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desmond69miles · 11 months ago

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An Artists Eye

I don't know why but every time I try to update a post it doesn't work until I do it three times?? Boo. This isn't exactly how I wanted it to turn out but I'm semi-happy with the finished work, soooooo have fun.

I'm working on a 'part-two' (it's more of a part one, it takes place before this). Not sure when it will be posted, but it'll be out sometime. (Read it here!)

Arno finds your sexual drawings and offers to live them out with you.

AO3 LINK

Warnings: Fluff and smut, Google translated French, oral (r receiving) fem!reader, vaginal sex/fingering, unprotected sex, creampie (I hate that word), grinding/dry humping.

Word count: 3,491. It's been awhile since I wrote something this long.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Three years ago, you had the pleasure of Arno knocking you over. The streets of Paris had been bustling one fall morning, and you were late to a client meeting, scuttling down the street with your sketches haphazardly secured in your arms. You weren't looking - or maybe you were but didn't process it in time - when a man walked straight into you. It was somewhat theatrical--your papers flew up as you fell down. The man immediately bent down to help collect your sketches while muttering apologies, but it was too late; a good majority of your work had fluttered straight into a muddy puddle you narrowly missed.

As the brunette picked up what papers were still preserved, you worked on dusting yourself off. Once the two of you stood, you finally looked at the man's face, one of his gloved hands moving to push his hood back. "Je suis vraiment désolé, madame," he said, "I'll buy you a new stack of sketching papers." You blinked at his offer - somewhat distracted by his handsome face - and politely rejected it. "Non, c'est bon. I wasn't looking where I was going." The man nodded and handed you back your work, dismissing himself with a slight nod and smile before disappearing back into the crowd. You stood there for a few seconds while people passed you, their shoulders occasionally bumping yours, and you moved to put the papers in your messenger bag.

A few days later, the man randomly arrived at your door around eleven at night. When you opened the door, you were no less than shocked - he actually brought you a new stack of sketch paper! Then you asked yourself, how did he find my house? "Bonsoir Madame," he said. His brown eyes danced over your face, the same you had done when he knocked you over, and he extended his hand with the cartridge paper that was wrapped in a thin cloth to keep from dirtying. You take it from him, and your mouth flubbed open in search of some words. Finally, you decided on nothing more than an awkward "Merci... May I get your name?" The man chuckled, "Arno Dorian, and yours, madame?" Arno repeated your name once you said it, nodding along in confirmation. He left after denying your offer for coffee with a goodnight, and after you returned to your sofa, you undid the covers to the paper.

A small card with a fancy gold trim sat on the stock. You turned it around and looked at the fancy swirls of writing--If you wish for more paper, run into me at Café Théâtre. You couldn't help the wide smile that formed on your face.

Now, it will be your and Arno's second anniversary in a day.

You sat in front of your easel that held up your latest work, and one of your hands mixed up a beautiful blue on the wooden pallet held by your other hand. It was seven-ish, the sun hazily setting in the dimming sky, and the warm air of summer blew through the open windows of Arno's chambers. The ambient buzz of crickets and the fuel of early nightlife gave way to your soft humming of a lullaby. Occasionally, you'd hear the claps from the Cafe down below, a recitation of Hamlet playing tonight, and you've seen the show so much that you found yourself rehearsing the lines to yourself every so often. Your fingers plucked through your paintbrush jar until you found a suitable one and began to paint the shading colors of Arno's coat. Shading was the last thing that needed to be done, an easy task that could be completed quickly.

Arno was indeed your favorite subject to draw. Often, when you found yourself unable to sleep, you sketched him while he was resting--or when you found yourself with free time, you drew his body's familiar lines and curves in practice. Sometimes, these anatomical figures found themselves in... precarious positions, such as in nude drawings. Those were your personal favorites, your sexual admiration for him going past just intercourse, but that sketchpad had been stowed away in the very back of your closet in a box. Hiding your drawings wasn't something you liked; you were proud of your work, and you didn't shy away from drawing nude bodies. In fact, Élise's favorite work of yours was of a sexually deviant nun she had nicknamed 'The Sin.' But, you always hesitated to show Arno the drawings and paintings you have done of him. Neither of you was sure why; you argued they weren't perfect, and Arno argued you were worried that he'd judge (in truth, you were a little more than embarrassed to show the numerous sexual positions you had put your lover and yourself in through pencil).

However, you decided to face that embarrassment with your second anniversary, hence your eagerness to finish this portrait of your lover. Hours had ticked by reasonably quickly, and soon enough, you heard the grandfather clock chime twelve times, indicating the strike of midnight. You pause to look over your final work and give a more than satisfied smile, grabbing the canvas sheet you had and covering the painting so Arno didn't see it (you also had to make sure he didn't peek; he seemed fond of doing that). Your hands had been stained with colors, and your apron had a few new splotches--you didn't mind, but you still hung up your apron carefully for washing and quickly scrubbed your hands clean.

With your hands a tad bit achy from the repeated holding of brushes, you stripped yourself of the painter's gown. You didn't even bother with a chemise or undergarments and instead grabbed one of Arno's button-up shirts that had a smear of purple paint. The mark was seemingly impossible to get out of the cotton, so he had unofficially gifted it to you, telling you that he'd wear it if you ever wanted to fling paint at him again. You grabbed one of the two pillows Arno claimed and tucked one between your thighs for comfort--the pillow usually replaced by his thigh. That, sadly, was the reality of being with an assassin; most nights, he wasn't around to fall asleep with. Thankfully, it seemed like you always woke up in his arms, your lover either sleeping soundly or admiring you.

You heard the chime of 12:30 on the grandfather clock before you shut your eyes for the night and fell asleep.

Awaking in the morning was a chore. The bed was so warm, cradling you like your mother did when you were a babe, and when you shuffled to get comfortable, an arm tightened around your waist. A knowing smirk cast onto your lips - Arno was back and pressed tightly to you. "Arno," you whisper, quiet enough so he could hear if he were awake. No response. Good, you hoped he was asleep - allowing you to get up and prepare your present for him.

So, carefully, to not wake him up, you moved Arno's arm from off of you and gingerly rolled out of bed, slowly standing up so as not to make the wood creak. Once your feet were planted on the cool floor, you stretched fully before walking away from the bed. Your easel still sat in the same position with the canvas sheet covering it; the oak stool pushed out to the side with a dirty jar of brushes resting on top of it. You noted that Arno had closed the windows and drawn the curtains, only slivers of sun peeking through. You first moved to open them just a tad so the chambers would be more illuminated--mainly so you wouldn't topple over something. Then, you moved over to your easel.

You took a deep breath and hoped that it looked okay after drying. Your hands gently took the cover off, and for the second time, you smiled proudly, hands clasped together. It wasn't alright; it was... almost perfect. Something was missing, and you couldn't put your finger on it. Then, it dinged in your brain. The drawing of us! You made your way back to the bed, but instead of getting in, you opened the dresser beside it and rummaged around until you found your trusted sketchbook. You flipped through it until you found the page already torn out and signed with a small love note. You paused, though, and your tummy did a flutter.

You forgot about this drawing. It was one of the first sexual ones you drew, a rather raunchy drawing of none other than Arno laid on his stomach, arms wrapped around a faceless woman's thighs and his face pressed to her cunt. This was still when you were too ashamed to draw yourself in these drawings - hence the faceless woman - but it made you fuzzy.

It wasn't like you and your boyfriend never had sex; quite the opposite. Many nights you had been spent on the bed, Arno deep inside you while some serious French kissing went on (not to mention the time when Arno's mentor had walked in on you deepthroating the brunette's cock in none other than the Assassin's base under Cafe Theatre, but you're too embarrassed to talk about it. You still get hot when you hear Bellec calling Arno 'pisspot'). While you've had amazing sex, you've never got the confidence to ask for oral. Arno offered it, but you said no; what if you taste bad or do something Arno doesn't like? The thought of a mouth down there always intimidated you, but that doesn't mean you haven't fantasized about it.

You were so caught up in staring at the drawing that you jumped when a loud crash came from outside, dropping the sketchbook onto the floor. "Merde," you almost immediately cussed, recoiling your foot from the damage of your toes being hit by the journal. It was enough to wake Arno up, and while you bent down to retrieve the book, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. "Everything alright, cherie?" He said, and you were startled like you were caught doing something bad. "Oui, sorry to wake you." Arno gave you an understanding smile, sliding to the edge of the bed and leaning forward to find your waist. You tucked the sketchpad to your chest as he pulled you in for an embrace, his face resting between your shoulder blades.

"What were you drawing?" Arno muttered, and you tensed for a moment. "Sketches, love, it's nothing too important." You replied, and he hummed. "Everything is important when made by you." You didn't protest when his hand snaked from your hip up to your hands, his fingers grasping the edge of the book and pulling it free. His head moved back but still rested against you, and you heard him chuckle. Your face warmed, and for a moment, you willed the floor to open up and swallow you or for you to turn into a gnat and fly away.

"Is this woman you?" He asked, and you quietly said no. "Then you envision me eating another woman out?" You let out a defeated breath, shoulders slumping. "Non, it is me."

"But you did not draw your face?"

"It was awkward."

"Ah, then we should make it less awkward. Experiencing it may give you confidence."

Your head turns to peer at him from behind your shoulder. He has a cheeky grin that he knew he was doing - and you chewed your lips. "It's our anniversary, too. How will I marry you if I've never tasted you?" You blinked and chose to ignore the marriage comment, but as he pulled you into his lap, you knew you weren't getting out of this one too quickly. "I've heard from other women that it's relaxing if that quells your worry." One of his hands slides up your thigh and rests near the apex of your legs, thumb rubbing small circles into your flesh, and he kisses your cheek. You turn your body, legs swinging to rest on the bed and lean into Arno. He gives you a sweet look, brown eyes filled with what could only be described as love, and kisses your lips. He didn't get far once he pulled away; your hand brought him back in.

Your fingers undo the red ribbon, keeping Arno's hair tied while he bites your bottom lip teasingly. Once his hair was free and you could run your fingers through it, you allowed his tongue to slip past your lips and tangle with his. He tasted faintly of expensive red wine, and you drank the groan he let when your nails scratched his scalp. The hand resting on your thigh slid under the shirt you wore, warm fingertips running over your curves. Your noses bumped accidentally when you moved to tug on the buttons of his nightshirt, and neither of you went too far from the other. Your breaths still mingled as his hands aided yours in tugging his shirt off, the fabric falling onto the floor. Arno then moved both of you, so now you were lying against the pillows with your lover hovering above you. You exchange soft, loving smiles, eyes studying each other. Your hands ran down Arno's arms and rested against his wrists.

"Do you want to try oral?" He asked, genuinely curious, and you pondered. "Will you go slow?" You query, and you get your answer with the gentle, warming kiss Arno places against your forehead and then lips. His hands grab a pillow you are not resting on, and he says to lift your hips. You comply without question, and Arno slides the pillow under your butt, then moves your thighs apart so he can adequately slot himself in between them. The pillow gave a perfect angle for his hips to slot against yours, his semi-hard cock pressed into your inner thigh, and you could feel the wettening of your folds.

His lips find yours for a small kiss before he moves to your neck, sucking in a few light marks that can be hidden, and one of his hands trails down your body to your stomach, resting there patiently until you give the go-ahead. The attention placed on your pulse point made you let out a quiet whimper, and you circled your arms around Arno's shoulders so you could tug his body closer to yours. His bodily warmth was nothing short of what you called home, the south trail of his hand at your happy whisper of 'more,' the press of his thumb against your clit--it gave an almost sentimental feel.

There was loving, and then there was loving.

And he loved you like you loved him.

The way Arno loved you was nothing short of amazing? Spectacular? supercalifragilisticexpialidocious? There was no word for the way he treated you.

After slicking his fingers in your cunt, he pressed a final kiss to your lips before descending your body, leaving kisses every place he could reach. You shifted awkwardly once you two were positioned like the drawing--Arno on his stomach, his cheek pressed into your thigh, hands holding your legs apart. You did have to admit that it was an ego boost to see your lover between your legs with such a hungry look in his eyes. Arno pressed a kiss to where your thigh meets your leg, impossibly close to your cunt, and you felt his breath over your puffy clit. It caused you to shift your hips, a hand coming to rest on his, and Arno peeked up at you from his position.

Your insides became mush--there was absolutely no right for him to look heavenly, and you moaned as his index finger teased against your slit. "Do you want me to?" Arno asked, dipping his finger inside, teasingly curling in a way that he knew wouldn't feel terribly pleasurable. You debated--a new experience and most likely an intense orgasm, or you'll have to listen to your girlfriends rave about cunnilingus without knowing what to say next time you all met up. Most, if not all, your nerves of appearance had vanished and instead replaced by the anxious want of indulgence. Arno pushed his finger deeper, pulling back and repeating those actions slowly, awaiting your response.

"Mhm, oui. I'd like you to."

Arno smiled, and when he exhaled, you wiggled at the cool air against your warm cunt. "Merci," he hummed and leaned in, pressing his lips to your clit. Arno was gentle at first, careful not to overwhelm you. The rough pad of Arno's tongue pressed flat against your clit, and he let you move your hips, allowing you to draw your pleasure in what felt good. Once he thought that you had enough of a taste, his hands moved to your hips and pushed them down into the pillow. Your hands moved between Arno's resting ones or his head, moaning loudly when he sucked your clit with fervor. "Dieu," you exasperatedly said. Your thighs closed around Arno's head, not tight enough to hurt him but snug enough to keep him there, eyes closing when the tip of the pink muscle drew figure eights on your cunt. His finger slipped back in, this time pumping with a little more vigor, and when he curled them just right, that beautiful edge came into feel.

"S'il te plaît, oh mon Dieu, s'il te plaît," you whined and swore you could feel Arno smile into you. Your hips rocking against his face as well as your thighs clamped tight around his head, caused a slight burn from his stubble, but, shit, you couldn't care as long as he kept going. Arno's lips move up once again and slurp your clit, and "There, fuck! There, Arno, don't stop!" pours out from you. Another finger adds to your wet hole, and he gives a rough suckle just before you send hurdling over the crescendo of an orgasm. Arno lets you ride it out by grinding on his face, his nose bumping your clit in delicious aftershocks, and you eventually come down enough to release Arno's head from your thighs.

His head popped up from between your thighs, and he crawled up, bouncing down onto the bed beside you. One of Arno's hands rested on your stomach, and he asked, "How was it?" You gave a weak chuckle, "Le meilleur, fuck, the best."

"Another round?" He suggested.

"Always another round." You enforce.

Before Arno could move, you crawled on top of him and gently pushed your hips down so your saliva-and-slick-ridden cunt pressed perfectly against his hard cock. He gave that devilish smirk, hands finding your waist to push the nightshirt over your head, and you moaned as his hips met yours with equal enthusiasm. In more-or-less semi-clothed dance, you rocked against each other until Arno's hands slowed you, one going to slightly push you back just so he could free himself from his now wet undergarments. The fabric didn't get farther than his knees before you scooted back up and took him in your hand, running the head of his cock through your folds. After a few teasing passes, his tip catches your hole, and you slowly - yet easily - sink onto him. Once your lower half was pressed against his pelvis once more, Arno gave a few shallow thrusts and cupped one of your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh and playing with your nipple.

A few more seconds passed, and with a quick kiss to Arno's forehead, you tensed your thighs, hands pressing against his chest, and you began to set a steady rhythm of riding him. Your lover met your thrusts halfway with quick motions that effectively created a shlick shlick when either of you moved. The friction inside you felt good but just not enough to reach climax again, and Arno knowing this, moved his fingers to rub small circles against your clit. Arno cursed and rolled his head back onto the pillows. You watched his Adam’s apple bob with each thick swallow, and his thrusts became unsynced--a tale tail sign of impending orgasm.

With a few more messy thrusts, Arno pulled your hips flush to his and spilled deep inside of you. The warmth of his cum had made you unexpectedly orgasm, toes curling as you moaned. You stayed still and savored the moment, your spine failing to keep you upright, so you lay down on Arno's chest instead. Arno rolled over onto his side and took you with him, grabbing the closest blanket and covering you both up to keep from getting cold.

"Je t'aime," Arno whispers against your hair, and you softly hummed. "Je t'aime plus," you countered, but he won the battle with an "I love you the most."

"I peeked at the painting," he said after a peaceful silence, "I love it. You'll have to paint me nude next time."

#arno dorian x reader #Arno Dorian #Arno Dorian smut #assassins creed x reader #assassins creed smut #lynns posts

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pixievi · 2 years ago

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THE FRUITS OF HER LABOUR.

𓆩 summary ° ｡ eivor assists in securing your throne and your gratitude lies deeper than a mere alliance

𓆩 warnings ° ｡ queen! reader, throne sex, cunnilingus (r! receiving), fingering (r! recieving), degradation, praise, power play (eivor getting off on fucking a queen while simultaneously teasing them for letting her) usage of good girl, whore, lamb, eivor and reader having big phat crushes on each other

𓆩 wc ° ｡ 2,9k

𓆩 disclaimer ° ｡ this is a work of kink fantasy/fiction. within the world of kink and bdsm, consent is of upmost priority (also in general). even if the consent is not explicitly stated in the work, know and be assured that it is always given beforehand between all participants.

minors, men and ageless blogs dni. you are responsible for the content you read.

“are you not joining in on the merriment, my lady?”

eivor had appeared in the throne room silently, her features illuminated by the flames of the many braziers in the room. she wore a proud smirk, the victory from earlier in the day obviously still sung through her veins. rowdy shouts and songs of battle faintly filled the room from the longhouse. it sounded like the whole town was in there. you were sat comfortably in your new position, on your throne. reading through various letters from the townsfolk, in which most welcomed their new queen. that was until eivor’s gentle voice joined the crackling of the fires. she strolled towards you as her eyes took in your domestic form, pleasantly surprised. she was used to seeing you in noble wear. thick cloaks sewn with delicate designs and with the softest furs, tunics bearing rich colours, thick pants made to withstand the seasons and jewellery that vociferated your status. now, you donned a light nightdress with a shawl wrapped around your arms. you looked soft, she thought, as warmth filled her chest.

“no”, you smiled at her softly. “i would much rather be in my bed”

it had been 3 long months and a half of strategising, travelling, battles, meetings, dealing with ivarr’s bullshit, more battles because of said bullshit….you were ready to sleep for a month. to put it lightly. but having eivor by your side made it all bearable. you were taken aback by her confident demeanour at first, but that same confidence soon became a comfort that quelled your anxieties. without her, victory would not have been possible. she stopped at the bottom of the dais and her smirk grew into a smile. mischief swirling in her eyes.

“perhaps i could keep you company then?”

brazen, she was. your cheeks warmed. damned woman. you wished you had grown used to her teasing, but how could you when everything about her made you want her to plow you until you couldn’t walk?

“would you not be missed by your men in your celebrations?”

eivor shrugged. “we’ve celebrated enough victories together, i doubt missing one with them would be tragic”

“are you sure? celebrating with me is hardly any better, i’m only reading these”, you chuckled, waving the letters.

“it would be, i want to speak with you”, she said, with a hint of softness. you fought down a grin.

“you don’t have to worry, our alliance is secured. ravensthorpe now has a powerful ally”

“i trust that it is. but that’s not why i wanted to speak with you”

eivor’s gaze was suddenly intense. you adjusted, sitting straighter in your throne. “oh, is everything all right eivor?”

she said nothing and stepped up towards you. your eyes followed her until she was looking down at your form. it felt like your heart was about to jump out of your chest in anticipation. she beckoned you to stand, with a feathery soft ‘come here’. you took her warm and calloused hands and they held you gently as you stood with her. your gaze shifted everywhere, : to the furs on her shoulders, her thumb caressing your knuckles, the weathered weapons belt that hung around her hips and accidentally, her lips. for far too long, you realised. cheeks warming even more.

eivor chuckled, and cradled your warm cheeks. tilting your head, making you look at her. though her rough hands were scarred and capable of cutting down men larger than her, she held your face tenderly. you've never felt more safe. as always, when eivor was around you. you melted into her affections. she hummed in approval as you softened and relaxed. your name left her lips warmly, making you look away from the scar on her cheek. interrupting thoughts of desiring to trace it.

and when she spoke, you could not believe your ears. surely, this was a dream?? you’re about to wake up and be left with an empty feeling in your chest that walked with longing alongside you for the rest of the day. you’ve had this dream before. eivor wanted you. her thumbs soothing your cheeks as she spoke is what made you realise that yes, this was actually real. because your dreams never got her touch right.

“…and as soon as your eyes met mine, the first time we met, i was yours. and i never want to not be”, eivor finished earnestly, her own heart beating frantically in anticipation of your reaction. she searched your dazed eyes for any sort of unspoken answer, worried you didn’t feel the same, and that she made a fool of herself. the longer you took to answer, the more her hands loosened her grip on you. threatening to pull away completely. really, you were just in shock and struggling to form words. losing her warm touch and the dejected look in her eyes as she fully pulled away is what made you snap out of it.

words were failing you, and there’s no doubt in your mind anymore of eivor’s feelings so…you did what you always wanted to do. you gripped her face instead and smashed your lips to hers. a surprised noise escaped her. you smiled against her lips and chuckled. eivor wasted no time. with her heart soaring she pulled you in again. trapping your mouth with hers and deepening the kiss with a groan. it was messy and desperate. it was like eivor wanted to devour you. spit started to coat both of your lips, some reaching your chin. but you didn’t care, if you didn’t have to stop to breathe, you would’ve gone the whole night tasting her. you both breathed heavily, catching your breaths.

eivor’s eyes were fixed on your heaving chest. she almost forgot she was supposed to be breathing as she focused on the sight of your nipples poking through the thin fabric. how they pressed against it each time you inhaled. her arms snaked around your waist, bringing you even closer to her. pressing your body to her own. she couldn’t help herself. she placed open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your neck and revelled in the sweet noises you gave her.

it was all too much, her hot mouth on you, her hands gliding across your body and squeezing your flesh almost roughly. possesively. it was all going straight to your core, making you ache. your hips had a mind of their own. desperate for any sort of attention, you grinded against her. hoping she'll do something about it.

eivor smiled against your neck. she'd never seen you like this before. so desperate and mindless. she wanted to never forget it. and drag it out. she ignored your pleas, with a bit of difficulty and continued making her mark on your neck. by this point, your neck was decorated. they wouldn't be going anywhere, anytime soon. and eivor loved that.

you were growing frustrated. and even more wet. you pulled her head away from your neck suddenly and she made a noise of protest, but you shushed her.

