walking away briskly.

"Eat," Cas said, nudging him gently to let go of her. "As much as you want. Still hungry? We raid Tim's secret cereal stash."

"Gasp! You know where it is? You've been holding out on me?!" Dick demanded with exaggerated betrayal and as the two started to banter Danny ate. He was glad of the distraction, of not having the attention on him as he devoured the healthy, and nutritious meal the butler had made for him. It had been a while since he'd had a good home cooked meal, it made his core feel warm and he could feel the two little echoes as his hummed.

The babies were happy too, he didn't believe these people could keep him safe from Vlad really, but this was nice. Maybe he would let them try, get a few more good meals, a respite, and maybe... maybe his parents would finally notice that something was wrong and actually stand up for him?

That was probably wishful thinking but he could hope right? there was no harm in that.

Part 2

[siri-ike]

A little crime, as a treat

Dpxdc

Part 1 part 2

The fear slowly faded from his eyes. Almost everyone he saw looked proud. Even Walker looked happier than usual. Everyone except Skulker. Could they actually want him as king? What does the king even do?

Danny reached the raised platform and smiled (confidently, not at all like he was about to cry) at Clockwork, who placed a hand on his shoulder and forcibly turned him around to face the crowd.

One of the observers steped to the front of the stage. "If anyone objects to Danny Phantom being the new Ghost King, this is your chance to challenge him for the crown."

He knew it! HE KNEW IT! He was right to be scared! They've just gathered to take him on all at once!

To Danny's surprise, aside from some grumbles, the audience was quiet. No one challenged him.

Another observer opened an old, intricately carved wooden box and pulled out Pariahs crown. "Then it is an honor to crown you, Danny Phantom: Ghost King, Ruler of infinite realms." And placed it on Danny's head.

For a moment, he felt like he was on fire. Then, like he was being electrocuted. Drowning, falling, suffocating, stabbed everywhere at once, but none of it was painful. Finally, it stopped at a familiar feeling. Freezing.

In an instant, he could see. Feel? The whole ghost zone all at once. The Far Frozen, The Clocktower, Walkers Prison, Pariahs Keep, Pandoras Maze. All the places he'd been as well as so many others. Lunch Lady's Kitchen and Box Ghosts Warehouse moving closer together. Embers Big Stage, Youngbloods Ship, The Cheese Kings Castle, Desirees Lounge. It was incredible, but most interesting of all was the new haunt forming itself as he watched. It was as if the zone pulled in on itself, rubble and wrecks of abandoned and destroyed haunts were pulled into a swirling vortex. It got smaller and smaller until it exploded into a whole galaxy.

Phantoms Galaxy.

It was beautiful. Full of stars, each with their own systems. He even recognized some of them. Stars that had collapsed in on themselves. White dwarves now covered in life once more. So long he'd studied and morned the loss of such amazing celestial bodies while celebrating the wonderful new things that would inevitably be born from them. Now they were all there. All his to hold and protect forever.

Danny's mind was thrust back to his body. He looked over the hall, and almost everyone was gone. He looked up at Clockwork starry-eyed. Literally, there were stars in his eyes. He opened his mouth but couldn't put together a thought.

"Welcome back, Danny. I'm afraid you missed the party." Clockwork proudly brushed Danny's hair out of his face. "I foresaw you gaining a keep of your own. One that I look forward to hearing about once you've properly explored it. And im certain even more will accept your invitation in due time."

Danny was still lost for words. How long was he just staring at nothing? And what does he mean by invitation? He opened his mouth to speak, but his vision faded again.

He was shrouded amidst pitch black space that spread as far as he could see. In front of him was the wreckage that once was his parents' portal, now relocated into his hount. Next, he saw Vlads portal, then several naturally occurring ones. The triangle seems to have snatched some people on a yacht. He'd have to deal with that later. The last portal he saw was strange. It felt... angry? Bloodthirsty. And it kept failing to open in different places.

First in some kind of railway station, next in Klempers Icy Path, and last in, NO! Pointdexters school. You can't come in through there!

As if listening to him, the portals swirl slowed and faded from the school, then it reappeared in the darkness. No, not dark, space. It's in Danny's Phantom Galaxy.

Abruptly, he found himself back in his own body. This time, Clockwork was nowhere to be seen. Danny leaped off the stage only for his cape to snag on the wood, causing him to crash to the ground. Since when does he wear a cape?

On the other side of the big doors, Danny only found one ghost. He wore an all white three piece suit, top hat, cape, and monocle, but his face was invisible. "Do you know how to get to Clockworks tower? Or the Far Frozen?" Danny begged, but before the stranger could answer, everything went dark once more.

He was amidst the stars again. Close enough to recognize some of them this time. There was Argo, Daxum, Krypton, and its moons Thalon and Wegthor. This was the Rao system that was destroyed 58 years ago. A lot of research has been done into it because it's where Superman allegedly claims to be from, although Danny hadn't been able to find any first-hand source to confirm that.

The portal bounced around a bit before stopping on Wegthor, where it finally opened fully. And one steel reinforced boot stepped out.

Danny snapped back into his body and found himself clinging onto the drapery. The other ghost was still there.

"Dear boy, you look as though you've taken a knot to the noggin." He offered his hand, and Danny took it. "Jim Craddock, at your service, but now a days most call me Gentleman Ghost. Of course, one of your stature needs no introduction, my king." He took a bow, and, awkwardly, Danny did too.

"There's an intruder in the ghost zone, in my haunt. I don't know who, but they seemed hostile, and I don't know where it is because it just formed a few minutes ago during the coronation -"

"Let me stop you there." Jim cut him off. "The coronation was seven hours ago. And as for getting to your haunt? Why do you not just step through one of your portas? During the ceremony, the drabble was able to use them to get to Embers' so-called after-party." You'd think lacking a face would make it hard to show emotion, but through only tone and body language, the Gentleman Ghost conveyed his utter disgust with a hint of jealousy.

"Did, did you see how I did it?" Danny conveyed only confusion and a lack of authority.

The Gentleman Ghost placed a gloved hand under Danny's chin. "Your gift most likely works as any other. Relax, clear your mind, and focus only on where you want to go."

Danny closed his eyes and felt the hand leave his chin. He took a deep breath and pictured the Rao system, the moon Wegthor, the portal. He saw it clearly in his mind. He then pictured himself standing in front of the portal. He opened his eyes, and it was right there, exactly as he'd imagined.

