#Assassin's Creed fanfiction

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Bookbinding: Sometime Yesterday by Esama

Another day, another project! Sometime Yesterday by Esama/@esamastation was one of my first attempts at bookbinding years ago. Long, long ago, I learned Barnes & Noble will take whatever PDF you upload and give you a paperback book for a fee. I took ages considering doing this to fanfiction but always hit a wall when it came to the cover art. I never went the B&B route, but now that I'm binding my own books, I felt it was time to finally get back to making this book a reality.

Now to chose what to do next - Miles to Go, Solar Maximus, or Life a Life or Die Trying...

[author-morgan]

Title: Unwritten Prophecies Pairing: Deimos!Alexios x fem!Reader Rating: M Word Count: ~6.3k Summary: You are meant for the gods, but beneath the wrath of the storm, he asks the one question no oracle is ever granted—what do you want?

...but your sweet sinless sensation is not my style...

THE MASKED CULTISTS trickle from the cave. Eupheme—your sister in training—leaves too and urges you to do the same and be free of the darkness hidden below the sacred Temple of Apollo. But you won’t go. Not yet. All evening, the Pyramid under the great, bronze serpent has called to you, a moth to a flame. You move toward the artifact in a trance, the voices you’ve heard since entering the cave growing louder with every step...until there’s silence. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

You know the rough voice and to whom it belongs. “Deimos,” you breathe, heart racing at the sight of the Cult’s champion as he emerges from the shadows—his golden armor nigh glowing in the dim firelight.

He steps closer, warm-tawny eyes darting from the artifact to you. Most of the cultists are frightened by the power of the Pyramid—a force they cannot truly comprehend or control—and none of the would-be Oracles have ever shown any inclination for being able to harness its potential for prophecy. Deimos looks down at the artifact and can feel its call and energy thrumming in his veins. He has never doubted that he has the blood of gods. But to find another like him? A blessing and a curse.

“Does it speak to you as well?” He asks. The edge in his prior words faded.

“Yes,” you answer. The voices grow more numerous, louder. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on a single thread of the tapestry of history and fate. “Of the past.” There are glimpses of Leonidas at Thermopylae, Themistokles at Salamis, and battles even more ancient for which there are no tales to be told or heroes to be celebrated. “The present.” Perikles gathers with his generals in the shadow of the Parthenon, and Spartans train for the upcoming war. But then the landscape becomes unfamiliar—seven hills—and wood and mud villages spring up on the banks of a mighty river, growing larger, grander, until the city of bricks turns into one of marble. An Eagle rises. “And of events that have not yet come to pass.”

Deimos extends his hand, fingertips barely touching the smooth bronze plates covering the artifact, a gesture for you to do the same—and a test. You know not what you’ll see—the future or the past, but the Cult’s champion hopes it will be the latter. Stepping closer, you reach out to the Pyramid, pressing a hand against one of the sides as Deimos does the same.

The oracle has spoken! To prevent Sparta's fall, the child must fall first. Your breath catches as a woman lunges forward. Her face twisted in anguish. She fights against the hands restraining her but her cries are swallowed by the wind and rain. “Please! You can't! No! No, no.” Lightning streaks across the dark sky. “Nikolaos!” At the cliff’s edge is an ephor of Sparta, holding a swaddled babe aloft in the air, inching closer to the chasm below Taygetos.  

And then the fall. The scream. A sister’s outstretched hand.

The vision twists, shifting like smoke, and you see something else—the boy again, older this time. His body hardened and face set in an expression too cruel for a child. A woman stands before him, cloaked in shadow, her voice smooth, coaxing. "Your family abandoned you,” Chrysis tells Deimos. Lies repeated so often they become the only truth the boy has ever known. “Your mother left you to die.” The priestess steps forward, cradling an object swathed in dark linen. She lays the gift before Deimos and reveals a sword—the Sword of Damokles. “But I will give you new purpose, my child."

You stumble back from the Pyramid and glimpse Deimos, breath coming in sharp, shallow pulls. He stares down at you, his expression a storm of barely contained rage, but there’s a rawness, vulnerability even, that you’ve never seen before in him. "You saw it," he murmurs, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it. Not the voice of Deimos—the Cult’s blade—but the voice of a broken man who has spent his life trying to reconcile with the prophecy spoken by Praxithea when he was only a babe. A prophecy that tore his family apart and doomed him to this life of pain and suffering.

You swallow, hard, and nod. "Yes."

Deimos reaches for you—rooted in place beneath the great bronze serpent. You’re unsure what the Cult’s champion will do. You imagine few in Hellas know the full truth of what happened that night on Taygetos and the years following as they molded him into nothing short of a monster. His callous fingertips brush against your cheek, and trail to stop at your neck, his hand hovering there. He leans closer, breath ghosting over your cheek. “If they know you can use the artifact...” Deimos doesn’t have to finish the statement for you to understand—it is a rare show of mercy.

PRAXITHEA TELLS YOU to take leave of the lesson. Between her two students, you have always excelled in learning and perfecting new teachings compared to Eupheme. A clear sign of the gods’ favor. At this point, it seems obvious you will be chosen to wear the title of the Oracle of Delphi—the highest servant of Apollo—after Praxithea.

Returning to the home Elpenor gifted you in Kirrha, you find Deimos sitting on your floor, his back and arm contorted to stitch a wound on his shoulder blade with one hand. You cross your arms, frowning—at both the sight of the Cult’s champion injured and the dark stain on prized Tyrian red and blue fabric. “You’re bleeding on my favorite rug,” you chide, stopping in the doorway with arms crossed.

He looks back and meets your gaze, a flicker of relief brightening his scowl. Sighing, you go to Deimos and kneel, taking the threaded needle from his blood-slick hands before sitting behind him. He doesn’t flinch or tense when the hot point passes through flesh. “Did you foresee this?” He asks. You think there’s a hint of humor in how he says it.

“Your stubbornness leading you to my home instead of Lykaon when you’re hurt?” You query in turn, equally amused. “The gift of foresight would not be needed for that,” you tell him. It’s a terrible habit of his, turning up unannounced and uninvited, more often than not covered in the blood of others and not his own—this time is an oddity, but you’ve found yourself in this moment before, too.

There’s a dry chuckle in Deimos’s throat, though it’s cut short by a sharp pull of the catgut thread through his torn skin. He exhales heavily, tilting his head slightly, but he still does not flinch—of course, he doesn’t. Pain is an old companion. One he has long since ceased to acknowledge. You work in silence, one stitch after another. “You should be more careful,” you murmur. A pointless request, but one you speak often in hopes he will listen one day.

Deimos snorts, shaking his head. “Careful?” He sounds appalled by the thought—being careful hasn’t won him battles or infamy. He is dread incarnate, ruthless, and indomitable. “Is that what you want me to be?”

Your fingers still for half a breath before you resume your work with a sigh. “I would prefer it over reckless,” you tell him. There are times you worry his wounds will be beyond your and Lykaon’s skills to mend. He may have Ares and Athena’s favor in battle, but he is only a man, in the end.

“You wound me,” he deadpans.

“You’re already wounded,” you retort, knotting the stitch and cutting away what’s left of the thread and needle. “But that’s hardly new.” He hums, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, but he does not argue. His hand lifts absently, fingers brushing over the back of yours where they rest against his shoulder. You’re always here for me, Deimos thinks. The voice in his head is quieter than usual. Even when you shouldn’t be.

Dark clouds gather on the horizon as you mix a sweet-smelling poultice to soothe the puckered skin around Deimos’s fresh stitches. And though he should return to Delphi and report on his mission in Achaia, he lingers, sipping watered wine and eating grapes with fresh cheese—content with this fleeting moment to be in your company.

He lingers until the summer storm takes hold of the evening—wind howling, rain lashing, and thunder rolling between flashes of lightning. It does not seem as if Zeus’s wrath will end before the morn breaks. “Stay,” you tell Deimos, seeing he means to leave. The Cult does not like him to roam Phokis at his own bidding—Praxithea will be none too happy to learn of this night either, but consequences be damned. A part of you has grown tired of the sacrifices required to please the gods. “I would not force you out in this storm.” As if commanded by your words, a clap of thunder rattles the small villa. You step closer to Deimos, reaching for his hands. “Stay,” you say again, softer this time. Not a demand. Not a command. A choice.

Deimos stays.

The first kiss is chaste. It’s careful—tentative. Just like the very first. His fingers brush along your jaw, moving back into your hair. Deimos’s breath catches—just barely—but you feel it warm against your lips. His eyes flick to yours, searching for something unspoken. You could pull away. You should pull away. But you don’t.

And the second kiss…the second kiss is not chaste. His hand knots in your hair, pulling you closer as if the gods themselves might rip you from him if he loosens his grip. You melt into him, tasting salt and copper where a fresh split on his lip lingers as he urges you to lay back on the pallet of linen and silks.

“Deimos!” You gasp, pressing against his shoulders, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. Truthfully, though, you only want to pull him closer—you have since the first time he decided to kiss you by the falls of Lalaia. But the years of training and lessons under Praxithea and the Cult’s desire for you to succeed as the Oracle of Delphi scream at the forefront of your mind. “You know the Pythia must be untouched,” you remind him.

“I know,” he breathes, his voice low and rough. Deimos doesn’t move, still caging you between his musculature and the floor pallet. There’s something different in his eyes as he looks down at you, keeping your gaze —something dangerous. And it’s not just the raw strength and fury he carries into battle or the untamed rage that makes him the Cult’s Champion. It’s something treacherous, something he’s supposed to never feel. Longing.

“You’ll belong to the gods,” he says, the words taste bitter on his tongue. You and he are kindred. You should not belong to the gods; you should be with him. “That’s what they say, isn’t it?” Deimos’s eyes are burning with darkness and madness. He shifts, one hand cradling the back of your head, his thumb running over your jaw. The Pythia must remain pure. Sacred. Untouched by mortal desire and hands. You swallow the growing lump in your throat. “But what do you want?” Deimos asks.

It’s the first time anyone’s asked of your desires since Praxithea took you and Eupheme in. Your fingers tremble where they press against his chest. He is warmth, strength, and everything you have ever been told to resist. You want this. You want him—more than you’ve ever wanted to be the Oracle of Apollo, lying to the masses at the Cult’s bidding when you see truths in the Pyramid. Perhaps, in his own selfish way, this is another show of mercy, to save you from a life that now terrifies you.

Deimos tilts his head, waiting—daring—you to give a truthful answer. His breath is warm against your skin. You can feel the weight of his question pressing against your ribs, stealing the air from your lungs. What do you want? The words coil around your mind and heart like a snake, sinking its fangs into every doubt, every moment you’ve silenced your desires in hopes of appeasing the gods and the Cult. Everything to carry out your duties but still keep Deimos for yourself.

“You already know what I want,” you whisper, fingers curling around the back of his neck, under his matted and adorned locks. He almost smiles as his thumb traces the curve of your cheek, then lower, featherlight against the column of your throat. Possessive. Claiming. And yet, he hesitates. The Cult has stolen much—his childhood, his family, his identity. They have taken from you, too, twisting your visions, binding you to a fate you never chose. But this moment? It will only ever belong to you and him.

So, you do the only thing you’ve never been allowed to do. You pull him down—taking his face in your palms and angle his head in the way that you like best—and kiss him. Deimos groans into your mouth, surprised by your eagerness. Your lips part with his only for breath, and even then, he chases you—mouth brushing yours again in a kiss deeper, slower, more desperate than the first and the second. You’re not sure which of you is trembling more.

His lips leave your mouth, trailing along your jaw until settling just below your ear. “The gods cannot have you,” he breathes. The remnants of whatever resistance in you are lost to the wave of him, and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never felt before. You don’t know what to say, so, in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name. Said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell ever since he first kissed you. Deimos. He inhales sharply, leaning down to rest his forehead on yours.