"i don't think i properly rewarded you, did i?", you asked, gripping eivor’s chin. her eyes were clouded, and you could easily imagine the thoughts swimming in her mind. eivor shook her head.

you sat back down on your throne. "well, come get it then"

the second you spread your legs, eivor was already on her knees. pushing your legs up, holding them by the backs of your thighs and shoving her face into your dripping pussy. you gasped in relief. finally, finally after so long of wanting her, you had her. and she had you. eivor groaned into your folds as she lapped up your wetness and dipped her warm tongue teasingly into your aching entrance. making you arch into her with a whine.

eivor couldn't believe it. she always imagined what it would be like to fuck you. the sounds you'd make, the pretty expressions she'd pull from you, how you'd taste. but in recent weeks, she was daydreaming about a whole lot more than just that. every time you'd smile at her made eivor think of how lovely it would be to have you at home waiting for her, ready to give her that smile that was always just for her, when she came back to you. it would make her a lot less reckless in her endeavours. it didn't take long for eivor to figure out her passionate feelings for you.

her hand trailed up your stomach and pulled down the front of your dress, revealing your tits to her. she grabbed one and kneaded it as she feasted on you. her black eye paint was still striking on her, even after having it on all day. it lasted proudly through the harsh rain that lashed the battlefield and eivor's sweat. now it smeared slightly on the sensitive skin of your thighs. you always loved when she wore it. feeling your heated gaze on her, eivor met your eyes from beneath your damp curls and winked. bitch. you cursed between whimpers as she added more fuel to the fire in your veins.

eivor was purposefully avoiding your clit, as she wanted to play with you for as long as she could. the wet sounds she was making between your thighs were obscene, and they were extra loud because of the echo. eivor shoved her tongue deeper within you, and tongue fucked you. you whined and gripped her hair, pulling her in closer. desperate for more. her nose bumped against your aching clit while you shifted and you gasped, and made an effort to tighten your thighs around her head. but she still had your legs in an iron grip. your knees were pressed up to your chest and you couldn't move much. you were completely at eivors mercy.

you could feel eivor smile at your struggle, it only spurred her on even more. she quickened her pace as you grew wetter around her. it dripped onto the throne beneath you, helped by eivor’s spit. abruptly, her tongue left you and you whipped your head back to her to protest. but your curses got caught in your throat and what escaped were moans of surprise and relief. eivor sucked greedily, her lips finally wrapped around your clit. it was heaven. you arched into the feeling, babbling a series of 'yes yes yes!'

eivors need for you only grew as your taste coated her tongue and your pretty sounds filled her ears. it was getting uncomfortable at this point, but she will wait. she wanted to see her noble queen fall apart. a thick finger tentatively prodded at your entrance, teasing it, beckoning you to give your permission to be destroyed. you nodded eagerly, already clenching around nothing at the thought. eivor gave one last intense suck before removing her mouth from you, making you shiver.

"i need to hear it, princess", she smirked up at you. half of her face was glistening in the firelight with your mess. she kept her mouth close to your pussy as she spoke lowly, the vibrations making you shiver again.

"please eivor", you whined, scooting closer to her.

eivor nipped at your soft skin and you gasped in surprise. she soothed the sting with a feathery kiss. she spoke against your burning flesh. "please what, lamb?"

she wanted you to spill filth. that much is clear. a hungry and dark glint in her eyes urged you to beg and use your pretty mouth to utter lewdness. heat rose to your cheeks.

"eivor please i-i need it"

she feigned disappointment. "need what?"

she constantly teased your hole as she spoke, and while she waited for you to speak. teasing you like this, was really doing something to her. she half hoped you dragged it out. but the other half, was growing needier and needier. her underwear was ruined by now. you swallowed. eivor found herself distracted by your heaving chest again in the warm light.

"n-need you to fuck my pussy p-please", you begged and arched towards her. "take what's y-yours"

take what's yours. a bolt of pleasure and want erupted in eivors belly and she groaned. shit. she shoved her face into your heat again and furiously resumed her onslaught on your clit. you moaned, throwing your head back. she rewarded you with a finger, slowly spreading your velvet walls. she started off at a languid pace to get you used to her. which was sweet and all, but you needed more.

"a-another"

eivor chuckled around your pulsing clit at your orders and you gripped her head, pulling her in even more.

"little lamb wants another", eivor muttered to herself smugly. fuck you loved the names she'd always give you. even more so when she was knuckle deep in your cunt. two more fingers joined the first, stretching you out deliciously.

"f-f-fuck", you groaned. you'd never been this full before. eivor had her bottom lip between her teeth, smiling, watching you suck her in greedily. she stood and leaned over your desperate form. your lips crashed into hers and she swallowed your moan after she curled her fingers in you.

"how does that feel, your majesty?", she whispered against your lips, holding your gaze intensely. you clenched around her thick fingers again at the title.

"really r-really good"

"oh yeah?", she deepened her lazy thrusts.

"y-yes!"

"any more royal requests, my lady?"

you met her wanton stare. "faster wolfkissed"

it was instant. her gentle strokes were replaced by rough, animalistic thrusts that pounded your aching pussy relentlessly. eivor grunted into your sweaty neck with the effort. relishing in your delicate whimpers and the way your breath hitched every time her calloused fingers hit that spot. once she found it, she abused it.

you fisted the furs on her shoulder for dear life while eivor kissed and bit the sensitive skin of your shoulder. intent on marking that side too. after tonight, she wanted no doubt in anyone's mind that you were hers. all hers. especially to your future royal suitors. it wouldn't take long for news of a young, unmarried queen to make its rounds across other kingdoms. oh, she couldn't wait to see their faces when she would treat you like her wife right in front of them. one day, that will be true.

eivor was satisfied by the state of your neck and moved further down your chest while you continued to squeeze her sopping fingers. your juices had pooled under you on the throne and some dripped down eivor's wrist, which flew off onto the floor at her rough plowing. she latched on to your nipple and twirled and sucked around your peak. you hummed in bliss and pushed her head further into you. the coil in you was starting to tighten more and more, it wouldn't be long before you spilled all over your drengr's fingers.

your stomach tensed and relaxed with eivors thrusts, and your legs started doing the same. you wrapped your arms around her broad shoulders, holding her tight as you gasped into her neck. adorable, eivor thought as she trailed her free hand beneath your nightdress and brushed her thumb affectionately against the skin of your hip. just like she had done with your cheeks earlier.

"e-eivor"

"mmm?", she answered, still toying with your breast.

"i'm close"

eivor wetly removed her mouth from your nipple and rested her forehead against yours. she kept up her pace, wanting to rip it out of you. all over your throne. "really, your majesty? right here?"

squelching echoed back to you from the corners of the throne room and you clenched at eivor’s teasing. "right here on your throne? right where you'll sit addressing nobles, your people? where a viking made their queen cum?"

you cursed, shutting your eyes in embarrassment and renewed arousal. you shouldn't like that idea as much as you did. some locals and those outside your kingdom would have your head for having relations with a raider. you creamed a white ring around the knuckles of your raider as she continued to finger fuck you, hell bent on making her teasing come true.

"y-yes!"

"how filthy of you, your majesty", eivor smirked, loving every single bit of this. "wonder what they'd think of their queen being such a whore"

"just y-yours"

"that's right lamb, all mine", she emphasised with a particularly deep thrust that made you keen against her. and she kept doing it. words left you as she focused on that one spot within your soaked walls. her fingers laying claim to it.

"come on sweet thing, give it to me"

and like the good girl you are, you did. you gasped as bliss crashed your senses, your legs tensed and jerked as eivor fucked you through it. she watched in awe as deep pleasure took you, having you make the cutest face. she slowed her thrusts and shushed you, bringing you down gently. kissing all over your warm face. murmuring praise. not that you heard much, it was like your ears had been stuffed. so you only caught snippets of her affections.

"...so good for me"

"beautiful"

she carefully took her coated fingers out of you. you pouted at the empty feeling and eivor only chuckled down at you, before thoroughly and obnoxiously cleaning them off with her tongue. you rolled eyes half heartedly at her teasing display. eivor smiled mischievously and caught your lips in a passionate kiss that threatened to take your breath away. her strong arms snaked under you and picked you up, holding you tightly so you didn't slide down.

"come, time for bed lamb"

you couldn't argue with that.

#eivor varinsdóttir #smut #assassins creed eivor #eivor wolfkissed #eivor wolfkissed x reader #fem reader #x sapphic reader #lesbian #ac eivor #assassins creed smut #assassins creed women

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bookworm-with-coffee · 1 year ago

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AAAAH DBSNDN— MY 🦋 F E E L S🦋!!!

This was so beautiful 🥺❤

Shay Cormac x Reader - Wayward Bird

Genre - Angst, Smut

Word Count: 1,328

Summary: Shay, your previous lover, is still alive. You and Hope are tasked to find and kill him, but as you hide and wait for her to lure him into the warehouse, particularly intimate memories of you and your target begin to resurface.

A/N: Hello, hello! I present this angst-smut song fic inspired by Georges Bizet’s “L’amour Est Une Oiseaux Rebelle”. Here’s Maria Callas performing it, which I really do enjoy.

Love is a rebellious bird

That nobody can tame,

And it is in vain that it is called

If he agrees to refuse.

The sheer anxiety coursing through your veins solidified itself through the way your leg bounced restlessly. You were alone in the warehouse, at least for now, crouched behind one of the stacked wooden cartons in a corner.

You’ve lost track on how long it has been since Shay stole the manuscript and took off, entirely certain he was dead until word arrived from Kesegowasse. Naturally, you were in for quite a shock. You could not decipher if the inital cause of your heart’s pounding took origin to its gleeful dance in relief; Shay survived. Perhaps it shook in place with fear for his life, or in fury due to his act of treachery. At any rate, it was made clear the Irish lad was still about. Achilles assigned you and Hope out to assassinate Shay.

“Mentor, with all due respect, I believe I can kill him on my own.” You recall yourself reasoning, still listening in the present moment for Hope’s quick and silent footsteps. She was to lead the rogue assassin into the warehouse.

“We must never underestimate the opponent. Now that Shay has decided to align himself with those Templar dogs, who knows what tricks they put up his sleeve. And don’t take me as blind and deaf to the history you both shared.” Achilles nodded at you and walked closely. “Efficiency over emotion, Y/N. Hold it close to you.”

Hope’s familiar sigh played faintly in the memory. “We leave tonight, then. Ready the horses,” An aloof expression fell on her face as she looked at you before continuing, “And remember our practice for air assassinations.”

You took deep breaths to control your feeling of apprehension. Were you truly ready to kill Shay, without clearing up what went on behind rooftop kisses and the intimate fondling behind the stables?

Nothing helps, neither threat or prayer.

One man talks well, the other is silent;

But it’s the other one I prefer-

Shay used to pull you into a bale of hay, with him on top before running his hands underneath your skirts. You would pull him in closer to kiss him, and he’d gladly oblige as your eager legs wrapped around his body for friction. A squeak of a moan would escape from your soft lips when his mouth began to trail kisses from below your navel going downwards, and you bittersweetly recalled the way he would suddenly lean forward as if to kiss you. You remembered how he would laugh and leave sultry, languid kisses on your neck instead.

-He says nothing, but he pleases me.

It was absolutely inappropriate for the heat in your legs to bloom and intensify at the thought of your target licking your dripping slit slowly, before shoving and curling two of his long fingers up inside you. You could still feel the way his tongue slipped inside of your mouth as your grip tightened in his hair. He was a bit clumsy the first time he divested you of your clothing, but every other moment after that was nearly automatic and well rehearsed. Your memories drifted to the way he would lick his lips before sucking on your clit, while his gloved hands would fondle with your breasts. Shay would give them a keen, light squeeze and pinch your nipples slightly accompanied by experimental tugs. Oh, how you could still hear his labored breathing and its warmth grazing your ear. You knew good and well it was all fueled by lust, nothing more than that, but it was all pick-and-shovel to convince yourself it was only a dalliance in those precious, ungodly moments. How could it not come off as affection and adoration when he had you panting his name akin to a Latin prayer?

Love is a gypsy child,

It has never known the law.

If you love me not, then I love you;

Barely a few seconds passed before another obscene memory unfolded, infamously labeled to those who knew of it as “The Camping Incident.” This was when you, Liam and Shay had to camp out in the woods for four nights. Of course, you and your paramour spoke beforehand for no funny business whatsoever, and to sleep in separate tents to avoid suspicion. A reasonable idea in foresight, but a restricting and rather ignored one once the camp took place.

But if I love you, if I love you, you’d best beware!

On the third night, you and Shay slipped away into his tent around an hour after Liam announced he was headed to bed. Shay kissed you roughly and you moaned, quite audibly, desperately tugging on his shirt for him to take it off. One article of clothing led to another, and you both fucked like rabbits until a few hours remained before daybreak. “Hope you lot slept well. Y/N, I do humbly request for you to cover my mate’s mouth the next time you decide to ride him.” Liam had said, slightly disgusted with a groggy tone to his voice.

The bird you hoped to catch

Beat its wings and flew away.

Love stays away, you wait and wait,

Now, here you were, perched in a warehouse to lure in the very bird which fluttered into your heart and, just as quickly, out of your grasp. The memories eventually sifted away as nothing more than insignificant events. Articles of the past which were better off left in their time.

When least expected, there it is!

L’amour,

You were quickly snapped out of your state of wanton nostalgia once you heard Hope’s irate cries heighten, along with another faint pair of footsteps that could only belong to Shay. You fondly recalled how they would become draggier and much heavier when he was angry, but on most occasions he would sneak on you with added secrecy and playfulness to his step.

L’amour,

Peeking from your hiding space above, you quickly took notice of your mentor with her stance on guard. Tears rimmed in your eyes as you readied the blade in your right hand. It’s only a flick of the wrist, Y/N, you’ve done this before. You explained to yourself, palms sweating and legs ready to pounce on his back to deliver the weapon through his throat. It was difficult for you to fathom; you had to slice open the same neck you once kissed and left tender whispers to.

“Where’s Y/N? Still with Liam?” Shay asked, adjusting the mask on his face and unsheathing his sword. Your heart pounded when the sound of your name reached your ears.

Hope lunged forward and punched him in the face, before kicking him down and knocking him over. “She has been displaying true allegiance to the Creed more than you ever had. The girl knows better than to switch loyalties because of an override in emotions.”

L’amour,

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Shay asked again, wiping his eyes, teary from the punch. I spotted blood trickling from his nose, and Hope briefly glanced in my direction as if to signal me to jump.

I took a deep breath and leaped from my spot up above, hidden blade unsheathed and prepared to take away the man’s life. To my surprise, Shay rolled away and pulled his gun nestled in its holster. He aimed at Hope and pulled the trigger, a deafening bang resounding off the flimsy wooden walls. She fell to the ground, tossing a smoke bomb and cried aloud from the pain Shay’s bullet had brought her. Hope nearly glowered at me as she exclaimed, “Kill him, Y/N!”

My previous lover swiftly pinned me to the ground and flicked his own blade out before I even had the chance. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, his blade dangerously close to my throat, “Such a shame I have you so close in such different circumstances, love.”

L’amour!

#shay cormac #shay cormac x reader #assassins creed #ac rogue #assassins creed rogue #assassins creed smut #assassins creed angst #assassins creed x reader

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multi-fandoms-posts · 7 months ago

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X Men Masterlist:

X Men Masterlist 2

Update: 10/06/24:

Charles Xavier:

His Wife

Imagine

Sweet Moment

The Professor and the Stark Heiress

An Unexpected Encounter

Lesson in Obedience (SMUT)

Charles and His Girlfriend High School AU

A Seductive Chess Game (SMUT)

The Crossing of Worlds last part (X-Men x The Boys)

The Crossing of Worlds Part 3 (X-Men x The Boys)

The Crossing of Worlds Part 2 (X-Men x The Boys)

Beyond Control last Part

The Crossing of Worlds Part 1 (X-Men x The Boys)

Beyond Control Part 1

Hihgschool AU

A Nighttime Disruption

The Power of Thoughts

A Telepathic Connection

Read my mind (Logan x reader x Charles)

Drunk idea

Training

Just Friends huh?

I will always be by your side

Imagine

Charles If....

Update: 10/02/24:

Cherik:

Equal Power, Equal Passion SMUT

Driven to the Limit

Secrets in the Storm

POV Video

Annoying encounter in the bar

Gun and pressure

The Explosive Mission last part

In the Storm of Love and Rage

The Explosive Mission part 2

The Explosive Mission part 1

Logan's sister

Playful Distraction: A Day of Mission and Mischief

Trouble maker

Training Chaos

two men protect her girl

Between Mission and Seduction

Distractions and Dynamics

Seductive Power Part 2

Seductive Power Part 1

Unexpected Revelations last part

Through the Shadows of Danger

Twin Trouble

Unexpected Revelations Part 3

Unexpected Revelations Part 2

Unexpected Revelations Part 1

dirty mind

Horror movie

Cherik

Update: 10/08/24

Erik Lehnsherr:

Erik's Secret

Someday

Imagine

Little surprise SMUT

In His Arms: A Moment of Peace

A Night of Control and Desire (SMUT)

A Challenge, a Kiss, and a Surprise

Between Magnet and Mind

In the Ruins of Conflict

Hidden Tension

Update: 10/06/24

McFassy:

sick days

Chaos Before the Oscars

Waves of Passion

A Magical Moment at Comic-Con

Update: 10/06/24

James Mcavoy:

The Tie SMUT

A Magical Evening

Video call

Surprise at Comic-Con

Sunrise Moments

A Flirt in Focus

Update: 10/06/24

Paddy:

The Thrill of the hunt

Beg for me SMUT

role-playing game (SMUT)

Imagine

Possession and Desire

The Night of Deception and Passion 2/2(SMUT)

The Night of Deception and Passion 1/2

Control and Surrender (SMUT)

The Game of Control (Paddy and Cal)

I love my psychopath

Shackles of Desire (Paddy and The Killer)

The Heat of the Moment (SMUT)

Update:09/29/24

Lord Asriel:

Lost Time: The Return of Lord Asriel (SMUT)

Amidst the Battle

In the Light of the Morning

Update: 09/10/24:

Logan:

Mission with Temptation

Uninvited Guest

Unexpected Visitor(but somehow not)

Unexpected News

Inappropriate Comments

In the Shadows of Passion

Read my mind (Logan x reader x Charles)

Scott's sister

Game night

Midnight Conversation

The Bar

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kiatheinsomniac · 2 months ago

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. * ⋆ . · 　. ⋆ :₊ 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉-𝒖𝒑 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ♡ ‧⁺ . ♡ ⋆ . · 　. 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏! 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

𓆩♡𓆪 it's that time of year again! this is my blog's third consecutive year of valentine's match-ups, a chance for you to be set up on a date with one of your favs! but this year is even more special as there are two parts to the event: sugar and spice! If you are 18+ you can enter both sugar and spice once each! 𓆩♡𓆪 SUGAR is the SFW and majority part of this event, open to everyone. SPICE* is the NSFW and smaller part of this event, available only to followers aged 18+ *spice info under the cut 𓆩♡𓆪 SUGAR! will see 14 winners chosen at random via raffle! 𓆩♡𓆪 SPICE! will only have 5 slots available and entries will be chosen via raffle regardless of engagement

₊˚⊹♡ 𝒔𝒖𝒈𝒂𝒓!

♡ start your message with "sugar!" and send me a description of yourself (sexuality, personality, hobbies, likes/dislikes, etc. any details to give a profile of yourself) and a fandom (or multiple fandoms!) of your choice from the list below. ♡ I'll tell you who would ask you to be their Valentine and why as well as the date they would take you on! ♡ you can enter by sending your information to my ask box! ♡ please keep in mind that entries for sugar are one per person and not one per blog. This is to make it fair.

♡ enter now for a Valentine's date!

・💌・꒰ CLOSES 10TH FEB. ꒱ ・💌・꒰ 14 LETTERS RECEIVED ꒱

. ♡ ⋆ . · 　. 𝒇𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍'𝐒 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐃:

✧ I will write for literally anyone

𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋:

✧Any of the Dimitrescus, Karl Heisenberg, Donna Beneviento, Carlos Oliveira, Jill Valentine

𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐖 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘:

✧Elliott, Sebastian

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐓:

✧Alhaitham, Arlecchino, Baizhu, Beidou, Clorinde, Cyno, Dehya, Diluc, Dottore, Kaeya, Kaveh, Kazuha, Lisa, Navia, Neuvillette, Ningguang, Pantalone, Raiden Ei, Scaramouche, Thoma, Tighnari, Xiao, Yae Miko, Zhongli (more will be added as I progress in the game ♡)

𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋:

✧Argenti, Aventurine, Black Swan, Boothill, Caelus, Dan Heng, Dr Ratio, Jioqiu, Jing Yuan, Mr. Reca, Stelle, Sunday(more will be added as I progress in the game ♡)

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊:

✧Sol

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐑:

✧Mr, Crawling, Mr. Silver, Mr. Scarletella

𝐓𝐎𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐄𝐍:

✧Any of the ainur/ elves, Aragorn, Faramir, Haleth

𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀:

✧Alucard, Carmilla, Drolta, Hector, Striga

𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋'𝐒 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄:

✧Howl

𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐀 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒:

✧Tomoe

𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐁𝐔𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐑:

✧Sebastian, Undertaker, Snake, Ash/Angela, Charles Grey

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐒:

✧Dominique, Johann, Noé, Olivier, Vanitas

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓:

✧Sherlock Holmes, William James Moriarty

𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐎 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒:

✧Akiko Yosano, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Nikolai Golgo. Osamu Dazai, Sigma, Yukichi Fukuzawa

𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:

✧Brother Day

₊˚⊹♡ 𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒆!

♡ start your message with "spice!" and send me a description of yourself (sexuality, personality, etc. any details to give a profile of yourself), preferred descriptions for your anatomy/gender, your kinks, boundaries, and a fandom (or multiple fandoms!) of your choice from the list above. ♡ I'll tell you who'd be your valentine and the spicy surprises they have in store for you on valentine's day! ♡ you can enter by sending your information to my ask box! for the sake of keeping minors out of this side of the event, anon entries will be invalid as I'll need to see your age displayed on your blog but you can ask for me to make your entry anonymous when it is posted for the sake of privacy if you please ♡ please keep in mind that entries for spice are one per person and not one per blog. This is to make it fair.

♡ enter now for Valentine's sex!

