#feedback is appreciated greatly

[angelpuns]

Kid Leo Au: Reunion

Part 12

I am geniunely really frustrated with how...anticlimactic this part feels to me. I wish I had drawn it better and had been more careful when doing my finishing steps :/ I didn't spend as much time on lining/coloring this part this week as I would have liked, so I'm really sorry it kinda falls flat ;-; I hope you all enjoy it regardless <33

NEXT TIME ON KID LEO...OH...

Kid Leo Au Masterpost | First | Next

[mintycitrus]

🩵🎨

[sun-snatcher]

could you write "i know i'm a monster, but you treat me like a man." from your prompts with shay cormac/f! reader? I discovered your profile recently and been loving your writing🫶🏻

( all credits to @bankaizen for this delicious gifset! )

✠ | of monsters & men ; shay cormac

summ. Your secret is revealed. The Captain of the Morrigan doesn't seem to mind. w.count. 2k. a/n.  f!reader , but reader is pretending to be a man , james kidd who? , slow-burn , mutual pining , friends-to-lovers , just reader & Shay being love-struck idiots . (I also understand that traditional sloop-of-war’s much like the Morrigan wouldn’t’ve had a crow’s nest due to her size, but for the sake of the fic, allow me to wave a magic wand over canon!)

       ST. ANTHONY’S RECEIVES the Morrigan with loving arms. 

With the ship lain to, and half the crew offboard, the Northern squalls billowing downwind into the dank, creaky port does little to stifle the riots of songs livening taverns and inns. All this, yet—

“Birdie!” calls a voice, floating high somewhere by where the topsails have been furled secure. “Haven’t frozen y’toes off there, have you, lad? Be a shame if I lost the finest Navigator the seas have yet to offer.”

Sitting slouched in the crow’s nest, you let out a snort. “Aye, lost ‘em all to scurvy just yesterday, I fear,” you lament, voice timbre. "Go away!"

Shay’s delighted laugh fills the air—

And you quickly tamp down that flutter you feel in your chest before it could get too treacherous.

“Also,” you note, once he hauls himself from the mainmast and lands with a perfect perch at the nest’s guardrails, “I’m the finest Navigator the seas will ever offer you, Captain, thank you very much.”

“Aye, that y’are. Dare I say the finest Mariner there is—”

“Oh-ho?”

“—right after me, ofcourse—”

“Little Irish bastard,” you scowl, failing miserably at hiding your grin, and swatting childishly at him when he scoots to settle into a comfortable seat next to you. “So. St. Anthony’s women not t’your fancy? What’re you doing all the way up here, Captain?”

“Funny that. Was going to ask y’the same thing after I saw y'run off. An’ Christ, call me Shay. I’m beginning to forget my name after all these months sailin’.” 

“Well, I was drawing, Captain,” you deflect, easily. Better than confessing you don’t want to be stuck in a stuffy room brushing shoulders with rowdy drunkards, and feeling your own heart bleed out watching pretty ladies bat their lashes and sidle up freely next to Shay.

Your answer is hardly a lie, anyway. The only reason the crew had taken to calling you Birdie in the first place is because you bide your time up in the nest scratching away in your papers (or dozing off one too many times, as Gist so likes to point out). That, and the fact it proves easier with your slightly build to pull your weight in the lines or riggings up above.

“Rum?” he offers, and sets it by you. It feels alot like a peace offering, even if it's unintentional.

Shay’s gaze falls on your tattered, leatherbound journal. A curious trinket; he’s never seen you an arm’s length from it, nor the pencil you keep tucked on your ear. He’s seen you sketching away into its water-logged pages more oft than not, cheeks stained with graphite and a furrow between your brows. “S’that your woman, birdie?” he says, glimpsing the unfinished markings of a face. “Now I see why you're not tasting the local cuisine. She’s a beauty.”

You can't help but break into a knowing, private smile. “Aye… Something like that.”

"How mysterious."

"She's my sister," you lie, if only to chase him off your scent.

"Oh? Well, does she have a man?"

"Fuck off," you bite, though without heat. The chance compliment settles nicely in your cheeks. "She’ll only be a trouble t’you. She's not your type, anyway, Shay.“

"Isn't she?" he hums cannily, but doesn’t broach the topic further. He’d never dared to ask to look in the book— isn’t exactly his business, after all— but you shrug and trade it for his drink. “Y’sure, birdie? I don't pry.”

“Go on, then, 'fore I change my mind.” There isn’t anything damning written about you in there; You know better than to risk that.

“So?” you take a swig, just as Shay begins parsing hrough the pages. "What is it? Surely you didn't climb up here t'keep warm. Come t'bother me?"

“Is it a crime for a Captain to want to spend time alone with his good friend?” he muses, distracted by the drawings— nay, Masterpieces, these are masterpieces, birdie. Y’ve a future in this, y’know?— of intricate horizons, coasts, constellations and isles on the weathered pages. 

Shay recognises them all: Asian archipelagos and spits of the lesser Antilles or the Caribbean reefs you’ve both voyaged to, dated and signed; alongside notes of headings and longitudes penciled under stipplings of navigational celestials like the North Star, the Dipper. 

“If the Captain is you, Shay,” you answer, “Then any man with sense.”

“Oh, I mean the Morrigan, birdie,” he teases, only to earn a sharp smack at his knee. 

“Ha-ha. I reckon all your good friends are women, aye?”

“So it seems,” he agrees absent-mindedly, and you wonder if the sideways glance at you had been your imagination.

Shay turns to the still-lifes. Breaching humpback whales and dolphin pods arcing over whitecaps; a bird’s-eye-perspective of the crew on a sunny day aboard the Morrigan, and countless, bustling ports across the world you’ve visited. There are portraits of the crew too: of deckhands, gunners, or of Gist, and even a stern profile of Haytham Kenway looking portside in the distance. 

And in-between it all—

Him. Captain Shay Cormac. Immortalised in blink-and-you-miss-it moments: manning the steer while holding conversation, or perched at the bow afore the setting sun, or peering through his spyglass from the sail riggings. “I ought to commission’ you. These are bloody incredible.” He traces a finger over one of the more detailed portraits of him, looking serene despite the menacing scar splitting his face. “Y’ve done me a justice, lass.”

You choke on the rum.

“—Aye,” you cough, willfully ignoring his mistake. Or had you misheard? “Perhaps, ah, one day.”

(Regardless. He couldn’t possibly know, surely. You’ve been careful for this long.) 

You clear your throat. Shake your head. “You haven’t properly answered my question, Captain.” 

“Right,” he relents, and closed the journal before handing it back to you. “I was just curious—”

You steel yourself for the worst.

“—why’ve y’stuck around for so long?”

Oh. “You mean, aboard the Morrigan? With you?”

“Aye,” he nods, levelling your curious, critical look. “I’m sure y’ve heard rumors an’ chatter about me, birdie. Isn’t hard t’miss. Master Kenway, Gist, an’ I’s line’a work, that is. I’m here to confess it isn’t all hearsay, that what I do isn’t a pretty thing.”

“Didn’t fancy you the type t'care about what other people think, Shay.” No one needs to earwig that to know it’s true. It’s quite known that Captain Cormac is an unflappable creature who’s earned his place in the world both on and off-land, to toe the thin line between confidence and arrogance wherever he goes. Though you suppose he’s just a man, at the end of the day, if he’s this consumed over a little mud-slinging to his reputation. 

“I don’t,” he agrees, truthfully. “But I do care what you think.”

Something soft curls in your heart. Damn you, Shay Cormac, you curse. You handsome, quick-witted—

“I know it isn’t pretty. And fortunately for you, I’m no priest, and we’re not in a confessional, so,” you sniff. “Doesn’t change a damn thing.”

He huffs out a polite laugh. “Well said.”

“Listen,” you sigh, more serious now. “Other men may have come and gone with the tide, but I’ve voyaged with you the longest because I wanted t'stay, Captain.”