You press against his uninjured shoulder, not to push him away, but to give yourself room to sit up, to breathe. He sits back on his haunches and sluggishly reaches for the linen ties holding your dress together, and you give him a small nod, encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugs upon the tie, the fabric sags upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, and then rise to step out of it altogether. His breath catches at the sight of you standing above him—flesh never touched, never kissed, never marked by a mortal.

Deimos’s jaw tightens, restraining himself from touching you as he pleases. But the longer he sits there staring—gawking like some clueless boy and reverential as a devotee at prayer—the more emboldened you become. You kneel in front of him and reach for the bronze pins at his shoulders, the ones keeping his dark chiton in place, and unfasten them. Deimos shrugs the linen away and lets you guide one of his rough hands to your chest as you lay back again amongst the linen and silks, pulling him with you.

“Touch me,” you whisper, noticing the way his tawny-gold eyes darken when his calloused palm fully embraces one of your breasts. It’s all the urging he needs. He surges forward, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw and neck meet, the stubble on his cheek scratching ragged against your flesh. He palms your breasts, reveling in your softness against his rough-hewn hands. The backs of his knuckles trail along your ribs, tracing along your hip until he squeezes the meat of your thigh. His mouth. His hands. It’s already almost too much.

And then his fingers find the weeping want between your thighs—all for him—and slide through your folds, gathering the slick there. You gasp, mouth falling open, eyes slipping shut, and legs parting just a fraction more. Deimos watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, and your fingers twist into one of the blankets beneath you as he draws out the slow torture. But then, just as you want to speak protest, a finger slips into your cunt, curling pleasantly.

Nipping kisses bite and trail down your neck, leaving mark after mark as his finger slips in and out of you before easing in another. Your hips begin to roll of their own accord into the heel of his hand, craving the unfamiliar friction. Deimos feels his cock twitch beneath his loincloth with your little moans, incessantly throbbing and straining against the material, longing to be inside of you—to claim you as his own.

“They would have denied you this,” Deimos breathes at your ear. “You would have never known a man’s touch” —he moves quicker, and your breath hitches when his fingers move a certain way, catching a spot deep within that makes stars explode behind your half-lidded eyes— “never would have known my touch.” Your back arches from the pallet. It’s as if you’d been struck by the lightning and storm raging outside, body bristling with long-repressed pleasure, something only Deimos can cure. You reach for him, fingers twisting into his matted locks, beckoning him to kiss you again, and he does.

Your release is fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat flooding across your body with its intensity. Deimos’s name emerges from your lips as if it is the only word you know. He takes pride in being the first to see you like this. The first to make you feel like this. The pinnacle of your release makes you feel like you're floating, legs weak in the blissful aftermath. You exhale, chest heaving from exertion as you loosen your hold upon his dark hair.

Deimos withdraws his fingers from your warmth—glistening in the low light—and brings them to his mouth. He groans. It's as if he’s sampling the fruit of the gods. You shiver under the heat of his gaze, but then, he’s kissing you again. Open-mouthed, desperate, and rough. You cling to him, hands running over his chest, finding the scars on his arms and back.

He feels your fingers move towards the ties of his perizoma, and he doesn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitches, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat. Freeing his cock from its confines, you move yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your bottom. The flushed tip of his length nudges against your cunt, prompting you to sigh. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he lowers you onto his cock—gently as he can manage—the both of you shivering in tandem. The low, throaty groan that escapes him makes your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He’s big, but he fills you perfectly. Mouths dance together and then clash again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, and you brazenly give his lower lip a tug with your teeth. It’s messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing both of you to heel as you happily drown in desire and pleasure withheld for so long.

Your cunt is tight around him, slick with arousal as you continue to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch, until he’s fully sheathed inside of you. Deimos’s heavy pants flutter across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw. His hands are resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths weave together, forming a heated cacophony that fills your chambers. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your flesh is mesmerizing, leaving a wave of goosebumps to crawl across your skin. The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost makes you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders. This must be better than even the Golden Fields of Elysium.  

A burning sting begins to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you ride him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock spearing you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly draw yourself out and back down again.

“Gods,” You sigh, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry red crescents against his sun-kissed skin, you don’t want the feeling to end. “Deimos, please!” With a simpering moan, your head begins to roll back slightly. Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Deimos does not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guides you against his cock—the angle causes friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies wholly tangled up within one another.

He nips his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remains buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He holds you steadily, greedily. It’s his turn to take what he desires. One of your hands twists into his matted dark locks, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppers warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he lets you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises leave you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Deimos groans with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxes you down towards the silk and linen pallet. With a brief bob of the head, you find yourself beneath Deimos, content between your thighs as he hitches one leg around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm slides down to your ankle before coming back up to wrap around your calf—you shiver at his touch, even with the warm, humid air and the building heat between the two of you.

Like this, Deimos can look upon your face and see the way your visage contorts into pure pleasure when he rocks forward, his cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin is flushed, and his expression is a mix of reverence and awe, even if you’re too lost to notice.

Your hands move, one finding purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace quickens. It’s a chase, galloping after his release as he bends to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you roll your hips into his. You don’t care if he’s a touch rough with you—gods, you needed him, just like this. Just as he is. Rough and brutal. Heat swirls within your stomach, gnawing at your bones and making your toes curl in delight.

“Deimos,” you cry, and that nearly sends him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost makes his resolve shatter into two. He’s lost count of how many times his cock has sank into you—it’s all blurring together. The inevitable rush of euphoria reaches him as his release comes, hot and blistering, making his vision blur. Teeth bared. He groans your name. Your nails dig into his bicep, a gasp torn from your throat when he thrusts into you again before stilling—his weight braced above you on trembling arms.

You coax him down, letting him rest atop you. He pillows his head upon your breast, breathing erratic but calming. You run your fingers through his damp hair, down his back. It’s a moment you’ll savor—a moment you may never have again. Another flash of lightning cuts through the warmth of the firelight, a clap of thunder following, but the silence between is longer. The storm is passing.

After a while, Deimos moves to lie beside you, half-propped on one arm, his tawny-gold eyes fixed on your face—the glow of the sheen of perspiration, the flush of your cheeks, and the soft smile upon your lips. He’ll commit it all to memory, just in case…he shakes away the dark thoughts of what the Cult would do if they knew. His other hand rests on your stomach, fingers spread out almost possessively.

For a long time, neither of you speak. Words feel clumsy, and there’s little to be said when actions speak so much louder. Eventually, you turn on your side and move closer to him, brushing a knuckle along the stubble on his jaw. Deimos. His name lingers in the air between you. He exhales, hearing you breathe his name like that is a balm and a fresh wound all at once. You curl farther into him, and his hand moves up, splaying across your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath. Deimos rolls onto his back, drawing you with him, and you rest your head against his shoulder, closing your eyes. “Get some rest, my love,” you tell him. He presses a kiss to your temple—soft, a vow. You are his, and no man—not even the Cult or Praxithea—or god can have you now.

PRAXITHEA IS FURIOUS. Her protégé ruined. Years of meticulous training carelessly thrown away without a second thought—the marks on your neck speak unto themselves, as did your request to a servant for a cup of silphium tea. A moment of weakness, lust, and worldly desires. All things Apollo’s servant must be free of, immune to.

“You have been defiled!” She shouts, pacing before stylobate rostrum. “The Pythia must be chaste.” It was among the first lessons she taught you and Eupheme—to always shun the attention of men and love only Apollo. “A virgin!” Praxithea turns to face you, eyes burning with her fury and grips your face with bony fingers, nails digging into your cheek and jaw. If she cannot have you to do the gods’ bidding, then she must smite the man who had the gall to ruin you. “Who has sullied you?” The old oracle asks, voice like a serpent’s hiss.

You squeeze your eyes shut, flinching away but unable to escape the crone’s grasp. Heavy footfalls echo off the temple floor, and you meet Deimos’s tawny-gold eyes as he walks into the firelight of one of the braziers and smile, slowly, deliberately. There is no shame nor regret in your eyes or expression. Praxithea follows your gaze, and realization dawns upon her. “You.” She spits, turning to see the Cult’s champion—she should have known.

Deimos comes closer, his presence a tempest. His black-and-gold tunic hangs loose around his broad shoulders, and in the dim light, you can still see the faint crescents of your nails raking down his chest. Shadows flicker across his sharp features, his golden eyes gleaming with pride and defiance. You were meant for the gods, but now you are his. 

Praxithea lifts her hand to strike you. Punishing Deimos is beyond her, but you are still her student and ward. “Hurting her would be unwise,” he grits out.

Deimos does not bow before gods or mortals. He does not shrink beneath the weight of an old oracle’s rage. He steps onto the dais as if to defile it further. Praxithea stiffens as he nears both of you. Her grip tightens on your jaw before she wrenches her hand away as though your flesh has burned her. Her fury is still palpable, though—eyes blazing with righteous wrath. “Of course, champion,” she placates.

You step away from Praxithea and to Deimos’s side, your choice made, and path changed. You will not serve as a false oracle. You will not be bound by Apollo and his temple. You are his. And the gods nor Praxithea can have you now…but the Cult, they will still get what they desire, one way or another.

THE ORACLE OF Delphi packs a small bag with shaking hands. She must leave, quickly, before more of the Cult soldiers arrive, or worse, their champion. Because of her, Elpenor is dead. And one of the only people in all of Hellas who has the power to stop the Cult now knows the workings of the shadow organization. You try to calm her when you arrive at the chora, but she is hysterical. “Eupheme, what is it?” You ask, pleading, taking her hands into your own.

“The sister came to me,” Eupheme admits. Kassandra. You have heard the name whispered in the shadows—have seen her in visions and memories not your own. “I must leave Delphi,” she cries. After facing the Monger, she needs to get far away from Phokis before it is too late. She stiffens in your embrace. “Deimos,” she utters, looking over your shoulder, her voice trembling. You step away from Eupheme—still grasping onto her hand—and turn, seeing him stride forth into the villa’s courtyard.

Eupheme’s grip on your hands tightens for a moment before she lets go, stepping back as though distance can protect her. But there is no outrunning Deimos—not here, not now. He tilts his head, seeing the Pythia’s plan clearly laid out—she means to run. You feel Eupheme’s breath hitch beside you—so soft no one else would notice. But you do. “I could take your head,” Deimos says, voice low and dangerous. “Just as Elpenor’s was taken.”

You step into his path when he moves forward, stopping him before he can reach the sitting Oracle with a hand flattened against the center of his golden breastplate. “Deimos, please” —his tawny-gold eyes flit down to you, his lips pressed into a taut line, the harsh lines between his brows lessen, if only a little— “Eupheme had no choice,” you tell him, a convincing lie.

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

You keep your hand against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath the plate. His body is tense, a coiled serpent ready to strike, but he hasn’t pushed past you—and you know he won’t. “I have foreseen this.” Another lie. “The Gods—Khaos and Kosmos—willed this to be.” You stand a far better chance against his wrath than Eupheme ever would, and for that, you will risk the storm to save a friend.

Deimos looks between you and Eupheme, jaw tightening, then he nods in the direction of the door—a noise somewhere between a sigh and grunt leaving his throat. “Go,” he tells the Pythia with reluctant restraint. Eupheme gathers her things and rushes out of the chora, fleeing into the night, and you know you’ll never see her again.

His attention returns to you—there’s a spark of danger in his eyes, burning gold in the firelight. Deimos reaches for you, his hand rising to rest on your cheek, and you close your eyes as his thumb trails across your cheekbone before slipping lower to your neck. “What else have you not spoken of?” He asks, tilting his head as he looks down his nose at you, fingertips pressing into flesh, but not ungently.

“Only that which will forfeit my life,” you tell him. And yours.

“Come with me.” It is not a request this time. You follow him from the villa—a white horse is waiting at the entrance. Deimos places you astride the beast's back, then mounts behind you, spurring the stallion toward the Sanctuary of Delphi high in the mountains. He doesn’t speak—never having been one for needless words—but the look in his eyes when you glimpse him over your shoulder is unfamiliar. Kassandra’s arrival in Phokis has shattered the careful balance of things. The old order crumbles, and in its place, chaos reigns.