・💌・꒰ CLOSES 10TH FEB. ꒱ ・💌・꒰ 3 LETTERS RECEIVED ꒱

☾ ⋆ ﾟlike my work? why not: ∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ comms. ∘ taglist ∘ follow/reblog

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sun-snatcher · 17 days ago

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

✠ | LIGHT HATH NO TONGUE ; SHAY CORMAC

summ. A lethal injury blurs the line between friend & foe. pairing. Shay Cormac / Assassin!f!reader w.count. 12.7k (WHEW.) tags. no y/n , porn-with-prose , fluff & smut galore , whump, pre-established lovers-to-enemies , & enemies-to- …something? , forbidden lovers trope , religious references , catholic guilt if you squint a lil a/n. More suitable on AO3! Regardless, I hope you enjoy Shay Cormac doing the nasty by yours truly. Hugs & kisses to the lovely @amariyad for beta-reading!

Light hath no tongue, but is all eye; If it could speak as well as spy, This were the worst that it could say - That being well, I fain would stay, And that I loved my heart and honour so, That I would not from her, that had them, go.

— John Donne, “Break of Day”

“SO YOU MEAN to tell me,” Connor says, in the aftermath of a lengthy silence, “That he saved your life, and delivered you back to the Colonies himself?”

“Yes. Gave Faulkner quite the fright seeing his flag flown in the waters,” you add, finding yourself perturbed at how Connor hasn’t yet turned to face you. The Assassin has one ear tuned to you and another to the stag he’s been tracking in the snow. Only his insular, hard-set profile can be seen underneath his beaked hood as he nocks an arrow, and it makes you wonder what it is exactly he’s thinking between the knot of his brows.

Connor inhales. Draws his bow. Relea—

His usual perch creaks in uncharacteristic protest. In a flash, the stag startles, and leaps into the underbrush, vanishing beyond the thicket.

He huffs.

You never thought you’d imagine yourself saying, “Speak your mind, Connor,” to the bluntest, most forthright man alive you’ve ever had the grace of knowing (and, in a way, raising), but alas, here he is answering you with that usual impassive look that rattles you to the core. He always looked so much like his father whenever he pulls that face.

“I’m glad you are well,” he allows, truthfully, once both of you had descended the treetops. Though Achilles had done most of his training, you’d also been enough of a presence in his life to be a second mentor when you came by, and grew to be an even closer friend. “I was beginning to think the worst when you didn’t write back. Come. Let us check the snares.”

You both lead yourselves further out the forest, back towards the border of the Homestead. Connor tells you what he’s done so far while you’d been away; recruitments, marshaling intelligence with Aveline in Louisiana, and restrengthening the foundations of the Colonial Brotherhood again.

Achilles would be proud, you’d told, and after he’d gathered and skinned his game, and quietly made headway back home, finally caved.

“Shay Cormac,” Connor begins curiously. “What is he to you?”

“He’s an--”

“Idiot,” you murmur, in an undertone that buries into the Captain’s very marrows. “…You should’ve left me behind.”

Never, is the instinctive thought. Then, bitterly: Aye, I should’ve left you a long time ago— In the bloody past; as I had done with the Brotherhood.

“That so?” Shay says instead, between the battledrum of alarum in his ears. His words are surely wavering from the crippling panic, but he has to keep you conscious for as long as he can. A buck-shot in the gut is too dangerous to let you fall asleep on. “An’ why’s that?”

You still feel the warmth of his palm around your nape, holding you close and safe and secure to his chest; where you can hear the rampant thundering of his heart. He’d done this before, once upon a time, neath the tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, when you two were everything but—

“Enemies,” you shiver. The bloodloss has you feeling cold. “We’re enemies, Shay.”

And yet.

Here you are. In the arms of a Templar; the sworn enemy.

For weeks during the hunt you’d teased him on the irony; how God must’ve been playing a cruel joke on him to have to chase turncoats of his own Order. You can hardly piece together how or when this truce even came to be. Something about both of you going after Templar-turned-mercenaries, except his intent had been borne out of duty, and yours out of vengeance for a late friend.

“Aye,” he laments. “That we are, dove.” Then, chidingly, “An’ still y’took the bloody shot for me.”

Your laugh is sudden. Weak.

Wet with blood and barely a whisper, really. And if Shay hadn’t known you as intimately, then he might not have heard it at all— but he does, and so he did. “Well, I must surely be dying, then.” Your winsome smile is damningly red, and so, so tired. “I haven’t heard you call me that in…”

Ages, you mean to continue, beginning to slip from him. When we were on the same side.

Shay calls your name. It’s distant. Underwater. Vibrating from the hollow of his high-collared throat you’re tucked firmly against, and travelling like a soothing frisson into your aching bones. You’re drifting, unmoored, somewhere between a sea of blinding pain and of numbness; of the waking world and the dreaming.

“No, no, none’a that, c’mon. Y’can’t go to sleep yet, dove,” he hurries. “Eyes on me, now, aye? Attagirl.”

Had they been closed? You didn’t realise. The world’s tilted and swaying at an angle, and you can’t recall just how long you’ve been fighting to stay awake the moment Shay had whisked you away in his arms after the firefight you’d both encountered. It’d been an ambush. You’d caught the silver glint of a flintlock in the starlit night, and a blink later, you’re lying in a puddle of red where Shay should have been instead.

(Instinct. It’d been instinct to take the hit. You’d have done it ten times over, because you’re a fool like that. Somewhere in the blurry haze, you think you can hear Liam grumbling defiantly over your shoulder like he always used to do when you came to Shay’s defense.)

Y’bloody amadán, Shay had scrambled, looking the most terrified you’d ever seen him. Why’d you fuckin’ do that?!

“Why not?” you answer him now, delirious from the bloodloss. You’ve carefully been deposited onto a cot, it seems. A silhouette shifts quickly about the room. The air clots thick with the disgusting tang of metal and the sharp salt-winds of the sea. It makes you want to heave.

“Because if y’do, then I won’t see those pretty eyes’a yours, dove,” Shay replies, smart as ever. “Come now, keep talkin’ t’me, aye? Y’know I like hearing your beautiful voice.”

Liar, you hiss. At least, you think you do. Every sense in your body is guttering wildly between nothingness and white-hot pain. You want to tell him everything hurts. That your stomach feels flayed and you want the pain to stop. You want to tell him that you’re fucking terrified; that you don’t want to die. You want to tell him everything. Anything. I missed you. I hate you. I’m sorry. I love— I don’t love you. Why did it have to be this way? Why did you go? Please, don’t go. Not again.

“Thought y’wanted me to leave y’behind, dove?” comes his answer. Had you spoken aloud? There’s a thread of dry amusement in the low timbre of his words. You recognise the raw fear in them, regardless. It’s crept to the hazel-brown of his eyes.

“Hey, look at me. Doctor’s gonna keep your body an’ soul together, aye?” He must have pulled a chair to your side sometime earlier, wherever it is you are now, because he’s come to meet your half-lidded gaze in a doting hush. “S’alright, m’not goin’ anywhere. Y’have my word. Just stay awake, dove. Stay with me.”

Stay with me. You try to recall why that sounds so familiar.

“Hey, hey. Eyes open,” he reminds you, voice faint as the Doctor makes quick work with removing every musket ball embedded in your flesh. The shot had been poor; a desperate attempt at a final, killing blow. It’d fortunately only clipped through your side as you shoved Shay from the crossfire.

When you writhe at the surgical digging, let out a whine that’s caught between a pitiful cry and a howl— “I know, I know,” Shay breathes, all teeth and grit and grief as he muscles you back down. He couldn’t flat out say, you’re gonna be alright, you’ll pull through, because he couldn’t lie to save his own life— much less yours.

It’s inadequate, but it’s all he can offer you as he cradles your face and pets your hair, “Lord above, it should’a been me. I’m sorry, dove. I’m so sorry.”

Your eyes go dazed and faraway as your head lulls. You think you hear the Doctor saying something about your strength failing, beneath the gossamer cloud of the void. “Shay?”

“M’right here, dove.”

I’m glad it wasn’t you.

His hands are trembling from adrenaline. When had he removed his gloves? You suppose it doesn’t matter. You like it when he touches you. You like the feel of him swiping at the strands across your forehead, of him thumbing away the tear running down your cheek. There’s something about seeing the tender side of him again that makes you feel safe, underneath all the split knuckles and the rough around his edges. It reminds you of—

“—Home.” You choke back your tears, but they well anyway when you abruptly plead, blindly reaching for him between the marbling spots in your vision, “I want— I want to go home.”

Something splinters in Shay’s heart. You’re reduced to a dizzy, disoriented mess of homesickness, mumbled between sharp, staccato breaths: Nostalgia for the docks. Back in New York. Days of youth, with Liam. When the three of you were young and dumb and free, and neither the Brotherhood nor the Order had stood between you all. When war and bloodshed and being torn asunder sounded like the makings of a bad dream.

“Aye, love, we’ll go. We’ll go, then,” he soothes. There’s a burn licking up the back of his eyes as your grip in his hands begin to loosen. His voice rasps like stone. Liam is long gone. Home is gone. Now it seems you might be taken from him, too. Surely this lie, great as it is, wouldn’t count against him; not when it’s meant to give you a measure of peace?

“We’ll take the Morrigan, an’ we’ll set sail. Might even let you steer ‘er yourself, how about that? We’ll spot a whale or two. Y’ever seen one’a those? You just— Just stay with me, aye? Stay with me, love, please. Just a little longer.”

Stay with me, he’d said, that time you’d first crossed paths with him following his apparent death. You remember now. It’d been like meeting a phantom. Please. We can save the world together.

“I can’t, Shay,” you reply, then; Now. “I can’t.”

The world dips into dark.

Shay doesn’t pray, but it’s a very close thing.

He isn’t exactly the type. He thinks he ought to, though, for someone as warforged and broken as him. But repentance had been more his Ma’s thing, as far as he remembers being told of her Catholicism. The gold cross he inherited is just that. Memorabilia. A vestigial haunt of the past. A slow, tightening noose around his neck—

A lot like you.

“If she breaks the fever, she may just make it,” the Doctor had said. “You’re lucky you got her down to me quick enough.”

I make my own luck, comes the lightning reflex. But he catches himself. Glances at you in the cot. Your pulse is as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, chest rising and falling so minutely he had to keep making sure you’re still breathing to calm himself.

You’ve been balancing the tightrope for days; Threading the needle. This is far from lucky.

He shifts his collar, unclasps the cross from his neck, and closes it gently into your palm. It isn’t him who needs a miracle, after all, and repentance does not fit the likes of Shay Cormac.

Revenge does.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so; For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

— John Donne, “Death Be Not Proud”

You wake, and sleep, and wake, and sleep.

Between it all, Shay’s voice croons like an interlude. Shifting in the peripherals of your diaphanous, muslin-thin haze somewhat like an angel, incandescent with righteous fury smouldering in his eyes. He promises home. He promises justice. He promises divine retribution. Fallen, you correct yourself. A fallen angel.

You glean the Morrigan’s been anchored at Port La Joye for nearly a week, after you’re able to reconcile your left from right and your dreams from reality.

The crew are good, honest, working men. Fathers who have daughters; brothers who’ve sisters; sons of mothers. Shay runs a tight ship, but he’s made sure to not involve and tie them into Templar-Brotherhood shadow business, you gather, because they rejoice once they see you back on your feet (“Glad to see ye right as rain, lass! So will the Cap’n. Never seen his face lookin’ white as a ghost before.” “More like Hell on earth! Ach, I pity th’ poor souls he’s after, truly.”), and more than willingly help you with filling in the blanks of the timeline from when you’d been shot back in Halifax and untethered from existence.

Then it takes another 3 days before the Captain returns to his ship—

And only a mere second to cross the distance between you two once he sees you, idle in his quarters.

“You’re awake,” Shay breathes, as if he’d just breached a terrible tidal wave; as if seeing you is like daybreak after a seastorm. “You’re—”

“Please tell me that’s not your blood, Cormac.”

He blinks. Takes in the dread reflected in your eyes. Right. He’d hunted down the scents of the remaining Templar turncoats that’d slipped from him back in Yarmouth and, like a starving hound to fresh meat, had slaughtered them as a farmer would a voluntary culling. “Aye,” he agrees, grimly. “None’a it’s mine.”

His face is practically drenched with dark splatters, and his usual calm temperament has gone withdrawn. In the dim, swinging lantern light, he looks like the slow-crawl beginning of a ghost story. “I take it they’ve all been… handled.”

Shay doesn’t skip the bitterness in your tone. “I would’ve saved y’one,” he replies, “For y’to avenge your friend yourself. But it’s not like y’were in any condition.”

A seemingly endless moment passes.

“Thank you, Shay.”

He winces.

“Don’t— thank me, for murder.” Shay knows enough about himself to still find the act of killing repulsive, however much he had an affinity for it, or so Haytham constantly liked to claim. (He hasn’t yet managed to shake out the way the turncoats begged and bayed for mercy; hasn’t yet silenced Adéwalé’s final words those years ago—)

“I mean for saving me,” you correct, pointedly. “I’m not the type to appreciate people killing in my name.”

Shay drops his shoulders at that. Hadn’t realised just how tense he’d been. The long weeks of voyage, fretting over you, and the blind pursuit for reve— justice— suddenly seemed to weigh on him. There are old aches he’s been ignoring that sting now, like angry, insistent contusions.

“I’ve set course back to New York,” he says, stiffly, unsure how else to inhabit the silence. “With the winds an’ a little bit’a luck, we’ll be there before winter.”

A beat.

You finally look at him. Truly look at him. Beyond the blood stains and the prickly defensive walls he’s put up since you’d first dealt the truce with him. Beyond the donned Templar uniform and the Captainship.

He’d been afraid, you realise. Has been. You try to imagine what it might’ve been like from his perspective; that it must have been terrifying to have been in his shoes, watching the last of his childhood friendships die out (and for him, no less); watching a piece of his heart d—

Shay is still. Glacially so.

There’s that post-adrenaline jitter in his eyes that you’re familiar with yourself; caught somewhere between fight-flight-freeze. Paralysed in survival mode. The ugly type that lingers after gruesome violence, and you’re left scorched with little else of your humanity but the animalistic remnants of raw, buzzing energy that leads you spiraling downwind if you don’t steady yourself quick enough.

(Sometimes, it’s so easy to forget Shay Cormac is just a man doing what he believes is right.)

“Christ,” you sigh, before reaching out to grab his lapels. You tug him to you, ignore the confusion in his eyes as you set him on his bed with a stubborn Sit down, Cormac, and draw a chair (the very same, you later note, that he’d sat in to watch over you through the restless nights when you’d been recovering) beside him.

“A little bit of luck?” you parrot, unimpressed. You toe the pail of fresh water prepared by the bedside closer to your feet, and reach in to wring the frayed cloth damp. “Don’t you make your own luck, Cormac?”

“You—” He elects to protest, but when your hand sets on his cheek demandingly, and you begin to clean away the blood splatters and cruor on his face, he finds the words fail to take shape.

Shay should stop this. It’s the right thing to do. Neither of you owe each other anything now. He had saved your life as you did his; the scales are balanced. Scores even. Debts repaid. With this distance, this proximity— knees bumping against knees, face inches apart— all it would take to cut down another crucial pillar of the Brotherhood is a swift blade to the jugular.

He could be done with it. He could be done with you. He—

—wants to kiss your palm.

When had been the last time the both of you had trusted each other enough to be this vulnerable? Unarmed. Armours off. Skin against skin. Nothing but the hope, the blind faith, that the other wouldn’t strike at the open opportunity?

Shay finds himself leaning into your touch near imperceptibly, instead.

You press your palm to his jaw, thumb at the scar below his eye. His gloved hand circles your wrist, relishing in the pulse, the warmth—

“You’re alive,” he finally manages. Chants it in his head, practically, like Church prayer and hymn, along with the rest of his rioting thoughts that’s unspooling like yarn: of doldrums, how still the sea gets, how his Da used to tell him the calm is the most dangerous kind of waters to sail. He thinks of how still you had been, boneless in his arms and slack on the cot with nothing but blood on your face and stomach and hands.

Then he thinks of his Ma, too; (She must’ve been like that after he’d been born. Motionless. Still.) And is reminded of the gospel his Aunt once read to him on a lown Sunday: of the tale of Lazarus, who’d been raised from the dead with nothing but words. Shay thinks of you here, now, resurrected; has half the mind to properly worship God again like you’d been a miracle come to life.

But calling it a miracle would’ve been generous. You fought to live.

“I must sound crazy,” Shay swallows, awkwardly.

Your eyes dart between the bob of his Adam’s apple and the seam of his lips so quickly he could’ve been imagining it.

“No, not really.” You tear your gaze away, soak and wring the cloth from the tinges of dull crimson. “I know a little bit of what it’s like to see a ghost too, remember?”

1756. When Shay had all but abandoned the Brotherhood, and you’d gasped out a plea while you tried to intervene Chevalier from firing right at him— and then, reappearing the year afterwards like an apparition, except this time you had called out for him in a whisper of nervous recognition. You’re alive.

Shay Cormac is your ghost just as much as you’re his.

You move to take his hand, carefully remove his gloves to clean the split knuckles, the old scabs. The dried blood sitting in the cracks and crevices of his palms, his fingernails. (Pontius Pilate, Shay shudders. Are you absolving him, he wonders? Or had he lost your forgiveness the day he decided to turn his back to the Brotherhood?)

“Y’don’t have to do this,” he rasps, and very nearly tags dove at the end of it. “Not for me.”

“You’re right,” you hum. “I don’t.”

You don’t stop. Shay just sits and stares at you. The lantern illuminates above you like a proverbial halo, and Shay takes the opportunity to admire; to carve into memory every divot and slope of your face lest he never gets the chance again.

“You’re—”

“Don’t,” you say, teeth set at the familiar tone.

—Beautiful, he doesn’t get to say. Angelic. “Alive.”

“Yes,” you patiently say. “I am.”

He’s bruised and scratched and sweating from the exertion of his manhunt, now looking at you in that deep, soulful way you’ve always known him for— but his expression, you notice, is open and unbearably, unrepentantly soft.

“Before I forget.” The cloth is returned into the bucket, and you lean back to your seat to reach your collar. His Ma’s gold cross finds its way back to him.

“Y’needed it more than I,” he says.

You huff. It’s a far cry of your trademark smile. Shay hangs onto the rare sight of it regardless. “Well, not anymore. Besides, isn’t it the faithless who need it most?”

Shay isn’t quite sure how to answer.

But he settles on just saying “Aye,” because declaring It’s you who makes me believe in God would’ve been too candid.

Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When thou hast done, thou hast not done, For I have more.

— John Donne “A Hymn to God the Father”

“--old friend of mine.”

“He wanted to kill the old man.”

“No,” you scold, in the most motherly way you can summon. “Haytham wanted to kill Achilles. It was Shay who convinced him otherwise.”

“It changes nothing. He is still a Templar, and a traitor.”

You wince at that. Connor notices. “Yes, as so everyone often likes to remind me. But Shay Cormac was my friend first. We grew up together in New York.”

Now that. That he hadn’t known. He hadn’t gathered your relationship with the Captain may have predated even your allegiance with the Brotherhood.

Unbidden, Connor couldn’t help but think of Kanen’tó:kon. Of what and how much he would give to go back to simpler times. “I understand,” he says, at last.

“Yes. It’s hard not to care,” you admit, as the Homestead came into view. Your hand settles on your stomach, where the healing pockmark wound of the killshot still marrs your flesh in taut, pale scar-tissue. Connor eyes the movement. “Quit looking at me like that,” you say, put out by his scrutiny.

“Like what?”

Like Haytham; like Achilles. Like I’m a turncoat. “Like I’m pregnant,” you blurt, offended. “I was shot in the stomach, Connor. Are you touched in the head?”

“I’m not,” he retorts childishly, wrinkling his nose. (It makes you wonder if it’s a trait of one, or an elision of both his parents.) “If we cross paths with Shay Cormac again—” he begins to deflect, and oh, now he truly is sounding like the Haytham Kenway and Achilles Davenport you knew—

“I came to that realisation long before you have, Connor,” you cut, in a manner which meant for him to tread lightly. But he’s a Kenway through and through, and states, boldly: “Yet here you stand, by his mercy.”

You frown. Land softly from off a bough and into the glittering snowbank beside him. In hindsight, it isn’t unfair for Connor to question your loyalty. You hadn’t yet confessed to him you’d been the first one to act out of turn and warrant Shay’s indebtedness, after all.

“Speak plainly, Kenway.” You needn’t tell him twice. Connor is not one to skirt the edge or beat around the bush.

“I think--”

“Any closer, an’ you’ll fall overboard,” warns Shay. “Won’t save y’a next time around.”

But he figures you might not care at all, and he couldn’t blame you: Beyond the stern a lovely gam of whales have been breaching the white-capped waves, playfully trailing after the Morrigan’s wake in delightful song, where you listen, enthralled; captivated.

“I might just,” he hears you lament to yourself. “Oh, I wish I could take one home.”

There’s a small, sincere smile on your face that you’re not completely letting him see, but—

Jesus, Mary an’ all the Saints, Shay admires. You’re heaven-sent.

All of the Morrigan thinks so too. Not even a week into the voyage, the crew had taken to their new lady-guest with welcoming arms, and Shay’s never had the pleasure of witnessing his merry band of seamen trip over their own heels trying to make your sail back home as comfortable and hospitable as can be until now. You recover, and acclimate well and swiftly, so it’s no surprise they like you;

The easygoing angel-face who could not only take a joke but could also give one, who isn’t soft to fierce thunderstorms nor spoiled rotten to turn your nose up at hardtack; who offers sage advice on their womanly woes and whispers embarrassing tales of their rough-around-the-edges Captain every now and then when the sun beat too hard.

Shay allows the tongue-in-cheek jabs, ofcourse. He claims so on the pretense of boosting good morale— really, he just likes listening to your voice; especially when it meant you spoke of him in that wistful manner he hadn’t heard in years: fond, and so charged with… something.

“Childhood friends with Cap’n, eh?” Someone had mused, one sluggish, warm sunrise. “Nothin’ else beyond that, m’lady? What? Oh, come off it, Hoskins— I may not be her type, but she’d surely never give your sorry face a chance!”

“We’re—” you’d caught Shay’s wandering eye from the helm. “—friends,” you allowed, between the crew’s jostling. “Until New York, that is.”

Shay had held your gaze until you turned away.

It isn’t as if the atmosphere between you two is cold, though neither is it exactly pleasant. It’s been cordial, and amicable, and perfectly courteous, yes— but there’s something high-strung in the air even the salt-winds couldn’t cut through, and any man aboard with sense and a working pair of eyes could see it.