Except for one thing, between Danny and the portal was, "Jason?"

Red Hood didn't lower his gun at all. His perfectly chiseled forearms twithced, trigger finger remaining off the trigger, ~haah~, he's so diciplined. If anything, he seemed more intent to shoot. His big round biceps nearly ripping the seams on his worn leather jacket. It's too small for him, but he hates change. His legs, undoubtedly sculpted out of whatever Danny's version of Kryptonite is with how weak they made him, took a step back. He could probably tell how hard Danny was mentally undressing him.

"Who are you?" He finally demanded.

"Who am I? I'm Danny. Your, assistant? And anyway, I was invited. You're not supposed to be in the ghost zone. It can be dangerous."

"Careful there," a rough looking guy with a heavy English accent spoke. "E could've possessed ya mates body there, now, yeah?" Mate? If only. "They do that, ya'know. Take ya, loved ones," loved ones, Danny could swoon. "Persenate' em. Messes ya up real proppah'."

"Well, I'm not." Danny: master negotiator.

"Prove it."

"You broke into my home and expect me to prove I'm not dangerous!?!"

Danny caught the slightest hint of his own reflection on Jasons helmet. White hair, green eyes, crown, cape, no wonder he doesn't recognize him.

Danny hasn't gone ghost in 8 years, not since Phantom was declared public enemy #1 and the anti ecto acts were pushed through. He hadn't even gotten to see himself. He looked so much like Dan.

That doesn't mean anything. Looking like Dan doesn't make him like Dan. Right? He tried to turn back human, but it felt like he was squeezing himself into a container he didn't fit in.

"I promise, I am Danny Fenton." Danny gave Red his sincerest look. "But I'm also Danny Phantom, Ghost King, and ruler of infinite realms. I was your assistant for almost 8 years. Partly because I want to hurt the U.S. government in any way I can." Danny took a small step forward. "Partly for my love of numbers and punctuality." Danny closed in so the gun was pressed up to his chest. "But mostly I stayed because of you."

Jason removed his helmet. For the first time, Danny could look Jason in the eye without having to stand on a chair (or a table that one time)

"How could you keep this a secret for so long?"

"I actually only found out I was king 7 hours ago, but with Phantom... I'm wanted... and not considered human. I didn't wanna take the chance that... the crew," Danny exhailed. "That, you might think that too." Danny looked down.

Jason seemed to almost giggle. "I don't care whether you're human or not. Most of my friends are aliens, mutants, and monsters." He lifted Danny's chin. "I didn't follow you to another dimention because I thought a fellow human was in danger. I followed because I thought you were in danger."

Danny moved Jasons hand to his cheek and held it there.

[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?”

[jvpiteradept]

after lots of writing, compiling, and clicking through defunct websites, i finished my web shrine to the golden sun series!!! you can check it out here:

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Do you like my art? Do you wish I would draw something specific? Great news!

~COMMISSIONS ARE NOW OPEN!~

If you are interested in commissioning me, please fill out the google form and I'll reach out to you as slots become available!

[Ko-fi - Google Form Link]

[moth-yknowtheartist]

hey guys! Trying something a little outside what I usually post- so excited to share my process here, so please let me know any feedback at all (seriously, should I buy a new microphone?), I'd love to hear from you!!! and for the outro, please give Acher and Gale their well-earned props for their cover of Chase Petra's "Paranormal".

Posted: January 9th, 2024.

TRANSCRIPT:

???:

"To run o’er better water hoists her sails the little vessel of my genius now, which leaves behind her such a cruel sea; and of that second Realm I ’ll sing, wherein the human spirit purifies itself, and groweth worthy to ascend to Heaven. But here let Poetry arise from death, since, holy Muses, yours I am; and let Calliopë, here somewhat higher soaring, with those sweet tones accompany my song, whose power the miserable Magpies felt so keenly, that of pardon they despaired. The oriental sapphire’s tender hue, now gathering in the sky’s unclouded face, as far as to the first of circles pure, began again to give mine eyes delight, when forth I issued from the deadly air, which with its gloom had filled mine eyes and heart. The beauteous planet which incites to love, veiling with light the Fishes in her train, was causing all the eastern sky to laugh."

[TONE FOR A LINE NO LONGER IN SERVICE]

WHObris Icarian or

Daedalian,

am I Pygmalion or? (APHRODITE)

same Talos told again,

runs 0.333333(FREE)3333333333 along the Shore…

enter: Labyrinth.

(overlapping) MOTH:

[improvised starting recording, getting situated getting comfortable speaking to the mic]

> hey everyone! For anyone new to my blog, welcome, this is usually not the norm- mostly I post about puppet history and tech and stuff and I make art sometimes, on rare occasions my robot doppelganger creation takes control of my blog to scam my followers into their murder scheme while I'm busy playing arcade games in hell?

> for any long time followers and mutuals, hi, you're probably used to this by this point. Thanks for sticking with it.

> today, though, I'm starting on a special little project, something a bit closer to my usual tech and malware posting. You guys remember the robot doppelganger creation, right? Well, part of the… issue with them has been a malware infection originating around January of 2023, so- close to a year ago, now? We theorize this anomaly is the reason they've gained sentience and autonomy far beyond what I could have possibly created, why they've persisted so long past their planned funeral-robot lifespan, and why they started on their whole, um… attempted murder spree.

> that being said, I welcome you all to Log 0 of the Acher Malware Remediation project!! These audio logs will serve as my way to log everything I find and try as I figure out what they're infected with, what vulnerabilities this malware exploits and what its payload and impact looks like, and how to safely remove and resolve it. It also works to like… hold me accountable you know? Um- I've kind of been procrastinating on actually starting on this, like I keep talking about it to everyone and like 'ohhh that malware Acher's got I'm definitely gonna get on that and fix that soon' but honestly I've kind of been dreading it because I'm not super experienced and they're a whole person now, so like if I fuck it up it's kind of the equivalent of your hand slipping during brain surgery and OOPS surprise lobotomy!!!

[deep breath and sigh]

> I'm trying to be… more responsible. More careful. I've fucked up enough people's lives through not thinking things through, and- but if I never get this done, that's also irresponsible, letting this infection happen was why so many bad things happened in the first place. So no more procrastinating!!!!! I'm doing this, and I'm posting it publicly on the internet so that everyone can judge me until I finish it!!!!