The Temple of Apollo looms above. But it is not your destination. He brings you to the Cave of Gaia.

You look around the empty chamber and then down at the Pyramid, pulsating with energy even though the bronze plates are coated with blood and scattered around the floor—a remnant of his rage. “Why are we here, Deimos?” You ask, a whisper swallowed by stone.

"My sister," he starts, face twisting in anger. "She was here among the Cultists. I–" He stops himself, stops pacing too, jaw clenching. His hands curl into fists at his sides. His memory and hers are the same but different. For years, he knew the truth of his past. There was no doubt what happened that night on Taygetos, but now...Deimos shakes his head and looks at you. "I need to know," he tells you.

"Know what?" You challenge.

The truth, but his pride won’t let him say it. He swallows hard, his voice dropping lower than a whisper. "My fate."

You study him—can see his anger give way to something else. It nigh breaks your heart. You know he is not a god, not even a demigod, just a man, but to see him act as such. He’s never looked this vulnerable, broken. "You’ve never believed in fate,” you counter.

He exhales sharply, frustration flickering across his face. "Tell me anyway,” Deimos grits out.

Taking a long breath, you reach out to the Pyramid and let the artifact's power take over. There are flashes of red and blue flames and battles on land and sea, but he stands in gold-and-white, drenched in blood. “You walk the path of fire, but the flames do not consume you. Not yet.” And then there is a flicker of hope shining through the violence and suffering—redemption. Deimos doesn’t move. He barely breathes.

Your voice drops to a hush, yet your words strike him like a blade. "Blood calls to blood, Deimos.” You can see his sister and mother—and him—standing atop Mount Taygetos, an echo of the night when he was only a babe. Both he and Kassandra have their blades drawn, and Myrrine of Sparta weeps for her children, Kassandra and Alexios. “You will have to choose. Between the path of the serpent” —you look up at him— “and the path home.” His face twists, as though he will refute that this is his home, but before he can speak, you continue. “And you already know which will lead to your destruction.”

Sighing, you step around the Pyramid, your hands rising to cradle his face, to force him to focus on you—not the dark thoughts burrowing into his mind or the decades of lies. “Deimos.” The feather-soft whisper of his name brings his gaze to yours. Alexios. Your smile is faint, fleeting. He will not believe what his sister or mother says, but you—he hangs off your every word as though they are a lifeline. “When those who would name you Alexios, speak, you must listen.”

His fingers curl around one of your wrists, keeping your hand against his cheek. Everything will be different now—there will be no return to the old ways. And should the Cult learn of what you’ve told him this night…he dreads to think of what they will do. “You should leave too,” Deimos mutters. “I can no longer promise to keep you safe.”

THE SHIP WHICH will bore you away from Phokis and the Cult of Kosmos is The Nauplios, a merchant vessel bound for Thrace. They are meant to sail with the rising sun, but a full purse of drachma and jewels assures the cover of darkness will be an ally. Kirrha’s harbor is silent in the early morning, save for the wind rustling the rigging and cloth sails of the docked boats and triremes and the breaking of small waves against the pale stones and wooden piles. Deimos has come to watch you leave—his bidding is the only reason for your departure.

The captain nods for you to join them aboard, but you’re not ready. Lowering the hood of your chlamys, you turn to face Deimos—for the last, but not final time—you rise, settling your lips upon his. Deimos doesn’t move at first, but then his hand finds your waist, fingers tightening into linen and wool, pulling you closer. His lips are warm, windburned from the sea, and rough from battle, but they part beneath yours, answering in kind. The wind tugs at your cloak, urging you away, but you linger, pressing yourself into the heat of him as though pleading with him not to send you away. A shout from the ship reminds you that time is slipping through your fingers. The captain waits. The sails are ready.

“Remember,” you breathe against his mouth, fingers curling into the open neck of his black-and-gold chiton. “You are Alexios of Sparta before Deimos.”

His fingers curl around your wrist, holding you back from stepping aboard the ship. He knows he is not supposed to feel like this, but he has—for years. Deimos hesitates, keeping you with him for a moment longer before he finally ousts the reticent question haunting his every waking thought since the path forward became clear. “Do we meet again in this life?” He asks.

Deimos is relieved to see you smile—an answer on its own. Yes. You lift a hand to rest on his scarred cheek, thumb tracing the raised scar before slipping down, combing through the growing stubble on his jaw. “As strangers, my love,” you tell him softly, a glimmer shining in your eyes. “And as old friends.”

[Deimos taglist: @alexandra-alle / @athy-lex / @certifiedlittleshit / @chaotic-spooky / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @gallimaufrea / @hereforreadandwrite / @Idkjj04 / @jadynchronicle / @joossieisdabomb / @kitkitvm / @ksziggy / @missmannequin / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @novastale​ / @qhbr2013 / @rigshak / @stormyblue90 / @thatrandomfeministgamer / @thepreciouspurrsian / @vymyn / @wallsarecrumbling ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Deimos taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[myveryownfanfiction]

18+ MINORS AND THOSE WITHOUT AGE IN BIO DNI

tags: @illiana-mystery, @iobsessoverfictionalmen

warnings: swearing, drinking, smut, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it kids)

AN: guess who I saw again? Hehehehe I’m back on my bullshit even though it has been week.

Once the Jackdaw docked at Nassau, the crew was gone. We wouldn't see them again until we were ready to leave. Edward had given them express instructions to be ready to sail in a week. Anyone not on the ship by then would be left and not allowed back next time we came through. Edward had turned to me with a smile as he threw his arm over my shoulder.

"Where you want to go first luv?" Edward asked, pressing his forehead against my temple for a moment. "World's our oyster and all that." I laughed as we walked down the gangway.

"Where'd ya hear that Edward?" I teased. He looked pleased with himself as he headed towards the tavern.

"Just something a little bridie told me." He laughed as the doors opened and the ending of a bar brawl spilled out into the streets. "Looks like we missed all the fun." Edward mused as he tugged me through the carnage.

"For once." I laughed as I saw Kidd slink away into the night. "Kidd just got away though. If you were looking for him." Edward shuddered and shook his head.

"Kidd'll just try to recruit me again." He groaned. "Those blokes he's with...They didn't want me to tell him I was on a trail basis."

"More like they need someone to do their dirty work for them and would rather pay you pennies than hand it off to that hot head." I raised an eyebrow at him. Edward looked sheepish as he tugged me up to the bar. I shook my head as the barkeep handed over two tankards of rum. Glancing around, I spotted an empty table in the back of the tavern. I grabbed Edward's arm and tugged him to it as he tried to drink while walking. "Is Kidd still pissed at you about that bastard in Havana?" Edward nodded.

"Refused to talk to me last time I saw him." Edward shrugged. "The only thing I got out of him was the brotherhood would benefit from someone like me. Then he took off." Glancing around the tavern, Edward finally looked back at me. "No skin off my teeth. Keeps out of my way. I keep out of his. Now, where are we going tonight luv?"

"I'd say let's raid the mansion but honestly this late at night I'm almost afraid at getting caught." I said, swirling the last of the rum in my tankard. "Getting drunk sounds nice." I shrugged as I downed my drink.

"Or..." Edward smirked at me. "We have the ship to ourselves. No one to interrupt us." I cocked my head at him. "Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at me. If it weren't for a problem happening with the crew every ten minutes you know I would have taken you against every surface in that captain's quarters."

"Oh is that a fact, Captain Kenway?" I teased as I leaned close to him. Edward blushed slightly as he looked at me.

"Fuck." He muttered before closing the distance and kissing me. I hummed against his lips as Edward deepened the kiss. His hand curled around the back of my neck as I grabbed his coat. "Let's head back to the ship." He whispered as he pulled back. I nodded in agreement as we got up. Edward tossed a few coins onto the table before we both took off into the night. Kisses were stolen as we ducked into alleyways and doorways with giggles to avoid the roaming British patrols.

"You'd think they got the picture and would have left by now." I murmured as the last patrol walked by, giving us a clear shot at the docks.

"You know the King's army. Would rather take up space where they aren't wanted than fighting for King and country." Edward sneered with an eye roll. "Come on luv. I'm not sure I'll be able to wait much longer if another patrol comes." I took his hand gleefully as we ran towards our ship. The warm sea breeze was welcoming as we headed back up the gangway.

"And what are you two doing back here?" Edward and I froze as Adewale stepped from the shadows. We glanced at each other. "I thought the two of you would trade in this old ship for a warm bed and a good meal."

"Yeah. Well..." Edward muttered, smiling at his first mate. "Change of plans." Adewale shook his head with a smile.

"I think this was always in your plans my friend." He chuckled as Edward shrugged. "Have fun. I expect her to still be afloat by the time I come back tomorrow." Edward mock saluted him as he left the ship.

"Be careful! Patrols are out!" I called after him. Adewale disappeared into the shadows and Edward turned back towards me with a smile. He backed me against the mast and cupped my cheeks.

"Finally alone." He breathed out, kissing me softly. "I've been waiting weeks for this."

"Me too." I sighed as Edward dropped his head to start kissing my neck. I tangled my fingers in the hair that had come loose from his ponytail. Edward hummed as he mouthed along my jaw. Hooking my finger into the string that held his hair up, I tugged it free before quickly tying it around my wrist. Edward pulled back to look at me as his hair settled.

"Must you always do that?" He asked, a small smile on his lips. I shrugged as I bit my lip.

"Something about your hair framing your face I guess." I said. Reaching up, I brushed some of it out of his face. "Besides. I prefer you like this." Edward turned his head and kissed my wrist as I tucked his hair behind his ear.

“Whatever you say.” Edward chuckled as he kissed me again. Reaching down, he hoisted my legs up around his waist. I moaned as he pinned me to the mast. “As much as I’d love to properly christen this ship I think the bed is a good as any place to start.” I nipped along Edward’s jaw as he carried me towards the captains quarters.

“My captain.” I breathed out as he kicked the door open. “So strong.” Edward hummed as he turned us around and pinned me against the wall. The door closed with a bang as he kissed me forcefully.

"Keep calling me that and we won't even make it to the bed." Edward warned as he nipped my bottom lip. His eyes flashed darkly in the low light of the candles. I smirked at him.

"Then you better hurry to get me there." I teased, leaning close to him. I licked at the shell of his ear as a shudder ran through him. "Captain Kenway." Edward growled as he pulled me away from the wall and carried me to the bed.

"You'll be the death of me luv." Edward whispered as he started to undress. I sat up on my elbows as I watched him, tanned skin littered with scars and tattoos drawing my focus as more came into view. Edward shook his head with a laugh.

"I don't think I'll ever get tired of this view." I said with a happy sigh.

"And I think you're drunker than you want to let on." He teased. I rolled my eyes at him as I started to undress on the bed. "The sentiment is the same though." Edward cocked his head as my own map of scars and tattoos came into view. I smiled at him as I tossed my trousers at him. Edward laughed as he caught them, batting them to the side.

“now that you’ve got me here captain, what are you going to do?” I asked, feeling my cheeks heat up as Edward crawled onto the bed. My elbows slipped out from under me as he kissed me deeply. Edward’s hands settled next to my head as he slotted himself between my legs. I ran my fingers through his hair as Edward hummed into the kiss. He lowered himself to his forearms and broke away.

"I'm going to completely ruin you." He whispered as he lined himself up. I bit my lip as Edward entered me with a single thrust. My head fell back as he groaned. "Like coming home." He breathed out as his head dipped down to my neck.

"Edward." I whined, feeling my cheeks heat up as he pulled back to look at me. I brushed his hair out of his face as he smiled sweetly down at me. "Please..." Edward leaned down to kiss along my jawline, nipping and sucking at the skin as I squirmed beneath him. He ran his nose along my throat as he moved towards my chest. I gasped as he drew patterns with his tongue against my skin. "Please captain." I moaned, gently tugging on his hair. Edward chuckled as he draw back. His eyes shone darkly in the candlelight as he smiled at me.