(“Ach, friends?!” Came a whisper that late night. It was the Morrigan’s Navigator, their most keen-eyed; it seems, even in people. “I been tellin’ yous since we left port, mates: No man comes back bleedin’ like the Devil ‘imself and suffers like the Cap’n did for their own glory. To him, she’s worth the pain, and twice more.”)

Howbeit, he’ll take what he can get, Shay supposes. An unspoken agreement seemed to have solidified that the usual back-and-forth arguing from when you’d both first started the truce would be pointless now, and most of all useless on your trip back. That means conversations are brief and civil, but it’s far better than animosity or being completely ignored.

“Fancy havin’ a go of the Morrigan?” Shay offers out of the blue, amid an uneventful afternoon. It’s more a measured, wary gesture of banter. Then, before you can decline; “C’mere,” he reaches for your hand, guides you to stand between him and the steer. “Go on, she doesn’t bite.”

“Shay, this is a terrible idea.”

“Y’survived a gunshot, lass,” he snorts as he settles you at the helm. “You’ll be alright. I’m here.”

(A flash of memory. Hands caressing your cheek. M’right here, dove.)

It takes little to notice his nebulous presence step up close behind you. “Heavier than it looks, aye?” Shay hums, gently ghosting the edge of your wrists. The heat of him stirs something deep in your chest. “But be easy, still. She isn’t a horse y’can yank. Go with the currents; there shouldn’t be too much give.”

A tentative, studious moment passes. When he’s satisfied—

“Attagirl.”

—he pulls away. Shifts to lean casually against the guardrail facing you. All that fills the sea air now is the creak of the Morrigan, the flap of canvas, and the echo of his saccharine praise in your ears, drowned out by the droll of the crew singing Leave Her Johnny.

You try not to feel the way his eyes unabashedly linger on your face.

“I always wondered how you ever knew which direction you’re going. It’s just a horizon to me.”

He cocks his head to the sun. “Rises east to west. See where it’s setting? That means west is dead ahead. Y’keep the sun just off your left shoulder— or portside— an’ you’ll stay on course.”

“And when night falls?”

“Compass. Constellations guide our way too. I’d show y’tonight, but,�� he turns over his shoulder, where a smatter of clouds in the distance have begun to look like trouble. “Storm might be brewin’.”

You’ve seen the celestial maps that Faulker had gifted Connor once upon a time, when he’d gotten the Aquila repaired. “Polaris? The North Star.”

He raises his brows, impressed. “That’s one of ‘em, aye.”

“Aye, Captain,” you narrow.

“Oh, you’re learnin’, y’are,” he twits, unruffled. He strides over to set his tricorn on your head, and you roll your eyes when he crosses his arms with a satisfied look. “There. Don’t y’look a right gentle-woman, Captain?”

“It’s loose. Your head must be abnormally huge, Cormac.”

“I fancy that’s just ‘cause I’m smarter than you, Captain.”

You turn your nose up playfully. “Fishes live in the sea,” you begin to recite in challenge. “As men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.”

And had Shay been in a sour mood he might’ve taken the passing jab at the Order more personally— but how could he? The dusk light has broken through, painting you saffron and ethereal, limning you in saint-like radiance.

For a treacherous moment, he allows himself to imagine he isn’t harboring an Assassin of the Brotherhood; that Shay Cormac is just a Captain, and you are just his— friend? His lady? His passenger? (Whatever it is; anything but an enemy.)

“Let me guess,” he says instead. “John Donne? No? Plato, then.”

“William Shakespeare, actually,” you smile, triumphant, and it’s a sun-bright sight: warm and beautiful and soft. “Though, I must say, I’m impressed.”

“Impressed?” he exclaims, although he couldn’t hold heat to it— you’re happy, after all, and he can’t help but smile too. “An’ what’s that supposed to mean, then?”

You shrug in faux-nonchalance. “Didn’t take Shay Cormac to be such a learned poet, is all.”

“Aye? You’re the one who’s all high-society—”

“Oh? Enlighten me, please, when have I ev—?”

Your musical laugh is cut short.

You yelp.

The Morrigan had lurched, sails having caught rogue wind, and before you register it—

A hand over yours on the helm; chest firmly behind your back.

(Heart against heart.)

Shay has steadied you.

(…That lightning reflex has always been such a frustratingly attractive feat of his.)

“S’alright,” he soothes, voice going a low, fetching timbre. His words ghost above your shoulder, eagle eyes trained on the luffing sails. “Rogue wind, is all.”

Shay stays, this time. Steadfast as a plinth. Rooted behind you like a Cypress tree. His other hand tentatively slides a lick of fire from your elbow and up your forearm, until it finds its rest on yours. It’s rough, firm. As expansive as the broad of his solid chest fitting like a perfect puzzle against your spine, where he’s dipped his head just a little to accommodate the height difference as he speaks:

“Easy, now… Jus’ a few degrees.”

He’s a looming tower. A formidable force. Shay Cormac has always been able to inhabit and command an entire room with nothing but his sheer presence, and here you are—

Caged, yet again, between the space of his unyielding arms.

A pleased hum— mmh— rumbles from the hollow of his throat and travels through you. It’s dizzying. Fogs all rational thought in your mind. Makes it wander, elsewhere, to a distant time you heard him groan it when you’d touched his bare flesh—

“Attagirl,” he praises.

Something zips through your nerves.

Christ. He must be doing that deliberately, you think (or hope?), because it’d be far more eliciting otherwise. That gravel-deep undertone that seeps into your skin and makes your blood run rampant. Surely— surely, he could feel the thunderdrum of your heart beating into his own ribcage too, from how he’s sidled— pressed— stood— his weight securely against you.

“You talking to me, or your Morrigan?” you try to deflect, and you hope to God he hadn’t heard the tremble of your voice. The yen.

“You, dove. Ofcourse.”

Later, amid a friendly round of Liar’s Dice with the crew, you think (or rather, come to a conclusion) that that may have been the tipping point. In him calling you dove; that sanguine lilt in his tone, blanketed by the air of casual off-handedness: Shay hadn’t noticed at all that the petname had even slipped out his tongue— it was second nature.

Who is so safe as we? where none can do Treason to us, except one of us two.

- John Donne, "The Anniversary"

The thunderstorm had passed without too-destructing an effect. The crew escapes waterlogged, but it’s hardly the worst; they’ve faced fiercer weathers and conditions than a bad lashing. You’d gone out of your way yourself, much to Shay’s disproval, disappearing below deck to help with the wounded and with fastening any loose cargo from tipping over. In the aftermath, the crew had managed to cajole their Captain into allowing them reprieve in rum stored from the hold.

“Go on, lass, sing a song for us!” someone suggests to you, when the last of the pour had passed, and the sky cleared into a cloudy, starlit night. There’s a chorus of excited agreement: “A lullaby, perhaps?” ; “Bet you’ve a lovely voice, m’lady!” ; “Aye! Don’t shirk repayment, miss.”

“Boys,” Shay says, by way of warning.

They shrink quickly.

And you couldn’t stop but colour warmly at that; the hair-trigger instinct of his when it comes to— well, you. He hadn’t said a word until now. Shay meets your gaze then; knows you aren’t the performative type, not even when you were children.

But you let him see your quiet smile. It’s sincere.

“I suppose I do owe you good folks a song or two for your labours,” you say, peaceably, and make way to the mainmast to bow theatrically as they rejoice. “And to the Captain, for doing good on his promises to me throughout the voyage so far, despite my… being trouble.”

Shay laughs. It’s a small sound of assent as he nods his head to you from where he’s leant starboard.

You’re not in your usual mufti of assassin robes in favor of the wet weather: you’d forsook your leather boots after they’d overflowed with rain, and you’d turned to layering the cotton raiments of a usual sailors outfit so you wouldn’t be weighed down too heavily as you busied in the belly of the Morrigan.

Regardless, the crew take to you as they always do, hanging onto every word you sing like dazzled sailors to a siren song— rapt with attention as they clap and stamp and cheer along to your coltish, barefeet song and dance: To Téir abhaile ‘riú, to The Jolly Beggars, to Spanish Ladies, and a number of other unheard shanties or cantatas you’ve picked up from your worldly travels.

Then, when you’d grown tired—

“Very well, then,” you yield, “But the Captain shall pick the last song. So, what shall it be; happy or sad?”

A beat.

“Sad,” Shay decides.

You hum. “Alright. But I’ll warn you; it’ll break your heart.”

And perhaps it’s the alcohol rendering him loose-lipped— but Shay had huffed out a weak laugh, and with a defeated shake of his head, muttered: “Already broken.”

You don’t know what to say. You never have— not when faced with Shay and his frustrating habit to wear nothing but naked truth upon that weary, scarred face of his.

You don’t know what to say; so you stand on the crate leant against the spar instead, and begin the slow croon of The Parting Glass as a drizzle begins to fall. A lament; a bid farewell to sailors and friends and comrades and enemies.

Shay watches you throughout it all. Basks in you, practically. Of too-old times and bygones and things he can’t take back.

God must be cruel, he reflects, To punish me with a woman so beautiful upon my ship, an’ have her want nothing to do with me.

“Should be 2 days before we port to New York, with the winds carryin’ us,” he informs you, after applauding your stellar performance. He had moved towards the eddying crowd sometime during your song. “Get some rest, aye?”

He offers a hand to help you down your stand.

(Ever the gentleman.)

It’s an excuse to touch you; And a greedy part of him wants to hold on forever— but he watches you go in the end. It feels like wherever you touch him glows.

(Shay can’t help but flex and unflex his hand.)

In Gist’s absence, his Quartermaster claps him on the back instead. “Looks to me another lashin’ll be comin’ down. Lay your head to rest, Cap’n, why don’t you? We got it from ‘ere,” he says, “An’ spare yourself the grief, brother. Go talk to her.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about,” Shay brushes off.

“Well then, don’t talk.”

“What?”

“Y’heard me.”

“Shut your gob,” Shay says flatly, in the way he’s learned from Haytham how not to allow anyone to get a rise out of him. But he finds himself trailing after you, anyway.

“Hello, Captain,” you greet, when he’d stepped into his cabin he’d given up to you for privacy. “Or shall I say broken-hearted man?”

“I prefer Shay,” he says, only barely managing to reign in: When it comes to you.

You hum. Run your fingers through your half-damp hair to untangle the snarls. Shay idles by the Mercator globe, lit under sull moonlight shining through the sea-weathered bay windows. For all his repertoire of being a ruthless hunter, and for all the way he seems to be able to cut a mean, menacing figure under that damning scar of his and his Captain’s gear—

He looks out of place in his own cabin. Perhaps because you haven’t exactly seen him inside of it since he’d lent it to you, but even then, he looks almost slightly… out of place. The quarters is a charming, comfortable nook under the helm; sparse yet graciously spacious in a way all Sloop-of-Wars tended to be. Pieces of Shay catch and cling in its corners:

Anthologies, novels and an old hardback bible collecting dust on a bookshelf by the red chaise; A navigation desk with tools and notes in his handwritten-scrawl of bearings, strewn over fading nautical charts— all carefully arranged in a way it didn’t scatter over to the simple bed by its side.

(Not that it matters, you’d thought, the first time he let you in here. The bed had kept its firmness because it’s hardly been slept on. Shay must have preferred the canvas hammock he’d strung up in the other corner of the room, the true seaman he is.)

All this to say: Sleeping in here alone throughout your voyage these countless nights, with nothing but the lap of ocean waves and the droll of the Morrigan— it feels alot like a glimpse into the barebones of Shay Cormac’s soul.

A manifestation of his sea-pelagic loneliness.

“Hope you’re not looking for a private song,” you say, carefully, unravelling the long sleeves of your sailor’s shirt-turned-chemise. The size is comically large on you, but it’s comfortable.

Shay starts. Blinks. He hadn’t calculated trailing in after you would’ve immediately been taken as a come-on, but he wasn’t about to risk stumbling through an awful explanation over himself. “I… wanted to talk.”

“Well,” you uncross your hands, lean back at his desk. “I owe you as much.”

“Y’don’t owe me anything,” he replies, quickly. It’s honest. “We evened the scales back in Halifax. I…”

“Yes?” you say, after the silence had stretched a moment.

“I think I just wanted to see you,” Shay admits, on an exhale. “Before y’go.”

Go. How final it sounds, in spite of the 2 days that remain. “Funny,” you say, tracing the gridlines of a discarded map to distract yourself from just how… raw this conversation is; where it seems to be heading. “I imagined you had your fill of me long before I even ended up— broken on your ship.”

“We were allies, once,” Shay says dutifully, as measured as he could. He hadn’t said friends, nor lovers, but you find, for some reason, that it stings more that way.

“Once,” you repeat, keenly, blinking long enough to picture the Homestead in its prime: of Liam, Hope, Kesegowaase, Chevalier, Achilles, Adéwalé. “And then again, at Halifax, in a way.” He watches you hesitate before continuing. “What does that make us now?”

You don’t ask Or in two days? Because you don’t think you’re ready to hear an answer for that yet. (Shay is glad you hadn’t. He wouldn’t have been ready either.)

“A Captain, an’ a passenger,” he says, pragmatically. But there’s nothing rational about the rattle in his bones from the sight of the cotton blouse you still haven’t had the chance to change out of, damp still from the rain, and sticking to your dimly-lit silhouette at the seams.

He tramples the thought. It’s natural to confuse nerves for— yen. “And to you?” he asks.

“A broken woman,” you begin, light and humorous when you lift your shirt to show the bandages around your abdomen. He wonders, privately, if you’d caught him staring earlier. “On the ship that belongs to a broken-hearted man, apparently.”

“We were both broken a long time ago,” Shay says, resolute.

“Is that what you think?” you ask, something genuinely surprised and pensive in your eyes. “Is that why we… never actually happened?”

Something in his chest lurches.

(Happened, by way of meaning: Something that could’ve been serious; could’ve been true. Something that went beyond clandestine trysts and touchy dalliances under everyone’s nose in the Brotherhood before—)

“I…” Shay inhales. It’s strained. “…How much have y’had to drink, dove?

Dove. You purse your lips, a dry laugh bubbling from you. “What a darling you are,” you say, bemused. (You're glad the lantern light is dim enough to hide your shy fiddling.) “Making sure I’m not going to say anything I regret, hm?”

“Or do. Aye.”

“I had one bottle, Shay. And I’ve had plenty of time recently to realise that rarely do I ever regret alot of things when it involves you.”

“Liar,” he snipes, if only to curb that tide of dangerous affection in his stomach, and the unbidden memories where both of you would fold against each others arms in countless, restless nights from before.

“Which part?” You raise your brows, and when he’d tilted your head to give you a look that roughly translated to All of it, obviously, you snort critically. “I don’t regret you ever coming into my life since we were children. Nor taking this bullet—”

He seems to bite his tongue in a flinch.

“—But I do regret not being drunk enough now to forget my own terrible performance just then.”

“I told y’the first time y’were here,” he reminds: “Y’have a beautiful voice.”

Reflexive, again. As if he always teeters the water’s edge; Could never hold back from the truth— could never hold back from you. It makes something hot stick in your throat. “And how much have you had to drink, Captain?”

“Not nearly enough.”

Something charged passes in the air.

Shay shifts to move towards you. It’s hesitant. Tentative. The Morrigan creaks underneath his slow stride, until he stands a foot from you. His eyes are trained on the bindings beneath your threadbare blouse, hand hovering where the old blood had blotted through like a bastardised version of the Ursa Major constellation. “Y’put the heart crossways in me, y’know?”

You don’t say anything. (There’s nothing you can answer to that other than an apology, after all, and you aren’t in the habit of apologising for something you don’t regret.)

“Y’were so still,” Shay describes, going somewhere far away in his mind. It’s the softest you’ve ever heard him speak. An’ the waters were still, an’ so were the winds, an’ the world, an’ my heart. All of it. All but my mind. “I thought, for sure…”

He finds himself brushing his fingers against yours.

For a terrifying minute, the idea makes itself known.

“…We shouldn’t,” you say.

But you interlock your hands with his. Meet his gaze.

“We shouldn’t,” he agrees.

It would be a terrible, terrible thing. A betrayal to the Brotherhood and the Order each. It’d be a fork in the road; a turning point; a watershed moment. The same way his eyes opened to the truth after Lisbon: Tectonic plates coming together to herald nothing but destruction, when the world gave way beneath his feet into a— a divide. Between you and him. The Assassin-Templar shadow war, this gaping maw; the uncrossable—

“Dove,” Shay wavers, thumb smoothing behind your palm by way of quiet permission. “Are you… cold?”

Goosebumps line your skin. “Yes.”

—Crossed.

Kissing Shay Cormac feels like coming home.

Nostalgia comes in the slow, satisfied hum that carves out of his throat and into your parting lips; Homesickness in the way your nose fits like a slot perfectly against his, in the familiar sea-brine and bitter-rum taste of his tongue.

It’s deep and delicate and perfect. Akin to anchoring at your true port of call; your true North.

His free hand slips to cover the thin of your cheek curtained under your hair, honey-slow and shaking, as if he’s afraid you— he— would shatter at any moment.

“Tell me to go,” he shudders, between another breathless kiss that threatens what remains of his resolve. “Please, dove,” he rasps, voice as rough as stone from sheer restraint. “If y’don’t, if y’don’t want this—”

“Christ, no. I want you,” you pant, and press your face closer into his open hand. “Please.” Shay watches your long lashes flutter shut, watches you turn to kiss his palm with the kind of pious reverence you’d only see between candle-lit pews at Sunday Mass. “I’ve always wanted you, Shay.”

You’re looking up at him now with radiant hope: Doe-eyed, like a wicked siren calling him to a watery grave— to damnation.

Fuck.

He yields. (His emotions are never far from the surface these days— and when it comes to you? Always. Always.)

His lungs deflate. Shay dips his head back down to kiss you, purely fervid with the only longing to hold you. To shelter you. To protect you. “You’ll be the death of me, d’y’know?” he says. Confesses. Mouths the words against your jaw as he breathes in the rainy scent of you like it’s something sacrilegious.

“And the cold will be the death of me,” you jest, when he slides his hands up to peel the shirt off your wet skin, rivulets running from your hair down your navel, to where you’ve tugged your breeches off.

Shay loops a single, steady arm around you and lifts you onto the desk edge, all solid muscle and terrifying ease— it’s paralysingly attractive. A reminder of just how much that pristine, lean build of him belies the pure strength and utter brawn he possesses.

It’s that which does it for you. Zips arousal down your spine and kindles something primal in you.

(The Assassin Hunter, they call him. The Brotherhood’s Bane. No wonder.)

It shouldn’t have been a thrill to feel so subdued, pinned beneath him and his tenebrous gaze like a helpless animal waiting for a slaughter, and yet—

And yet.

(Ever the gentleman:)

“Let me, then,” Shay asks, ghosting his lips gently to your brow. So how could you not let him? When a Man of God sins for you? When a Templar Knight bends his creed just to kiss you; who cradles and covets you like you’re a very piece of Eden itself?

“Lemme take care’a you,” he repeats, brogue accent gone deliciously, sinfully thick from fervor. “Aye. I’ll warm y’up, dove, hm?”

Please do, you’d meant to answer, but you surged forward instead to meet him halfway. He is warm. Infernally so. Shay Cormac has always run hot as a blaze since you’d first met. A pillar of effervescent sunlight that had drawn you to him; the burn of his noble righteousness pouring out the cracks of his soul and through his skin, lighting him aflame and scalding those who never understood him the way you have.

(It makes you all the more desperate to disrobe him and cling onto him; to tuck yourself impossibly at the spaces between his ribs, burrow yourself into his beating heart. You want every iota and inch of him. You want him in a way that no word can possibly describe.)

“Shay,” you keen, seeking his mouth again. And to hear his name whispered like this— like a prayer coming from you; like saying my beloved, my heart, my God— Shay thinks he might just truly offer pieces of himself up to you on a silver platter. “Touch me.”

The plea is a strike of a match.

The tenderness melts away into something more ardent.

God, he shouldn’t be doing this. He truly shouldn’t—

You can feel the molten heat of him sinking into your very marrows when he presses against you, hard and eager; all while laving his tongue over your naked body, skin still wet and cooling from the storm’s wake. Shay’s ungloved hands are broad, smouldering— calloused from years spent climbing ashlar and knotting sails— abrasive enough to roughen you up, to curl at the base of your throat and to knead the flesh of your breasts.

Then they wander. Lower and lower; deliberately careful. While his mouth canvasses every dip and divot of your neck, his fingertips trace the margins of your tremulous body in tandem, skating over your hips and tugging off your thin underlinen, where he can feel, finally, the warmth of you— the soft, wet, seam of you.

“Jesus, fuck.” His voice is coarse. Laden with desire. Your noses bump when he leans his forehead to yours. All it takes to have you slick and needy is nothing but his blistering touches and open-mouthed kisses, it seems. “Already, dove?”

“I missed you,” you whine, tinny and saccharine. The concession has him groaning. Your left hand rakes up his nape and cards through his hair in anticipation; right hand a plinth to support your weight from the inevitable bliss he’s going to bring you to. “Please, Shay, please—”

He sinks one, gingerly, to the knuckle.

The gasp that escapes you is choked. Shay swallows it with a heady kiss. “Easy, now,” he grunts, ragged and humid, when you sidle your hips closer to the edge. “S’alright, dove. M’not goin’ anywhere. We got all night.”

We’ve got 2 days, you want to retort, but a pinched moan wrenches out of you instead. He’s pushed in another thick finger. The stretch makes your toes curl when he moves; makes him curse at the way he can feel you pulsing and pulling him in. If you’re this plush, this tight from his fingers alone—?

Shay feeds a third not long after. Works it in with effort. Mutters praises at your ear as he does so, teasing and rubbing your sensitive clit with his palm. Attagirl. Aye, y’doin’ so good for me, dove.

He watches, transfixed, at the glisten of his fingers as they noisily glide in and out of you, mouth watering at the lewd sight and sound he can draw out your body; mewling and writhing right infront of him, barely able to keep your eyes open or string your words coherently from sheer dizzying pleasure. Yes, Shay— Hah, yes— s’good. So good, please—

Ofcourse, it’s good. Shay’s touched you like this before. Hurried or unhurried; he’s memorised, intimately, how to pet and play and punish you. He knows where you’re weak: that lovely spot deep in your cunt he brushes with a perfect hook of his fingers— “Ah— fuck. Shay. Right there, yesyesyes—”, or the bare spot right below your jaw he enjoys marking up with a biting bruise— “You’re mine, dove. Mine alone. Y’hear?”