> to give myself some structure here, and to use the hours and hours of A+ Core 1 and 2 studying that I'm never gonna get back, I'm going to model my investigation and remediation off of CompTIA's 7 steps of malware removal and 6 steps of the troubleshooting methodology. It's basically like the scientific method of IT? Those steps are, respectively-

Identify and research malware symptoms, and Identify the problem. I have a couple different places to look for this- one is obviously inside Acher's system itself, seeing if I can run some diagnostics or observe the malware's behavior to get an idea of what it is, how it works, what it resembles? If I can grab a sample, I can also run that through VirusTotal or something, figure out the malware family, and from there figure out how it's usually dealt with. I can also try and monitor network traffic in WireShark, see if it's communicating with any kind of command and control? But besides those technical steps, I also have the very helpful resource of Tumblr posts made around the time of infection, people I know who were around when it originally happened- those are gonna be huge in figuring out the situation leading up to the infection. Never overlook the human element, people!!

Quarantine the infected system, and Establish a theory of probable cause. The latter is gonna be based on whatever I find in the last step, and the former… should have been done ages ago, but listen, there's only so much a person can do from hell!!! Still, quarantining Acher while I start trying to actually remove things is going to be helpful as far as making sure it doesn't just plant itself in her system again.

Disable system restore in Windows and backups, and Test the theory to determine the cause. The latter is gonna be the most applicable here. Acher doesn't really have… backups? I'm sorry!!! I was planning on him being single use way way in the future, I didn't think I'd have to think about longevity!!!! … But at least it saves me a step here!

Remediate the infected system, and Establish a plan of action and implement a solution. This is the brain surgery part, this is the bit I'm dreading the most, but… assuming I do the last steps right, this will be easy. … These steps of malware removal aren't actually considered, like, best practice, because you can never really be sure you've removed everything. The actual best practice is going scorched earth entirely, assuming you have a backup of anything important, and then just starting fresh from a new OS install or a fresh image. That's… not an option here. Something that hasn't really left my mind since I committed to this project is the worry that, like, I can't remove the malware without removing Acher, who Acher currently is? I mean, I'm pretty sure the infection is part of the reason they actually evolved so much past their original code and developed a personality, independent wants and likes and dislikes and… I'm really worried I can't kill this parasite without killing Acher too. Or, hm, does that make it a parasite or is that more symbiosis?… I'm overcomplicating my metaphors whatever. Acher's being a pretty good sport about this, all things considered, I'm surprised they're actually letting me do this, so… I want to be really careful here. If I can't remove the malware without hurting them in the process, then I figure something else out. I can't afford to mess up here.

Assuming everything else went according to plan, Schedule scans and run updates, and Verify full system functionality and implement preventative measures. Basically fix the mistakes that led to this all in the first place, make sure they don't happen in the future.

Re-enable system restore on Windows and backups, and Document findings, actions, and outcomes. I guess I'm already documenting throughout the process, so I guess I'm getting ahead of this one? See, look, I don't procrastinate everything.

Educate end user. I'm not exactly sure who counts here in this case. Am I the end user, maybe I'm the one who's supposed to have the learning experience here? That would make sense, but also I'm the one learning throughout this whole thing so again I'm kind of already getting ahead of that. Is it supposed to be Acher, maybe? I dunno, I'll get a better idea of it once I figure more out about how the infection happened.

> thanks to everyone listening! Next time, tune in for step one- research time! Also, let me know how my audio is? I did a couple test recordings before I committed to this one and I swear I kept ending up with little bits of corruption or weird background noise. Maybe I need a new microphone.

> cue outro!

[outro does not play; start of a different, candid audio clip]

MOTH:

> [startled noise] JESUS. acher it's 3 am.

ACHER:

i donT sleep. You doNT sleep.

MOTH:

> yeah, but- but gale's supposed to be, so I try to be quiet-

ACHER:

SORRY. couldnT get A thought out Of my head. dO yo.U reMEmber th.e deTAILS of my C.ode?

MOTH:

> [groggy] .... uh, maybe? It's been a while since I... why? why are you doing the ryder thing?

ACHER:

[silence] couldnT get A thought out Of my head. hopeD you could eLUCID.ate.

MOTH:

> you're being weird.

ACHER:

I feel finE?

MOTH:

> okay. ... actually, can you come to the garage? I've been meaning to ask you about stuff anyway.

ACHER:

surE.

[bee-valseveer]

Every self respecting con artist knows the first rule of running a con is to make it believable: and while frankly, this is much easier to do when you live in a world where magic and dragons exist, no matter where you are you can't start selling medicine to beautify oneself if you look like Miracle Max and the Albino from the Princess Bride had an unholy lovechild.

The second rule of running a con is to not stay in one place too long - unless of course, you're an evil royal adviser looking to take over a kingdom.

Thankfully, Peri knew these rules very well - or at least, the Nareldic version which is much less impactful for people not from around there - which was why she was currently attempting to wave goodbye to the adoring crowd of nobles and townspeople and extract herself as quickly as possible from the city before the drinking gourd hanging from her belt turned back into an extremely disgruntled dragon.

To be fair on the dragon, a drinking gourd is not exactly the most comfortable shape to be at the best of times, but especially not when you're being jingled and jangled around like an over enthusiastic apple picker shaking a tree too early in the season before being laid out by an unripe russet.

Still, Peri had been trying to get out of the town for a good four days now, ever since she had "slain" the "rampaging dragon" that had been terrorising the local guilds for the past several moons, but, Peri thought, the problem with being even a self proclaimed hero was that everyone expected you to sit down and enjoy what seemed like several dozen parties, endless thanks from what were really overdramatic townspeople, and fend off multiple requests to settle in longterm.

Peri was by now quite good at the latter, but it was still a hassle to deal with as much attention as she would receive every time she would relieve a city of their burdens - as well as the not inconsiderable amount of coins she could guilt out of the meister or local lord.

It was around ten in the morning by the time Peri had gotten a fair enough distance into the surrounding farmlands that there were only the occasional farmer or labourer she was passing by.

Checking the landscape, she carefully untied the loop securing the drinking gourd from her belt, and placed it on a mound to the side of the road near the ditch that ran between the highway and the field of terrytubers that lay parallel to it.

The gourd shuddered slightly, before morphing into what might have been an intimidating figure of a dragon, covered in sharp spikes; had it not been missing the majority of its tail or been bigger than the twenty centimetres long that it was.

The might-have-otherwise-been-scary dragon scurried up the hand Peri held out to it, scrambling up to her shoulder where it perched, a grumpy expression on its scaly face, and immediately began complaining.