"Now that's more like it." He teased as he slowly drew out. I wrapped an arm around him, fingers pressing into the muscles in his back as he thrust back in. I moved up the bed as he repeated the action. Small gasps left my mouth as Edward moved to my neck to continue marking me. I lifted my hips to meet him, grinding against him as he went flush against me. "Fuck luv." He murmured, breath hot against my neck. "Just like that."

"Captain." I moaned as Edward pulled back to look at me. Using the hand that was still in his hair, I pulled him down into a kiss. Edward continued to snap his hips with each thrust. We broke away but I wouldn't let him get too far away. Panting into each other's mouths, I reached down and grabbed Edward's ass. He gasped and let out a breathy chuckle as I kneaded the flesh. "Oh fuck. The things you do to me Captain." I moaned as Edward swiveled his hips every time they met mine.

"Keep calling me that and I won't last much longer." Edward groaned as my fingers dug into his ass. His eyes fluttered closed as I raked my nails down his back.

"Good thing I'm not going to either." I gasped. Edward kissed me again as I gently guided him. His thrusts were getting sloppy as he tried to keep up the rhythm he had set. I clung to his shoulders as he pushed through. With a few more thrusts, he pushed me over the edge. "Edward! Fuck! Captain!" I cried. Edward strained above me as his orgasm hit him.

"(Y/N)!" He cried as he weakly rode it out. Edward collapsed against me in exhaustion. "What you do to me darling." He whispered as he brushed my sweat soaked hair off my face. I smiled softly at him. I copied his action and drew him into a kiss.

"That's why you love me." I said as I stroked the scar on his cheek. Edward smiled before rolling his eyes.

"Ain't that the truth." He teased as he rolled over, pulling me with him. Edward hummed as I traced the mix of ink and scarred flesh that littered his chest. "Ain't that the fucking truth."

[reemonna]

HI! Love ur blog. Can I req some nsfw headcanons for Connor Kenway? ;)

Oh dear, this is the first time for me to write a whole nsfw blog and I'm so anxious about it, especially if it's about Connor. I hope I won't disappoint and thank you so much!

!!! (Warning: NSFW / not for minors / +18 content) !!!

NSFW Ratonhnhaké:ton / Connor Kenway headcanons

(During the events of AC3)

In spite of his terrifying physique and alarming gazes when he's hunting down an enemy, he can be the softest and most caring creature you'll ever get to know when it comes to him having a physical contact with you

He's so strong and able-bodied, so he can pin you to the wall with both his arms easily and you're here squirming before his huge body

When you're giving him head for the first time he'd be really concerned and anxious the whole time that you might choke. He's fully aware he is that huge

Him having kinks? I don't think so. He's an innocent boy, it's even possible for him not knowing what does the word 'kink' stand for in the first place. He could even ask you about it

"Nó:ronhkwe (love), what does the word 'kink' mean?"

"Where did you hear that from?"

But if he did have kinks, they would be the least risky and hurtful ones. Which means BDSM is a conclusive no for him

Connor is a busy man, he doesn't really have the time to have sexual and romantic relationships, he was once afraid he couldn't give his woman what she deserves. So having you would be his first. Yes, that means he is a virgin

Thus explain why he's shy and probably doesn't know what he's doing in your first time together. But he's a fast learner, with very observant eyes and sharp senses, he will take some mental notes of how to improve and get better by the time. And he definitely does

He's pretty skilled with his hands, according to training and using different weapons and managing them perfectly, so he really knows how to use them well, and he's ready to show you that in other ways than fighting, to play you like a violin, turning you into a sobbing mess

During the whole thing he will ask you some questions from time to time like 'Are you okay with this?', 'Am I doing good?', 'Do you want me to stop?' to let you know that he's wary and willing to make it as comfortable and pleasurable for you as possible

You wouldn't imagine what it's like to do it with him when he's mad about something. He turns into one brutal beast you won't be able to feel your body for a week at least

Once he's done and returns back to his senses, he will regret it immediately and keep on apologising (even if you're not really protesting), making sure you weren't badly hurt

When you're both close enough, he likes to play chasing games with you, tag for an example. He likes watching you from afar, determining your location with his secondary vision, licking his lips and eyeing you in a predatory way, closing the distance between you slowly like a vulture hunting down its prey. That's until he surprises you with a full-of-happiness giggle and hugs you. Holding you tight in a teddy bear way as if he's won his prize, whispering promises of a long blissful night to your ears

He looks like a sculpted statue of a greek god after reaching his climax. With his tired handsome face, pumped lips (more than they actually are), sleepy beautiful half-closed eyes, flushed tanned skin, tiny whines escaping his lips from time to time, sculpted flawless body and a rising and lowering sweaty chest. If he's conscious enough he would have a little wanton smirk on his lips with his eyes fixed upon you

He's the sweetest boy when it comes to the aftercare. He gives away lots of kisses and cuddles, asking you if he did well enough, could even prepare a bath for you to get cleaned up. He doesn't let you make the least effort possible. He takes care of everything himself until he finally lays beside you in bed, pulling you into his lap, fondling your hair tresses and kissing your forehead softly, wishing you sweet dreams

[pinkdaisies9285]

I Know Who You Pretend I Am

Arno Dorian x Reader

Summary: You had been in a relationship with Arno for a while but, can one night tip the scales?

Warning: Angst, drunk Arno (is that a warning?), reader being very self conscious, reader is not very confident, not beta read because we die like Marquis De Sade

Word Count: 1,518

Authors Note: Hi everyone! It's been a while since I last wrote something, but here we are. I have fallen in love with all the Assassin's Creed characters recently from playing some of the games. I got inspired by Mitski's Washing Machine Heart for this story! I will warn that I haven't played Unity, but I watched the entire Cutscene movie, so I hope you enjoy!

You always knew that you were his second love. You could never compare to his first, Élise. She was his soulmate and the one who made him the man he was now. Arno told you repeatedly that she was in his past and that he would never compare you to her. Yet, there is always a small twinge in your heart that tells you that you would never come close. And that small twinge began to spread across your heart completely.

It started when many of his fellow assassins asked if you knew about her. Every time they would ask, the guilt was apparent on their faces. Like they were trying to let down a child softly.

“He’s told you about her, right? His first love, Élise?” 

“You’re very different from her, Arno’s first lover, Élise. But that doesn’t mean you’re not the right one for him.”

Some of these conversations made you feel very self-conscious about everything. Were you smart like her? Pretty like her? Strong like her?

You knew that you couldn't compare to a highly trained Templar member who helped stop chaos from ensuing during the Revolution, but still, you wanted to be able to stand by Arno with pride. So you started working at the Café Theatre to help support Arno and his cause. You thought it was the best way to become a strong foundation for him. At least that's what you thought when your relationship started, but now you're unsure. 

The doubt continued to grow when you started to see signs that Élise wasn't really left in Arno's past. He kept things like her Templar necklace beside his bed and a small portrait of her in his study connected to the Café. These things in the beginning didn’t bother you, but when Arno would turn to these items first to quietly lick his wounds after certain missions, you knew that they weren’t just trinkets. They were his solace in dark times, not you.

Even though all these occurrences were adding to your doubts, you had stopped yourself many times from spiraling. Yet, the final nail in the coffin happened on a rainy night.

You had finished helping close the Café, and you were heading up to Arno's home connected to it. The drizzle of the rain could be heard through the windows as it landed on the roads outside. Usually, weather like this made you calm and relaxed, but something inside your mind was unsettled.

Shaking your head out of the spell of the hypothetical doom it was conjuring, you finally found Arno sitting next to the fireplace. There was an empty bottle of wine next to him, with another one on the floor. 

You knew that he had just come back from a difficult mission, but you didn't realize it was that bad. He rarely drank that much wine in one sitting. 

Slowly, you made your way over to where he was sitting.

“Arno, my love, are you okay?” You asked softly.

Arno turned his head in the direction of your voice. His face was slightly flushed, and his eyes were droopy. He was definitely drunk.

“Ahh, my chérie, where have you been? I have missed you so much,” he replied with a dopey smile.

You giggled and leaned over to give him a peck on the lips. 

Arno responded with urgency and made the peck into a full kiss. His lips tasted like sour grapes from all the wine he had been drinking. He moaned softly, “Oh, Élise.” 

You froze completely. Did he just say Élise? Did the man you loved with all your heart just call you his first love while in a drunken stupor? You felt like you could hear the cracking of your heart until it completely shattered into a million pieces. 

Your doubts were confirmed; you would never be her. The ethereal ghost that seemed to hover around your relationship had finally sunk its claws into it and ripped it to shreds. 

Were you that unremarkable that you couldn't be close to Élise? You quickly ripped away from Arno, stepping back while your body shook. Thoughts bouncing all around your mind.

Arno looked confused as to why you did this. What had he done for his love to step away?

“Élise, what did I do?” He slurred with droopy, sad eyes. He had a look of concern and sleepiness that almost made you weak for it, but no, this was the breaking point. You knew that it was time to step back from this situation and maybe from Arno completely.

“Nothing, my love, nothing,” you replied. “I'm going to just grab something and then we can go to bed, okay?”

“Okay, chérie, I'll be in our room then,” Arno said while slowly getting up and stumbling down the hall to your shared bedroom. Well, his bedroom now, because you knew it was time to go. 

Quickly, you went to another room and grabbed one of the bags that were in there. You quickly made haste to fill it with things that would help you escape into the curtain rain that was coming down harder now outside. Luckily, you spotted some clean clothes in the main room from you when you did some laundry, as well as some money you had gotten working at the Café. You shoved them into the bag and closed it. You grabbed some paper and ink to write a small note. Scribbling down short sentences while tears streaked down your face. Finished, you placed it on the table near where Arno had left his robes.

Grabbing your cloak, you made your way to the back door as quietly as you could so Arno wouldn't notice. Opening the door, you looked back one last time at the home you had nurtured with Arno over time. 

Memories danced across the room like glass reflecting light. 

The time you bandaged Arno up from a mission. The time when he surprised you with your favorite dessert as a way to start courting you. The time you kissed near the fireplace. It all melted together in your mind. 

Looking down the hallway, you saw a faint light from the bedroom and heard soft snores spilling out. He was asleep, which meant you were safe to leave. 

With tears continuing to slide down your face, you hurried out into the misty darkness of the night. Never to be seen again.

—

Arno woke up with a splitting headache. All he could remember from last night was coming home from his latest mission, angry with its outcome. His target was harder than he expected to catch, as well as he had too many witnesses who saw him finish the job. Which meant a lot of bribing and tying up loose ends. It resulted in him coming home and wanting to drink his worries away. 

Usually, the amount of wine he had wouldn’t make him drunk, but Arno had cut down on his drinking after everything had happened with Élise. He cut down even more, especially when you walked into his life. He felt like you had become his sun and moon. His everything. His reason to become a better man again.

So, the two bottles of wine felt like ten. Which meant he needed a remedy for the pulse happening inside his head. 

Walking out of the bedroom, Arno began to search for you. He didn’t remember you coming to bed with him, but maybe you got in after he fell asleep and left before he woke up.

“Ma Chérie, where are you?” he called out while entering the main room. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary from what he could see at first. His wine bottles were still in the same place, and his robes hadn’t been touched. Yet, he saw a small piece of paper near his robes that wasn’t there before.

Walking over to it, Arno felt a sense of undetermined dread come over his body. He didn’t know why, but something about this paper would change things. Picking it up, he began to read.

“Dear Arno,

I cannot deal with this weight on my heart anymore. I realize now that I will never be her and that the one you were kissing last night was not me but her. Please don’t go looking for me, as I know that nothing will change my mind. I hope that you will find someone who will be close to her.  

Goodbye, 

Ta chérie”

Arno felt the blood drain from his face as he read the note. You had left and disappeared? All because of his first love? What happened last night for it to end up like this?