The hoarse sound of him makes you shiver. It’s brassy. Matches the malevolence he carries in presence even when he looks wrecked just from watching you be taken apart by his hands: broad chest rising and falling in deep breaths of your scent in the stifling air, underneath all the uniform layers of dark leather and glinting buckles.

(He looks like a hawk, a villain; raking his scarred eyes over fresh kill. The thought makes you stir. Sparks an old memory in your head from when he’d gone territorial over you in an old mission long ago, and he fucked you so hard you swore you’d be branded by every inch of him on the inside for the rest of your life.)

“You’re close,” Shay says. States. He knows. He always does. Recognises it in the feather-tremble of your body and the way you arch your back, clutching at his wrist (your hand is so small compared to his. Drives him fucking crazy—) as if you couldn’t tell whether you wanted him to stop or continue fingering you. “Aye, y’are, aren’t you?”

You nod mutely. Vision crossing. There’s nowhere for you to go, so you burrow your face against his throat like you want to hide from the world as you come undone.

Shay lets you. It’s an endearing moment, and he’s sweet like that. Even if he wants to study your face as you get off on grinding against his palm, even if he wants to swallow your tongue and every susurrus moan that he ekes out of you. He slides his hand up your spine and settles it there instead, holds you up when your own arm fails you and curls over his neck for support.

“So good, dove. So beautiful,” he whispers, at the scant space below your ear. Shay damn near smiles at the way the words involuntarily opens you further, allows his fingers to smooth and stroke and scissor— until your legs abruptly snap shut around his wrist like a vice, astrolade clattering to the floor from your blinding, seizing orgasm.

You’re gasping. Moaning. Twitching like a fragile fawn in his arms. “Shay— I— ah, ah—”

“Easy now, love,” he soothes, nuzzling at your temple.

The sight of you melting from your hot, silken climax prompts something primal— something instinctive in him. (Wolves, he imagines. Perhaps hounds. One’s already been satiated with having you fall apart because of him, the other still longs to shield you; to fold you into his arms and shelter you with whatever goodness is still left in his damned soul.)

He slides his soaking fingers out. A puff of a sigh escapes you. Relieved. Sated. “C’mere,” you mumble, blearily nosing forward for another kiss—

“S’alright,” he says, dodging you by resting his thumb on the dent beneath your lip. “Tell me to go, dove, an’ I will. I will. We don’t… we don’t have to.”

(There it is again. Taking care of you and leaving himself out to dry. Ever the gentleman. It makes your heart jump.)

“I want to,” you promise. Your voice dips into something dulcet; dangerous. “I’ve been wanting to.”

Something flickers in his eyes.

He swallows so hard you can hear the click in his throat.

“I’ve been wanting…” You trail off, grasp his hand holding your chin. He watches, rapt, as you splay his fingers apart, your slick still sticky between them, and then—

Press them into your mouth.

His ring finger. His middle.

It breaches past your bitten-red lips, slow and sinful, smarting against the wet glide of your curling tongue, coated in saliva as you suckle at the ichorous taste of them.

“Fuck, dove,” he says, and more inwardly: You’re a minx. Shay knows you. Knows you’re teasing him with his guilty pleasures; his oral fixations. The perverse texture and sound and feel of you: your tongue laving hungrily and sucking at your own slick, choking from his fingertips catching and going beyond your molars because of how far you insist on taking him.

It makes his cock twitch from the depravity; makes his skin simmer like a low-grade fever under his clothes. He wants to slip something else into that glorious, tight mouth of yours—

“Still cold, aye?” he rasps. Slides his fingers out the tight seal of your lips with an obscene pop. “Need somethin’ else to warm y’up, hm?”

He kisses you before you can reply. Brain-melting. Desperate. A low, amorous groan into you that roils your insides. Then you’re picked up— once more, by those delicious sailor arms of his— and deposited onto his bed like you weigh nothing.

Good God. “Christ, Shay, you’re…”

You falter, suddenly shy of all things. Here you are, naked and exposed with nothing save bandages around your stomach, supine and heaving on the untidy linen of his sheets— and you’re curiously, girlishly, timid over complimenting him.

It makes him laugh. Quiet. Airy. “Use your words, dove.”

But you’re too busy staring— ogling him where he stands at the foot of the bed. Shay’s undressing himself, patient and meticulous, and enjoying is an understatement for how you feel watching him divest and strip himself for you. (There’s something incredibly intimate about being allowed this, to witness him dismantle the precious armour— the defenses and image— he presents to the world.)

“Go on, then,” he croons, “What did y’want to tell me?”

Shay tugs his shirt over his head from the neckline. Swift. Smooth. When he crawls over you, unclothed, you think you finally understand the true, biblical epitome of temptation.

The sturdy contours of him, lean muscle cording across his torso and his vast arms; body smattered with forgotten scars and wounds both old and new that make him all the more roguishly handsome; the happy trail from his navel leading down to the heavy, leaking, length of him—

“Strong,” you concede, breath skittering when his shadow descends over you like doom itself, and he slowly settles some of his weight on your body. Your hands have wasted no time in pawing eagerly against his chest, gripping at his firm biceps when he smothers you with an indulgent kiss. “You’re so strong. I’ve always— mh— admired that about you.”

“Admired, aye?” It’s a teasing sound. A huff of sincere laughter ducked into your shoulder. He’s preening at the rare stroke of his ego, the bastard. “S’my hands all it takes to have y’this sweet on me?”

“Shut up,” you bite your grin, feel the blood rush to your cheeks again. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re perfect.”

Your heart stutters. Skips. Stumbles. Then Shay kisses you, sweet and brimming with loving affection— and kisses and kisses and kisses. Hand cupping your cheek, and the other stroking at your nape. The type that’s full of utter devotion: like you’re salvation; the only person capable of ever delivering him utter Absolution.

Shay digs his fingers into the meat of your thighs, sangfroid, and begins to pry them apart.

You can feel the hard length of him throb, tip spitting prespend against your navel.

“Shay,” you call out, tugging at his hair when he tongues the swell of your breast and latches to your nipple, gropes at the other with a rumbling groan he couldn’t seem to bite back.

“Aye?” he says, before pulling away entirely in a worried blink, “Your stitches. Did I—?”

“No, it’s not that,” you say, meeting his concerned gaze and his touch running over your bandages. “I just, I’m not— It’s been awhile since—”

Oh. Oh. “S’alright,” he reassures, taken aback by the way his own lungs unwillingly expand from the new knowledge; the sudden rush of appetite flooding him. “Been some time for me too, dove.” He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, and gives you the thousandth kiss of the night. “Jus’ tell me if I’m hurtin’ you, aye?”

(Ever the—)

“Gentleman,” you smile, petal-soft. You press a chaste, delicate kiss on his cheek, at the crooked scar splitting it.

Something basal rattles in him at the tenderness. Startles a flutter of sparrows in his chest.

And then—

You curl your fingers around the base of him.

Shay jerks with a start. Hisses something guttural in Gaelic. “Fuck, dove—” He ruts forward, face digging to the crown of your head, where you’ve taken to licking at his jugular: tasting the masculine, heady sweat of him as you squeeze his cock.

Shay can feel the molten heat of your folds splitting at the nudge of his weeping head.

He might ruin you.

(He wants to. Greedily. To fuck you until you see the stars of Cassiopeia beneath your eyelids; until everytime you swore loyalty to that damned, wretched Creed of yours, all you would ever remember— ever feel— is how full you were when you were taking Templar cock.)

But he’s a restrained, merciful man for all his notoriety of pitiless bloodshed. A distinct dissonance; a paragon of irony. It’s hardly a surprise, really, if you think about it.

Shay Cormac is a Man of God, and men of God are raised to deliver only two extremes: grace and retribution.

So he’ll be gracious. Generous.

His hand falls to your right knee, thumbing the flesh beneath it; And pushes once more to spread yourself to him, to accommodate the thick of him as you guide him up into your soaking, eager cunt—

You whine at the fit.

The wrecked, immodest sound alone unmoors him.

Makes him all the more desperate to take you apart. “I know, dove,” he coos, emblazoning into memory the way your face twists in half-pleasure, half-pain; eyes misty at the edges and brows furrowed into a pinch. “Missed y’too.”

When Shay buries to the root, he distracts you from the scathing ache with another nip at your jaw and lip; gropes and moulds his hands over your thrumming skin and flesh. The pull of you inside— the nigh-virginal tightness of you (how long has it been again?)— has his vision swimming from the scorching decadence.

Then you’re pleading his name. For him to move. To satisfy. A murmuration of Shay, m’so full. S’good. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—

It tears a depraved moan out of him once he shifts to ease in, and out. Yeah? Feel good, dove?

From where you’re eclipsed, pinned underneath him, his gold Cross swings above you with every bated breath and every forceful thrust; A twisted reminder of your heresies. (The both of you will reason this truce out, someway, somehow. Chalk it off as filling the boredom of your recovery and voyage— but either of you know better. Know the truth.)

A sacrilege of the Penitential Act: For what I have done (“I love you.”), and have failed to do (“You shouldn’t.”); Forgive me.

(…But forgiveness is in neither of yours’ hands.)

Clawing down his back, legs greedily bracketed around his hips to siphon every inch of him in, the ferric sheath of him in you has liquid pleasure crackling through his veins. Between all your wanton purrs and his crude growls the room drowns in impurity under the pelting rain outside;

It’s breath mingling with breath, heart thundering to heart, skin sliding against skin. He white-knuckles your hip when he hikes you up harder into the bed, each urgent rut of him reaching further inside your pulsing cunt as you grip into the sheets.

“Oh, hah— fuck—” you choke. “Yes, Shay. God—”

“No Gods here, dove,” he grunts, devilish, and you swear you can hear him smirking that canine-sharp smile of his. “Jus’ you an’ me.”

You shiver. Whimper into his devouring mouth when he seals you into another kiss, and he grinds into you so hard you’re sure the curve of him would poke at your navel. The thought alone— of being full of him, of him breeding you with every drop of his seed that it might just take— has Shay shuddering against you.

He shouldn’t. Heavens above, he shouldn’t.

Even here, right now, he shouldn’t even be this demanding with how he’s fucking you. Gorging at the searing feel of your sex giving in and stretching to his girth— he ought to be a little more gentle, given your quivering state.

(He likes brutal. He wouldn’t have made a brilliant soldier for either the Brotherhood or the Order at all if he couldn’t handle being a brute; If he hadn’t indulged— or at the very least, been a little bit familiar with that dark skeleton in his closet.)

Shay’s trying to be gentle, ofcourse, which is already everything to you. He’s restraining every fibre of himself, and you know this. Can feel it in the deliberate brace of his hard cock inside you; in the way he stifles his animalistic noises to your ear, outmatched only by the noise of your flush cunt. Can see it in the pretty furrow of his brows, as if laid with proverbial thorn; the hitch of his lungs at each inhale of you.

He sets a perfect pace. Keeps to it until you can feel your nerves fraying at its edges. The knot formed where his hips are meeting yours in circadian rhythm tightens, has you gasping his name in anticipation when he palms down your arched spine and cants you closer to the fierce nudge of him.

Aye, doin’ so good, Shay hums, knowingly. He sneaks his hand to your slit, petting and teasing at your swollen clit until you’re clamping around him. Y’gonna give me what I want, love? Y’close?

The answer is stolen from you.

It’s an engulfing crescendo of all-too-much. Your orgasm splits you from the lower belly up, synapses firing wildly from the all-encompassing feel of him still battering into you, overwhelming every single sense you possess. Your eyes roll. Your mind whites out into pure pleasure. Aching muscles aren’t your own, inner walls and legs spasming and quivering around his throbbing length; And throughout it all: Attagirl. Attagirl, love. A chuisle mo chroí. Mo ghrá.

His release stutters close after.

It takes more coaxing, grinding; More time before the growing tension in his groin snaps like a wire. He’d fucked you through your climax, but now you’re egging him on, velvet-voiced and seductive, despite the sweltering edge of overstimulation creeping on you. “I wanna— ah— feel you. Please, Shay. Harder. I wanna feel you inside me— mh— for weeks—”

It sparks him closer to his edge. Inside? he’d ground out, sparing a glance between your sticky thighs, where his cock slots into you like you belonged here. Fuck. Y’know I can’t do that, dove.

But he entertains the thought anyway. Chases the thrill. Tells you how good you feel around him and spreads you just a little bit more. Imagines notching and seating so deep into your aching cunt until you couldn’t possibly spill a single drop of him; until you’d taste him from the inside out.

Shay rucks you up higher into the bed, allows a sliver of his viciousness to slip through in the unbridled way he carves himself into you with every thrust. (“Please, I can take it. Harder, Shay— hah, C—Captain—!”) The feeling of you leaving crescent-indents on his biceps and shoulders as you clumsily clutch onto him, surging helplessly as he groans and grunts into your balmy skin, and takes and takes and takes what he selfishly wants—

“F–Fuckin’ hell—” It’s a jagged rasp. Your name tumbles from his wet lips, husky and corrosive and dangerous. The growling sound alone makes you keen, reminds you of who exactly it is that’s just fucked you raw and is now painting your body with his cum:

Shay Patrick Cormac. The Templar’s very own Assassin Hunter.

Your natural predator.

Sex and sweat and Shay’s scent clots the very air. Ropes of his molten hot spend spurts over your torso as he pulls out to fist his jerking, fluttering cock into satisfying completion (“Been so long, dove. S’all for you. Saved it all— Fuck, ah— Just for you—”); the white, pearlescent threads of him shooting even up to your chin and bottom lip, still glossy and shiny from drool after your sloppy kisses.

Not even a moment later, Shay watches your red tongue dart out to lick it up.

Bloody hell—

“Oh,” you purr, breathless. (He tastes salty. Masculine. It’s intoxicating.) “So you do prefer being called Captain, hm?”

“Don’t,” he pants, half-laughing as he drops his head on your shoulder, trying to navigate through the cloying fog of his mind-melting orgasm.

There’s something grimly satisfying about seeing and having you— a Grandmaster Assassin of the Brotherhood— like this. Ravaged. Conquered and sprawled beneath him like a puppet with its strings cut. An unfurled flower. Bruises mottling your flesh like blossoms. Activates something carnally possessive in his hindbrain.

(And to think he’d been holding back all this time—?)

Eyes flitting shut, Shay presses another series of delicate butterfly-kisses: shoulder, cheek, nose, forehead. Non-sexual spots. It’s, ironically enough, infinitely more intimate than the fact you just coupled exhaustively on his own bed.

Then, after he’d gone to clear the debris and remnants of him off you: “Still cold?” he humors, melting into rest underneath the scratchy covers beside you.

You huff a soft, tired laugh. Tangle your sore legs with his and scoot closer to his bonfire warmth after he lets you doze in his embrace. The vestigial high has both of you drifting back to earth slowly. “Mh. Warmest I’ll ever be for a long while,” comes your content, nuzzled reply, feeling him comb through your hair as you intertwine your fingers with his again.

It feels like old times, tucked into him. It feels like the day you’d taken the shot and he scooped you up into his arms— like everything has changed, and nothing at all.

Still, we’ve changed, you think, thoughts piecing back from the sex in a way you hadn’t noticed before. There’s a new scar slicing across the hairs of his chest, and another unfamiliar pockmark wound on his collar that looks to have come from a ricocheting bullet. Testaments of time and battles that’s passed between you both.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he ensures.

A beat.

“You could never hurt me.”

Yes, he very nearly agrees. I could never.

“Shay,” you whisper, before the bravery escapes you.

“Dove,” he acknowledges.

His voice rumbles from his sternum and into your ears. It’s a painstakingly mellow sound. It’s home.

“What did we just do?”

His hand stills. You can only hear the hum-drum of his heartbeat echoing in his chest.

“I think,” he says, faintly, “We’ve just said our goodbyes.”

Against all odds, however—

You laugh. It’s sudden. As bright as tide breaking on shore. “What?” Shay says, unable to stop his smile against the crown of your head.

“Told you you were a learned poet.”

“Lord, I ought to throw y’overboard, woman,” he sighs.

Another laugh. The banter is a glimpse into the domesticity you’d once shared so often, and he couldn’t help it. He’d nudged a kiss to your forehead and went, “I’ve missed you,” and met your lips before he could confess: I miss you already.

“We’ve voyaged weeks,” you point out.

“You know what I mean, dove.”

“Ah, the sex, then?”

“Being close to you,” he corrects, unimpressed yet amused. “Having you in my arms.”

You do know what he’s trying to say. The loving; the freedom of being just you and just him. Of loving with neither guilt nor shame from the fact you both construe the world in different light.

“Have I told you how much I hate it?” you say craning to meet his half-lidded gaze.

“The sex?” he volleys easily, smiling like a serpent as he sneaks his hand between your thighs again. “I think I remember y’enjoyin’ yourself plenty, dove.”

“Bastard,” you swat playfully, pinching at his forearm as he laughs out. “I was going to say how safe you make me feel.”

Shay doesn’t say a word, but his expression rings louder than any reply: he’s glowing; a spark of sincere and profound fondness in his eyes, that has to be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He hadn’t even seemed to mind at all that you’d mentioned you hated it.

“What an inconvenience that must be,” he finally says, and as much as he’s tempted to tease you further for it, settles on giving it a rest for now. “We’re all guilty of something, whether we admit it or not.”

“Original sin,” you hum. “I forget you’re a Man of God, Shay Cormac.”

A beat. For a moment, you wonder if you’d said something you shouldn’t have.

“Well… You make me believe,” he says, softly. The quiet concession matches the tentative unfurling of affection in you.

“In what?”

Everything. “In God. In goodness. In love.”

Shay tugs you into a doting kiss. The deep and fiercely kind that translates everything he can’t put into words; the kind that rattles the very foundations of your soul and every mighty defense you’ve ever built around your heart.

“I love you,” he exhales; like he’d been holding it back for centuries. “Please remember that. Please remember that’s never changed.”

“Oh, Shay,” you begin, and kiss him once more for good measure, instead of telling him:

I--

“--think you do not have it in you to kill Shay Cormac, when it comes down to it.”

A narrow look. You don’t even bother starting with the surety of Connor’s choice of words: when, over if.

“Just because I trust him onc—”

“No,” he overrides, suddenly, inexplicably fierce. “You love him. There is a difference.”

He’s learned this dilemma for himself the hard way. He had faced a ghost of his past, forged a truce, and naïvely dreamt of an impossible unity. In the end, all he received was the black blood of his own father on his hands, and a terrible guilt that would last his entire lifetime and the next.

But, he had, by the grace of whatever watches over him, not learned what it is to be at the very brink of death in the same way you had been after you were shot— To walk the precipice and return home with only a scar to show for it; and he prays he will never understand what that’s like for a long time. Perhaps it’s because he is his mother’s son (and yours by charge), too, that makes him lower his hackles.

“Se:nikónrarak,” Connor re-attempts, determined, though less hostile this time. “If you are not careful with your heart, it may prove to be your demise, again.”

You stop short. “Again?”

“I am no fool,” Connor says knowingly over his shoulder, where you’ve rooted yourself at the frost-pathed foothills leading up the Homestead. “You are the quickest Assassin I know. You would not have been shot, unless you wanted to be in the crossfire.”

“I don’t—” you hesitate, dismayed. “I don’t love him.”

Connor disappears from your view.

In the far distance, a lone rooster crows.

What sea soever swallow me, that flood Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood; Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes, Which, though they turn away sometimes, They never will despise.

— John Donne, “A Hymn to Christ”

More footnotes & insight in AO3!

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thehoneybeestings · 3 months ago

Text

──˚₊𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭•‧₊˚──

Hello! I'm so glad you're here! To make navigation as easy as possible, all of my works will listed first by universe, second by character, third by fic type, and then labeled for content. Before you get to browsing, here are some disclaimers!

What I do write:

Fluff (F)

Smut (S)

Angst (A) (With happy endings only!)

Hurt/Comfort (H/C)

One Shots

Headcanons

Drabbles

What I do not write:

non-c0n

x male reader or male characters

any kink I am not comfortable writing; this is up to my direction

angst with no happy ending! I'm not strong enough!

You may also notice that my character lists are a little short! This is simply because as of right now, I only plan on writing for the listed characters; if you'd still like to see me write for a character that you don't see listed, though, please don't hesitate to send in a request!

Happy Browsing!

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐁𝐞𝐞 ୨ৎ

──˚₊𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐞•‧₊˚──

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐤𝐚

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Under A Full Moon

Synopsis: Sevika sees you once at Babette's before deciding you're her favorite girl; and luckily for you, she's your favorite client. Thus blossoms an unspoken exclusivity between the two of you... or so you think, until one night, you happen upon her in between your coworker's legs. You're left blindsighted, hurt, and just plain jealous; and worst of all... you know it's unfairly so.

──˚₊𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

୨ৎ (F) Sevika w/ a Partner who has PMDD

୨ৎ (F) Arcane Actor Au's - Actor!Sevika x Actor!Reader

──˚₊𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬

୨ৎ (S) More, More, More

Synopsis: The last time you slept together, you asked Sevika for more than she had equipped; she makes sure she's prepared for the next time 'round.

୨ৎ (S) Service Top!Sevika at Babette's

Synopsis: There's a reason the girls at Babette's fight over who gets Sevika for the night when she comes in, and you're about to find out why

𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐭

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Sugar Plum

Synopsis: After years of competing for the title of Star Senior at Piltover Springs Dance School, the hatred that Violet Lanes and Y/n Y/l/n have garnered for each other is rendered a waste when in a turn of events, they are both awarded the distinction. When this forces them to confront what feelings they have for each other outside of unbridled loathing, they find that the line between hatred and lust is much finer than they thought...

──˚₊𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

୨ৎ (F) Enemies to Lovers with Dancer!Vi x Dancer!Reader

୨ৎ (F) Vi Sleep Headcanons

୨ৎ (F) Arcane Actor Au's - Actor!Vi x Crew Member!Reader

𝐀𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐚

──˚₊𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

୨ৎ (S) Royally Screwed

Synopsis: Your best friend has invited you to a Piltover Gala. You wouldn't be so worried if the guest list didn't include Ambessa Medarda: the woman you've been seeing secretly for months, and, of course, your best friend's mother...

──˚₊𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐟 𝐔𝐬 𝐈𝐈 •‧₊˚──

𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦𝐬

Coming soon...

𝐀𝐛𝐛𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧

Coming soon...