"Coulda died, Agg could, Peri coulda made Agg squeeze hisself to death. Poor Agg, being so mangled, absolutely scrambled. Mean Peri hates Agg she does."

"Oh shut it you overgrown skink," Peri said affectionately, "that didn't hurt at all, and I know that for a fact."

Agg growled petulantly - "Peri don't know that, Peri not a witchy mind reader, she's not."

Peri snorted. "Maybe not, but I can still tell your melodramatic ogreshit apart from anything. You're worse than the last king we 'assisted', 'cept you don't want me to marry your idiot son."

Reaching up, she scratched Agg alongside his chin. "Come on you. You'll grow that tail back in no time, and besides, we've got enough of that spiced scootaroo you liked from that butchery to last us until we're well into the next territory, so shut your gob." She said affectionately.

Agg subsided a little, muttering under his breath dolefully occasionally as he perched on Peri's shoulder, the two scam artists soon disappearing into the late autumns noon dust haze. He wouldn't be fully finished with his woeful histronics for a good while yet, but Peri was used to that - besides, being the time of year it was, she was confident a moth or butterfly looking to lay its eggs somewhere would distract him before too long.

[cepetriwrites]

You ever read a fic written by someone where English is not their first language so there’s grammatical errors a native speaker would know not to make and you like the story! It’s a great premise! but you also just want to just real quick edit the grammar so that your brain can stop twitching?

[vriendenboekjes]

The poem i wrote in January, translated to English. Original work in Dutch here

[melles1276]

New chapter is online!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56470924/chapters/158510032

Excerpt:

Chapter 21 - It's not over yet

Ahmad’s back and enters the hut unnoticed by Steve. It’s only when the man kneels next to him that he becomes aware of his presence. While he says a few words to Bucky in Dari, he holds a long-stemmed, slim pipe to Bucky’s lips, the tobacco already burning in the bowl.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve asks irritably and is about to take the pipe from Ahmad. They don't have time for things like that. Instead, he tries to hold Bucky tightly, but the sobbing man keeps tossing and turning away from his embrace in pain. If he hadn't stopped him, Bucky probably would have fallen out of bed.

But Ahmad shakes his head firmly and raises his index finger in warning. Additionally, he gives Steve a stern look and scolds him in his native language. Undeterred, he continues to talk to Bucky, this time supported by Jamila.

“Please… make it… stop! Please!” There are these sonorous voices that hold him back. Pulling him down. That envelopes him, grounds him. He knows these voices. Trusts them. And he feels something on his lips.

“That’s no use,” grumbles Steve.

The old man doesn't let up and talks to Bucky, encouraging him to take a puff on his pipe. As with the broth, it takes Bucky several tries, but he finally manages to inhale the smoke.

To Steve’s amazement, Bucky complies and inhales the smoke as best he can before he starts coughing and exhaling it through his mouth and nose. Over and over again.

A few minutes of waiting passes, which Jamila bridges with a prayer.

And something else catches his eyes. Just a moment ago, Bucky had almost crushed Steve's hand. Now it’s as if all the strength is gone. Bucky's hand, no, his entire body, goes limp and his head rolls to the side.

The blackness is pushed back. Not completely, but the bright, warm light expands more and more, envelopes him, and makes him float. It feels good. Really good. He feels safe. His body rises upwards as his hand falls weakly down.

"No no no no! Don't do this to me now, Bucky! Please!” He frantically pats Bucky’s cheeks and reflexively feels for his pulse. A wave of relief washes over him after he feels Bucky's heartbeat under his fingertips and he looks at Ahmad.

The man looks serious but satisfied because he nods at him.

Frowning, his gaze goes back to Bucky. What the …?! , Steve is peeved until he realizes what the old man wanted to achieve with the pipe. The aroma of the smoke lulls him. Drugs!, flashes through his head. And by all accounts, it’s really good stuff, because Bucky actually seems...high as a kite. His eyes are glassy, but his breathing is no longer quite so ragged, his facial features are more relaxed, although still slightly distorted with pain. Overall, the changes are clearly visible, but Steve becomes increasingly aware of the seriousness of the situation.

Bucky mutters incomprehensible syllables quietly to himself, seeming so incredibly fragile.

Steve still holds him in his arms, but he can feel how little by little all the strength drains from the man’s limbs. A deeply sad sigh escapes his own lips. His emotions rush over him, while he buries his face in Bucky's hair, sobbing, because he’s sure his friend won't survive the next few hours.

[claradrawsstuff]

A couple of simpler dnd au design sketches for these two-

Plus character sheets for how I would roll them!

Mulder:

Basic description: A super talented conjuration wizard with a strange obsession with Warlock patrons.

Scully:

Basic description: A healing focused paladin newly dedicated to protecting mortals from extraplanar threats.

Feel free to ask about any of the things on these sheets! Literally everything has a reason I made it what it is so I could ramble about the choices for forever :)

[sun-snatcher]

( all gif credits to @bankaizen from this incredible gifset! )

✠ | absolution ; shay cormac

summ.  Shay is dying, but ghosts only haunt the living. Or: 6 times Shay is haunted, & the 1 time it matters most. pairing. gen!fic , implied Shaytham (up to you readers!) w.count.  4.6k a/n. Warnings for body-horror & overall graphic horror elements. Other than that, this fic explores Shay’s canon-typical PTSD!

‘A man who is laden with the guilt of human blood will be a fugitive until death, let no one support him.’ — Proverbs 28:17

i. THE SEA.

Shay crashes into water again.

It feels alot like the too-cold embrace of an empty home. 

“Don’t be pathetic,” says a Sailor. His accent is of French heritage; thick and full of contempt. “You are a man of the sea, not a Man of God. You’ve forsaken that part of you a long time ago.”

Have I? he asks, uselessly. The words bubble out instead; Up, up and far away. His eyes trail instinctively after it, where the dancing reflection of a naval firefight is shining curiously through the surface of the waves.

Shay is… sinking. Yes. He remembers now. His foot had been snared and caught in the whip of a rogue rigging line during some dogfight against a Man O’ War, knocked him out cold, and is sending him down now: plummeting to the seabed.

“Death-bed,” the mysterious Frenchman corrects, and yanks the rope tangled at Shay’s feet humorously, “if you want to drown with me, that is.”

He’s right. There’s no one else overboard other than the two of them. The rigging is frayed, fortunately, and so it doesn’t take much for the Captain to cut through it with his blades and free himself. 