“Exactly. You’ve seen what I can do. I know I’m a monster, birdie, but y’treat me like a man, an’ noble men don’t— do what I do.”

Ah. So there’s the root to all of this banter, then. A crisis in faith, somewhere. “Shay,” you narrow. “I’ve never met someone who’s a stout heart as you; Kept every word like bond, and never traded honour for prestige. Now, most monsters are men, and it’s all the same to the likes of me—”

(To the likes of me, Shay catches the slip.)

“—but I think you need to ask yourself: do you kill without cause?”

“No,” he says, affronted. “I fight for the people.”

“Then you’re twice the noblest man any could ever dream to be.”

A beat. 

Shay drops his head back to the mast with a glittering look in his eyes you can only describe as fond. (Perhaps, if you dared to indulge, affectionate—) “You’re a bloody gem, birdie, y’know that?”

The cuff of his sleeves brush against your pinky, and you can feel the toe of his boot against your own. You try not to focus on either of it, try not to focus on the proximity. “Aye, most women call me a diamond in the rough.”

He doesn’t laugh and take the bait this time, much to your surprise. “My Da once told me, birdie: It’s not enough to give people what they need to survive, you need to give them what they need to live.”

“Aye,” you nod, after a subdued moment. “I’ve stayed because you’ve given me that, Shay: purpose. Sailing the seas on the Morrigan is the freest I’ve ever been.”

“Y’ought to sail with your true self, birdie.”

You seize. Feel your blood run ice cold. “My… truest self is by your side.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?” you bristle, and you are cutting now, Shay can see, because you’re frightened. “Captain, how much have you had to drink—?”

“I’d make a poor Irishman if half a bottle’a rum is all it takes to end me. Now take it easy, lass—”

You scowl, and move to sit up. “I’m not a—”

“It isn’t a fret to me at all, birdie,” he says, firmly, the back of his hand nudging your shoulders to lean back. “At ease. I’ve known you’re a woman for ages, now.”

This time you can’t school the look on your face.

“How long’ve you known?” you swallow, after you gathered your wits.

Shay cocks his head in thought. The confirmation now only pieces together what he’d always had a sneaking suspicion of, sensed even beyond his own second sight. Your gear, your mild stature, your peculiar mannerisms; nimble-handed at the riggings, fleet-footed in every brawl. But, if he’s to put a time on it—

“Singapore. When y’knocked that Portuguese sap’s teeth right out his head an’ put the heart crossways in him after he fretted the poor barmaid. Looked right personal t’you. I gathered then.”

A pause. Careful calculation. You’re trying to piece your reality back now that it's been shattered: the moonlit hush, the whistle of the winds, the lap of the tide against the Morrigan. Finally:

“Pretty sure he was Peranakan,” you correct, uselessly. Your hackles aren’t raised anymore. Shay would’ve acknowledged the look of defeat in your eyes had he not been so captivated by hearing your voice— real voice— for the first time.

(It’s gentle. Beautiful. If he’d been any more loose-lipped he might’ve pleaded you sing for him.)

“Captain, Singapore was… a long time ago.” It’s a loaded sentence, and had he not known you well enough he might’ve missed it: Why didn't you say anything?

“Aye. Like y’said earlier,” he waves, dismissively, “Doesn’t change a damn thing. Only, what’s your real name, lass?” 

You tell him. It’s been unspoken for so long, that for a moment it sounds near foreign to your own ears when he rolls the syllables back to you in his accented tongue. “Lovely name. I’m guessin’ the woman in your journal is you, aye?”

“To be a dame in a boatful of men is a death sentence, Shay,” you laugh, distant. It isn’t pleasant. “Ill omen to have a woman onboard, you know? Or so they say.”

He knows what you really mean.

“An’ yet here we are, after all these years, alive an’ well,” he challenges, raising his and your shared rum to the pale moon. “Besides, y’know I make my own luck, lass. So don’t think of leavin’ the Morrigan now, aye? Would be a right shame if I lost a sailor fierce as you.”

Another stumble in your heart. You bite your tongue. Shay’s trying to get a laugh out of you, you realise. To lift your spirit.

“Your secret’s safe with me, birdie. The Morrigan doesn’t discriminate, an’ you’ve earned your place on this ship a long time ago. Tell y’what, if anyone lays a hand on my finest Navigator, y’have my word to unman them yourself.”

That does it. Now you do laugh. Bell-like. Bright and sunny and warm—

And it knocks the wind right out of his lungs.

Aye, you'll be trouble indeed, birdie.

[vigilante24ish]

🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Words: 1699

Chapter 3

The sun had almost set by the time you found yourself in Westview, the paper with Agatha's adress tucked into your pants' pocket.

You walked the empty road, feeling eyes on you behind pulled curtains. The neighbours were uneasy, having chosen to lock themselves into their houses; but you could not blame them.

If what Agatha said was true and had managed to gather a coven, those poor people must have seen a few odd figures heading the same way as you.

Witches could not help it. They always had this aura, making them easier to stand out. Sometimes, their energy was enough to make someone have this uneasy feeling deep within their guts; though being as ignorant to the supernatural, they could never truly understand why.

At last, you reached the house that seemed to belong to Agatha.

The first thing you noticed was the lack of a door, but you speculated that some unfriendly visitor had found Agatha earlier that day. It would explain this sudden and urgent need to go down the Road in such short notice.

Stepping inside, you could hear voices in the background; indicating that you might be the last one to arrive. Your eyes barely glanced at the rather odd decoration of the house. None of it was screaming Agatha; you knew cause you had lived with her even for a short amount of times.

"Wait," you heard the voice of the teenage boy calling, putting a pause at the overlapping voices of the other witches. "We are one witch short," he pointed out, clearly talking about you.

You decided to make yourself present by letting your steps sound a little harder against the wooden floor, earning different pair of eyes on your form.

"No, you are not," you corrected him, one hand in your pocket.

You quickly scanned the room, sensing the different magical signatures while quickly studying them as well.

They were very different from one another, from their ages to their outfits and, of course, their magic affinity.

Yet again, it was often needed for a coven to be diverse. Though you could not help but wonder if such intense diversity would actually work, the tension between the witches and Agatha was thick enough to almost be visible.

"Sugar," Agatha greeted with a small smirk, not caring that she used your nickname in public.

She never hesitated to do it before, even though you had tried to argue a lot of times. You preferred privacy, and such nicknames, in your opinion, should exist behind close rooms and during intimate moments between two people.

Of course, Agatha never truly took into consideration your opinion and continued. There was something powerful, possessive even when she was the only one to call you such a name. Not to mention, it showed others that in a way, you were hers; some sort of invisible claim that warned others not to test their luck.

Agatha had not changed ever since, at least with that part. Despite the years you two had spent away, despite the rather unknown nature of your relationship; she still kept claiming you, often impressing even herself with ways she could find.

She studied you for a moment as your eyes connected and took notice of your outfit. While other witches chose dresses, skirts, or hippie pants; you went to the other side of the spectrum.

You had chosen a white professional shirt whose shade was bright enough to draw attention from afar. However, that was the only white thing on you.

Your buttoned up vest had white lines, but the base was black, a matching shade with your well tailored pants. Even your tie was at the colour of black, giving you a more unisex and professional look.

Needles to say you had impressed her, since for centuries you were a big fan of simple white clothing. You barely chose any other colour to wear, always having a strong connection to the bright shade.

Yet here you were now, the dark on you, almost fully covering you; the darkness of your solitude and hurt past casting a shadow to your once brighter and naive self.

It tempted Agatha, curious for a moment to test your reaction by having her hand drag across your body; testing if you would stop her when she would try unbutton your vest and take off your tie...oh, and what she could do to you with that tie.

The intense staring and sudden silence had drawn curious looks on you, some wondering what your connection to the dark Witch that had gathered them all.

The moment was interrupted by Lilia, who had been watching between the two of you until her mind and gaze trailed off.

"Two of swords!" She gasped, earning everyone's attention on her.