──˚₊𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧’𝐬 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝: 𝐎𝐝𝐲𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐲 •‧₊˚──

𝐊𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐚

──˚₊𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

୨ৎ (A) (H/C) Feral Creatures May Bite (ao3 exclusive)

Synopsis: Deimos. Named after the God of Terror. To know her was to fear a war weapon forged by fire. Melita seemed to be the only person unafraid of getting burned.

──˚₊𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

୨ৎ (F) A Place to Call Home

Synopsis: When Kassandra of Sparta runs into Phoibe for the first time in a year, the future she'd planned for herself quickly unravels, and the trajectory of her life is changed. Frankly, she should have figured this would happen; Phoibe always gave her a run for her drachmae.

──˚₊•୨ৎ•‧₊˚──

𝐄𝐍𝐃 ୨ৎ

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demigoddessqueens · 5 months ago

Note

Hey it’s me, ya boi, a tumblr gremlin.

Remember the pirate boots striptease? What would happen if you show that little idea to said captains of the high seas Shay and Edward? Maybe Connor too seeing as he sails the high seas (or close to said seas).

Ooof stop (but not really!) everyone on the ship will hear 👂

KINKTOBER 2024

Shay

Surprised by what you’re playing at first but smoothly transitions into the scene you’ve set, going so far as to tease you more than you did him

Edward

Oh he’s got that devilish grin to him and completely immersed into your antics, shamelessly loud and teasing you as well

Connor

He’s surprised by such forwardness by you but goes along with it. Even gets more into your role playing if you let him

#assassin's creed #assassin’s creed x reader #assassin’s creed #edward kenway x reader #edward kenway #my writing #shay cormac x reader #shay cormac #headcanons #ratonhnhaké:ton x reader #ratonhnhaké:ton #connor kenway x reader #connor kenway #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #smut headcanons

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acc--deactivated · 1 year ago

Text

𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙖𝙣𝙖 𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨

„Sweet cunt and a sharp tongue, you're a dangerous combo, love.“

featuring: edward kenway

cw: praise, vaginal sex, semi-public i guess

synopsis: owning a tavern in havana means being used to pirates in your every day life, their crude words and behaviour. but you've never met a pirate going this far in attempt to apologize for a crewmate's bad actions.

note: „fy nghariad“ is a welsh phrase meaning „my love“ or „my sweetheart“ which i thought would be nice to include, but please tell me if i used it incorrectly, that would be kinda embarassing lol

18+ content - MDNI

───────────────────

Havana is always warm, always welcoming and soft, with sunlight flooding through streets of beige and gold, full of laughter and peaceful existence.

Even at night, it feels like the warmth wraps around people like a soft coat, summer air resting between the buildings and mingling with the scent of the sea, darkness enlightened by warm lanterns and candles. The sound of joyful music, shanties and drunken laughter has become the soundtrack of your nights as bartender in the tavern and restaurant which are owned by your father, and you like to say that Havana is a place of joy, no matter the time of day.

You've done this job since your teenage years, are used to bar fights and lusting gazes resting on you, know how to handle men who try to let their hands wander, think they can whistle at you or spit out crude and naughty things.

Most of them know that it will only get them a ban from the house, or in worst case, a beating from your main visitors or an arrest by the guards, but sometimes, there still are idiots who try it, out of pure stupidity and falsely placed ego.

Citizens of Havana adore your tavern as a centre of the city, they know how to behave and have their fun in peace, but the pirates docking on the shore are a different story.

You can see it in their gazes, in the way they talk, the way they stride through the streets like they own them and the houses forming them, that they're looking for provocation, hungry for a fight.

Thankfully, most of them are more of an inconvience and not an actual threat, and you know how to handle them, know that a tavern is a pirate's favourite place, which gives you a slight advantage against them, even if it's just out of their sympathy for the rum you pour them.

It doesn't diminish your dislike for them, despite them being your costumers.

Pirates are a disease, you've always been told. And yet, you can't help but feel a thrill in your veins, feel your heart leap and your legs trembling when a strong hand grabs your chin from behind, gently, sensually lifts your head.

The soft light filling the dim walls of the empty, closed tavern flickers in your vision, soft tears of passion melting it to a blur along with the dark of the late night and a breathed, blissful sigh leaves your lips, forced out of you by the way the body of the man behind you rocks once more against you.

Pirates are the worst of the worst, you learned early in your life. And Edward Kenway is so good at being a pirate, at getting what he wants, that he might be something even worse, armed with those mischievous eyes, his charming smirk and skilled fingers.

You did not question the leathern bracers wrapped around his lower arms, the hidden blades you saw shimmering in the dim light when you served him and his men, and you didn't question the hooded robe hanging over the back of his chair, could only focus on the white lace-up shirt on his body, the cleavage that slightly revealed the tattoos spreading over his chest.

It was no surprise and nothing new when one of his men hit on you, spitting rude words from a drunk tongue in an attempt to seduce you. What did surprise you was how fast Adéwalé grabbed him by the scruff like a puppy to kick him out of the tavern, and the way Edward apologized to you, genuinely and gentle.

Most men did not act like this when they came to drink in your tavern, only laughed when their comrades harrassed a girl. It did not fit your world view, disturbed the evil picture you carried of pirates all these years of your life.

You couldn't help but smile at the way Edward looked at you, a mixture of apologetic and enthrilled, felt your breath hitch when he asked you what he could offer to beg your forgiveness.

The way his hands are now roaming your body, his husked breaths against your ear and his body pressed against yours is not what you had in mind at first, but you'll gladly take it as a form of apology.

He lets out a groan as he fills you, slides into you like you are made for him, slicked walls hugging his cock, clenching around his girth.

He fills you just right, hits spots you have never felt, makes you see stars despite the roof above both of your heads.

„What do you say, sweetheart? Think this'll make up for the inconvience?“ he husks against your ear, sends a new shiver down your spine that ends up right inside the heat pooling in your lower stomach, and you lightly lean your head back, feel the stubble of his beard brushing your ear.

Just when you're about to answer, he hits you with another thrust from behind, knocks the air out of you with the sheer depth of his movements.

You need a second to catch your breath, collect yourself, before a little smirk spreads on your lips.

„Thought a world-class-pirate would have more to offer“, you respond, with a low, seducing voice, a tone that lures him in, makes his breath hitch lightly, bearly hearable if he wasn't so close to your ear.

He's so close even that you think you can feel the way an amused smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and you shudder again when his breath fans your cheek.

„Sly little thing, aren't ya?“

Before you can answer in an even brattier tone than before, you feel how he slightly pushes you down, makes you lean further forward until you're forced to hold onto the bar, driven further and further into the wood by his harsh thrusts.

He quickens his pace, makes you whine and moan with the way he fills you, tip kissing your womb, his slight curve brushing your sweet spots just right.

„Sweet cunt and a sharp tongue, you're a dangerous combo, love.“

His words and the deep tone of his voice only make you arch more in his grasp, make you hold onto the bar with one hand, while the other carries your balance on its wooden surface.

You feel your own arousal run down your thighs, feel yourself getting higher and higher on the wet sounds echoing through the room whenever he enters your aching cunt, your brain spinning around mixed feelings of confusion and arousal.

He's a pirate, a well wanted one as well, and yet you can not help but love the way he grabs you, the way he fucks you, the way he makes you feel.

When he leans over your back, one hand placed next to your body, the other one on your hip to hold you steady, you somehow forget how much his head is worth, how dangerous his hands should feel on your body.

It feels strange, but a spark of sympathy arises within you when he leans in further, buries you in his shadow as he pushes a soft kiss against the back of your neck, drowns you in the illusion of intimacy when he gently closes his teeth around the shell of your ear.

Edward doesn't seem like other pirates, doesn't initiate fights he can not win, doesn't harrass others, doesn't cause unnecessary ruckus to prove his ego. He smells better than most of them, covered in the scent of the sea, of salt and a hint of rum, but with an underlying note of herbs, probably because of salves that are used to treat wounds lingering his body.

And above all, he looks so handsome, a dark angel within a bunch of dirty, fattened and drunk pigs, his cheeky smirk more intoxicating than alcohol or money.

A smirk that is directed at you, resting on you as he observes you, watches you writher and shake beneath his movements. When you catch it from the corner of your eye, it fuels new fire inside of you, and your lips curl sweet and mischievously when you slightly raise your head to respond.

„Maybe you shouldn't provoke my sharp tongue too much then, captain.“

The word does something to him, you can feel it, notice the way he gasps for a second, slows his thrusts for the shortest bit. Then he suddenly slips out of you, both hands grabbing your hips and pulling you up, your back straightening for the shortest second before he turns you around, pulls you in by the waist and leans forward to push his lips against yours, catching you in a heated kiss that steals your breath, makes your knees weak.

You bury your right hand in his blonde hair, hold him close, while your other hand rests on the textile of his shirt, trying to hold onto soft linen while you sigh and feel your legs tremble.

As if he's feeling it, he lightly bends his knees, slides his hands from your hips to the back of your thighs to pick you up, makes you wrap your legs around his waist while your hands cradle his face and you sink further into his kiss, melt against his lips. You hear the rustling of clothes, feel how he picks up your discarded dress from the edge of the bar and spreads it on the counter, adjusting the textile before he sets you down on the wood, just to break from your mouth a few seconds later.

He smirks at your little gasp, licks his lower lip before raising his voice.

„Captain, huh? That a hidden request to join my crew?“

You gasp when you feel his fingers dig into the softness of your thighs, need a second to collect yourself before you scoff at his words, look at him through a glimmer of competition before you breathe out an „In your dreams, pirate.“

He only grins at that, eyes slightly narrowing as they slide down to his hands on your thighs, watches them when he spreads your legs to get new access to your leaking centre, his eyes staring shamelessly at it.

And just when you think to finally have the air to add another snarky comment, he suddenly thrusts back into you, one switft motion with which he fills you to the brim, makes you throw your head back as he falls back into a relentless rhythm, his cock slicking in and out of your warm wetness.

He leans over you again, holding you by the waist as he pounds into you, forcing high pitched moans and whimpers out of your throat that you simply can not hold back.

His thrusts feel so deep, hit you so perfectly and when he grabs one of your legs to raise it to his shoulder, you almost choke on the air in your throat, bliss filling you at the pleasure washing through you by his deepening movements.

You curse out an „Oh god-“ as you throw your head back, hear a breathed laugh from Edward when he grabs you by the hips again, adjusts your body on the textile of your dress, pulls you in to take his hard thrusts.

Another whimper leaves you as he partially folds you in half, sass and mockery leaving your body with each new thrust, slowly melting in the heat of a building orgasm within your body.

It doesn't help how he reaches out with his hand to search for your clit, forcing a loud moan from your throat when his finger presses against it.

„That it, darling? That the spot?“

Through your panting and heavy breathing, the dizziness in your vision, you see how he smirks at you, pure confidence written in his attractive features and you can only nod, breathe out a „Please-“, a word that only makes his smile widen.

Your lower body tenses, a coil clenching deep within your core, tight enough that it almost hurts.

„Don't hold back. Let me feel you come, fy nghariad.“

His voice slightly falters, breathless because of his own arousal, the tension with which he holds himself back, and his words only add fuel to the fire in your body, make the flames lap higher, reaching your chest, making your heart race.

Whimpers and gasps leave your throat, you tense, feel your thighs shiver, your entire body short-circuiting until eventually, you feel yourself breaking apart, tension and arousal reaching their peak, knocking you into an abyss of white noise, making you cry out in pleasure, your head falling back as arousal floods your veins.

His thrusts never waver, seem to get even harder, fucking you through your orgasm, almost making you pass out with the sheer overstimulation. Your brain turns to mush, simply melts away and when you look up at him, with tear-filled, flickering eyes and your tongue slightly peaking over your lower lip, he takes in a sharp, hissing breath, slipping dangerously close to an orgasm just by your gaze and your walls spasming, clenching and relaxing around him.

His hand trembles a little as he trails it further up your body, fondling your chest for a second and making you whine out at the soft feeling, before his fingers graze your neck, eventually rest on your cheek.

He spreads his thumb, runs it over the corner of your mouth, doesn't expect the way you push out your tongue to taste salt, gunpowder and rum on his skin. Not a second later, you allow his finger to slip into your mouth, relish in the way he draws a sharp breath when you lazily swirl your tongue around it.

The facade in front of his face cracks the slightest bit, and you see how he bites his lower lip, how his brows furrow a little in what seems to be despair, before he breathes out a „Shit, you're gonna make me cum, sweetheart.“

It's the cue you need and while you whine, shudder beneath each of his thrusts, you at some point slightly bite down into his finger, hard enough to make him jolt, hard enough to break his facade.

He gasps for air, lets out short „Fuck-“, before he holds onto your hip, digging the fingers of his free hand into the skin when he forces himself to pull out, holding you in place as warm, white seed spurts over the skin of your abdomen.

For a few moments, you only look at each other, breathe into the space between both of you, wallowing in the heat of each other's body. Your head is still spinning when Edward slightly leans forward, gently rests his forehead against yours before he lets out a heavy breath.

His eyes are dark and dominant when they dig into yours, captivate you with the slight glimmer within them.

„Aren't you just something else... Maybe I'll pick you up and simply take you with me. Wanna know what else that sweet mouth of yours can do.“

It doesn't matter what you learned your entire life, his words make you giddy and thoughtless, make your heart leap in joy and your lips curl to a smile.

„Careful, Kenway. My lips may seem sweet, but they come with a pair of teeth.“

He lets out a little groan, a sound of playful despair and frustration, before he leans further against your forehead, gently nudges his nose against yours.

„Fucking heavens, you're perfect.“

You smile when he kisses you, wrap your arms around him and become a mess of sweet nothingness beneath his hands when they start roaming your body again, not taking long until you throw your head back once more, sending sighed versions of his name into the warm night.

#assassin's creed #edward kenway #edward kenway x reader #assassin's creed x reader #smut #oh to be one of the girls he's with in the trailers agfhfjsgxhs #assassin's creed black flag

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intoxicated-chan · 1 year ago

Note

Could I possibly ask for NSFW Shay x reader content? If you’re not in the mood for anything smutty then just general Drabble/hc content is more than fine too! Any Shay content is welcome 🖤

𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

Summary ➳ When Shay remembers your dream to see the Northen lights, it takes the chance to take you there and love you under the stars.

(A/n) ➳ Your wish is my command! If you guys have any Shay requests, I’m open!! This was more fluff than smut, I honsetly got carried away with this.

Word Count ➳ 2.6k

Content warnings ➳ Female reader/Navigator reader, teasing, jealousy, mentions of killing, sexual content, public sex, unprotected sex, fingering, penetration, p-in-v, creampie...

Everyone knew that Shay and Chevalier never got along. At first, Shay could take it, the insults, and the fights, but it became worse when Chevalier overheard Shay’s desire to court you. It was during an argument when it was brought up, teasing Shay, laughing at him, and getting physical with him, laughing at his missed punches. As usual, Liam stepped in, silencing Chevalier, and snatching Shay away.

Shay could still hear his laughter as Liam tried his best to comfort his best friend. But Chevalier became his nightmare when he arrived from a mission to find you and Chevalier sitting on the steps of the manor, a happy expression on your face as Chevalier spoke to you.

He stepped in, questioning why Chevalier was still here when Achilles was looking for him. But Chevalier saw right through his act, knowing how it pissed Shay off to see you with him and so before he left, he gifted you a book, one that you have been looking for.

Shay hated how your eyes gleamed as you took the book from his hands and continuously thanked him. It was a rare book in your eyes. You escaped from your home, just days away from marrying an older nobleman when you turned eighteen.

Shay knew that you knew Chevalier was being kind to you. Another rarity around here and he tried not to take it to heart.

“Is something the matter?” You asked Shay, obviously clueless and knocking Shay out of his mind. “Did the mission not go as planned?”

“Everything is alright.” He replied, giving you his signature smile. “I’ll meet you on the Morrigan?” He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it.

“Oh yes! I have a charted map that I must give.” You nodded. “Chevalier said I was learning rather quickly.”

“Did he now?”

You nodded once again before scurrying off, waving him goodbye. He watched your figure head towards the Morrigan, making sure he saw you entering the cabin of the ship.

And after giving his report to Achilles, you were not in the cabin anymore. You were relaxed, sitting on his ship as you read your book. You just looked so beautiful unbothered and hated to bother you, you were enjoying the moment.

You swiped the strays of hair in your face away, trying to focus on your book. “Chevalier certainly knows what interests you.” He commented. “My men say you refuse to move, that you refused to sing with them. I thought you enjoyed Leave her, Johnny.”

“Chevalier’s taste is quite different than mine, I’d give him quite a scare if he truly read the contents of this book.” You marked the page of your book before closing it carefully. “I did not sing but I loved their voices. We should have them perform.”

“Might I see?” Shay reached for the book, but you pulled it out of his reach. “C’mon, you’ve got nothing to hide from me!”

“No.” You immediately said but your smile did not falter. “I must show you the map, I’ve located numerous military camps with supplies. They will be useful to the Morrigan.”

You both walked to the captain’s cabin, Shay opened the door to let you in first and then closed it behind him. He followed you to the table with the map laid out, a part of North America with marked points.

“It’s quite chilly but Chevalier it would be worth it.” You commented, pointing at one at a time to explain. “When I was using the spyglass, I was able to get some of the contents of the supplies. Here, you get wood and metal. And here, cannons. There is a fort here so you must tread carefully-”

Shay didn’t bother to listen, rather, he took in your features, how your finger tapped in a certain pattern when at a marked location, how you went into detail about certain patterns soldiers take, or how each of the supplies can help the ship or crew in many ways.

Memories of a conversation he had with you weeks earlier came through his mind, your laughter, your casual mention of an ethereal light. It all started when you went to North Atlantic once, the temperatures were freezing, and you remained up on the Crow’s Nest. He went to get you himself and he saw you stare up at the sky, like you were waiting for something.

You explained the stories of his and Chevalier’s crew speaking of green arches that curve across the sky, lights dancing in the sky. You wished to see them yourself instead of hearing them or paintings, you wanted to gaze your eyes upon them.

You were exquisite, magnificent, alluring... He knew the perfect time to take you to see the northern lights, he wanted to be the first to take you, to see your eyes gleam once more.

“Are you listening to me, Shay?”

Shay cleared his throat. “O-Of course!” He answered awkwardly. He tried to play it off, but you did not see him staring again. To see you so focused and helping him, made him all giddy, you are available for him. “You were talking about... Um, that camp.” He gestured vaguely towards the map.

“Really?” You lifted an eyebrow, sneering but in a joking manner that Shay understood. You then pointed at one mark. “What does this camp hold?” You questioned.

He leaned over the table, taking a moment to think. “Ammo! There's ammo.”

You shook your head as you tapped the spot your finger still rested on. “That is not a military camp, Shay. It is a hunting location. I marked it for personal use. Might find some deer or rabbit there.”

He was caught off guard, his cheeks had a tinge of red on them. “Right, of course. I knew that.” He rumbled, trying to recover.

But your demeanor shifted from playful to worried. You have never seen Shay so distracted before. “There must be something on your mind. I have never seen you so distant.” Your tone became soft, folding your arms.

He let his eyes wander, taking everything in the cabin except you. “It’s nothing too worrying.” He assured you but when he looked at you, his resolve softened. “I was thinking what you said once, about the lights, the ones you did not know the name of.”

“The dancing lights in the sky?” Your expression slowly brightened when you realized. “Yes, yes. They say it is like the heavens themselves are celebrating or the spirits were dancing.” You awed with wonder.

“I was thinking... Perhaps we could set a course north. Father than we had planned before. I would like to take you to see the northern lights or as Hope calls them aurora... Borealis?” Struggling to pronounce the name, he cursed at himself for screwing it up.

The surprise and delight he saw on your face was worth more than all the treasures they had plundered. You stepped around the table and came closer to him. “Really? You would do that for me?”

Shay nodded, placing both his hands on your shoulders. “Yes, I believe it’s time we chased something beautiful, not just profitable or killable.”

“I’d like that very much, Shay.” His hands moved to cup your face, your eyes locking with his. “Thank you.”

Nothing is said between you both, your faces just inches apart. The candlelight flickered, adding a touch to the moment. Shay started to lean in first, and you followed his lead. Your lips were about to touch until the doors to the captain’s cabin burst open.

Liam barged in, he looked urgent but froze in place when he saw how close you two were. “Shay, (Y/n), sorry but-” Liam started, his eyes darting between you two. A smirk was briefly on his lips but stopped when Shay glared at him. He composed himself. “Achilles gave us orders. We need to set sail immediately.”

The two of you pulled apart from each other, embarrassed, but you tried masking your disappointment, covering it up with a poor attempt at professionalism.

Shay patted himself down, turning to face Liam. “And?” He motioned Liam to continue.

“We’re goin’ North Atlantic.” Liam handed Shay a scroll. “The French are moving deeper, Achilles believes they have a lead on another Assassin branch, he wants us to intervene.”

You fumbled with your hands, clasped together. “I shall start preparing the crew, check supplies, and repair the Morrigan if necessary.”

As you moved past Liam to exit the cabin, Liam leaned closer to Shay, his voice low but teasing. “Trying to one-up the Chevalier, eh?” He chuckled, but then his tone became serious. “Make sure your head stays in the game Shay.”

“Always, Liam.”

With that, Liam left the cabin, the doors closing with a soft thud. Shay stood there, hands on his hips as he let out a frustrated groan. He was so close! He took a deep breath as he had weeks or months to try again.

Besides, if Hope was correct, it would soon be the perfect moment to see one.

The Morrigan was anchored in the icy waters of the North Atlantic.

Liam left the crew’s sleeping quarters after checking for injuries or casualties. He dismissed those standing on the deck of the ship to get some sleep, he and the captain, along with their navigator were going to keep watch for this night. He needed everyone rested and ready.

He stood at the wheel, arms crossed, and reamined still.

Up on the crow’s nest, the air was crisp, and the stars shined in the sky. Shay climbed the rigging to the nest, where he found you leaning again the wooden frame, gaze fixed on the sky. You twiddled with your fingers. He was able to sense the nervousness raiding off your body.

The deep breaths you took, letting out small clouds of your breath each time you exhaled, and shifting side to side. You wore thick clothing to shield you from the weather and the gloves he gave you when you forgotten yours somehow... He took them.

“Beautiful night.” Shay commented, his voice low as not to startle you. He leaned against the wooden railing next to you.