He turns back towards the familiar face as the sea shifts, trembles, ripples. It’s bone-chillingly cold.

Come up, Shay says. The pressure of the water is squeezing his head into further disorientation. He’s fighting to wade upwards against the deep rock of the tides. 

“Why?”

Why else? he replies. We’ll both die, down here.

“Oh, I’ve been down here a long time, Shay, thanks to you.”

A heavy drape of red had appeared from the depths, curling up like a clotting cloud. Shay’s heart begins to pound in tandem with his lungs.

“Swim, or let yourself drown, then,” his old ally says. No bubbles of breath drift up when he speaks. His condescending laugh is everywhere and nowhere. A gaping cut is in the Sailor’s stomach; a mark of death by sword. “It’s my blood you’re seeing, after all. Not yours.”

A bolt of regret. I know. 

But Shay reaches out, nevertheless, still insistent. His reach always seems too little, too— 

“—late for that,” the man scowls.

Stop being a fool, Shay pleads. Just come to the surface. Is it an apology y’want?

“Connard,” the Frenchman curses. 

Torn, bloated flesh glistens at the seams of his rotting, festering wound as he speaks, and deep-sea creatures circle and feast excitably at the cruor and flayed pieces of his decayed skin. Chévalier glares at Shay with a hundred blinking barnacles for eyes and a mile-long seaweed for a black tongue. 

“It’s too late for that, too.”

ii. THE FOREST.

A burning rabbit startles out the ashen underbrush.

“Did you do this?” it cries out between its own flames, voice the rough scrape of tree bark. “Was it you who killed my Brothers?”

“I… Brothers?” Shay says, pathetically. His bleeding ears are still ringing from the explosive blast of the powder kegs he’d accidentally misfired at. It’s a miracle he could hear or think at all. “The forest— It wasn’t my intention—”

“So it was you, then,” rasps another pained voice. A hawk had descended onto a charred bough; its flaming wings are bent and twisted horrifically backwards, feathers singed into its own melting skin. “Look at yourself. We could’ve been greater than this. Do you take pride in burning away everything good in your life, you ungrateful creature?”

“No,” Shay shudders. The black smoke is thick enough to taste. The furious blaze of the forest-fire is beginning to sear into his skin as he wanders blindly for a clear path, trying to reconcile North from South. “I never meant for it to be this way—”

“How dare you,” comes a booming growl. “Look at the damage you can’t undo. Useless.”

Shay recoils. Missteps over the roots of a burning tree and lands hard on his back. “Please— I’ll make things right, you must let me help you.”

The lynx looms over him like an eclipse. A splintered branch is protruding through its blood-weeping eye socket, but its gaze is still vicious as Death while it snarls and snaps its jowls at him. “Is that what you Templar dogs do? Help? Look where it’s brought us all!”

Shay crawls backwards into the haze, frantic, until his arms falter. He snags a loose stone that sends his balance off-kilter— hurtling downwind, tumbling and rolling far from danger until he nosedives straight into a jagged outcrop. 

Everything silences.

Then, when he finally opens his eyes:

River water; poisoned with blood and soot and flesh.

A deer’s corpse twitches. 

It’s long since collapsed beside him, judging by the severity of the rot: 

Its face is peeling off; jaw torn through, loosely hinged by one last tendon. A puckle bullet lodged in its exposed ribcage glints in the waning firelight of the forest, glistening against the sinews of flesh and shards of shattered bone. 

“Do you hear it, Shay?” it whispers, tiredly. “Listen close. Past the beat of my wardrums.”

He pales. It’s not a ringing in his ears, he realises—

It’s screaming.

“Kesegowaase,” he recognises.

“Traitor,” it greets, watching as Shay shifts up to his knees. “You live to see another day, it seems. Good. I hope you live long enough for your guilt to tear you from the inside out, Shay— I hope you end up worse off than how you left me.”

Then the deer breathes out, and stills. 

“I’m sorry,” Shay chokes out at last, “for all of it.”

The forest creaks in protest. Even the riverbank sneers. 

Liar.

iii. THE GREENHOUSE.

A Venus Flytrap slowly unhinges its jaws.

Then a vial rolls out, and lands into his grasp.

“You’re late again,” says his Mentor, nodding to the tiny tincture. “Go on. It’s a fresh antidote.”

He hesitates. She notices, ofcourse, keen as usual. She always does.

“A pity,” she hums, sounding maternal. When she turns the corner of potted snapdragons, he can see the skirts of her elegant dress under the dusk light: a riotous bloom of purple irises and hyacinths, surrounded in wild, flitting butterflies. “I trained you better than this, you know?”

That gets a pained laugh out of him. The poison in his system that he’d inhaled works deliberately slow; makes it burn through his veins like acid. How did he get here, again? He can hardly remember through the fog in his head and lungs—

“By not listening to me,” the beautiful woman says, ducking past a cascade of pitcher plants overflowing with blood, and kneeling to where he’s sat propped against an old trellis of decomposing vines that’s ensnared and leashed him down, “and by being reckless. Now drink the antidote, Shay.”

“Relax.” He inspects the bottle of liquid in his hand, fidgets with the corkstop. “I’m not givin’ up hope.”

The clever play of words makes her laugh. It’s a haunting sound. He hasn’t heard it in a long while. When she sighs deeply after, the air chills until the garden windows frost over, and the life of the plants around her begin to drain and wilt. Carnivorous insects envelop and skitter loudly on the ground now, crunching underfoot and scattering over his feet.

“I just wanted to see you,” Shay admits, sorrowfully, “a little bit longer.”

“Why, you always were a fascinating fellow,” she muses. Her glowing face has turned gaunt at the edges. Putrefied and overgrown with grotesque roots stretching out from beneath her high collars, seeking to reclaim her. “Maybe I’ll just leave and save you the trouble—”

“No. Please.” He reaches out desperately to the black rose petals falling from her hair. “I’m hallucinating,” Shay says, disappointingly. “So y’might as well stay. Y’are goin’ to disappear, again, anyway.”

“Again?” she dimples at him. “Didn’t you make sure I could never be here to begin with?”

The shame burns his soul. She cocks her head, amused.

“Are you looking for absolution?”

Shay ignores the red in her too-wide grin; the blood pouring down her lips; the rapid darkening of her corset. They don’t go away when he blinks, so he imagines they’re just the bright red blossoms of poppies instead. 