She did not say anything else, as if she was not conscious she had said anything or not. That alone quickly made you realize which role she played in this coven, a divination witch that was always needed in almost every mission; especially one as dangerous as the one you all had chosen to participate in.

Before any more questions or comments could be thrown, Agatha clapped her hands once.

"Well, gang's all here. Let's hit The Road." She said, trying to change the topic.

However, Jen was not done yet. "Wait," she exclaimed, and Agatha immediately knew this was not going to be good. "Where's our Green Witch?"

"Oh, do we really need one of those?"

"Of course we do." Jen argued and then looked at you. "Unless you are a Green Witch, though you definitely don't look like one," She continued, her tone judging you as did their eyes; going up and down your form.

"I am not," you corrected her, unfazed by her gaze.

You had this passive expression on your face, a cold mask that nothing could truly penetrate. Your aura was calm but hid danger behind it, like a dark peaceful sea whose waters were far deeper than they looked; dangerous creatures lurking within, waiting.

Your answer only fueled the argument between Jen and Agatha, one insisting on the importance of a Green Witch and the other arguing there was no need.

Eventually, Teen joined by referring to one member they had not invited from the list; a black heart.

This made you arch an eyebrow and look at Agatha, who at that moment did the mistake of looking at you as well.

Once again, you quickly saw right through her facade and saw both the fear and annoyance she tried so hard to hide. Whoever this black heart meant to represent was a deep scar from Agatha's past; one she did not wish to bring up.

In the end, Agatha left; excusing herself she was going to bring back the last member so they could all start the ritual and open the door to the Road.

The moment she left, the main attention fell on you; each individual in the room had different thoughts, but you were part of all of them.

In the end, it was the boy who chose to speak up. "Wait, I am confused." he even lifted his hand, like a student asking permission from the teacher to voice his question. "Jen is Potions, Lilia is Divination, Alice is Protection... what are you?"

Jen nodded her head. "The boy is right. What are you?"

That judging look once again.

It made you wonder if she looked at others the same or she felt both offended but also threatened by your presence.

It would not be the first time a witch had reacted negatively against you, especially once they realised your affiliation. Your type was not often welcomed, the duality of your nature often a wildcard that no one wished to possess.

"Backup," you explained, choosing to remain vague with your answer.

There was no need to go into detail, at least not now. You barely knew one another, and it was evident there was no trust between any of you. A common goal brought you forward, but it was not kindness or the need to find a coven.

It was selfish, and you knew that too well. Even your reasons for joining could be considered selfish.

After all, no one else chose to walk the Road unless they had a deep selfish goal in mind. Ironically, this one was what was tested the most during the trials that awaited down the Wicked Path.

You turned to the boy, realizing he was still confused by your presence. Sure, your name was on the list, but you did not seem to be part of the main four needed; according to both the Ballad and Agatha.

"To walk down the Road, you need four basic witch paths to help you and also unlock the door. Anything else is extra help, " you explained, your tone slightly softer

You could not help it. Just by seeing into his dark, innocent eyes, your defences dropped. He was a young boy, too young to choose such a path, and it made you wonder what he truly needed to take such a decision.

Jen opened her mouth to argue when Agatha walked into the room, dragging with her an older woman.

You could immediately tell she was a human woman, no drop of magic within her, and something told you the others realised that too.

Looking at Agatha, you saw her silently asking you to remain quiet on the topic, and you obeyed. Though deep down, you could not help but wonder how this would truly work.

A green witch would be needed for the trial, and only after it was passed, she would no longer be of need.

You did wonder how this would work out, but your trail of thoughts was interrupted by the faint sound of a wold howling. Your head immediately snapped to the side, eyes distantly gazing out the window as the darkness of the night covered the sky.

Agatha must have realised it, too, for she clapped her hands yet again. "No time to waste, vamos!" She said and started to walk towards the stairs leading to her basement, leaving you all no choice but to follow.

Chapter 4

[thetypingwriterficblog]

skyfall

[loki x f!reader. part of the moonlight sunrise compilation. this is the enemies part of the enemies-to-friends-to-lovers. takes place during The Avengers (2012). canon divergence. this is basically the premise chapter. feedback is greatly appreciated!] next > TW: some graphic descriptions of injuries, canon-typical violence Word count: 1.3k [edited to be in 2nd person pov. italics = y/n's thoughts]

The city crumbles all around you. You sprint through the falling ruble, grabbing whoever you can get to safety.

“Guys, what the fuck is going on over there?!”, you yell into comms.

“Sorry Doc, but Rudolf here just keeps setting off explosives.”, Stark chimes in. 

You throw down a shield around a family before a block of cement could crush them. You usher in the stragglers in the street to the subways underground to take cover. Looking up, alien ships whizz through the air. Your eyes land on Cap on a cop car giving out instructions. 

“...I need a perimeter as far back as 39th.”, Cap says before beating the shit out of the aliens that popped up behind him. You run over to him, catching the attention of the police, “Make sure the buildings are evacuated, too. Those things are airborne and they got bombs.” You turn to Cap, “You guys need me over there?” He shook his head, “We’ll be ok. Right now, I need you on the ground doing damage control.”

“Got it.”, you throw Cap a thumbs up before turning on my heel to follow the sounds of destruction. Note to self, I need Stark to build me some fancy hyper-mobility shoes or something because I cannot keep running around like this. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“He’s stable.”, you say to the EMT before moving on to another body, your hands emitting a warm glow. The next one was a kid - couldn't be more than 7 years old - his chest caved in and his mouth full of blood. Your heart gets stuck in your throat, but you try to shake off the feeling. You place your palms on his chest, and focus your energy into regenerating his rib cage. The kid sputters out a cough. Judging from the blood, his lungs may have been punctured. You take one of your hands and slide it under his back to start healing his lungs. Soon, you can feel his ribs get solid under your palm and his wheezing soon stops. You breathe a sigh of relief as wave of exhaustion hits you. 

I can’t keep this up at this rate. 

Breaking out of your daze, a voice comes through your earpiece. “Got Loki, gonna go out for shawarma, you want anything?” You stomach growls on cue, but as you look around at the wounded people on stretchers and makeshift beds on the ground, your feet stays firmly planted. “I dunno, Stark. Things aren’t look so good down here. I don’t think I should-”

“Go.”, the EMT spoke curtly without looking up from the arm she was dressing, “We got it from here. Thank you.” You nod back, “Thank you, too.”

Promising to come to the hospital to help later, you head over to the shawarma place.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Pushing through the doors of the Shawarma Palace, you're greeted with the sight of Nat, Clint, Banner, Stark, Thor, and Cap huddled around the table, eating their meal with a chained Loki sat in between Rogers and the Asgardian. 

“(Y/N)! So nice of you to join us.”, Stark motions to an empty chair next to Nat but you instead make a beeline for the tied-up god. “Thanks for having me.”, you smile at Stark before pointing at Loki, “This is the guy right? He’s the one that opened the hell portal and blew up my city?” The others look at you weird as a couple nod their heads with a soft “Yeah?”.

“Ok, cool.”

You deck Loki in the jaw.

“Oooh, whatever happened to the Hippocratic oath, Doc?”, Stark winces. “I’m not an actual doctor, I am held to no such oath.”, you turn to the cook with a smile before making your order. 

Loki, annoyed, whips his head to look at me, “Nice to meet you too, (Y/N).” You send him a death glare before sitting down next to Nat with your shawarma in hand. “What did I miss?”, you say before starting to eat. 

“Nothing much. Stark flew into the hell hole, closed it, fell from the sky, we met up to catch this guy,” -Nat motions to Loki- “and now we’re here eating this… really good shawarma.” Tony has a smug look on his face at Nat’s approval. “Man, it sounds like you guys had a lot of fun.”, you manage in between bites. “How were things for you?”, Banner interjects. “Oh, you know the usual. Shielding people from falling rubble, running around evacuating people, spent a lot of time with really wounded people with sunken in chests and heads trying to bring them back to the land of the living. You know,” you shrug before reaching down for the last bite of shawarma, “Usual damage control.”