Arno sat down in the chair near the fireplace, thinking hard about what he had done, and it all flooded back into his mind. 

You coming home, him being drunk, you kissing him, and him calling you Élise. 

He had made the biggest mistake in the world, and now he was paying for it. And all it took was him imagining someone else when he closed his eyes and kissed you.

Arno Dorian x Reader

Summary: You had been in a relationship with Arno for a while but, can one night tip the scales?

Warning: Angst, drunk Arno (is that a warning?), reader being very self conscious, reader is not very confident, not beta read because we die like Marquis De Sade

Word Count: 1,518

Authors Note: Hi everyone! Its been a while since I last wrote something but here we are. I have fallen in love with all the Assassin's Creed characters recently from playing some. I got inspired by Mitski's Washing Machine Heart for this story! I will warn that I Haven't played Unity but I watched the entire cutscene movie so I hope you enjoy!

You always knew that you were his second love. You could never compare to his first, Élise. She was his soulmate and the one who made him the man he was now. Arno told you repeatedly that she was in his past and that he would never compare you to her. Yet, there is always a small twinge in your heart that tells you that you would never come close. And that small twinge began to spread across your heart completely.

It started when many of his fellow assassins asked if you knew about her. Every time they would ask, the guilt was apparent on their faces. Like they were trying to let down a child softly.

“He’s told you about her, right? His first love, Élise?” 

“You’re very different from her, Arno’s first lover, Élise. But that doesn’t mean you’re not the right one for him.”

Some of these conversations made you feel very self-conscious about everything. Were you smart like her? Pretty like her? Strong like her?

You knew that you couldn't compare to a highly trained Templar member who helped stop chaos from ensuing during the Revolution, but still, you wanted to be able to stand by Arno with pride. So you started working at the Café Theatre to help support Arno and his cause. You thought it was the best way to become a strong foundation for him. At least that's what you thought when your relationship started, but now you're unsure. 

The doubt continued to grow when you started to see signs that Élise wasn't really left in Arno's past. He kept things like her Templar necklace beside his bed and a small portrait of her in his study connected to the Café. These things in the beginning didn’t bother you, but when Arno would turn to these items first to quietly lick his wounds after certain missions, you knew that they weren’t just trinkets. They were his solace in dark times, not you.

Even though all these occurrences were adding to your doubts, you had stopped yourself many times from spiraling. Yet, the final nail in the coffin happened on a rainy night.

You had finished helping close the Café, and you were heading up to Arno's home connected to it. The drizzle of the rain could be heard through the windows as it landed on the roads outside. Usually, weather like this made you calm and relaxed, but something inside your mind was unsettled.

Shaking your head out of the spell of the hypothetical doom it was conjuring, you finally found Arno sitting next to the fireplace. There was an empty bottle of wine next to him, with another one on the floor. 

You knew that he had just come back from a difficult mission, but you didn't realize it was that bad. He rarely drank that much wine in one sitting. 

Slowly, you made your way over to where he was sitting.

“Arno, my love, are you okay?” You asked softly.

Arno turned his head in the direction of your voice. His face was slightly flushed, and his eyes were droopy. He was definitely drunk.

“Ahh, my chérie, where have you been? I have missed you so much,” he replied with a dopey smile.

You giggled and leaned over to give him a peck on the lips. 

Arno responded with urgency and made the peck into a full kiss. His lips tasted like sour grapes from all the wine he had been drinking. He moaned softly, “Oh, Élise.” 

You froze completely. Did he just say Élise? Did the man you loved with all your heart just call you his first love while in a drunken stupor? You felt like you could hear the cracking of your heart until it completely shattered into a million pieces. 

Your doubts were confirmed; you would never be her. The ethereal ghost that seemed to hover around your relationship had finally sunk its claws into it and ripped it to shreds. 

Were you that unremarkable that you couldn't be close to Élise? You quickly ripped away from Arno, stepping back while your body shook. Thoughts bouncing all around your mind.

Arno looked confused as to why you did this. What had he done for his love to step away?

“Élise, what did I do?” He slurred with droopy, sad eyes. He had a look of concern and sleepiness that almost made you weak for it, but no, this was the breaking point. You knew that it was time to step back from this situation and maybe from Arno completely.

“Nothing, my love, nothing,” you replied. “I'm going to just grab something and then we can go to bed, okay?”

“Okay, chérie, I'll be in our room then,” Arno said while slowly getting up and stumbling down the hall to your shared bedroom. Well, his bedroom now, because you knew it was time to go. 

Quickly, you went to another room and grabbed one of the bags that were in there. You quickly made haste to fill it with things that would help you escape into the curtain rain that was coming down harder now outside. Luckily, you spotted some clean clothes in the main room from you when you did some laundry, as well as some money you had gotten working at the Café. You shoved them into the bag and closed it. You grabbed some paper and ink to write a small note. Scribbling down short sentences while tears streaked down your face. Finished, you placed it on the table near where Arno had left his robes.

Grabbing your cloak, you made your way to the back door as quietly as you could so Arno wouldn't notice. Opening the door, you looked back one last time at the home you had nurtured with Arno over time. 

Memories danced across the room like glass reflecting light. 

The time you bandaged Arno up from a mission. The time when he surprised you with your favorite dessert as a way to start courting you. The time you kissed near the fireplace. It all melted together in your mind. 

Looking down the hallway, you saw a faint light from the bedroom and heard soft snores spilling out. He was asleep, which meant you were safe to leave. 

With tears continuing to slide down your face, you hurried out into the misty darkness of the night. Never to be seen again.

—

Arno woke up with a splitting headache. All he could remember from last night was coming home from his latest mission, angry with its outcome. His target was harder than he expected to catch, as well as he had too many witnesses who saw him finish the job. Which meant a lot of bribing and tying up loose ends. It resulted in him coming home and wanting to drink his worries away. 

Usually, the amount of wine he had wouldn’t make him drunk, but Arno had cut down on his drinking after everything had happened with Élise. He cut down even more, especially when you walked into his life. He felt like you had become his sun and moon. His everything. His reason to become a better man again.

So, the two bottles of wine felt like ten. Which meant he needed a remedy for the pulse happening inside his head. 

Walking out of the bedroom, Arno began to search for you. He didn’t remember you coming to bed with him, but maybe you got in after he fell asleep and left before he woke up.

“Ma Chérie, where are you?” he called out while entering the main room. 

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary from what he could see at first. His wine bottles were still in the same place, and his robes hadn’t been touched. Yet, he saw a small piece of paper near his robes that wasn’t there before.

Walking over to it, Arno felt a sense of undetermined dread come over his body. He didn’t know why, but something about this paper would change things. Picking it up, he began to read.

“Dear Arno,

I cannot deal with this weight on my heart anymore. I realize now that I will never be her and that the one you were kissing last night was not me but her. Please don’t go looking for me, as I know that nothing will change my mind. I hope that you will find someone who will be close to her.  

Goodbye, 

Ta chérie”

Arno felt the blood drain from his face as he read the note. You had left and disappeared? All because of his first love? What happened last night for it to end up like this?

Arno sat down in the chair near the fireplace, thinking hard about what he had done, and it all flooded back into his mind. 

You coming home, him being drunk, you kissing him, and him calling you Élise. 

He had made the biggest mistake in the world, and now he was paying for it. And all it took was him imagining someone else when he closed his eyes and kissed you.

Divider credit: @cafekitsune

Please like/comment/reblog if you loved it!

[beeboos-creativecorner]

Just ... Jump - a Jacob Frye x reader one shot

Hello day 4 ! I wrote this in a single night back in June of 2021. Don't know what else to say. As a follow up, I wrote another one shot the night after dedicated to Evie, which will be posted during this event also. You know, all this was back when I could do crazy things like write a piece in a night instead of agonise over a piece for weeks lmao. It's not clever or elegantly written as other things I've done, but it's all right and it was enough to make it into the line-up :)

Fic under the cut x

London was somewhat serene at this time of night, less bustle about, but enough to know the city was buzzing with life. Microscopic oil lamps burned on the sides of the streets and other, fellow specs stumbled upon cobblestone, too intoxicated to find their way home. As cute as everything was, being miniature sized and all, it was an oddly terrifying experience. Your companion detected your prolonged silence and asked,

“Well?”

“When you said ‘fun’, I was expecting us to go to a fight club, or drink ourselves senseless, or even have sex on the train, but this? I’m beginning to think I don’t know you anymore,” you replied, too paralysed to even look in his direction. Your eyes were fixed on the wooden container many metres below you, overflowing with the brown, dying leaves of autumn.

“Come now, we can do all those things later,” he said, that witty tone dancing off his tongue in lighthearted spirits. You simply wished you shared his optimism. “Besides, Evie thinks you're ready - I think you're ready - to make the jump.” He was set on this notion of convincing you to take the opportunity, and unfortunately no amount of distracting could change that.

“Isn't the Leap of Faith a ceremonial thing first time ‘round? Can’t we just wait for Evie to be available, possibly Henry as well? I don’t think doing this in the dark is smart either, maybe we can come back tomorrow?” This was all to justify your cowardice. To be frank, the situation you were put in became a little too much to handle, and now you wanted down. You’d had enough of dwelling in your own existential thoughts for one night.

“You read too much and practice too little, love. Evie’s busy with her own work and when she gets back you can show her how good of a teacher I am.” He winked, jabbing your flank with an elbow. You flinched in panic, eyes still trained on the distant stack, heartbeat thumping, pulse accelerating. How could Evie, Jacob, and - dare you say - Henry do it so fearlessly? “Go on, why’re you dawdling?”

“Oh, you know, it’s just the whole ‘I-could-jump-off-wrong-and-break-every-bone-in-my-body’ thing.” Your expression was deadpan, concealing all you could about your current state.

“All you have to do is what I showed you, the rest will work out itself,” Jacob advised, clutching your hand in his gauntlet-clad one. You wanted that action to be the calm seas after a storm, you wanted that to alleviate your drumming heart and the swirling of your stomach. Alas, it did not. Infuriating you more, it gave you an edge, a side you hadn't really seen of yourself in Jacob’s company.

“Wise words, Jacob Frye. Keep it up and you’ll be Mentor in no time. Getting your students to jump off Big Ben first try.” The final part you muttered to yourself, hoping Jacob was getting the hint that you weren’t keen on leaping one bit. The sarcasm became your shield to hide behind.

“I know you can do it,” he reassured, squeezing your hand tighter in affirmation to his point. His speech flooded your tensed brain, his accent making the word ‘do’ sound more like the morning dew you’d find littered across the grass on a cold day. Normally that would send a wave of shivers to engulf your skin. You supposed this night in particular was an exception. “If it makes you feel better, I can go first. Prove how easy it is.” You nodded, swallowing a large lump that had made its home in the comfort of your throat.

Jacob, on the other hand, was clambering up to the uppermost spire of the elegant landmark, crouching there for a good while, surveying his surroundings. His breathing was audible, heavy, yet steady. The top hat he was wearing moments earlier had disappeared into the folds of his coat, hood drawn on his crown. Standing to his full height, the emotion in his eyes were unreadable, as if he had filtered out all his fears and bottled them to store them on a shelf. With a final, deep inhalation, Jacob sprung off the golden spire.

You observed in pure awe, as his back arched then straightened in flawless form as he descended at a rapid rate. Then, with impeccable timing, his body curled a good few seconds before hearing the satisfying whumph of his impact with the foliage. Scrambling out of the box a second subsequent, Jacob frantically waved at you from down below.

“See? Easy as pie. You should try it!” he called up to you, undaunted by the fact he could end up waking half of the borough in the process.

“I don't know about this, Jacob. Couldn’t we have begun with something... closer to the ground?”

“How else are you going to learn? Come on, if I can do it, you can.” You allowed that to settle with you, soaking it in before collecting yourself. With cold hands gripping freezing metal, you scurried up to where you saw Jacob pounce from. And you sat there endlessly, fully deterred by how unbalanced you were, along with bile rising from the pit of your stomach. Your legs wobbled as you made the attempt to stand, the fear pulling you down to reality and back to the safety of sitting. As much as you wanted desperately to do this, - for Jacob, for yourself - the sensation overwhelmed you and you couldn't. This everlasting ice and unbreakable chains prevented any hope from peeking through.