He bows his head. Shuts his eyes. “I didn’t want to do it.”

“Oh, Shay.” Hope’s rotting corpse places her hand to his cheek. It’s ice-cold and skeletal— but he leans into the caress regardless; the only comfort he’ll ever be able to indulge in, fleeting as it is. “That changes nothing.”

iv. THE FORT

For a moment, he thinks it’s Chévalier, again.

But this Frenchman is less— spiteful.

“What’re y’doin’ inland?” Shay asks, sprawled against the floor of a fort he can’t pronounce the name of. There’s a telling, guttural ache of a fractured rib in his side from where he’d been struck by a stray piece of crumbling rubble. 

“What are you?” counters the Frenchman. He pulls a chair and straddles it, crossing his arms casually over the open backrest as he stares down at him. Shay can see the mutilating gashes of a swordfight across his chest and stomach, necrotic, with something diseased slithering between his shredded robes. “Come to storm another fort so I see. Shall you take as many down with you, too?”

“I already have,” Shay replies. There’s no pride in his answer. The ashlar walls of the war-room collapsing to dust around him remind him too much of when the world had caved in beneath his feet back— “—in Lisbon.”

“Well,” laughs the Navyman, “like I said: you always were good at your business, Shay. Tell me, how many more, then?” He cocks his head at the singed map on the floor, pinned under splintered barrels and debris. It’s what Shay had originally come for in this mission-gone-sideways, but—

The sketch of the landscape has come alive.

Its paper is now a graft of raw, human skin that breathes instead of flutters; ink replaced with rivers that bleed like fresh lacerations. Pawns march across borders and territory lines to the pulse of their dying heartbeats, the tattooed terrain shifting and clotting to a route that only directs them towards inevitable death. 

The map is a carved out piece of the Navyman’s stomach.

“Stop this,” Shay says, uselessly. “Enough.”

“Me? Oh, I didn’t kill those men, Captain.”

The marked out forts and strongholds are etched of dead, hooded Assassins and soldiers that twitch in endless piles. Something trapped underneath the skin-map writhes and buzzes and convulses, noisily demanding to be let out. It sounds like a thousand insects rattling against each other and beating their wings; burrowing, scratching and eating through fresh flesh—

Le Chasseur stomps hard.

Shay flinches at the squelch.

When the Frenchman lifts his foot, the stringing guts leave behind a twisted, grotesque insignia of the Brotherhood. “There. Retrieve it, then.”

He slides the filthy map closer towards Shay’s outstretched fingers with the toe of his boot. “I’m doin’ what I must,” Shay reasons aloud, swallowing hard as he turns his chin up to face the corpse, “It’s the only way, Le Chasseur.”

A scoff. When he moves to stand and leave, his open wound stretches like a maw with a sickeningly wet, sticky sound. Something alive crawls in, and out. “Right, because what is another great conquest— another hundred souls to leave in your wake, no?” 

“What is it y’want from me?” Shay calls out, hoarse. “Is it vengeance? Remorse? Do y’just want to watch me die?”

“And what exactly is it you hope you can do for a dead man? Bring them peace?” Le Chasseur mocks over his shoulder. “Shay. Captain. Look at what you’ve become,” he declares. “You can hardly find peace for yourself.”

v. THE BLUFF.

On a sunnier day, you’re able to see the horizon clearer from this high up a distance on the bluff.

An old, weathered Captain stands at the edge. 

“You beached the Morrigan,” he points out.

“To save my men, aye,” answers the Younger Captain. An ambush from an armada had left him disarmed and with little choice. He hadn’t fled— he’d tried to make a last stand where he could and spare his crew. Now he’s trapped and being used as bait to attract them. “I learned from the best.”

“Save your flattery for the Devil, child,” the Old Captain says. He walks over to the metal pillory that’s shackled the Morrigan’s young Captain. “Or do you think I’m the Devil, then; is that what it is?” he laughs, caustic. “That we’re all Him? Come to haunt you and punish you for your sins?”

The Young Captain says nothing. Days of pain have left him too exhausted to argue further. His worst wounds have been left to free bleed, and it’s tired him into resignatio— 

WAKE UP, SHAY.

He startles. 

The abrupt jerk spasms across his marred back, and he lets out a rasped choke.

“Younger slaves have suffered worst lashings than you, child,” says the Old Captain. When he pulls his hood down, his old scars are weeping blood: down his cheeks, his neck, his arms. He has a permanent scowl across his face. “Answer my question.”

“Yes,” Shay says, for the sake of it. The pain has jolted him wide awake and alert. “Why else would I be seeing you?”

“You tell me, traitor,” he snorts. “If I were the demon you think I am, I would have crucified you myself.”

The pillory seems to tighten. Sun-baked metal continues to sear through Shay’s bare wrists; bites at his neck; cooks the flesh of his flayed back. His vision swims, and he wonders if he’s imagining the ravens circling him have grown in numbers, too; daring one another to perch closer to him— waiting. Waiting. Waiting to pick him apart.

“Adéwalé,” Shay says, at last, “forgive me.”

The sea level has risen to an impossible height. It’s red, thick. Licking up the cliff face at frightening speed. 

He’s going to drown. 

“Forgiveness is not in my hands,” the Assassin muses, and makes dramatic a show of patting his gaping heart. It’s exposed in a ruptured cavity of his chest, pulsing like it was still alive despite the Hidden blade embedded in it from years ago. “You think me the Devil, after all.”

Shay rattles against his binds. The birds shriek and caw past him in vicious delight over his panic; his growing dread. The blood has covered the horizon, blinding the sun, drowning the Morrigan. It’s gone past his knees, and pools higher still. 

“Adéwalé,” he struggles, “Don’t do this!”

“Don’t worry,” he says, stepping forward. “Hell welcomes traitors like you.” 

“Stop!”

“It doesn’t end here, you know? Matter of fact—”

The tide rises to their chests, Adéwalé leans close to meet his gaze. His mutilated heart is leaking like a rusty faucet. It’s where the ocean of blood has been coming from all this time, flooding higher at each weak, circadian beat.

“The war will never end for you, Shay.”

vi. THE LAKE.

There’s no footprints in the snow.

Neither does his breath cloud.

“That was lucky,” his Brother says. It might’ve been him who’d helped spark the flint for the campfire, despite his gangrened limbs and black fingers. They’re frostbitten; stiff. When he moves, his joints snap and pop like a mangled doll that’s come to life after being put together wrong.