You're met with looks of sympathy and discomfort, and you never wanted to change the subject more. “So, this shawarma really hit the spot!”, you laugh, hoping the mood will change. “Yeah, you devoured your food so quickly, I’m surprised that you weren’t breathing it in!”, Thor chimes in heartily before turning to the cook, “Another! Another one of these shawarmas for the doctor lady.” 

“Not a doctor.”, you quip while sending Thor a thankful smile.

Eating your second shawarma, you can feel yourself regaining some energy, but you still need to recharge in the sun for a bit before you start using your powers again. “So,” you look over at Loki, “what are we going to do with him?” Steve leans back and crosses his arms, “Well, Thor is planning on taking him back to Asgard, but S.H.I.E.L.D is trying to keep Loki and the tesseract under their jurisdiction.” You nod, “I think we should keep him here, better to use him to help clean up the mess he made. Call it community service.”

You turn to Thor, “What would he be doing in Asgard anyway?”. Thor shrugs, “Knowing our father, he’d probably have him locked up for a few hundred years for treason, but knowing our mother, Loki wouldn’t be punished too severely.”. “Exactly, my point!”, you start cleaning up the table, taking the others’ empty baskets and throwing them into the garbage, “What’s the use of him sitting in a cell, when we can use his magic or whatever to help rebuild New York?”

“That’s not how my magic works, darling.”, Loki interjects. “Then you’ll do it the old-fashioned way without magic.”, you retort. Loki puts his hands up with a ‘whatever you say’ look on his face. Steve, Bruce seem to be on my side, while the others seem unconvinced. “Wouldn’t it be dangerous to just let him run wild?”, Clint asks with a furrowed brow. “It wouldn’t be unsupervised. I’ll be able to watch him and organize what he needs to do, plus he has those-”, you motion to the chains and cuffs on Loki, “magic erasing thingies on him so he can’t use his magic to get away.” You turn to Thor, “Is there something in Asgard that are like those but less movement restrictive and he won’t be able to get out of?” Thor hums in thought, “No, but I know a blacksmith.” You light up and look at Clint, “See? We could secure him.” You can hear more approval for your idea. 

“I don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D will need much convincing on this.”, Nat pipes up, “I can help win them over on this plan.” 

“And I can go to Asgard to see if I can get Odin’s approval to keep Loki on Earth-”, you pause, “if it’s ok with Thor.” Thor gives me a thumbs up as he downs his glass.

“Alright, sounds like a plan!”

[noblesandsstories]

Venomous Ties

Chapter 1- Did it's people want too much too?

Alpha Albert Wesker x ????!AFAB!Reader

-> ANGST; Omegaverse; I don’t know how old Wesker is in the games, but I’m assuming old enough for this to be labeled “Older Man, Younger Woman”; Age gap; Domestic abuse; Allusions to physical abuse; This get’s dark, especially these first two chapters; Suicidal ideation/thoughts; Toxic, controlling, and abusive stepfather; Neglectful mother; the whole nine yards; Some canon has been manipulated, but it's meant to work with the lore I know about.

AN: Goodness gracious. I haven't edited this, it's barely proofread. This is such an odd project for me to feel passionate about, but nonetheless I do. PLEASE adhere to the tags. This fic starts dark and it gets darker. Take care of yourselves my friends. The world is very cold right now.

Title is from "Nobody" by Mitski

Border made by @sweetmelodygraphics

You opened the door only wide enough to let you slip inside. You were early to the meeting and were not surprised to see only two people there. Both were blond, one being slightly shorter. His coat was a bit more rumpled, and his hair was shaggier. The taller one wore sunglasses, his hair was perfectly slicked back, and his coat was perfectly straightening and clean. They turned to look at you, their faces dropping into scowls.

Better get this over with.

“I’m here to write notes of the meeting for Dr. Edington.” You move towards one of the seats in the back. No point in sitting front and center.

“Why can’t he be here himself? He’s rather needed for this,” the one without glasses snipped.

They had every right to be upset, mad even. Bruno had been the main reason this meeting was called and now he sends some random person in to just take notes on his behalf. You’d be pissed too. But you can’t say that.

“I’m sorry, sir. He didn’t tell me where he went, just to take notes.” At this you sat down, opening your notebook to the next clear page.

“He left?” The man’s voice was almost shrill. You could feel the heat of the other man’s gaze through his glasses. It was time to prepare for the worst.

“Yes, sir.”

The man next to him finally spoke. “We can’t let just anyone sit in.”

“I understand.” You flipped your notebook closed. You’d probably get kicked out, then you could figure your way back to Bruno’s office. He was the one who was going to have to answer for this. No skin off your back. Maybe a bruise on the arm, but not much more. “I apologize that there’s not more I can tell you.”

You look up to find that the man with the sunglasses standing above you. He was possibly the most intimidating person you’ve ever seen. Tall and bulky, but able to move silently with a face and voice that gave away nothing of how he was feeling.

“Identify yourself.”

You give him your first name, not knowing if Bruno would appreciate telling them your last. “Dr. Edington keeps me as a record keeper of sorts. I organize his files, transcribe his notes during his lab sessions, and other tasks like that if needed.”

He put a packet in front of you on the table.

“Then perhaps you can answer the questions we have pertaining to this. Specifically, why it’s written in gibberish?”

You look down and with a few words knew exactly what the problem was. You flip it over to read the code on the back to confirm your suspicions.

“It seems he gave you the coded report.”

“Coded?”

“Yes, sir. I write the notes for the lab session, he writes it in official terms and in code, and when he needs to send a lab report out, I translate it back.” You flip open the notebook again, beginning to go through word by word.

“Do you know it off the top of your head?”

“Yes sir, most of it. Since it’s a shorter one, I can probably get what I can done in 30 minutes.”

One singular eyebrow raised at your statement. “If you can’t complete all of it?”

“It’s a book code, sir. I can go back to the office and pick out what I don’t recall. That might take slightly longer but not by much.”

He only gave a slight tilt of the head in response, standing quietly above you. The other man spoke up.

“This is highly classified information that we are just handing to a random woman, we can’t just give it to her.”

“Edington has already been giving her plenty to work with and she saves us one conversation with him.”

There was more silence as the men hovered, until another person in a lab coat walked in, a few more behind them. The man in the sunglasses turned to them. “This meeting is cancelled for today. Continue your projects as normal and we will get back to you for rescheduling.” The others didn’t hesitate before leaving, not glancing past the man in the sunglasses once. He turned back to you.

“I’ll be by Edington’s office in an hour and a half to collect that report. Be expecting me.”

You grabbed everything off the table and stood. “Of course, sir, I’ll have it done.” You gave a quick nod and “Have a good afternoon” to the other man before slipping out the door.

It didn’t take you as long to get back to Bruno’s office. He was still gone, though he would probably be gone for a while.

You mulled over what candle you wanted to use as you pulled out the books for the code, deciding on a weaker clean scent. Faint enough that, hopefully, by the time the man with the glasses arrived the smell would be gone, but enough to get rid of the sterile smell of the environment. On some level, you understood the need for a lab full of serious science projects to not stink of the various smells that people exude, especially to avoid hormonal nonsense. But it still was harsh on the nose, and you weren’t an official employee anyways. You could feign innocence, and hope that they wouldn’t be too harsh. Or would at least make whatever they did to punish people around here quick.

You got it done easily, with nearly an hour to spare. You blew out the candle and turned on the fan, before picking up the book you were working on. It was a book covering the of basics of virology that Bruno kept. It was dull but kept interest while you waited for…. Anything.

Bruno to return, probably mad at something. That man from this morning, picking up the translated copy. Your mom, whisking you to a new city. As if.

The door opened. It was the second option, as the man walked in. You glanced at the clock on the wall. Early by 40 minutes.