“I can’t- I can’t, Jacob! I’ll die if I do!” you confessed to him, voice varying in inflections as you wrestled to remain loud enough to hear. “I just don’t- I just don’t want to let you or Evie down. I’m sorry.”

“No! Don’t you be sorry. I’m coming back up, stay right where you are,” he claimed, valiance encasing his soul with verbal communication. He gave you the air of a hero from a melodrama theatre piece you went to see the other week. What burned that fire in your chest was establishing that you were the distressed damsel in need of saving. Atypical to the generally stoic and stubborn you, who never asked for anyone’s assistance. Unconsciously, your breathing turned erratic, tears forming in the corners of your eyes, defying your mental order telling you not to weep like a helpless baby.

“Don’t cry, love,” a familiar sound filled your ears and you couldn't resist the smile tugging your cheeks, feeling his arms wrap you up, his chin leaning on your shoulder. His radiating warmth healing you, reminding you that you weren’t alone, donating that sense of security to you that you never knew someone could give. You hadn’t noticed how time went by as you spaced out, as Jacob had reached you faster than anticipated. That, or blame the zipline strapped to his bracer. “You did great for what you managed to do tonight. I’m sorry for pressuring you like that. I promise we’ll start somewhere smaller, and in the daylight, and Evie will be there too. But that’s all for another day. Now, how about we get ourselves a drink?” That was the best suggestion Jacob had fabricated that evening.

“Oh god, I could really use one.”

[fanfenomenon]

i just know haytham would be the type to keep a locket with a picture of shay on it

in an AU where haytham took a young connor under his wing, I could imagine that he would give his son the most elite education in languages, literature, arts, and philosophy. one of them being drawing classes. 

when connor grew up, his skills in the arts further improved. being older now, he would notice how his father had grown rather fond of his associate, shay. connor didn't mind it though, he even thought this would be a good thing for haytham. after all, his father has been through so much pain. and with the death of his mother and the only woman haytham ever felt deep affection for, died any hope within the older man to find another lover.

even so, he thought his father deserved a second chance at love. thus begins connor's multiple attempts to win shay's heart on behalf of his father.

his father's birthday was coming up, and he wanted to give him a gift. shay was away on a mission for a few months, leaving him and his father stuck with each other’s company. haytham became more uncharacteristically irritable as the days went by, though connor understood it. communication was scarce, and due to the nature of their work, there will always be the possibility that shay wouldn’t be able to return.

it was unlikely for shay to be able to return on his father’s birthday, and both connor and haytham knew that. every year, the other templars would hold a celebration for the grandmaster, which undoubtedly would be the same this year, but what makes it so different is the absence of his father’s source of affection. well, connor would also be in attendance, as he always was years before, and haytham certainly wouldn’t be displeased with that. the older man missed the first few years of his son’s life and always wished to make up for lost time by celebrating milestones and happy moments with his only child.

still, connor couldn’t ignore his father’s forlornness, and he wanted to cheer him up in a way, but… how?

one night, a few days before haytham’s birthday, connor decided to visit his father’s quarters. he knew he had been feeling a bit lonely recently and thought perhaps he needed some company. after knocking a few times, he opened the door and found the older man fast asleep. walking closer to the bed, he found a letter on the floor. the younger man picked it up and saw the familiar penmanship of none other than shay cormac. he quickly took his eyes off the letter and placed it on the bedside table. he didn’t need to read their correspondence; he was taught to respect the privacy of others after all, and… he really didn’t want to know that much about his father’s love life.

connor looked back at haytham, feeling relief at how peacefully he was asleep. he was worried his father was having trouble sleeping and taking care of himself in the absence of one of his most special members of the order. the mohawk smiled as he glanced at the letter on the bedside table. he really missed his associate…

…and that was all he needed to know to decide what he was going to give to his father as a birthday present.

haytham was having his usual afternoon tea in his garden. he had been trying to distract himself from thinking about the irishman. it only hurts him to know that he’s so far away, that sometimes he even regrets sending him on that mission. but, they both know that they have a responsibility to the order and the safety of humankind itself. he was about to take another sip of his tea when the loud yet familiar footsteps of his son came crashing in.

“what is it now, boy?”

“happy birthday, father.”

oh, was it already his birthday?

he’d been so preoccupied with work that he’d forgotten what most people deem as the most special day of one’s life. he looked at the small locket his son held in his hand and gently took and inspected it a little more carefully. his eyes widened at the portrait of the person within the gold-plated pendant.

“this is… shay…”

connor smiled at how his father’s eyes seemed to sparkle in an instant. 

haytham examined the locket even more closely. the brushstrokes and the colors, he felt like he’d seen a great many artworks that had the same motifs before.

“did… did you make this?”

connor was grinning at this point, delighted to see his father’s surprised expression. before he could nod and comment on his father’s uncharacteristic show of mere shock, he suddenly felt a pair of arms wrap around him.

“thank you, son.”

connor stood still, startled at the unexpected physical contact. it was rare for his father to show some vulnerability, though he would always be glad to see his father open up to others more. he hugged the older man back, squeezing tightly and patting his back. as haytham pulled away, the brit couldn’t seem to hide his smile. he looked at the locket again, sliding his thumb over shay’s portrait. he glanced back at connor and asked,

“but, why…?”

“why not?”

haytham sighed, and connor could sense that the other man wasn’t satisfied with his answer.

“well, i’ve noticed that you’ve grown rather… fond… of master cormac.”

haytham slightly blushed at that, looking away from his son in embarrassment. he heard his son snicker and glared back at him. connor wasn’t intimidated at all, however. he stood still, grinning and beaming at his father.

“i’d rather you not mention that ever again.”

connor chuckled at that, placing his hands behind his back, he stood straight and excused himself. 

“as you wish, sir.”

he sarcastically replied, turning his heel to leave the gardens. once he was face to face with the estate’s double doors, he glanced back at his father sitting on one of the benches. there was a gentle smile on haytham’s face, looking peaceful as he was when connor saw him fast asleep in his quarters a few nights ago. he was still holding the locket, gazing at it in pure adoration.

connor smiled and went back to his quarters, thinking perhaps he should also paint a portrait of his father for shay when he returns.

[seviiul]

I'm looking at the 'assassin's creed x reader' fanfic tag and

Do people just like writing for character x character/character x oc more or are people not writing that much for assassin's creed anymore on Tumblr

Like AO3 probably has something still going on

But if you ask me?

The WELL

IS DRY AS THE SAHARA DESERT IN HERE

Y'all do know I can write stuff for y'all right TTOTT (COUGH me with like 70 different plot ideas listed down that I should still delve into and write COUGH COUGH COUGH) my asks are openn

[mollydewinter]

Posted my first Shaytham fic!!! Please lmk if u read it hehehehe

[yellove-writer]

✨ Archive of My Own Bad Decisions ✨

Also known as: “A handy guide to the stories I’ve written, abandoned, or sworn I’d finish before the heat death of the universe.”

This post will help you navigate the emotional battlefield that is my AO3 account. Every fic comes with its own flavor of pain, chaos, and citrus content — more on that below.

🌪️ Here’s how to read the nonsense

🔧 Project status

🕓 = Coming Soon (haunting my dreams until I write it.)

🟡 = Ongoing (I’m working on it. Allegedly.)

🟢 = Complete (miraculously finished, applause welcome.)

🛑 = On Hiatus (taking a nap in the drafts folder.)

💀 = Abandoned (RIP. We had a good run.)

🌶️ The Citrus Scale (a.k.a. how spicy are we talking? Because AO3 ratings are great, but I like fruit. Also because subtle innuendo is a lifestyle.)

🍋‍🟩 Cool, crisp, and completely safe (General) Expect: fluff, friendships, worldbuilding, healing arcs, and characters who actually talk about their feelings (shocking) 🍋 Light and zesty! (Teen) Expect: soft romance, emotional stakes, tension building like a slow cooker, feelings but no touching (yet). 🍊 Tart, with emotional pulp (Mature) Expect: angst, betrayal, trauma bonding, simmering tension, messy emotions, longing in dark hallways. 🍒 Ripe, juicy, and absolutely not safe for work (Explicit) Expect: spice, intensity, morally questionable intimacy, and characters who definitely need therapy but opt for making out instead.

Sorted by fandom, tagged by flavor, flavored by pain. Pick your poison. I’ve done my best to make it easy. But no promises — this blog is still 80% chaos and vibes.

Let’s get to the fics. Proceed with caution. Or snacks. Or both.

⚔️ Assassin's Creed ⚔️

Historical angst, morally grey men with hooded capes, and far too many philosophical monologues/minute. I fit right in.

You and Me Against the World 🟢 | 🍒

Relationship: Ezio Auditore/OFC

Word count: ~30.9k

Chapters: 3/3

Summary: They've known each other since Ezio moved to Venice. She’s the only one who knows where he hides, where he rests, where he breathes. The only one who’s ever seen the man behind the mask — the raw, aching soul beneath the assassin’s quiet strength.

Tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, porn with feelings, body worship, smut

The One Time He Felt Free 🟢 | 🍒

Relationship: Desmond Miles/Reader

Summary: Five times Desmond Miles swallowed the truth, and the one time he let it burn all the way through.

Word count: ~20.3k

Tags: angst, emotional baggage, hurt/comfort, slow burn, 5+1 format

He Told Himself It Meant Nothing 🟢 | 🍒

Relationship: Ezio Auditore/Reader

Summary: Five times Ezio built walls between you, and the one time he let them fall.

Word count: ~14.5k

Tags: angst, emotional baggage, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, 5+1 format

📼 Stranger Things 📼

Teen angst, alternate timelines, psychic trauma, government cover-ups… and yet somehow I still manage to make it worse. You're welcome.

Dissonant Frequencies 🟢 | 🍒 | Post

Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Summary: Five times Eddie Munson tried to convince himself he hated Steve Harrington and the one time he stopped trying.

Word count: ~23.6k

Tags: enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, love/hate, 5+1 format

Just a Few Nights 🟢 | 🍊 | Post

Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Summary: It was supposed to be a temporary thing — a guest room, a spare toothbrush, a warm bed while Eddie figured things out. But then one night turned into seven weeks, and somehow Steve found himself rearranging his grocery list around Eddie’s weird cravings and memorizing the sound of his laugh in every room.

Word count: ~16.4k

Tags: domestical fluff, slow burn, idiots in love, post-canon fix-it, mutual pining

Things You Don’t Say to the Family Video Guy 🟢 | 🍒

Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Word count: ~18k

Chapters: 6/6

Summary: Five cinematic recommendations Steve pretended were casual, and one quiet gift that made Eddie stop pretending he didn’t care.

Tags: AU - No Upside Down, slow burn, idiots in love, humor & feels, 5+1 format

The Softest Apocalypse 🟢 | 🍊 | Post

Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Summary: Eddie survived the Upside Down, but survival isn’t the same as living. Haunted by nightmares and the weight of a town that still whispers his name like a curse, he spends his nights restless and alone. One particularly brutal dream sends him wandering through Hawkins’ empty streets, only to find himself standing at the doorstep of the last person he thought he’d lean on: Steve Harrington.

Word count: ~13.6k

Tags: Post-canon fix-it, Angst with a happy ending, comfort sex, Emotional hurt/comfort, Aftercare

Crown of Fire 🟢 | 🍒 | Post

Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson

Word count: ~36.1k

Chapters: 6/6

Summary: Five songs Eddie didn’t write about Steve, and one he finally does.