A smile tugged your lips, though your eyes didn’t exactly show it. “It is.” You agreed, then sighing, lowering your head. “The lights... Will they be as the crew described them to be? The heavens celebrating, the spirits dancing. What if they don’t appear? what if they’re not everything I had hoped for?”

Shay looked out across the sky, which was turning darker by the minute, and then back at you. “They will be.” He said, confident. “They’ll surpass every tale, every painting you have ever seen.”

“I hope you’re right, Shay.” You laid your head on your arms, tired.

It was a comfortable silence, waiting in the cold as the last light of the day vanished. Shay could sense the disappointment coming off you, he was ready to tell you to rest until he saw a faint flow.

It grew brighter, greens with blues, it stretched across the sky like ribbons of lights. It was like its own river.

He nudged her, pointing upward. “Look.” He whispered.

Your confusion turning awe as you saw the gentle wisps growing. The ocean reflected the colors of green and blue, maybe even purple. It was more of what they said, heavens celebrating and the spirits dancing...

“The aurora borealis.” You gasped. Your eyes wide in amazement. You could not describe the beauty of the lights, it would not compare to seeing it yourself. “I...” And you didn’t know what to say. All you could focus on was the colors dancing.

Shay watched your face, it was illuminated by the ethereal grow. It him smile to see your eyes glimmer like before, the slight parting of your lips, your face so focused. His hand reached up to gently turn your face towards him.

“Shay-”

“Even more beautiful.” He couldn’t resist any longer. He leaned in, pressing his lips onto yours in a kiss, the only warmth in the chilly night.

You responded eagerly, your arms wrapping around him as you returned the kiss. “Please Shay.” You groaned in his mouth. “Please.”

You pushed him against the wooden mast, he kept his hands on your hips as he sat down with you right on his lap. Shay pulled out his knife, cutting a hole in your pants. He tossed the knife aside.

Your breath hitched at the air hitting your cunt. Shay stuck two fingers in his mouth then slowly pushed them inside you. He thrusted it in and out of you, he worked his fingers deep inside you, he used his thumb to work on your clit, easing the pain, and making you clench around his fingers.

Shay then stopped and slipped his finger out of you, making you gasp, in shock at the sudden loss. You clicked your tongue, slipping your hands down his chest and to his breeches.

“Impatient, are we?” He smirked, watching you pulling his cock out.

You angled your hips, gripping his shoulders as you rubbed the slit of your cunt against the hard cock.

Shay gave you one last kiss, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck, his facial hair tickling you. “Careful.” Shay warned you. “Don’t go hurting yourself.”

You trembled as you sank onto his cock, hissing in between your teeth. You choked on your moans as you took his full length then circled your hips.

You began to bounce up and down his cock, he let out a louder moan. You cried out, throwing your head back. “Oh god, Shay!” You sobbed.

Shay managed to push you to change positions, laying you on your back where your legs kept him close and inside of you. Your nails bug into the back of his assassin’s coat and Shay planted kisses on your exposed neck.

He started at a slow pace, making sure you could feel him. Your eyes flickered open, looking up at the northern lights still there.

“More Shay, please.” Feeling your high approaching.

He picked up his pace, lifting his head up, and squeezing his eyes shut as he clenched his jaw. But he too, opened his eyes. He can see the northern lights reflecting in your eyes. You looked out of this world.

That's when you looked him in the eyes, he froze for a moment. Your hand reached to the back of his head, pulling him down to kiss him.

He continued, feeling his orgasms building along with yours. And after a couple of more thrusts, you both let out loud moans, he cursed as he felt you clamp down around him as he comes inside of you.

Shay had no qualms about the cold, he took off his assassin’s coat to wrap it around you. He then tucks himself back into his pants and you sit up, feeling the stickiness in between your legs.

You both sat against the mast. A smile on your face as you laid your head on his shoulder, panting. “Better than the tales and paintings.”

Though the northern lights were gone, he could still envision them. “I’ll always take to see them.”

“That would be impossible Shay. But I would love to see them now and again.”

Shay snorted, standing up and grabbing your hands. You wobbled, falling into his chest. “I’ll go as far as I can to take you to see them.” He placed a kiss on top of your head. “And I’ll take you under them each time.”

“Since when did you become so romantic?”

“Since I read your book.”

“Shay!” You smacked his chest while he laughed.

#x reader #x female reader #fluff #assassin’s creed smut #assassin’s creed x reader #shay cormac smut #shay patrick cormac #shay cormac x reader #assassin's creed #assassin’s creed #assassin’s creed rogue #shay cormac

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elfven-blog · 7 months ago

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Milking Session

Summary: You work at 'The Aquila Bovine Sanctuary' and it's milking day for the Italian Bull Ezio. BullHybrid!Ezio Auditore x F!Reader CW: MDNI, 18+ only, blowjob, handjob, he is a hybrid (cannot stress this enough). Word Count: 1.8K

Working at ‘The Aquila Bovine Sanctuary’ had been a weird experience to say the least, when you had applied to be a farmhand you had expected your duties to be cleaning the stalls, feeding the hybrids and maybe helping with the calves. Originally they had put you with the heifers’ and cows’ which had led to you blushing and shifting awkwardly the first time you had helped with a ‘milking’ session. The more experienced cows had started doting on you, stroking your hair and crowing about how sweet you were and gentle too. Over the past year or so you had become more calm about your job and had no worries anymore, especially when you made friends with some of the cows and heifers.

Unfortunately you had to be moved to the Bull area, which was far less peaceful. Some of the bulls did not care for fighting or dominance or any of that, but then some of them seemed to do nothing but fight or ramp each other up. It was a very different experience compared to what you had become used to. That’s not to say the women didn’t fight, they did. Often. But then they seemed to go back to being kind with each other very swiftly, a bull fight seemed to be able to last for days.

To make it all worse, today was a milking day. Milking day with the bulls was ever so slightly different, after all they didn’t produce milk…what they did produce however was seed.

The thought had you almost scowling, you didn’t hate it. It was a job and that’s all you thought about it as, you were sure in the same way many escorts and dominatrix’s thought of their own jobs.

It’s just that, quite often, it was messy. One time a Bull’s cum had gotten inside your glove, one of your colleagues had underestimated the amount and had dumped what would have been half a bucket more on the floor.

Today would most likely be just the same, at least the stories you swapped with your fellow handlers were funny. No one else seemed to understand your work and your nose scrunched as you remembered when you started working here, you had told one of your friends about a shift and that friend had a rather harsh reaction.

The wind grazed across the back of your neck and your body tensed for a moment before you shook your head and continued walking towards the bull field. Your hands immediately rested on the wood to help as you pushed yourself up to try and find the bull you were after.

A loud moo rang through and then the slam of horns against horns attracted your attention, and there he was. Ezio. He wasn’t the largest bull in the field but he was one of them, originally he had been kept in Italy but a few months ago they’d shipped him over to Aquila Bovine’s when he’d gotten into a rather messy situation and lost half a horn.

He seemed to have settled in quite nicely, none of the bulls were particularly aggravated with each other and most fights were really just them playing.

You yelled to the Italian bull, watching as his head shot up from the bull he was fighting and his mouth stretched into a grin before he was practically bolting over to you. His hands either side of yours as he panted down at you, his long tail flicking behind him and sweat dripped down his tanned skin.

“Tesoro!” he chimed at you, bending down to huff at your hair, seemingly taking rather long deep breaths “Where have you been?” Your body freezes at the feeling of pressure from his nose practically huffing you like glue, your hand moving to pat his arm until he decides he’s had enough and pulls away.

“I have other duties to attend to Ezio” you answer with a shrug but it doesn’t seem enough for the bull as he shakes his head and stamps his hoof “But don’t worry, I’m all yours for the moment.”

The gate is, surprisingly, easy to unlock so you make a mental note to get it checked by maintenance. You wouldn’t want the bulls escaping.

The gate itself is nearly pulled off its hinges as Ezio all but rags it open so that he can be on the same side as you, he closes it and gives you an awkward smile as he does so. The look on your face makes him bend his head and nudge you with it, he is careful of his horns but rather insistent on getting your touch so he knows you are not mad at him.

When your hand finally reaches up to stroke his hair and then at the base of his horns where you know he struggles to itch himself, his weight starts to lean on you as his eyes close and that rumbling purr sounds from him. It’s more like a groan to you, but the other handlers say it’s a purr so you go with it.

“Ezio! Ezio!” You panic slightly until his eyes open and he stands up again with that charming half-smile he has, one of his hands awkwardly resting on his neck as he pulls away and you simply shake your head as you make sure the gate is completely locked before gesturing for the Bull to follow you.

Technically you’re meant to put him in a harness or halter but Ezio’s always good. Following after you like a lost puppy rather than a bull, it’s only when you go past the cows and heifers that he seems to struggle. His head turning to their field and his nostrils flaring as he halts in his tracks, eyes searching for someone but you’re quick to tug his tail and he happily follows after you again. The distraction forgotten as you make your way to the milking room.

You can see his nose scrunch as you enter the room that had been booked out for his milking session, the Italian unhappy with the scents surrounding him. “Sorry, bud” You said as your hand patted him on the arm before slipping down and curling your hand in his to pull him over towards the milk stand.

It wasn’t a machine, just a bench where he would kneel and his hands would be slotted in and secured so that he couldn’t grab hold of you. The metal creaked under his weight as he leant on the plush pillow provided for his knees while you secured the straps around his wrists.

Once he was secured you grabbed the bucket and placed it just below him. When you looked up to speak to him, you found the bull already looking down at you. His pupils blown wide and his chest heaving with each breath he took as his eyes trained on you.

“You look so pretty like this” Ezio murmured to you in that rumble, his voice deeper from the arousal coursing through his veins which was made even more evident when your gloved hand wrapped around the base of his cock, the Italian pulling at his straps already with a hiss “So so pretty” he mumbled.

Your hand moves up the length of his prick, making him whine and buck his hips at the feeling. His head thrown back as he lets himself fall into that pleasure you’re offering him, ezio’s thighs tense as you tease the head of his cock with your thumb and it draws a low moan from the bull, the precum starts to drool from the slit which you use as lube to make it easier to pump your hand up and down him. You can hear his tail swaying behind him in excitement and it makes you smile more than it should.

His hips buck again as your hand slides down and squeezes the base of him, your eyes fall to the heavy set of balls to watch as they draw up to his body before relaxing again. Even though he’s now oozing precum, he’s not close enough to release yet which makes the corners of your mouth turn down as your pace increases. The bull’s eyes roll as his breathing quickens, his cock twitching in your palm but it’s still not enough even as his hips chase your hand every time.

Your eyes jump to the clock and you realise you’ve been in here for a good few minutes already with nothing to show for it. Which is why you lean forward and press a kiss to the head of his cock, Ezio’s mouth falls open with a loud groan and he mutters praises above you as your tongue flattens against his tip, swirling once, twice before you sink down on to him.

This is against the rules, something you’re definitely not meant to do but the poor bull was having trouble. Your hand moves to cup his balls, gently rolling them in your hand while the other one continues to pump around him. Your eyes close as you focus on tasting him, but it’s difficult to focus on making sure you do your job when his hips buck and force you to take more of him into your mouth.

You try not to gag from the sudden stretch of your jaw, his cock making you ache as he loses himself in the feeling of your warm throat around him. He tugs at the bindings on his wrists, groaning as his eyes roll and flutter, his mouth slack at the feeling of a wet mouth pleasing him. Your tongue tracing at the prominent veins on the underside of his cock as he fucks into your mouth until you are gagging around him.

There’s not much you can do as your hand slips from the base of his cock, his pace speeding up as he keeps humping into you and you can feel his balls drawing up again as he mumbles and moans above you “So so good”, “What a pretty girl” and “Feels so good dolcezza” all fall as praise from his mouth. His tail swaying more and more as the bench creaks from his movements, the bull chasing his high with the feeling of your mouth consuming him.

Your eyes widen as you feel him tense, his thighs shaking and his cock twitching in your mouth as he pulls at the bindings again and you’re barely able to pull off to grab the bucket before there’s white ropes of cum spurting from his cock, oozing down into the bucket as he moans. His head lolling back as he goes almost limp from his orgasm, cock twitching with the last few bits drooling from him as his eyes flutter. And you can’t stop your mind from wandering at the sight of him like this, you’ve never been so affected by your job before but there’s something about seeing the Italian so blissed out on the bench, or maybe it’s the spit covered cock that’s still hard between his thighs.

But either way, you’re really starting to enjoy working with the bulls at the sanctuary.

#assassins creed #assassins creed 2 #assassins creed revelations #ezio auditore x f!reader #ezio auditore smut #ezio auditore x reader #ezio auditore #assassin’s creed ezio #assassin's creed 2 #assassin's creed x reader #ezio auditore x fem!reader #assassin's creed smut #assassin's creed brotherhood #assassin's creed hybrid au

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desmond69miles · 10 months ago

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The Catch

This is sort of a prologue to 'An Artists Eye'. It uses the same way of meeting/Élise and Bellec are still alive, but reading the previous fic is not necessary! This is supposed to be after the game (but obviously a different ending), it more so came out as a completly different timeline- what the hell it's fiction anyway

Arno offers to show you around the hidden assassin base below Cafe Theatre. He also offers a risky sexual time in a small, curtain-drawn study in the archives.

Warnings/Tags: Google translated French, GN reader (no descriptions listed), oral sex/blowjob, risky sex, getting caught, probably ooc Axeman but IDK anything about him (he 'flirts' with you).

Word Count: 3.4k (rounded up)

AO3 LINK: Here

Enjoy.

---

Arno Dorian was a man of many suits. He drank like a monster, risked his life daily in more ways than one, and fought like a madman. But, he was an attentive lover. Caring and somewhat good-natured when it came to you.

You were wary of Arno's regular disappearances and injuries once you started dating him, perhaps a little more worried than a normal partner would be. You weren't sure if his gambling was getting him into fistfights or if he got into one too many scraps with local drunks, but you could never recall a time when he didn't come back to you unharmed.

At first, you’d thought him a thief or maybe a smuggler. To your surprise, he was neither (or both) but an assassin. You laughed at him then, giving him a look of disbelief, but when he stayed stone-faced, your look of humor soon turned into panic.

“Arno,” you had said, “you cannot be serious. An assassin?” He gave you a slight smirk that you can still picture perfectly today and took your hands in his. “Yes, an assassin. I’ve been one since I was twenty-two.” He said it so plainly that there was no other truth besides that- a killer. You weren’t scared, though, and perhaps you should have been. You trusted him not to get himself captured or, worse, killed.

Despite your trust, he did come home wounded quite often. The unexplained injuries suddenly made a lot more sense, especially the stab and slash marks from a sword--and, god forbid, a bullet hole once in a blue moon. While you weren’t thrilled about becoming skilled at suturing your lover, you got exceptionally good at it. In return, Arno affectionately called you ‘mon infirmière.’

My nurse.

“Arno,” you sighed nervously while threading a needle. “You know that you’re supposed to stick them with your sword, not be stuck by their sword, right?” He laughed and winced after, fists clenching at the two-centimeter-deep slash wound on his right side. “Oui, mon amour, I’m well aware. Sometimes, it’s a bit difficult while fighting three people at the same time.” You side-eye him then, tutting. “I have you, though, mon infirmière. You are much more gentler than Elise and not as scrutinizing.”

You also missed him a lot, even when he was right beside you. The constant fear that he might one day leave and never come back haunted you. Every time he returned in the dead of the night, you couldn't help but feel a surge of relief. You would thank him, your voice barely audible as he quietly removed his boots, careful not to disturb your sleep.

It’s been six months since you’ve started dating Arno. Your worry decreased dramatically during that time. Partially because the longest missions Arno’s been on are only a few days to a week at most, partially because he’d always spend a day or two before that mission with you doing things he’d know would quell your stress. This time, though, he’d be traveling to Toulouse for three weeks: six hundred and seventy-eight kilometers, a day and a half carriage ride away.

Arno was going to leave in two days, and he had been spending time with you in between the preparations. You sat in a chair by the fire, scribbling around your sketchbook. Arno was gone—probably below Cafe Theatre or in the study—the only thing keeping you company was the gentle crackling of the flames and the songbirds chirping outside in the terrace garden. Summer was coming to its final stretch and starting to transition into fall. Leaves were turning into gorgeous shades of red and orange, the temperature just warm enough to leave without a coat, and the apple trees were blooming to make the perfect apple cider.

A beautiful time of growth and change, and you’d be experiencing it with mostly Elise and your best friend (not that you had anything against Elise or your best friend; you did love them, but something about fall was so romantic).

“Mon amour,” a disembodied voice said, “what are you drawing?” His hands rested on your shoulders, squeezing lovingly before he leaned down to kiss the top of your head. “Eurasian jays,” you replied, moving your gaze from the crisp paper to your lover. He stole a chaste kiss and looked at your page of elegantly drawn birds. Arno recognized them as the bird that stole a piece of your bread a few months back, a smile drawing to his face.

Arno sighed through his nose. “How are you?” he asked, his voice ever more soothing at this peaceful moment. “Alright. How is your work going? Are you still leaving in two days?” His slight noise had confirmed, although he did not speak, and he moved one of his hands down, carefully taking your sketchpad away and setting it down on the table next to the chair.

“I have something that might put your mind at ease during my mission,” Arno said softly. “The Council has permitted you to visit our headquarters. You can meet my mentor and our fellow assassins. While you can't go there alone, I thought it might comfort you to see where I spend my time.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, quickly taking his hand as he helped you stand.

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I weren’t certain,” he replied, reassuringly smiling. “There aren’t many people there right now, maybe my mentor or a few friends. We could go now if you’d like?” You chewed your lip briefly, pretending to ponder before nodding. “Alright, let’s go.”

Arno led you down the familiar hallways of Cafe Theatre, but this time, he stopped at a spot you had never taken much notice of before. With an odd-looking key that you’ve never seen before slotted into the lock, the dark wooden door swung open with a quiet groan. Inside was a dimly lit staircase that descended into a stone hallway with a red rug lining the middle. “This way,” he said, taking your hand as he guided you into the dimly lit corridor.

The passage trailed downward, the air growing cooler and damper as you descended. The walls were lined with old, worn stone, and the faint scent of old books and earth made up the air. Arno walked with the confidence of a man who’d traversed these halls too many times to count, his gloved fingertips brushing against the bricks while his arm that didn’t wield the blade held your hand.

Eventually, you arrived at the bottom of the staircase. The hallway was much grander than you had seen from the top of the stairs--curtains framing big paintings of what you assumed were important figures in the assassin world, numerous pedestals holding silver or iron statues, and a large red tapestry with a white emblem on it hanging from the tall ceilings, the Creed’s sigil. The room was illuminated by torches mounted on the walls, casting a warm, flickering glow that danced over Arno’s face and shadowed a beautiful gleam on him.

Once the hallway ended, there was a room containing a long table surrounded by haphazardly pushed-in chairs. On all four sides of the room was another hallway, but the one in front of you led into a vast room resembling a courtroom. It was no less magnificent than the hallways—possibly a little more—such as the oak table covered in various maps and documents and the walls lined with weapons and other neatly organized tools of the trade.

Arno turns to you with a gentle smile, speaking in a tone that feels a little too loud for the setting, “This is where I spend much of my time when I’m not with you. It’s not much, but it’s home.”

You took in your surroundings with a deep breath. There was a strange comfort, as well as uncertainty and awe, seeing where Arno lived most of his life. You had talked about seeing the creed’s hideout when you first found out about his position, and honestly, what you saw now was not what you envisioned in your mind. When you think of Assassin, you think of torturing and other dark things. While you were sure it did happen, there was no hint of it here.

True to his word, there weren’t many people in the hideout. In fact, there wasn’t a soul around. “Is it normal for there not to be people?” You ask, looking at Arno as he wraps an arm around your waist. “No. Usually, there are many people, but most of us are out on missions, and the council is out on a meeting with-” “Arno!”

“Axeman, mon ami!”

You turned your head to the right to see a man walking towards you, an axe strapped on his back. You rolled your eyes playfully at the ‘clever’ name of his friend. Axeman slapped his hand on Arno’s shoulder in a hello, his brown eyes meeting yours. “And half of us thought you made them up,” he jests, sticking his hand out for you to take and gently kissing the back of your hand. “How could I make someone so great up?” Arno smiles, and his arm briefly squeezes you closer.

Axeman chuckles while running a hand through his pushed-back brown hair. “As much as I’d like to stay and chat with your lovely partner, I do have a mission to get to.” He gives you a small smile and Arno a playful smack again, turning to walk the way you came in. “Bellec’s around, so be on your best behavior.”

Once his buddy left, your lover turned to you, giving you a frisky smirk. “Let me give you a tour,” Arno grabbed your hand again with a slight squeeze and led you deeper into the underground hideout, his hand warm even through the worn leather glove. “This way,” Arno said, pulling you to the left hallway. This passage was thinner than the others and dimly lit by candelabras placed every five feet, occasional carvings etched into the stone walls between large pillars. Large wooden doors started after the fourth pillar, and Arno took you to the second one on the right side, swinging open the heavy door and nodding you inside.

“This is the main training room.” He gestured with a flourish, letting you step inside and look around. The space was huge, with mats covering the floor. Wooden dummies and targets lined two of the four walls, some riddled with throwing knives and arrows, some looking so broken it was just remembrance of rough training. Three assassins were sparring, one sitting down to the side drinking water and two practicing their knife skills.

“Care for a quick lesson?” He teased, knowing full well that you weren’t one for battling people, instead gnats or annoying flies that buzzed around. “Maybe later,” you replied with a grin, “What’s next?”

He followed you out and closed the door behind him, leading you across the hall into the next door. “Here is the armory.” The room opened to reveal wooden walls lined with weapons of every kind: swords, daggers, pistols, rifles, smoke bombs, bomb bombs, and, of course, things to maintain the hidden blade. Each was meticulously maintained and ready for action. “Most of us have our preferred weapons, so this is mainly for recruits or people who have lost a weapon. Pick any weapon, and it’ll have a story,” Arno said, following you inside.

His fingers brushed an ornate-looking sword, the beautiful engraving on the blade glinting in the candlelight. You reached out, touching a dagger with an intricate hilt next to the sword Arno was looking at. “What about this one?”

“Ah, that belonged to Thomas de Carneillon, an assassin in the 13th and 14th century,” Arno explained, “he tried to steal a sword of Eden, the same one that killed Germaine.” He gives you an inquisitive look and lets you wander around the round room, watching as you observe the weapons with a curiosity that makes his stomach twinge in an absurd kind of attractiveness.