But it’s difficult to make sure. It’s too bitterly cold to think straight after falling through the ice and escaping the arctic  currents within an inch of his life.

“I, I make my— own luck,” comes the reflexive, shivering answer.

“Lose the robes. They’re wet,” his Brother ignores. “Else you’ll be frozen to the marrow come mornin’. Go on. No one’s here to peep the show.”

“You are.” Shay finally dares to look past the crackling fire. Searches for the familiar face just beyond the amber glow. “You— y’are here, Liam. Aren’t you?”

Behind the flicker of the flames, his Brother’s glacial blue lips crack when they smile. They will never again warm to any fire. “We used to jump off that creaky dock together back in New York, arses hangin’ out, Shay.” He leans his shattered, crooked spine to the cave wall with a laugh. “Y’tellin’ me you’ve gone shy, now?”

Shay isn’t amused. “That’s not what I, m—meant. You,” he endures a sudden bout of trembling. “Y’know it.”

“Well. What do y’want me to say, then?”

“That you— you’re here.”

“Alright,” he relents. Underneath the cowl that Shay had pulled behind his head as a farewell all those years ago, Liam’s eyes are milky; skin translucent. It reminds him of stained glass— the ones in church back home, where they were forced to attend as children together every Sunday mass. “I’m here.” 

Underneath the dark ice that’s become his flesh, Shay can visibly see past the frozen capillaries up his cheek; can see the very crack that had shattered Liam’s skull and damned him— violent enough to break him, but certainly not enough to kill him upon impact.

A slow, cruel death.

It makes Shay’s heart twist at the memory; his eyes sting. He allows himself the lie. “You’re here.”

A nod. “Yes.” Something from Liam’s cheek flakes off as he says it, exposing rotten teeth; a purple tongue. Blood and black fluid oozes, viscous and thick.

Do y’hate me? Shay wants to ask.

The words don’t come. It forms like a ball in his throat as he shivers and curls in on himself instead, and makes him choke back tears. “You’re here,” he convinces himself again, teeth chattering. 

“I am,” Liam repeats, patiently. “An’ no. I don’t hate you, Shay.” That makes him blink up. “You’ve always been my closest brother. Nothin’s changed that. Why’re y’surprised?”

The words in Shay’s head are brutal, unforgiving. He can’t bring himself to speak it into existence.

“The fall killed me,” Liam corrects knowingly, somehow, with a dismissive wave of his icicled arm. Then, honestly: “I don’t hate you, Shay,” he says. “I just wish y’died that night, too.”

So do I. He doesn’t bother admitting it. Liam will know, anyway. 

“…I will,” Shay replies, even after he’d disrobed and huddled into his dry pelts. Colour has returned to him. “T—Tonight.”

A laugh. It’s familiar.

“No, y’won’t.” It’s said like finality. As if he’s privy to a secret knowledge only dead men carry. “We trained y’well. It’ll take more than a dip an’ a splash into a frozen lake to kill you.”

The blizzard outside whistles a lullaby. The warmth thaws Shay’s blood back flowing. It unnumbs him; reminds him he’s exhausted. He wants to sleep— but this is the only time he’s been haunted with tender nostalgia above all else.

“Y’need it,” his Brother advices. “Go rest.”

He defiantly shakes his head. I miss you, Liam. I miss all of you. Even Chévalier, for fuck’s sake. Why did it have to be this way? Why me? 

But he couldn’t say that. It would’ve been ridiculous.

“You’ll… be gone,” he laments, “when— when I wake.”

“Shay,” Liam says, sadly. “I’ll be gone even if y’don’t.”

vii. 1782.

He escapes the Willow grove thanks to an old friend.

“What the hell… are y’doin’ here, Sir?”

“Saving you, it seems,” the Grandmaster says, and Shay eventually finds himself up on his tired feet, off the bough he’d been crumpled against. There’s blood pouring down his thigh, and a wound he can’t see torn somewhere into his side. “You’re lucky I chanced upon you, Captain. What? Oh, don’t say it—”

“I make my own luck, Master Kenway.”

“Get on,” he ignores, rolling his eyes as Shay sways and staggers, “Goodness, you’re heavy. I might just save myself the trouble and leave you damned out here like a tragic play.”

The pain blinds Shay as he shuffles onto his whickering horse, but not enough to stop him from apologising for exerting her joints— she’d been trained to kneel to get him on the saddle easier if he ever needed it. “Lovely girl she is,” Haytham compliments, already up and sidled behind Shay to take the reins sometime ago. “Stay awake, Captain.”

“Just— argh.” He winces at a pinch that travels up his leg with a curse as the mare is kicked into a swift and hurried trot back home. “Restin’ my eyes, Sir.”

“Famous last words,” Haytham snorts. “Shay?”

“Yes. I’m here,” he says. Then, as if reminded: “…Are you?”

The Grandmaster blinks in confusion. “I… Yes? I know we’ve just reunited after years— and in an untimely, unfortunate way, no less— but I am here. What do you mean?”

“…Nothing.” It wouldn’t do to tell his boss he gets haunted with whispering voices at every corner and gets plagued with hallucinations of his dead allies; even less to have that be their first conversation after all these years apart. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Bold of you to assume I am,” Haytham says, coolly.

“Time’s… worn y’down, Master Kenway,” he manages through the dull throb from the jostling. “Can see it— can see it in those blue eyes a’ yours.”

“Charitable of you not to say my greying hair.”

But he looks as young as Shay last saw him— what was it, a decade ago? He can’t see Haytham clearly to confirm it. The sun had yet to rise, and the way is paved under a tenebrous darkness that seems to be eating him alive. Or perhaps it’s just the daze in his head clouding his vision.

“Come on now,” Haytham says, when a waystation inn had come into view at last. Shay finds himself dismounted from his saddle— Haytham didn’t seem to bother with tying off the horse. Then:

The lady manning the bar flies into a frenzy of I’ll get yous a doctor, dear! the moment she’d set eyes on the Captain, and had insisted on supporting him all the way up the stairs, where they lumbered into the closest room they had available. “Poor boy. What happened to you, love?”

“Life,” Haytham jokes dryly, just as the woman tuts and disappears down the wooden steps to fetch for help. “Shay?”

The Captain’s voice is hoarse from where he’s sat propped up against the headboard of the bed. All at once, he feels both weightless and weighted. Shay’s been close to death before— too many to count, really— but he’s never teetered this close to the precipice. 

“Still… here.”