Tags: AU - No Upside Down, Rockstar!Eddie, Angst with a happy ending, Established relationship, 5+1 format

[xeerle-ylo]

Love this scene lol (can't tell the chap bc it would be a spoiler, but if u know... u know)

[author-morgan]

Title: Not Just Silver and Gold Pairing: Edward Kenway x fem!Reader Rating: T Word Count: ~7.9k Summary: Edward Kenway fishes you out of the Atlantic and finds treasure that's not just silver and gold.

an early b-day gift for @mrsragnarlodbrok

THE NORTH ATLANTIC is quiet and still. A midmorning fog clings to the inky water—a nigh impenetrable wall making it difficult for Edward Kenway and his crew to see much farther than the tip of the Jackdaw’s bowsprit. It’s been two weeks since they set off from Great Inagua’s cove on the word of Henry Jennings about a convoy of Spanish merchant ships heading back to Spain from the Yucatán, passing north of Cuba and then onto open water—laden with silver and jewels and ripe for plundering.

Only after a week of searching and patrolling shipping lanes, there is naught but schooners and brigs flying Saint George's Cross, not worth the notoriety that would come from attacking them. And then, as if punishment for their greed and pride from Neptune himself, a squall blew them too close to the Spanish shores of La Florida. Ereyesterday, Captain Kenway could tell his crew was growing discontent with their ill-fortunes, and now he’s determined to make berth with something to show for this blunder, even if it’s not the promised riches they set out to pirate. 

The scent of burning pitch and tar cuts the air, but there’s a whiff of something acrid and sulfurous, too. It sets the crew at unease. And then the sea is no longer empty, and on either side of the Jackdaw is a scattered and burning wreckage. Flames rise from the shell of a broken hull—split in two but yet to sink. “Merchant ship, most likely,” Edward tells his quartermaster. An English ship, by the looks of it, and given the uniforms of the drowned crew mixed with the flotsam. There are crates and barrels still bobbing on the water’s surface—not much, but it’s something. “Salvage what you can!” The captain orders, and slowly, the crew begins shuffling around on the main deck, scouting their pitiful bounty.

“Cap’n!” Thom shouts, straying from his post at the swivel gun to look over the gunwale. Edward gives the helm to Adéwalé and joins the four men gathered at the rails, staring down at the water and wreckage. “There.” The deckhand points at one of the pieces of floating debris, lying half on the carvel panel and half in the water is a woman, slowly drifting away from the ship. 

Instinct kicks in just as if there’d been a man overboard. Edward tosses his pistols to Billy and drops his sword belt, diving into the wreckage below, and swimming out before she slips too far away. He thinks there’s a pulse—faint against the rise and fall of the sea, but enough to keep you from joining the other poor souls in Davy Jones’s Locker. Pulling you into the water, Edward starts back toward the Jackdaw, fighting the weight of the layers of your soaked frock to keep your head above the water. The crew tosses a rope down and Edward grips it, hooking his arm beneath yours, as they haul you both onto the Jackdaw.  

Edward leans over you on the deck—he can feel your slow, uneven breaths on his damp cheek. “Still breathing,” he announces to the crew, easing his hand to cradle the back of your head. Some of the men back away, muttering a woman aboard will bring them bad luck—more than they’ve already had these last weeks—while others just stare.

Slowly, Edward starts to sit you up and air comes rushing back, displacing the water filling your mouth and lungs in a heave of salty bile. You twist in your savior’s arms, heaving up the contents of your belly onto the deck. “Easy there,” Edward soothes. The saltwater stings your eyes, and the chill bites through the soaked fabric clinging to your skin, but the solid oak deck is an anchor to a world threatening to slip away.

“S’alright, lass,” he tells you, his voice rough—barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the rushing blood in your ears. Eyes burning and sight hazy, you look around at the seafarers, and then at the man kneeling at your side. His face is a mask of concentration mixed with relief, framed by straw blond hair dripping with seawater. 

He watches for any sign of awareness in your eyes, his hand still cradling your head, steadying you, but there’s only the empty, fearful look of a soul just stolen from Davy Jones. Edward’s arms—warm and strong—slip beneath the bends of your knees and around your shoulders, heaving you up from the deck with a grunt. “Eyes on the horizon, lads,” he commands, starting toward the great cabin.

And when you look up at the masts and sails above there’s an odd black spot lingering in your blurred vision—or maybe it’d been a black flag.

He sets you on a lumpy mattress in the captain’s quarters, then offers a tepid cup of water. You drink to wash away the taste of salt and bile, but feel your stomach begin to churn again.  

“Were there any others?” You ask, your voice faint and unfamiliar, the words half-slurring as you stare at your reflection in the water. You can still hear the shouting, the screaming from the officers to douse the lanterns and sparks, but it’d been too late. The magazine caught, and the roar from the belly of the ship and cracking timbers were deafening, but then, once adrift amid the burning wreck, there was only silence—no wailing, no shouting, just a haunting stillness. 

Edward can see the horrors reflected in your tired eyes—for one not accustomed to maritime battles and mishaps, such sights can cause a lifetime of haunts. “Afraid not,” he answers, wringing out the rag and turning your cheek toward the lantern light. He presses the rag against your hairline and temple where there’s a bloody cut and sees you flinch away at the brush of his calloused fingertips. “Sorry,” he breathes—he’s usually the one getting patched up, not playing caretaker.  

You’re quiet for a long while as he tends your hurts, still shaken, but even so, you remember your manners. “May I have your name, good sir?” You ask, barely a whisper. 

Edward hesitates—he’s infamous in these waters. Everyone in the West Indies knows of his piracy against empires and exploits with the likes of Thatch and Vane in Nassau. But you’re only a woman, crossing the Atlantic for the first time by the looks of it and still likely blissfully ignorant of the order of things in these parts. He’ll take the risk and be truthful. “Edward,” he tells you after a long pause, lifting the rag to see if there’s any more blood welling up along the cut. “Captain Edward Kenway.” You thank him for saving you from certain death and for his attentive care. 

“What was your heading, lass?” He questions, knowing by the quality and style of your dress that someone of import would be waiting for your arrival—a husband maybe, or a father or brother—and where there’s status, there’s riches to be bartered. 

“Kingston,” you answer. The captain said you were only ten days from the city and old Port Royal before the ship went up in flames. 

“I see,” he says, his eyes studying your face for a moment as if searching for something more—a hint of recognition or deception—but there’s nothing else save for gratitude and exhaustion. “Get some rest, lass,” Edward continues, offering a roughspun woolen blanket, his voice softening as he lets you be.

Edward runs his hand over his face when he steps out of his cabin and back into the midmorning sun. It seems they will have to sail to Kingston. Adéwalé comes down the steps. “One of the men pulled these from the wreckage” —he passes the leather-wrapped letters to the captain— “Letters of Marque.” Edward unfurls the soaked parchment, the ink smudged but still legible. He thumbs through the first pages. 

Whereas, by His Majesty’s Commission under the Great Seal of Great Britain bearing Date the 13th Day of March in the year of Our Lord 1716, and in the 2nd Year of His Majesty’s Reign, the Lords Commissioners for executing the Office of Lord High Admiral are required and authorized to issue forth and grant Letters of Marque and Reprisal...the letters are signed by the king, his seal pressed in green wax, but the vessel and officers' names are left blank. A potential bargaining chip. 

Edward skims the next letter in the batch—written on thinner parchment—the gall ink bleeds badly, and words run together, but he can make out enough to know they’ve either struck gold or will find themselves wearing hempen halters soon. He laughs, looking at Adéwalé and feeling as though the tides have shifted in their favor. “She’s the daughter of Kingston’s Chief Judiciary,” Edward tells his quartermaster. A rich bastard with coin and power to spare. A fine ransom. Adéwalé’s eyes widen with the revelation, and Edward claps his mate’s shoulder with a smile as he heads for the Jackdaw’s helm. “Just got interesting,” he notes. “Wouldn’t you agree, Adé?”

STEPPING FROM THE cabin, you squint in the bright sunlight—unsure if hours or days have passed—hand raised to shield your eyes from the midday sun. There are words of gratitude on your lips for Edward Kenway and his men, but the black smear still lingers on the edge of your gaze, and now you can see it’s a flag—the colours of the ship. A white skull on a tattered black field. The sight churns your stomach. Pirates. Any words of thanks fade, a newfound fear and odium taking gratitude’s place—dread, too. “You’re bloody pirates,” you breathe, voice trembling. 

Edward Kenway glances over the ship’s wheel and offers a roguish smile. “Privateer, really,” he quips. A partial truth. “But the lines do blur.” He passes the helm to Adéwale and makes his way to where you stand, aghast at the revelation of who your rescuers truly are. “I’ll strike you a deal, lass,” the captain starts, knowing you’re in no position to refuse. You may as well be a prisoner—or a hostage to ransom. “I’ll get you safely to Kingston and back to the good ole judge in exchange for some coin and safe passage for me and mine,” he tells you. 

It doesn’t seem like much to ask for. A fair trade—or at least your father might think so. But even if he makes good on his deal, it won’t matter. Those colours won’t get him anywhere but an iron pen and the gallows. And unless Edward Kenway is a particularly bad pirate, the King’s Men and your father’s cabinet will know who he is. “You’ll hang.” It’s not a threat so much as an observation—a hard truth.

The captain’s cavalier attitude shifts in a blink, his expression souring. “That how you intend to repay the man who saved your life?” Edward asks, almost amused as he looks down his nose—slightly crooked from being broken one too many times—at you. “By granting him a noose?”

One good deed is not enough to absolve a man of a lifetime of sins. It’s a phrase you’ve heard since childhood about those who turned to piracy and sought to become a scourge of the seas. You lift your chin, unwavering, as a lady of your standing should be. “I can request a quick drop and sudden stop for you, sir.”

Edward’s eyes narrow at your sharp turn of the tongue. “In that case” —he grips your arm, pulling you over to the side of the ship, bright eyes scanning the horizon— “we can find you another piece of flotsam to cling to, Your Highness.” You stare down into the dark water, heart racing, fearful he might really throw you overboard. But Adé gives Edward a look from the helm, and it’s not long after that the captain concedes with a heavy sigh. “Pirates we may be,” he starts, stepping away from the ship’s taffrail and you, “but you’ve my word. We’ll get you to Kingston, and no harm will come to you.”

You keep your distance for the rest of the day, wary of your rescuers now that you know their true nature—pirates. They pay you little mind, even the ones who’d cursed your presence after Edward dragged you onto the ship from the water. With nowhere else to go—and unwilling to make yourself familiar with pirates—you return to the captain’s cabin.

When Edward retires in the night hours, he finds you awake, sitting on his bed with an open book—Robinson Crusoe—near the hanging oil lantern. It seems you’ve made yourself at home in his quarters. “I…” you start, the words stuck in your throat as he closes the door behind him, “I apologize for my curtness early.” The apology sounds forced to Edward’s ear. 

Edward takes to a chair and props his feet up on the table at the center of his quarters, uncorking a fresh bottle of rum. He takes a long drag of the sweet liquor and relishes the burn in his salt-scratched throat before the warmth settles in his belly. “You’ll get no apologies from me, lass,” he tells you, not ungently. Another swig of rum and he sighs inward, seeing your fear-laced expression staring back at him in the dim lantern lights. “Like to think I’m a man of my word, though.” But his words offer no comfort—it’s hard to trust the word of a sea scoundrel. 

“Rum?” He offers up the bottle, but you do not move to take it. You’ve never been one to take to the drinks of men. “We’ve not got tea, Your Highness,” Edward mocks. He knows your type—the ones who always looked down on him and his lot, even back in Swansea. Nothing was ever good enough for the landed gentry. 

“How many days are we from Kingston?” You dare ask, ignoring his jape. You don’t expect an answer, or an honest one, in truth. 

“Jackdaw’s been at sea for over a fortnight,” he tells you. They’ve already been at sea longer than they planned, and the supplies are dwindling. “We’ll have to stop over to refresh our stores. Our cove is seven, maybe nine, days away if the weather holds.” Summer months in these parts were always finicky for sailing—never quite could know if a maelstrom would try to take you when the skies opened up. “I reckon then, four days. Long as the wind is on our side, and we don’t come across any of Philip or George's good men.”