“Enjoying yourself?” He hums, walking into the office.

“Taking in the quiet,” you say, putting the book down and moving over to the desk. “If I may, what’s your name?”

He stilled, before answering “Wesker.”

“Spelt how it sounds?”

He nodded, and you wrote down “Wesker Copy” on the back of the notes.

“Could you not type and print it?”

“I don’t have access to the system, and I don’t know where the printer room is, apologies.”

He takes it, flipping through the pages. “This will work for now. Tell your stepfather-”

You felt like your head was shoved underwater, white noise draining out the rest of his words. Before you could stop yourself, you blurted out “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Pardon?”

“He… he doesn’t like it when people call him that.”

A beat of silence went by. Then he slowly replied, “Understood.”

“Sorry, didn’t meant to take up your time. I’m sure you have work to get back to.”

“I do indeed. I’ll be seeing you.”

You really hoped not but kept that to yourself. “Have a good day, sir.”

He lingered for just a moment before slipping out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruno wasn’t happy when he appeared later. He barely said anything except that you were leaving when he entered the office and was mute in the car. Didn’t ask about how the meeting went or what his coworkers said. He didn’t even take the time to list all of the reasons you shouldn’t have been born. Just silent. It honestly wasn’t that bad, except the sour smell of his fury permeated the air. Like the quiet before a volcan erupts.

And erupt it did.

The lamp got it as he sent it flying across the living room when you walked in. Your mom, who seemed like she was going to greet you at the door, vacated the premises promptly. You don’t blame her. You would too if you could. Unfortunately, mercy died long ago.

“What the hell did you say to him, you little snake?” He growled.

The back of your mind tingled, warning you to flee, but you knew better. Running from predators never worked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply, keeping your voice neutral and calm. “He asked about the file you sent him, I told him you must have accidentally sent a coded one, and translated it for him as he asked.”

“Bullshit,” he barked. “I met Wesker in the hallway on my way back and now I have him up my ass about irresponsibility and not doing my damn job. So, what. Did. You. Say?”

“I told you, nothing more than that.” You knew your plea was useless, you knew. But silence was worse.

“I’m the alpha of this household, you are to cater to me. And if you think after today, you’ll be fed and cared for, think again. Go to your room and stay there. I’ll tell you when you can leave.”

It’s a more favorable punishment. You don’t argue, don’t whimper, don’t cry. You slink away, briefly meeting your mom’s gaze from where she stands at the kitchen door before she looks down and turns back to whatever she was cooking. And you return to your march to your exile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

The next few days went as they usually do. Taking your pills in the morning to the sound of Bruno yelling at your mom about breakfast or the state of the house or simply because he was mad.

He dragged you to his job, made you do a bunch of work you’re pretty sure was his responsibility anyways, and kept to the status quo. Until you pissed him off royally.

You thought you had written all the data down correctly during one of his lab sessions. Turns out you missed something, because he was furious. Going on about how your mistake cost him reputation with a coworker and so on and so forth. He was never clear when he yelled about something, and it used to frustrate you to no end. (Now it’s normal. And for some reason that thought stings.)

He stormed out around 3 in the afternoon.

Now it was 7 at night and the building was empty.

This isn’t new. He’s done this once before. That time you walked the 5 hour walk back only to find the doors locked and no one up, resulting in you sneaking into the backyard and sleeping in one of the lawn chairs.

This time you decided to cut your losses and stay in the labs. If you were going to sleep somewhere uncomfortable, you’ll save yourself the walk and stay where there is heating.

You made your way to the break room cautiously, hoping not to set off any form of security. Though now that you think about it, at least in jail they feed you. You chuckled to yourself as you walked up to the door, noticing the lights on. There was the smell of something in the air, though you couldn’t put your finger on it. You opened the door as silently as possible, poking your head in…

To find Wesker staring at you.

“Now what are you doing here this late?” He sounded almost amused at seeing you. “Have you decided to make a hole here, little mouse?”

“My ride forgot me,” you tried to add a lighthearted flare to your words to keep the mood light, taking in the room. It was empty except for you and Wesker who was eating, what you assume, leftovers out of a container. He wasn’t wearing his lab coat, instead just the usual button up and pants number that most of the people around here wore, though he lacked a tie.

One eyebrow raised at your answer. “Do you not have a way home?”

“I’ll live.” You began to rummage around the cabinets hoping for anything that could help through the night.

“You’re not convincing me.” He came up behind you, reaching up, opening the upper cabinet, and pulling out something, and putting a bar in your hand. “Can’t have the cornerstone of Edington’s work starving, now, can we?”

“I’m not doing that much. He does research, I write down what he tells me to.” It took some prying to open the package.

“Most of this job is writing things down.” His face remains neutral, almost impossible to read. It’s a struggle trying to decide if it’s terrifying or not. “If he can’t do that without assistance, he needs to consider other careers.”

“Probably an understatement,” you mumble, not paying attention, just biting into the bar. Was it the best thing you’ve ever eaten? No. But it was edible and that was good enough.

“What makes you say that?”

You froze. It felt like you were a deer on the other side of a hunter’s rifle. One wrong move and it was all over. Sure, Wesker seemed like he held as much disdain for Bruno that you did, but if word got back to him, it was a world of misery for you.

The room was silent for a few minutes before he just hummed, “Interesting.”

“What?” you croaked.

“Don’t worry about it. What’s your education level?”

You hesitated. “Graduated Raccoon City High a few years ago.”

“College?”

“I want to go, but Bruno won’t have it. Says it’ll be a waste of money.”

“Yet you do a majority of his work?”

This whole conversation felt like a trap. You look away and focus on the bar, eating it as slow as possible, hoping to buy some time. And wishing you had something to drink. Maybe the fridge has some waters stocked? They’re not for you though.

They’re for the people doing important things with their lives. People with homes. Maybe pets. Probably loving family and friends who’s lives haven’t been so fucked up that they might as well be… dead. No one would notice you missing. No one would care or weep. Sure, your mom might tear up, but if anything, your dead might cause Bruno to chill out.

Fingers snapping in front of your face brings you back to the room, a bottle of water now sitting in front of you.

“There you are, I thought I lost you,” he hums.

Your cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I think I’m just a bit tired. I’ll take this and go back to Bruno’s office.”

“Last I recall, he doesn’t own a couch or anything of that nature.”

“There’s an armchair, I’ve napped in it a few times.”

He shakes his head. “This lab is connected to a manor with plenty of rooms to spare, I’ll escort you to one.”

“There’s no need, I’m sure they’re for something important.”

He huffs a laugh while grabbing his coat. “Hardly, it remains mostly empty, unless Spencer has guests to attend to.”

“Will he not-”

“He’s away and leaves me to look after it. Any mess you leave behind the maids will tend to.” He stood expectantly by the door. You got the hint, grabbing the bottle of water.

You thought the lab was one of the most confusing places you had ever gone through, but after a minute or two of walking through the mansion you quicky changed your mind. Between the winding halls and the turns and staircases, by the time he opened the door to a room, you were convinced you’d never get out.

You stepped in to one of the most lavish and ornate rooms you had ever seen. A large four poster bed sat in the middle of the room, a giant elegant wardrobe to the side, and a desk up by a window. There was a door off to the side.

“That leads to the en suite bathroom. Anything else?”

“Do you have a list of directions out?”

He laughed. It was weird, this man who hardly showed any emotion laughing so suddenly. It was almost off putting. But it was the first laugh you had heard in a long time, and something made it feel special.

“I’ll get you in the morning. I’m sure there will be things to talk about.”

Not foreboding at all.

“Goodnight, Doctor Wesker.”

“Goodnight my dear.”

[t1koy-roll]

Tried to draw Sunspot!

(The reason I drew him black is because he's canonically afro-brazilian in his origin story, which I didn't even know until searching him up.)