“Good man,” Haytham says, instead of stubborn man. “What is it?”

“Y’are awfully still, is all,” he observes, blinking lucidly through the gossamer of his waning vision. The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains has seemingly painted Haytham more sallow. “S’just, strange t’see… Strange t’see y’after this long.”

“I’m not the type to pace a hole into the ground, Captain,” he answers, puzzled. “Have you forgotten?”

“Never,” Shay says, easily. It’s the truth. Not a day had gone by without him thinking of Haytham; of what he’d be doing; of where he’d be; of what’d become of him. “I’ve never forgotten you.”

If he’d been flattered at the response, he didn’t show. Instead, he clasps his hand once more behind his back.

“Haytham,” Shay calls, abruptly.

The first name makes him look up. There’s no Sir, or Master Kenway, this time. “Yes?”

“Will y’tell me somethin’?”

Haytham hums. “Depends.”

“Please.”

“Well, how courteous,” he muses, but nods by way of assent. Go on, then.

“Will y’tell me—” —you’re here, Shay almost repeats. But then he remembers: he’d made that mistake before with another memory already. “—that you’re real?”

An owlish blink.

The Grandmaster gestures awkwardly from the corner of the room, by the door where he stands. “I’m right here.”

“I… I know y’are. But can you— can y’tell me,” he pleads again, desperately this time, “that you’re real, please?”

“I am,” Haytham insists, after a lengthy pause. 

“Will y’say it, then?”

A beat.

“I’m… here, Captain.”

Shay bows his head. “Oh.” Then he focuses his bleary eyes at Haytham. “Oh, no.” 

“Now you’re beginning to worry me, Shay—”

“Don’t bloody lie t’me, Haytham. Please,” he chokes, and an old grief fractures through his heart once more. “Please? Not you. Not you.” Then, in hopeless realisation, “God, anybody but you.”

A silence passes. 

Y’can’t say it. Y’never lie to me, Shay remembers. Then:

“How?” he dares, at last.

Haytham meets his gaze.

Shay braces himself.

“…Peacefully,” he finally answers, after a while. “Painlessly.”

This time, there’s unrepentant truth in his voice. It tears Shay apart more than he ever thought capable. Rips a startlingly horrific grief that stuns him with more force he can ever anticipate— 

“Y’bastard,” he croaks out, shaking his head and grunting through the jolt of pain that ripples through his wounds as he moves. “Y’are a goddamn bastard, Kenway. Why? Fuck— why?”

“That doesn’t matter, anymore.” The Grandmaster steps an inch into the moonlight. The floorboards don’t creak. No shadows are cast. Dust motes pass through him. He’s not here. He— He hasn’t been since the start of it all.

Shay’d been alone: following the muddy trail out the grassy willow grove with no other steps left behind but his own, clambering onto his sweet horse who led him safely and sure-footedly back to civilisation, and Shay himself had been the one to stumble into the first waystation inn he came by. 

Haytham had not been there to pick Shay up from against the tree bough; had not been there to help mount and steady him upon his saddle; had not been there to lead him into the inn, nor with the barmaid to guide him up the squeaky steps to his room. He’d never once touched him at all.

Haytham is not here.

He hasn’t been for a long, long time.

“Focus on holding on just a moment more, why don’t you?”

“Am I dyin’? Good,” Shay bites, cruel, “We’ll… have a proper conversation once I’m, once I’m bled dry.”

Haytham isn’t amused. “I’m not asking.”

“Orderin’ me from the grave, aye?” he laughs, wry. “…You’ve no right.”

A light hum. “Don’t I?”

“Y’left me,” he snaps, which he realises in an instant is unfair: Shay had taken on the task to find the Precursor box at Haytham’s behest, but the choice had always been his to do it. To leave. To sail. To complete the mission. “I wanted— I thought one day I could— come back—”

—to you, is his first instinct, instead of home. 

“Ofcourse,” Haytham says, pragmatic as always, “in due time, you will. But you’ve a mission to complete, still.”

“Oh, fuck you.” But the words don’t seem to affect the Grandmaster, and he couldn’t help but sink in a burst of shame— the sudden pour of overwhelming grief and ache from this newfound knowledge: Haytham Kenway is dead. He will never, ever again return to Shay. “I’m sorry. I’m— I’m sorry.”

“It’s quite alright.”

I wish I’d been there, Shay doesn’t say.

“There was nothing you could’ve done, Captain,” he answers anyway, and turns his ear towards the door where a thunder of footsteps echoes now from down the inn. The Doctor has arrived.

“I— I didn’t want it to be like this, Haytham,” Shay says, and can barely lift a weak hand to reach for the Grandmaster; one last attempt to touch his hand. “To be the last one standing.”

You’re not alone, Haytham says, and steps back into the corner away from the path. I’m here. 

The door is shoved open in a burst. A doctor and an apprentice begin to crowd him, speaking between themselves as they try to keep Shay conscious in a flurry of questions. 

What’s your name, Sir? Can you tell me where you are? Do you know the extent of your wounds? Have you taken anything?

He doesn’t answer them. Just looks past them and calls out, “Haytham!” over their shoulders, where the door has slowly begun to swing back shut—

The corner is empty.

Shay’s heart twists.

The corner has always been empty.

[goodintentionswipfest]

Gather up your ghosts!

Reminder that Good Intentions WIP Fest is coming up on October 31st! Dredge up those stories taking up space in your documents and in your mind and release them to the world! Let us see all that writing that would otherwise be denied to your readers! Let your dead come out to play!

Full event information is linked above, but the basics are: this is a time for your to post all those abandoned WIPs that you're never going to finish. Post them to this AO3 collection with the tag "Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued"; post them to Tumblr with the tags "good intentions wipfest" and "good intentions 2023;" and @ me here if you want them reblogged to this account.

This is a fest for people like me, who would rather have some of an amazing fic (or piece of art) than none of it at all. It's an invitation to free yourself from your guilt - and it's an invitation to readers to take a chance, read a story, and talk to an author. Who knows - maybe inspiration will strike again! Or at least you might learn how the story was going to end.

This fest is generally tailored to fics, but all unfinished work is welcome. Check out the FAQ for more information, or feel free to send me an ask if you have another question!

[selangkir]

BEYOND MY DREAMS DYING (EP MOVIE) // BEN LEVIN

[aheathen-conceivably]

This one is for my dire-hard Darlings reading both the story itself and the AU 💕

[halfacupofmilk]

bts of one of the current edits