sanctifyed
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Nat crouches at the edge of the counter, one eye to the viewfinder, tongue between her teeth. She doesn’t pose her subject, doesn’t even ask her to move. She likes the moments between, when the steam curls in soft halos around a face mid-turn, half smiling, half somewhere else.
“Do you ever get tired of staring at me through that little box?” Lottie finally asks without looking back, voice lilting, amused.
Nat grins, breath fogging faintly against the lens. “Nah.”
or:
photographer nat x muse lottie for a tumblr request
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“Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath, turning back to the rail. Trick of the light. Trick of her fried nerves. People from there don’t just turn up here— not her, anyway. Not after all these years.
She forces herself back into motion, sliding the whiskey across to its owner, popping the cap off a beer for another, letting muscle memory take the wheel. Routine steadies her.
She’s wiping down the bar, already convincing herself she imagined it, when she turns and freezes.
Because Lottie fucking Matthews is sitting at the bar.
or:
lottie flirting with bartender nat post-high-school no crash, for a tumblr request
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Natalie doesn’t make her feel like this; she only happens to be the one Lottie keeps calling, over and over, knowing exactly what they’ll do.
It’s her own little game of absolution. Hands and mouths and the thin slice of pain that makes her feel clean for a minute. She takes it like a punishment, swallows every moment of it down into the place where she keeps the rest of her badness.
or:
post-rescue lottienat with crying during sex by ethel cain. lowkey could be an alternative from this fic which i wrote but abandoned lmaoooo
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Her hand’s still fisted in the hem of his shirt, like a kid clinging to a security blanket. Her skin is clammy. Her pulse flutters fast and unsteady beneath the curve of her neck, hollowed out and sunken at the throat.
Then she mumbles, barely audible:
“I think I’m dying.”
or:
An overdose, the question of chapels in hospitals, and Travis' view of the saints.
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“Do you ever feel,” Lottie begins, her voice barely above the sound of the water sloshing, “like something inside you just isn’t… yours?”
Natalie shifts, startled by the sudden sound in the still room. She glances over, doesn’t respond right away. She wipes condensation from her wrist with a slow thumb, watching it bead again.
“What, like… a ghost, or something?”
Lottie smiles faintly. “Not like that.”
“So what, then?”
Recent bookmarks
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colors, figures, sway (if i lead, would you follow?) by softantlers
Fandoms: Yellowjackets (TV)
28 Jul 2025
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Summary
But after the initial bout of gossip died down and everyone got their kicks out about the resident center back and winger shacking up—"Offense on defense! Offense on defense!"—nobody cared that Lottie and Nat were sleeping together.
Old hat, tired dynamic. What they did behind closed doors just didn't matter.
Except when Lottie started using he/him pronouns for Nat. Because then—well, then the curtain shifted, and a peek slipped through. The team was certain: Lottie was in on something that the rest of them weren't. And whatever Lottie was in on must have to do with the fact that she was close to Nat.
But the thing—the very important thing—about this whole he/him business was this: Not even Nat knew what Lottie was in on.
// OR: The one where Nat has no idea why Lottie started referring to her with he/him pronouns.
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"Fangers are dead," Nat replied, and the void in Lottie's chest bared its teeth. Dead didn't sit right with Lottie. Because if fangers—vampires—were dead, then that meant she was. And how could she be? She breathed. She ached. She felt claustrophobic in this misty bathroom. Inside her void, a beast had made its den. It hated the word dead.
// OR: The one where Nat is a vampire hunter and Lottie is a newly turned vampire.
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Summary
You're just trying to get through your junior year at Princeton, knock out your last history requirement, and maybe keep your ancient laptop from bursting into flames. Then Professor Braxton disappears—and in his place arrives Professor Charlotte Matthews. She's composed, unsettlingly magnetic, and has a voice like velvet draped over a blade. You don't know what she believes, only that you want her to say your name the way she says antichrist.
In which, instead of starting a cult after Switzerland, Charlotte Matthews gets a PhD in theology and becomes a professor at Princeton.