[v3lnys]

my love, come back to me

Marco Bezzecchi/Celestino Vietti – 1.4k words

note: not very proud of this, but i wanted to write something not as detailed as i usually do :)

Bezz thinks it's a little hard to understand Cele sometimes. He thinks he should be good at it by now, growing up together and dating for a few years, but Cele can still be so enigmatic, a little closed off. It's not hard to guess the facile emotion he may be feeling, especially when Cele is sulking, it shows up fairly easily. But it's hard to get inside his brain, understand what caused it or how it really makes Cele feel, hard to understand what he's thinking, how he's dealing with it.

None of the guys really suspected anything, not even Bezz, not until Cele started drifting away, fading out of the picture by choice. They were a little too preoccupied with their own shit during the season, trying to make time for each other, but ultimately a little lost in their own stuff.

Bezz would check in, taking the feeble responses and excuses without much thought when he should've dug deeper. Cele always relents if he's persistent enough. And it's not like Cele was dying, or planning to, but he was almost withering away by the time Bezz grew concerned enough to pry. Bezz had every right to pry, that kind of came with the ordeal of a relationship and caring about someone, but Cele was more independent and Bezz was trying his best to respect it. In the end, he felt like maybe he respected it too much, it probably wouldn’t have gotten so bad with more insistent check-ins.

It wasn't until Bezz's routine started feeling void of the Cele shaped presence that he took a more physical approach than just texting and calls or facetime while Bezz cooked for himself and Rubik. One day Bezz just showed up at Cele's place, concerned with the slight reluctance he was met with when he brought up the proposal to come over.

Cele was never particularly tidy with his spaces, liked to keep them 'lived in', but this was just. Different. Dirty clothes on the floor, unmade bed, days old dishes waiting to be washed in the sink. Cele didn't look his best either. Paler than normal, curls wild and grown out, unshaved beard. It made Bezz's heart break, something in his chest tightening at the thought of Cele – his Cele – suffering in silence as they all went about their lives, taking his lackluster excuses at face value.

Bezz wanted to cry, but he couldn't. Not when Cele was fidgeting around like he should've even felt guilty about anything. He helped clean the place up, took the medication off Cele's nightstand with shaky hands. Bezz couldn't even read it properly, thought he really might cry if he read what it really was. But the bottles and weird names were telling enough, Bezz was somewhat familiar with it all. They prescribed him all kinds of different shit when he was having a hard time getting his head in order earlier in the season.

They showered together, Cele practically melting against Bezz's chest the whole time. It must've been so relieving, finally getting to bask in the physical contact, the closeness, the care. Bezz sat him down on the bathroom counter after, gently held Cele's face as he shaved his scruffy beard. It immediately made Cele look younger, a little more alive and Bezz could already see the life coming back to Cele's face, eyes. It was nice. Getting to take care of him, even if he should've done it sooner.

With the blinds wide open, the fall brightness filtering into Cele's apartment, everything was coming back to life. Bezz's boy was coming back to life. Coming back to him.

Cele wasn't that good with opening up about his feelings, clearly, but they talked about it, kind of. Cele was a little more lively after they ate, ordering take out because the kitchen pretty much only housed redbulls and ingredients that Bezz wasn't qualified enough to craft into a meal. They migrated to Cele's bed after, fresh sheets and all, Cele's head pillowed on Bezz's chest, talking quietly about it all, Bezz finally deciding to push a little. He wanted to understand.

A few weeks passed. The guys were clearly happy to have Cele around again, checked in more, Bezz could see that Cele liked it even if he didn't let on. He fucked his collarbone at the last race, Bezz made sure he was there to take care of him. They barely spent time apart, but it was good.

The season's over and they're pretty much glued together, apart from the occasion plans that Bezz's friends make and invite him along, Cele has his own stuff too. But they wake up together and they fall asleep together, they take Rubik out for walks. They meet up with the guys and it's good, it's normal again.

Cele is half on top of Bezz again, one arm around his waist, cheek squished against Bezz's pec. It's pretty fucking cold in Cele's apartment so it feels cozy to be like this, all tangled together like they're one creature. Bezz plays with the curly strands of Cele's dark hair, he thinks he really likes the length. Long, but not too wild. Cele doesn't have to wear the sling anymore, still, his doctor told him not to put too much stress on the injury. Bezz doesn't think Cele will listen to the doctors though.

They've been in this position for ages, talking and just. Enjoying each other. Rubik is sleeping in his fluffy dog bed and Bezz loves this, it feels so perfect and domestic that he could cry.

"Want to go for a walk?" he asks when they've been silent for a while.

"Yeah. Okay," Cele mutters an answer, but doesn't make any move to get up for a while, not until Bezz starts untangling their legs.

He's wearing Bezz's hoodie, soft and clearly loved, big on Cele just like it is on Bezz and everything about it just compels Bezz to draw him closer, kissing him easily, softly.

They go outside and it's cold, a little windy, already dark outside even though it's not even that late. Cele's wearing a light blue puffer jacket, celeste. It matches Bezz's, although his is camo print. They hold hands as they make their way through the quiet street, talking about whatever. Bezz doesn't remember the last time life felt so right.

The skatepark is empty even though it's not that cold yet. Bezz tugs Cele towards the tallest ramp, runs up and sits on the edge, waits for Cele to do the same. Cele tries, but doesn't gather enough momentum, slides back down and he laughs, bright and easy. It's so fucking nice. Hearing Cele laugh like this. The next time he succeeds, sits down beside Bezz and they're both smiling at each other, leaning towards each other for a kiss.

Bezz reaches into his pocket, there's a brand new pack of cigarettes, still in the plastic wrapping and all, that he bought this morning, intending to share with Cele. It's unhealthy, but it's almost like a treat now, not like a good few weeks ago when he was chainsmoking during the early stages of the whole recovery thing for Cele. It was hard. It's better now, so much better. They only smoke together, it’s easier to lose the habit that way.

His lighter has a little scorpion sticker on one side, a wave sticker on the other. Cele holds his cigarettes between his index and middle fingers, palm open – Bezz read somewhere that it must mean Cele's a dreamer. He thought that was fairly accurate. Bezz holds his cigarettes like they're a joint or something, Cele teases him for it. They hold hands, fingers intertwined and resting on Bezz's thigh.

The ashes fall down the ramp, the skaters will be fine, the wind will scatter them. When they slide down, they stand there for a moment and Cele starts rubbing his hands together, always running colder than Bezz. He takes Cele's hands and blows warm air on them, can smell the lingering smoke on their hands and it's kind of lovely, he finds that he likes the smell.

It's properly dark outside when they get back to Cele's apartment. Bezz puts on a shitty TV drama and they settle on the couch, Cele curling up against his side again like it's his natural position. Maybe it is because Bezz likes holding Cele, sharing kisses whenever he turns his head. Rubik is a warm, solid weight on the other side of Bezz. Cele plays with the frayed strings of Bezz's hoodie, something for his nervous hands to busy themselves with.

Life is good and Bezz really loves Cele. He loves him so much that he could never put it into words. But it's okay, they have some weird silent connection, Cele understands him and Bezz is starting to crack the deeper codes that reside in Cele's subconsciousness.

[misuutira]

“The curse had fallen upon her shoulders, one that she had taken willingly at the time. But her regrets increased with time, much like the threads she added to the tapestries she wove.” ― D.A. Henneman, Web Of Lies: A Goddesses In Love Novella

OKAY LOOK-

HEAR ME OUT-

I have zero clue if anyone's done this concept before for an Akumatized!Marinette, but I think a Spider-themed Akuma based around the Greco-Roman myth of Arachne (Arachnette?) just works too well not to try and sketch out myself. Especially in the wake of the Season 5 finale, where she a.) was forced to weave an elaborate web of lies about her confrontation with Gabriel, the Wish, and his death, and b.) was unable to stop Monarch from accessing the Ladybug and Black Cat Miraculous to make the Ultimate Wish--the mission she's had since the very beginning of the series. I can only imagine how miserable girly's feeling in the aftermath and the potential Imposter Syndrome that comes with her involvement in all of it.