Once you circle the room and return to Arno, he offers his hand again and leads you out of the room and deeper into the hallway. “You’ll love this,” he assures, motioning towards the end of the hallway where a huge arch opened up to a library. “This is the south archive,” he said, smiling at your giddy smile.

It smelled like old parchment, ink, and worn leather-bound books, a scent that engrained itself in your brain. Shelves upon shelves of ancient tomes, scrolls, and books lined the walls, going up to the ceiling where a giant metal chandelier hung. Maroon velvet curtains lined the arch, and when you slipped into the library, you didn’t notice Arno tugging the golden rope that held them back. The drapes made a soft noise as they closed, dimming the room just the slightest bit, and Arno watched as your fingers trailed over the spines of the books.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “You said that this is the South archive?” Arno hummed a ‘yes,’ coming up behind you as you pulled one of the smaller books off the shelf. He wrapped his arms around your hips and kissed your temple, scanning the book you opened. “This library isn’t the biggest one here, but this one is always empty, perfect for us.”

Arno watched the trail of your fingertips against the worn paper, gentle like your fingers when you trail them over Arno’s back. His eyes followed your hand as you turned the page, forefinger and thumb pinching the page like when you pinch your nipple while he’s fingering you. He should not be turned on right now.

“Arno,” you said, head turning to look at your lover behind you. His eyes caught yours, your pretty eyes that always glistened right before you orgasmed, and right then, he made up his mind. Before you could speak again, Arno had pressed his lips against your soft ones, maybe just a little too roughly, the leather of the book in your hands creaking with how hard you gripped it.

His hand grabbed the book from your hands and placed it back on the shelf with a little bit of struggle. Nipping your bottom lip, Arno’s hands gripped your hips and slipped his tongue inside your mouth. He tasted like wine and something sweet--something him-- and god, you’d be lying if it wasn’t intoxicating for the both of you. When you did pull away, a slim bridge of saliva connected your lips and snapped when he licked his. You were suddenly very aware of the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into--his erection pressed into your behind and his needy hands wandering your body.

“We’re in the base,” you un-needily whispered, sucking in a small breath as his lips moved to your jaw and pressed a kiss just behind your jawbone. “Oui, but we are alone. No one is near us, and we’ll be quiet.” You shakily breathed as he continued to kiss along the side of your neck and fuck; if the thought of risk didn’t set a throbbing between your legs, you weren’t sure what did.

With an enthusiastic nod, Arno grabbed your hand and pulled you to one of the curtain-drawn study rooms off to the side. As he did with the entrance to the archive, Arno pulled the rope holding the drapes back off and dropped it to the floor. The ambient candlelight under the curtains, the only light in the ‘private’ study room, set a surprisingly intimate aura as Arno’s hand cups the side of your face and kisses you again. This one was headier, making your mind swim as his other hand grabbed your butt, pushing your hips into his.

Your hands that had been resting on his shoulders slipped down his chest and to his belt, one palming his obvious arousal and the other fiddling with the belt buckle. He groaned into your mouth, hips chasing your hand as you moved it up to help undo the buckle. His hands joined yours in a messy struggle, and once his belt was undone, you immediately sank to your knees.

Arno swore--a short, breathy ‘merde’ that sent every single ounce of blood that was in your brain rushing south, and with that blood came a fleeting thought of how easy it was to get you to suck him off in a place with people. It wasn’t the first time that you had sexual interactions in a public place--far from it--but it was the first time that you’d be on the giving end.

His hand came to rest on the back of your head as your fingers unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down with his undergarments just to free his cock. Even in the darkness, you could tell that he was fully hard, your hand that didn’t rest on his hip coming to stroke him teasingly slow. Your thumb swiped over his tip that dribbled precum, and his hips twitched with a soft groan that was nothing short of heavenly.

You softly pressed your lips against his head and trailed them down his shaft, letting your spit dribble against his heated skin and slicking him up with your hand. His quiet groans and the schlick of your hand made up the space--an erotic opera--and finally, your lips slipped around his tip and gently sucked. “Dieu, fuck, don’t stop,” Arno groaned, hips rocking in time with the drawls and push of your head. After enough saliva drips from your mouth and down his cock you took him deeper in just so the head of his cock was resting against the back of your tongue.

Arno moved both of his hands to the side of your head and gently held you in place, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones, and he began to thrust into your mouth. At first, his thrusts were shallow, but as your hands came to his thighs once again, Arno gave a chuckle and picked up his pace. You slid your tongue against the underside of him, and he let out a groan, one that was a little too loud. “Good job, mon amour, good job…”

No matter how many times you took him in any way, there was never a time where he failed to make you so painfully aroused.

“Suck,” Arno said, stopping his movements rather deep inside the constrictive heat of your throat and petting your head. And just like he said, you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. His head thudded against the wall he had his back rested on, and, oh, that groan. Primal and needy and wanting in every sinful way known to man. “S'il vous plaît, continuez, putain, juste comme ça. Tu me prends si bien- si bien, fuck!”

His fingers threaded through your hair and gripped the strands, holding them tight as he rocked against your mouth. Arno was so, so close, you just needed to suck a little harder and-

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, ARNO?!”

You immediately pull off of Arno, who seems equally surprised but, strangely enough, not embarrassed. You wiped the back of your mouth with your hand and turned around, face mortified at the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway. He shook his head and turned around, letting the curtain fall behind him, and you could still tell he was outside due to the shadow from under the drapes. Arno haphazardly tucked himself back into his pants and offered you a hand up off the ground. When he pulled you up, you gave him a look, one that said Arno, are you fucking kidding me? but all he did was chuckle and step out of the study.

“Désolé, Bellec.” Your lover said, utterly unphased by the fact you had just been caught in a very precarious and intimate moment, and you heard a sigh from not Arno. “You never fail to amaze me, pisspot,” The man- Bellec- laughed.

You stood in the study for a good fifteen minutes with your face aflame, too embarrassed to even walk out of the hideout.

Thankfully the second meeting with Bellec was not when you were sucking Arno off and instead over wine (that doesn’t mean you weren’t a hot-faced mess with an embarrassed smile on your face throughout the whole thing, though).

#arno dorian x reader #arno dorian #arno dorian smut #assassins creed x reader #ac unity #ac unity x reaer

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neon-junkie · 2 years ago

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OMFG ITS A WIN FOR THE FUCKING GAYS!! ONCE AGAIN!! If you want to do any requests for fem eivor I’d love your takes on her kinks/ general sex headcanons you may have ❤️❤️

Hell yes!!! I started being down bad for fem!Eivor the second I began playing as her. She's just so... *clenches fist*

I don't see Eivor as being the type to go wild when it comes to kinks. She's definitely not vanilla, but not extremely taboo either.

Outdoor sex is an obvious one, given that she spends 90% of her time out in the wilderness, and fucking in the longhouse isn't as private as she wants it to be.

Nothing beats lounging around in a meadow, cuddling in a bed of flowers, watching the clouds drift overhead as Eivor holds you in her arms.

She's a switch. Always happy to take the ropes, or submit to you. It's your call, really.

There are times when she needs you to care for her, such as after a devastating loss in battle.

And other times when she needs to be in charge, fuelled by the adrenaline from a bloody victory.

Eivor is a giver. She's going to go down on you, drawing orgasm after orgasm until you're literally having to peel her off you.

"You want me to stop? Give me one good reason why I shouldn't continue picking you apart, using my tongue alone."

Over-stimulation? Yeah, you better get used to it. Eivor isn't going to stop when your thighs are shaking around her head. She wants to see you utterly debauched.

And if you try to give her the same treatment? Good luck. She's a strong woman who will literally pick you up and throw you around like a rag doll. That is, if you want it.

"You're so adorable when you try to boss me about. You seem to forget which one of us is taking charge tonight. Here, let me remind you..."

Skin contact is appreciated, but not essential. There's something feral about having Eivor pin you down whilst she's still in her full gear, blood stained and all.

However, when Eivor wants to be tender and romantic, then the clothes are coming off!

A little bit of bondage may enter your sex life. Nothing too wild, just your wrists tied together, or a makeshift gag whenever you're being too loud.

Eivor isn't going to go out of her way to introduce toys. Why bother? Her fingers and mouth work perfectly fine. But if you suggest it, then Eivor will listen, although she knows they will never compete with her skills.

After care is very essential to Eivor. Nothing beats a kiss and a cuddle, no matter if you're out in the wilderness, or cooped up in a bed of furs.

Expect a few courting braids to be in your hair once Eivor is done with you. It's a key part of her after care routine.

#acwriting #assassins creed valhalla #assassins creed #eivor #eivor wolfkissed #female eivor #eivor x reader #fem!eivor x reader #eivor wolfkissed x reader #reader insert #AC valhalla #f!reader #smut

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gaycragula · 11 months ago

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Assassin's Creed Masterlist

Account Navigation Request Info

Bayek of Siwa

Smut- Bathhouse Shenanigans- M!Reader Smut- Some Man Tit Appreciation- M!Reader

Jacob Frye

Smut- Nice Tits- GN!Reader Smut- In the Alleyway?- M!Reader

Alexios

Smut- Late Night Cuddles- M!Reader Smut- Taking Care of the Misthios- M!Reader Smut- The Amor Stays On- M!Reader

Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor Kenway

Fluff- A Lovely Hunting Trip- M!Reader

#x reader #x male reader #x gn!reader #male reader #reader #gn!reader #assassins creed #ac origins #ac syndicate #ac odyssey #alexios #jacob frye #bayek of siwa #smut #masterlist

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theewicked · 10 months ago

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Wet & Warm

The warm water slid against your skin as you adjusted your legs, the bathroom filled with steam that closed tight around your body and mind, making you melt into the bubbles. Your thoughts drifted back to your wife, who was on her way back from work. Your lovely, charming wife, who last time you called, didn’t sound so pleased.

Her clients were always giving her grief, it was the type of people they typically were. She was a lawyer specialising in business, therefore the people she worked with thought little about the way they spoke towards her, and what they demanded from her. Eivor was no slight woman though, with toned muscles, icy blue eyes, and a towering height, she could put her clients into place when the situation called for it.

Though even that didn’t save her sanity sometimes.

A car pulled up in your drive, the smooth sound of it quiet and recognisable, immediately grabbing your attention. Keys jingled faintly as they turned in the front door, and soon enough Eivor shouting as for your whereabouts. “I’m in the bathroom!” You shouted back, anticipating seeing your wife again. Even though you two had been together for a while, she always managed to make you get butterflies. It was a comfortable feeling though, so different from the anxiety you got as a teenager.

The doorknob twisted and Eivor slipped into the bathroom, the sight of her making your breath catch in your throat. A black suit hugged her muscled body, the fabric of her jacket tailored perfectly to her face waist and arms, teasing her gorgeous body. The first few buttons of her white shirt were undone, divulging a pale, sculpted chest; skin that was was familiar to your hands and mouth. Eivor’s flaxen hair was done in a neat braid that had swept itself over her broad shoulder. Oh how badly you wanted to run your fingers through the soft strands.

Blue eyes softened as they landed on your figure, pretty pink mouth tugging up in a little smile. “I’ve missed you.” Eivor whispered, and started walking towards the bathtub your body resided in. You followed her every move, tracking her powerful legs as they ate up the distance between the doorway and the tub.

“I missed you too, I hope your clients didn’t cause too much damage to your psyche.” A soft laugh left your mouth as Eivor groaned, kneeling beside the tub and taking off her jacket in a swift manoeuvre. You licked your lips at the sight of her tight silk shirt, and at the way it clinged to her small breasts and firm muscles. Eivor rolled up the sleeves of her shirt to her elbows and rested her forearms on the edge of the tub before bringing her face towards yours.

Her lips met yours in a slow, sweet embrace that had you bringing your hands to cup her face. Your fingers traced her beautiful cheekbones and strong, straight nose. Eivor seemed to melt into your touch as she started leaning towards you, arms leaving the lip of the tub in favour of wrapping themselves around the small of your back. The kiss got deeper and more passionate, tongues entered and swept across each other in familiar but forever electrifying movements.

When the two of you pulled away to catch breaths, you looked down to see Eivor’s shirt completely drenched from being dipped in the high water of the bath. It clung to her abs and teased you with the sheerness of the material, making you rub your legs together under the water. Before you could pull yourself out of the trance your wife body had bewitched you in, the lady in question had moved her arms down from your back to the back of your thighs, and had hoisted you up from the water.

You yelped out in surprise, but Eivor was quick to quieten you with a more forceful kiss than her previous ones. The feel of her tongue dominating yours had your hips grinding down onto her waist where your legs were wrapped. Eivor moved her hands up to grip your ass as she walked through the hallway and into your shared bedroom. She placed your wet body down onto the neatly made bed with reverence and wasted no time in removing her soaked shirt and kneeling between your spread legs.

The warm light the multiple candles you lit before entering the bath provided you with the perfect light to admire Eivor’s damp torso, the muscles of it strong and full of temptation. You sat up and reached to remove the plain bra she wore before you even willed yourself to, and quickly her gorgeous breasts were on display for your eyes only. The soft peaks of them were highlighted by the sweet light filling the room, and you couldn’t help but lean towards them and pull one of her rosy nipples into your mouth.

The sound Eivor made was one of pure sin that had wetness dripping onto the mattress beneath you, and as you swirled your tongue around the hardening bud, her hands came up to free your hair from whatever protection you held it in against the bath water. “I’ve been thinking about this all day” Eivor moaned as her fingers quickly found the strands before tugging on them, not gently, but not as forceful as she could be either. Suddenly Eivor pulled your head away from her breast, her keen eyes watching the strand of saliva that connected your mouth to her nipple as she pulled you further away.

Eivor’s hands moved from your hair down to your bare shoulders, pushing gently until your back hit the mattress. She stood up quickly, removing the bottom half of clothes and exhibiting her thick, powerful thighs. Your hungry eyes trailed upwards and landed on the honey-blonde hair that covered the place you so desperately wanted to touch, taste, and feel. Eivor tracked your eyes and laughed quietly, rolling her eyes and coming towards you to kneel in font of you once more. Her body lowered down as she started to place gentle kisses on your lower stomach, before moving up to kiss and suck at the underside of your breast.

A shuddery gasp tore from your throat, and your hands found her strong shoulders to squeeze and caress. You could feel her smirk against your soft flesh, and you gripped the sides of her face in an attempt to pull her up. You heard a sound of frustration press against your skin before Eivor’s sculpted arms swept up in a flash and restrained you. Her long fingers wrapped around your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Be a good girl for me baby.” She said the words against your skin accompanied by a long lick that came to swirl around your nipple. Eivor’s thigh came to rest between your legs and you started to grind your cunt against the hard muscle. A whimper left your mouth at the friction her leg gave to your swollen clit. Eivor fully wrapped her mouth around your nipple, sucking and biting at the hard bud. One of her hands came down to trace the contours of your waist before gently rubbing your clit.

Your back arched off the bed and your hips jutted up in desperation. Eivor seemed to have got the message as she removed her last hand from your wrists. Her body moved down on the bed and she pulled your thighs to rest on her shoulders, the broadness spreading them wide for her.

Ravenous eyes glazed over when they saw you laid out just in front of them. Eivor licked her lips, pink tongue darting out and making them glisten. She pressed the muscle flat against your folds, spreading them and making a pathetic mewl escape from your lips. She groaned into your pussy and squeezed the flesh of your thighs, no doubt creating little marks that you would wake up to.

Eivor’s tongue was relentless as it lapped up your juices like they were the last thing on earth. Her plump lips came up to suck on your swollen, needy clit. The action had you wrapping your thighs around Eivor’s head and pulling at her miraculously still intact braid. She groaned into your cunt, sending syrupy vibrations up your core that had wetness spilling out of you and down your ass cheeks. Eivor devoured every last bit happily, sliding her tongue down in zigzag motions towards your hole. All of a sudden she pressed the long muscle into you, curling it upwards and rubbing it against that spot that had you moaning loudly.

Suddenly, Eivor sat up, the loss of contact in your weeping cunt making you shiver. Her large hands came and pushed against the backs of your thighs, making your legs touch your belly. She braced a tattooed, toned forearm against them both and dove back down for more. Her free hand slid up your sweaty torso, squeezing at your breasts as they passed them. Eivor’s two middle fingers came and pressed against your wet, swollen lips, demanding entrance. You obliged immediately, too lost in the sensations her expert tongue was giving you. Her long fingers slid into your mouth, the length of them hitting the back of your throat and making you gag slightly.

Her icy eyes looked up at you, and you could barely see the colour of them, her pupils blown so wide in pleasure. They were glazed over, every one of her senses lost in the pleasure she received from giving to you. The sight of her head between your thighs wretched a long, deep-throated moan from you, and you bit down hard on Eivor’s fingers.

She pulled them out of your mouth and removed her forearm from your thighs, letting your legs straighten out. Eivor pulled back entirely, the action having you furrowing your brows in confusion, a plea on the tip of your tongue. She spat on your swollen pussy, reaching a hand down to rub at your ass cheek. Before you knew it, she had grabbed your hip with that same hand and had flipped you over onto your hands and knees.

Shock reverberated through your system, and you could feel your nectar leaking down the lengths of your thighs. Eivor made a sound of pure pleasure as she lent down to lick a stripe up the back of each of your thighs, catching the wetness in her mouth. The gentleness of her tongue against your hot skin sent shivers down your spine as you awaited her next move.

The two very same fingers that had beet wetted in your mouth previously were shoved into you, Eivor’s palm angling downwards to rub against your poor clit with every thrust. The sound of your wet cunt pressing into her hand had you gripped the messy bedsheets in front of you with all the strength you could muster. You felt her dewy breath on your pussy before her lips sucked on your clit once again, the new angle making you more sensitive. Her fingers were moving in tandem with her mouth, and you soon felt your orgasm pool in your stomach. You clenched around Eivor, her fingers scraping your quivering walls just right. With each thrust, your mewls turned into moans, and those moans got louder and louder.

“That’s it baby, come for me.” Eivor said the words against your messy cunt, and you could barely form a reply before your pussy walls clenched a vice grip around her fingers. Your head fell forward, landing in the softness of the mattress as you screamed into it. Eivor slowed her movements to give you time to come down from your high, still licking long stripes up and down your cunt.

Sweat dripped from your forehead as you pulled yourself back up onto your hands.

You needed to taste her, to fill your mouth with the sweet ambrosia that was no doubt dripping onto the duvet.

What a waste.

Before Eivor could process it, you had turned yourself around and grabbed her face. You pulled her lips to yours, hers opening beneath gladly. Eivor’s mouth tasted of you, and the heady flavour reminded of what you set out to do. You put both of your hands on her broad shoulders, turning the two of you around so that she was where you were on the bed, and vice-versa. Her beautiful eyes were curious as they watched you sink down her body, kissing, suckling, and biting as you went. The muscle was hard beneath your mouth, but the skin so soft against your tongue.

The muscle trailed down her abs, tracing the dips between and leaving wetness in its wake. You nosed the pretty dark blonde hair your mouth found eventually, hands coming down to spread her strong thighs, finding wetness dribbling down them. Your mouth watered at the feeling. Eivor let out a long exhale and pulled her plump bottom lip between her teeth.

You restrained yourself, wanted to prolong this experience: It wasn’t often that Eivor let you do this, her preferring to be the one to give pleasure. You looked up to see her watching you intently, blue eyes half-lidded and breaths deep. Her high cheekbones were dusted with a honeyed pink, and her blonde braid was mussed, some soft pieces escaping and framing her face. Eivor’s small breasts moved up and down with her breaths, and you moved further down her body, positioning yourself.

The weight of her leg was heavy on your back as you threw one over your shoulder and stared down at your wife. Her pink, needy clit stared back at you, hole weeping pure sweetness and just begging to be stimulated.

Of course you obliged.

Your nose moved down to inhale her sweet, familiar scent before your mouth descended upon her. You twirled your tongue around her clit and her large hands came to grip your head instinctively. A little noise tore from the back of her throat, and the sound of it had you pulling her little bud into your mouth and sucking on it. Your hands trailed themselves down to grip her soft ass as you spread her pussy further for yourself. Fingers came and entered themselves into Eivor’s cunt, the warmth and tightness of her so familiar and so Eivor. You couldn’t get enough. You thrusted into her hard, fingers rubbing against her wet walls that parted so nicely for you.

Her voice got higher and higher, something so unlike Eivor, but you were so glad she trusted you enough to share this side of herself with you. Precious nectar poured out of her, and you made it your mission to savour every last drop. Her walls clenched around your fingers, and her hands tightened in your hair. Eivor’s movements had you groaning into her cunt.

Her voice grew in pitch, and soon enough her pussy fluttered around your fingers in movements so strong you could feel them in her clit. Eivor wailed softly as you slowed your movements to bring her back from wherever she had ascended to. You looked back up to see tears streaming down her precious face, and a smile adorning her lips. You placed one little kiss against her clit before pulling yourself up to touch your lips against hers. This time it was slower, more savouring the tastes of you two marrying together.

Legs came to straddle her torso, and Eivor sat up, causing your cunt to press against her lower abs. A soft gasp left your lips while her powerful arms came to wrap around your frame. Her tongue stroked yours and you soon found yourself grinding against Eivor.

“Think you can take another one, Love?” She whispered the words against your mouth, accentuating them by pulling your bottom lip into her mouth and sucking. Your cunt was too wet to decline.

“Yeah. Please.” The two words were ones of desperation and want. Eivor’s hands came down to rest on your hips and they kneaded the flesh there before moving them back and forth. Your clit scraped against the dips and valleys of Eivor’s abdomen, and the sensation had you gasping into the kiss. You moved your head to rest on her pale muscular should, gently kissing the skin there as you let warmth overtake your being.

You felt your climax approach quickly, your cunt so sensitive thanks to prior stimulation. “There’s a good girl.” Eivor’s encouraging words had you jutting your hips faster and harder. You bit down onto her shoulder as your thighs started to shake, pleasure running up and down them like an electrical current.

Wetness poured from you, and ecstasy flowed though your veins and wracked your bones. A long, deep moan came from your mouth, muffled by Eivor’s shoulder. Her hands tenderly caressed your hips before coming to pull your face up. She kissed you sweetly, both of you smiling into the movement.

Eivor stood up, pulling you with her and wrapping your legs around her waist once again. She moved quickly through the hallway and you moved your hands to cup her warm face.

She stepped into the now lukewarm water of your bath, and you both laughed at the temperature shock.

#lesbian #eivor x reader #female eivor #smut #sapphic nsft #fanfic #assassins creed #ac valhalla

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