So, an Akumanette who believes her Akumatization to be divine retribution for thinking that she could have ever been strong or special enough to embody the traits of the gods? It seems rather fitting here imo. :)

The design is a bit busy, I'll admit, but I was having way too much fun trying out brushes that I don't normally use. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out all things considered!

[wispon]

"get your refs ready for art fight!!" buddy i'll be happy if i have a consistent design by art fight

[sun-snatcher]

( 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!

[mattsunsdollie]

Sports Car

Juan Soto x Fem!Reader

Welcome to a new series of mine! These will be fics based off a song. You can find it under “Through the Lyrics” on the master list. All feedback is appreciated💋💋

“hey cute jeans, take mine off me”

Juan’s gaze was intense, his eyes practically burning holes as he watched you. You were at an party hosted by one of his teammates. The music was loud, the bass sending a vibration to the core. Juan couldn’t keep his eyes off you, the way your jean shorts hugged you in all of the right places.

His hand squeezed your waist. Positioning you to stand right in front of him.

“oh golly gee, i can’t take no more”

The whole day leading up to the night he had been teasing you. Hands lingering on you for a little to long. He would hold your waist while pasting behind you, his crotch rubbing against your ass.

All you had wanted was for to him fuck you before the event. To touch you after all of the teasing, but he acted clueless. Your pleas going in one ear and out the other.

“i’m going weak in my knees”

His hands low on your hips, and you could feel his erection on your back. It took all over your self control to not push yourself into him. You tried to maintain composed to not raise any flags

“where’d you put those keys?”

You turn around, facing Juan. Your hands go to his abdomen and you lay them there. You lean in, kissing him sweetly on his cheek. His hand immediately going on your lower back, encouraging you stay close to him.

To the crowd you just looked like a loving coupling. But they didn’t hear the way you whine, pleading to leave. “Juan I want to go home” you whispered, looking at the way his mouth spread into a smile.

“we can share one seat”

He bent down, going to kiss you on your temple. “Wait til later” he said sternly then going back to his full height. Your fingers in the loops on his jeans, pulling his body into you.

“Please Juan, need you now” you begged only loud enough for him to hear. He peered down at you. Your eyes looking up at him with desperation.

“we can share one seat”

That was his breaking point. He grabbed your hand, interlocking his fingers with yours. He said his goodbyes before heading to the parking.

You gripped his biceps, which were bulging in his cotton tee. The walk to the car was silent, aside from his breathing. You knew you were in for it.

His black sports car could be seen at a distance. Juan pressed the auto starter, the loud engine could be heard and the lights turned on.

“in the alley in the back”

Juan opened the door, leading you to the red interior. The leather seats felt cold under you, and you play with your fingers from the anticipation. The car was a two-seater, an expensive luxury car that Juan bought himself for his birthday.

Once he got in, he put it into drive- wasting no time. The exhaust was loud, and probably disturbing anyone. But you didn’t care, you just wanted to get home as soon as possible.

“in the center of this room”

Your hand makes its way onto his muscular thigh. You could feel the muscles tense under you. “Don’t” was all that came out of Juan’s mouth. However, that did little to stop you.

In fact, it egged you on. Your palm grabbed and massaged the skin. You heard a faint groan escape Juan’s lips. When you turned your head his jaw was tight, while his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“with the windows rolled down”

The windows around you were tinted, no one could see in. Your hand laid on his upper thigh, close to his crotch. You pressed your weight on it and leaned in to kiss the vein on the side of his neck.

A faint whimper leaves his mouth, as you’re now sucking on his neck. Your hand on his erection that’s leaving a tent in his pants.

“boy don’t make me choose”

When he approaches a red light, you notice the streets are empty. Probably because it’s well past midnight and upstate New York is not nearly as packed as the city.

He grabs your wrists. “You’re not going to wait are you?” he asks, sneaking in a kiss before the light turns green.

You shake your head which gives him the answer he expected already. You couldn’t wait, a hours of anticipation leading you to being more desperate than ever.

“i think you know what this is”

Then he’s pulling in a one way that’s blocked by trees and bushes. It’s secluded, no street lights- no sign of getting caught.

He starts reclining his seat. It gives you the perfect view of his legs that you love so much. The way he looks so big in the two seater has your head spinning.

The car is filled by his musky cologne, the one you adore. You kneel on your seat, resting your stomach over the middle of the car. Your hands go immediately for the brown belt that’s on his hips.

“i think you wanna uh”

Being face to face with his erection, and even though it’s confided in his pants- has your mouth watering. He’s huge in every way and you just want to put your hands on him.

You unbuckle the belt, and pull down the zipper. You put your hand down his pants and free him- not having the time to fully unclothe each other.

You spit on your hand and rub the head while he kisses you.

“no you ain’t got no mrs.”

You’re the only one in his whole life who has ever had him this whipped. Cock springing to life for such little things. You drag your hand up and down, spreading the salvia all the way to the base.

“Shit, take what’s yours” he groans in your ear- kissing your cheek. His hand heavy on your ass as he massages the skin.

“bet you got a sports car”

You rest on your elbows, while he his other arm holds your hair. You wrap your lips around the tip, running your tongue up and down.

He has a firm hand on your hair, not pulling or anything- just letting you know he’s there. He’s groaning and moving in the seat as you slurp him up.

“we can uh uh in it”

You know that Juan’s never been patient. He loves the way your mouth sucks him, creating a warm and wet home for him. But he wants to feel you wrapped around him and seeing you bounce.

He gently pulls you off of him, stroking himself while kissing you. It’s his turn to pull the loops of your jean shorts- showing his urgency on wanting them off.

And you oblige, you slide them off letting them fall onto your seat. You straddle him, his hand on your throat. His large hand covers almost the whole area, and he pulls you in for another kiss.

You didn’t care for the burn that was to come or the stretch. Aligning him with your entrance you lowered yourself. Your legs shaking from just the tip entering. Your hand barely wrapped around his wrist as you continued to lower yourself.

You arch into him as you reach the base. Your ass sat perfectly onto his huge legs. “N-need your help Juan” you moan out, your legs feeling like jello already.

And he obliges, his arms wrapping around your mid section tightly. He brings you to his chest and his arms cross around you. Then you feel him scoot to the edge of the seat, pushing impossibly deeper into you.

When all of sudden he’s fucking up into you with a strength and pace you’ve only ever felt one other time. He’s whispering in your ear “Keep holding me baby, you feel so good”

All you can do is just take it, you can’t run or pull back. You’re stuck in his web and there’s no where else you’d rather be. The angle and the force has him touching the spongy spot deep inside.

You let your head to fall in the crook of his neck. You see his vein bulging, and you attach your lips onto his neck. Sucking harshly leaving a mark on his soft skin.

His large hands move to your ass, keeping you still on top of him as he groans. You buck your hips while trying to get any stimulation. He moves you on his dick like you weight noting. He can feel your wetness on the skin by the base of his dick.

You’re clamping down tighter than ever as his tip continues to hit your gspot. The dirty promises he whispers into your ear only sending you over the edge faster.

You tighten around him as you cum, while milking him of everything he’s got.

“while you drive it real far”

Juan swears he’s never cum so fast in his life. The adrenaline of fucking you in his car while you’re moaning and sucking on his neck had his dick twitching.

And you stay seated on top of him, relishing in the feeling of being full. The car is foggy and your legs feel tired.

Thankfully you both are in the middle of nowhere, so there’s no need to speed off immediately. Juan gives you a moment before you crawl back into your seat, slumped on the leather seats. His hand is in your lap when you hear him rev the engine and start the drive back to the apartment.

[lovely-love-angel]

Introducing...

Idol!Gregory!

Beckory Bonus + Ellis!

[johnentwistlesbassguitar]

Pairing: John Entwistle/Pete Townshend

Rating: explicit (sorta not too much sexual stuff)

Word count: 1k

Was introduced to the idea of feeder towntwistle but with swapped roles (Pete being the one getting fed) and I couldn't stop thinking ab it so...

John noticed that Pete hadn't been eating much lately, he was too consumed in his most recent project to remember. It made him dissapointed to see Pete so thin and sad looking he had to fix this. Walking up to Pete casually he decided if Pete wouldn't eat on his own then John would make him.

"Have you eaten today?" John asked, staring down at Pete, who was bent over some sheet music.

"Hmmm -" Pete was about to say he was fine, but he was cut off by a loud growl from his stomach. Maybe he was hungrier than he thought.

Seeing the way Pete flushed in embarrassment made John want to laugh. "C'mon, you should have something, I can cook for you"

Pete seemed a little surprised by John's offer, but he accepted, being cramped in his tiny home studio was starting to make him claustrophobic. Letting John help him up off the floor, they went down to the kitchen. Immediately, John started rummaging through Pete's cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook. Pete decided to just sit down and watch. He wanted to comment on how cute John looked, but he kept it to himself.

John made sure to find the biggest pan possible and choose the most calorie dense ingredients. Luckily, Pete had a lot of unused food lying around since he didn't cook much. It was making Pete anxious just how much John was preparing, I mean, he assumed that John was making it mostly for himself, right?

It didn't take long for John to finish preparing and slide his creation into the oven. Pete could practically smell how greasy and fatty whatever John had made was, he was off put but didn't say anything. He could tell that John had put on weight recently, and this was probably why. Not that Pete was unhappy about that. He just wasn't interested in picking up those same eating habits.

John set a timer and then joined Pete at the table. Looking Pete over, John could tell he hadn't washed his hair or changed his clothes in a while. Reaching over John started to comb his fingers through Pete's hair trying to make it look a little nicer.

Pete flinched, John felt a bit guilty for not warning Pete beforehand. "I'm just trying to make you look pretty for dinner," He grinned. Pete tried to keep calm as John ran his hands down his torso, smoothing the wrinkles in Pete's shirt. He could feel the warmth in John's strong hands. Leaning back, John gave Pete a once over. "Looking good," he nodded. Pete couldn't help but blush even if John's behavior was a little odd.

Suddenly, they were interrupted by the timer John had set. He set dinner down on the table and scooped a large amount onto Pete's plate. Instead of eating, Pete just poked at it with his fork, trying to make it look like he was interested. He couldn't eat this, but on the other hand, he didn't want to make John feel bad. Also, he was fully aware he hadn't eaten anything for an unhealthy length of time. Unfortunately, John noticed his reluctance.

"Is my cooking not good enough?" He asked, trying to get sympathy from Pete even though he really didn't care what Pete thought.

"No, no! It looks fine...I'm just not very hungry, " Pete shrugged, trying not to meet John's eyes.

John had an idea. He picked up Pete's utensils and cut off a large chunk of his messy food. "Open wide," John asked as he held the fork up to Pete's mouth. Pete struggled to conceal his grossed out expression, John couldn't care less, though.

Hesitantly, Pete parted his lips just enough for John to fit the fork through. Pete was shocked that it wasn't as disgusting as he thought it'd be, but he wasn't sure if he'd be able to eat much.

John smiled at Pete's compliance. "Good boy," he always had the overwhelming urge to praise Pete for everything. For some reason, John's words made Pete want more. It made John happy, so maybe it wasn't so bad.

Pete enjoyed the attention and the feeling of a warm meal in his stomach after barely eating for longer than he cared to remember. It was clear that John was loving feeding Pete and watching him eat. 

After finishing his first plate, Pete already felt full, but John seemed so eager to feed him, and he'd made so much food a little bit more couldn't hurt. Without saying a word, John pulled the entire dish in front of them, Pete wasn't aware that John intended on making him eat the whole thing.

Pete only realized just how much he'd been fed when he felt like his pants were about to pop. He could've sworn they'd been too loose just a second ago. Either way, he wasn't interested in stopping. It disturbed him that it felt so good to be stuffed to the point of not wanting to move.

John reached down to press his hand into Pete's swollen belly. He couldn't stop picturing how adorable Pete would look with a little more weight on him. Maybe he'd have to make a habit of cooking for Pete. He moved his hand to squish Pete's expanding waist, Pete groaned and leaned into John's touch. Humiliation made Pete want to pull away, but John's hands just felt so amazing.

"So cute," John muttered, then picked the fork back up.

It was obvious that Pete was starting to get too full to do anything, but John didn't seem to mind he was willing to take care of Pete for the night. John continued to shovel food into Pete's mouth. He couldn't help but stare at how the buttons on Pete's shirt were barely holding together, parts of his pale belly visible through the gaps.

Soon enough, John finished up feeding Pete everything he'd made, Pete seemed slightly relieved at this he didn't think he could fit anymore in his stomach. John placed a kiss on Pete's tummy and squished it tenderly. Pete hiccuped and blushed. He was horribly embarrassed by his current state of helplessness.

John was still able to lift Pete up with ease despite his increased weight. Holding Pete tight, he brought him to his bedroom and laid him down on his back. Once he started to undress Pete, John noticed that he was rock hard. His eyes widened he couldn't just leave Pete like this.

"Awwww," John cooed pawing at Pete's crotch "would you like some help with that?" He made his voice sickly sweet.

Pete didn't have the energy to form words, but he moaned and pushed his erection further into John's hand. Slowly, John undid Pete's pants and slid his underwear off tossing both articles of clothing aside.

John gripped Pete's cock and tugged on it roughly. Pete couldn't help but let out a loud whine. It didn't take long for John to find just the right way to touch Pete, every stroke of his hand had Pete gripping the sheets and whimpering. Pete's panting got louder as John squeezed and pulled harder. It was embarrassing how quickly he came but with how tired he was he couldn't hold back. Hearing Pete moan his name made John so proud, nothing felt better than giving Pete any form of pleasure.

John bent down to kiss Pete's soft belly and sink his teeth into it. He adored the sight of his own marks on Pete's squishy body. The idea of showing off and worshipping Pete's belly made him excited. He'd have to remember to do that. It didn't matter to him that Pete would hate it. To John, Pete was the prettiest boy in the world and deserved more attention.

Feeling too tired to support himself anymore, John slowly lowered his body on top of Pete. At first, Pete seemed nervous, but John's heavy weight felt surprisingly pleasant. Despite not being able to move, Pete was completely comfortable underneath John. It was also comforting to know that however large Pete got John would always be bigger. John just tucked his face into the crook of Pete's neck. He was satisfied to know that Pete was finally getting the food and rest he needed.

[nanaslutt]

i really love the way you write and find it refreshing to see in the jjk comm, and although small, i can’t help but feel out of the loop when you write about blushing or turning red in all your fics as i can’t relate with my skin tone ^^;

i do worry about things like this, i try to be super careful abt not mentioning skin tones or types of hair (this shows when i try to be vague abt hair pulling or the character tucking hair behind your ears) so it’s applicable to all readers,

i definitely could start leaving out the “your face turned red” and instead say things like “you felt your face heat up (averted your eyes, pouted in embarrassment, etc)” or something along those lines. that way it’s focusing more on the feeling of embarrassment or shyness instead of once again making it seem like the reader has one type of skin tone so its more comfortable for all readers :) ty for ur message anon <333

[kp-studios]

Quick doodles I could muster up--- This is more of needing feedback, some constructive criticism if you will--- about the character designs. Decided to redesign Coraline a tad for One: To have the plot fit well with her design and be there with intention, and Two: to feel more comfortable with her design when I finally get the project off the ground (Even if it's just a jump). More redesigns might come soon, but right now I'd like to hear your guys' thoughts about the design. Some I will keep, and some I'd like to experiment more on (such as her glowing patch of hair, style of hair or clothing, or her prosthetic (which can be added to my design with robots, which in turn help me design BEL:G.E.-09's design more).

Anyway, feedback will be greatly appreciated, although it's optional if you want to or not!