When the bottle of rum is half gone, Edward rises from his chair and flops down on his bed, stretching out despite your appalled expression—a mix of outrage and disgust at his impudence. “What are you doing?” You demand. 

He folds his hands behind his head and closes his eyes. “Having a kip,” Edward answers, settling into the lumpy rag-and-straw mattress, “if it pleases you.”

IT TAKES NINE days to reach the old cove after sundown—a haven for pirates, especially now with the seat of the Pirate Republic under the watchful eye of the King’s Men and their Templar associates. Great Inagua is where the Jackdaw makes berth. Under better circumstances, you might even dare describe the small settlement as quaint, with the little houses and shops dotting a main stretch of earthen paths before disappearing into a thick jungle. Instead, you find yourself shrinking away from the gazes of vagabonds and scarlet women.

The first place Edward Kenway and his crew head is the dockside tavern to wet their whiskers and fill their bellies with something other than watery ale, rum, and cold salt pork. Feeling out of place and unsure of the workings of a society based on piracy, you keep close to Edward—taking a spot on the bench opposite of him at one of the tables. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

You only catch the last bit of what the group of bully boys sitting at the next table over say—I’d brave the Devil’s squalls to chart her shores—but Edward Kenway’s keen ears hear it all. His smile fades instantly, and he slams his tankard of ale on the table, head twisting around. “Watch your tongue,” he says, voice a low, dangerous growl. 

The merriment on the dock dies down—the bard’s tune does, too. It’s as though everyone except you knows how this scenario plays out. One of them sneers at Edward. “What’s it to you, Kenway?” You don’t recognize any of them as men who sail on the Jackdaw, only that their foul mouths match their tempers.

“You’ll not insult my guest,” Edward answers, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken threat as he rises from the bench and turns to face the group of ruffians. 

“Gone turn on one of your own for a stuck-up trollop?” The fattest of the bunch asks, spitting on the plank floor. Edward’s answer is violence. His fist connects square with the man’s jaw, the sharp crack of knuckles against bone ringing out like a gunshot. The brute stumbles back, crashing into the table behind him—knocking over half-filled tankards. 

Edward ducks under a wild swing, ramming his elbow into the ribs of the second man before twisting to avoid the grasp of the third. The first brute, stumbling back to his feet, charges. Kenway sidesteps at the last second, letting the man barrel straight over the dock railing and into the water, cursing as he falls. You flinch more than he does when a punch connects with his jaw, but Edward reaches for the nearest tankard—still half-full—and smashes it over the second man’s head, putting him on the ground with a pitiful moan. 

The third manages to grab Edward by the collar, hauling him back before landing a strike to the face. He twists sharply, driving his knee into the bastard’s groin. It’s enough for the man to release him, and a sharp uppercut sends him sprawling backward to join his compatriot.  

The three offending corsairs head off the dock tavern to sulk and lick their wounds and pride. Edward glances at the rest of the ruffians still sitting and standing around and gives them all a hard look of warning.

He returns to sit across from you—the singers striking up a jolly tune again—wiping his bloody mouth and nose on the back of his hand. When he glimpses you, he sees your horrified expression and wide-eyed gaze—a lady of nobility wasn’t used to watching tavern brawls. 

One of the barmaids brings a stained napkin and a cup of water. You take both items and move around the table beside Edward, tending to his hurts. “You did not have to do that,” you tell him softly, wiping away the blood at the corner of his mouth with the damp serviette. Words were just that—words. And you’re certain you’ve heard sailors under the King’s flag and your father’s men speak—do—far worse.    

“Gave you my word,” he tells you, a reminder—as though you could have so easily forgotten the promise made by the man who saved your life. Those kind blue eyes of his flit to yours, shining in the torchlight and hazy from the rum. If you stare too long, you’ll drown. And if you stare too long, you’ll see Edward Kenway for what he truly is. Snapping from your trance, you reach for Edward’s hand and start to clean his bloody and split knuckles. “Know you don’t think much of a pirate’s word,” he slurs—there’s a strange sadness in how he says it, “but we have our own type of honor.” He flexes his hand, and the bones creak and crack. “Our own creed.”

He rubs his bruising jaw and looks at the white house high on the hill. “I’ll take you to the manor,” Edward mutters. It’d be safer there anyway—fewer drunk reprobates at this hour. If he were a decent man, he’d have taken you already instead of letting degenerates entertain a woman of English nobility. Edward rises from the bench again and even offers the crook of his arm like a true gentleman to lead you down the short street and up the hill.

It’s a proper estate with a grand dining room, a great parlor, and even a library—though the shelves are noticeably empty save for a few odds and ends. 

Edward opens the bedchamber door and steps aside, motioning for you to enter and make yourself comfortable. The room is simply furnished. There’s a bed, a wardrobe, and a parlor set. The dust and full decanters of wine and rum tell you it’s seldom occupied, too. It’s certainly better than your accommodations on the Dauntless and the Jackdaw these past weeks. He starts to let the door shut, letting you be for the night. “Where will you go?” You ask, curiosity getting the better of you. 

“Tavern or brothel floor, most likely,” he answers. 

“Edward,” you call to him, and he stops, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t be absurd,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can think them over. Edward’s hand stills on the door, and he turns to face you, one eyebrow raised in amused surprise. “I would not keep you from sleeping under your own roof,” you tell him.

“Is that so?” he replies, a playful edge in his voice. You had no qualms about taking his bed and quarters aboard the Jackdaw. A faint smile twists his lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes—shadowed with fatigue. Edward hesitates still, and his expression shifts, the amusement fading. He studies you, weighing your offer against an invisible scale of propriety and caution. But after the events of the evening and the conversations you’ve shared, there’s an unspoken trust neither of you could have foreseen. 

“Yes,” you answer, meeting his gaze, not shying away. “Stay.”

He doesn’t have to be told again and closes the door behind him. You awkwardly stand at the room’s center, fiddling with the sleeve hem of the borrowed wool jacket, eager to rid yourself of the salt-soaked clothes on your back but unsure how far you’re willing to go for comfort and risk propriety. Behind you, it sounds like Edward Kenway laughs as he goes to one of the trunks and shuffles around in the contents. “Here,” he notes, offering a linen shift. You take the chemise with a nod of gratitude. “I’ll have a bath drawn for you in the morning,” he adds. 

“I...” It’s a kindness you had not expected, even if he had shed blood for you. “Thank you.” Edward nods, and you disappear behind the dressing screen, shedding the worn sailor’s clothing for something more comfortable and familiar. 

He’s already removed his effects—weapons piled on the top of the trunk nearest the foot of the bed, his coat and tunic laying across the back of a parlor chair, and his boots kicked to the side. You flush at the sight of him half-clothed and make for the bed in haste to keep your gaze and mind from wandering. 

The bed dips when Edward eases himself onto the opposite side, and for a moment, there’s nothing but the quiet creak of the wooden frame and the faint rustle of fabric as he makes himself comfortable. You close your eyes, willing sleep to take you, and quickly, but the awareness of him—his presence, his warmth, the slow, even sound of his breathing—makes it difficult.

A long silence stretches between you both, and just when you think he’s already drifted off, his voice, low and gruff with exhaustion, breaks the stillness. “Get some sleep, lass,” he tells you. 

It feels odd, lying on a bed, not rocking to and fro with the swells of the sea. It’s too still, and you find yourself unable to sleep much longer than an hour or two at a time. You roll over, looking at the pirate lying next to you. 

Edward’s broad shoulders rise and fall with each steady breath. The furrow oft between his brows is softened in sleep—an odd look of peace for such a complicated and troubled man. The streams of moonlight passing through drawn curtains cast a soft, silver glow over him, shining on the dark outlines of his tattoos and highlighting the silvery scars on his arms and back. He’s handsome in a rugged and rogue way and far from what you believed a pirate would be like. You curse the thoughts creeping into your mind and the growing fondness you feel toward him.  

“Stop moving, damn you,” Edward mumbles, half-asleep, feeling the mattress shift again. There’s a quiet apology on your lips, but it turns into a surprised little gasp when Edward’s arm curls around your middle, drawing you into his side.

FOUR DAYS LATER, the Jackdaw is fit to sail again—her crew and stores replenished and ready for an easy journey to Kingston and wherever they may need to roam afterward. You set off before midday with calm waters and a gentle breeze to fill the sails, and this time your temperament isn’t as sour.

By evenfall, there’s hardly anyone on the deck. Most of the crew are in the belly of the ship, taking their supper and playing dice and knucklebones. Edward stays at the helm, though, holding the wheel steady as the Jackdaw passes the eastern shores of Cuba. “C’mere, lass,” he calls down to you—sitting on the stairs up to the quarterdeck.

He holds out his hand when you step to his side, and you place your hand in his—rough fingers curling around yours—as he guides you to the Jackdaw’s wheel. “There,” Edward says, softly, bringing your other hand to rest on another wheel handle, letting you take control of his ship. “Steady,” he breathes, hands finding purchase on your waist. You don’t have to fight the wind or currents, only keep the bow of the ship true to the southerly course.

A long moment passes, and you glance back at Edward, only to find his clear blue eyes are already focused on you with the beginnings of a smile. “Eyes on the horizon, love,” he chides—a whisper of warmth against the curve of your neck.

“Edward.” You know what he's going to do as he leans closer, and you make no effort to stop him—taken with this new sense of freedom and control that you have of your own fate while aboard this ship. He moves first. You swallow hard, a small pulse in your neck beating frantically, and your eyes slip shut as his lips brush yours—a satisfied sigh escaping on your breath. The kiss is chaste; a gentle flutter of his lips against yours. Only testing the waters.

PORT ROYAL AND Kingston rise from the pale blue waters of the Caribbean in the afternoon sun. The Jackdaw drops anchor in the bay harbor, and the crew helps you and the captain down into a dinghy to row ashore. “Here we are, Your Highness,” Edward announces when he pulls to one of the low wharves and ties off the small boat—there’s an odd sense of mirth in his tone and shining in his blue eyes. He steps onto the short wharf and offers his hand, pulling you up. 

Edward Kenway fashions himself to look like a simple West Indies merchant seaman, foregoing most of his usual armaments besides a pistol and saber. And you’ve donned the ruined dress from when he first found you adrift in the Atlantic.

The streets of Kingston aren’t what you expect, but you’d heard what happened to the city of Port Royal, the sea and sand reclaiming most of the city—divine punishment, no doubt. Though, you suppose it does take time to build a new city in place of the one destroyed. You keep close to Edward, as the denizens offer odd glances, clearly taken aback by your disheveled appearance and unscrupulous company.

The judge’s estate is near the governor’s mansion—smaller but no less grand by the looks of it, but still quite different compared to your countryside manor in Devonshire. Guards posted at the wrought iron gate usher the two of you into the yard and up the steps of the Georgian manse when Edward announces he found the judge’s daughter adrift at sea amidst the wreckage of the Dauntless. They’ve already heard of the misfortunes from the captain of another English ship—the Monmouth.  

The doors of the solar open and cool air, tinged with pipe smoke, greets you. Edward enters after you, glimpsing the richly adorned interior. He sees you shift, awkwardly, none of this feels familiar, not in the way Devonshire did. No countryside breeze slips through the open windows, only the scent of West Indies sugar and Spanish silver.

Your father is older than you remember—it's been almost a decade since he first sailed from England—and his powdered wig is unable to hide the grey beneath. The lines around his eyes are deeper, sterner, too. He pauses mid-step, as if unsure whether to believe who's standing before him. “My God…” He steps closer, arms slightly lifted—but not embracing you. Not yet. His eyes flick from your face to your ruined gown, your tangled hair. It's really you. And then you're enfolded in his arms.

Your father looks to Edward Kenway as he releases you from an embrace. “I am indebted to you, mister...” he trails off, not knowing how to address the man who’d returned his daughter. 

“Walpole,” Edward says, wisely giving a false name. “Duncan Walpole, sir.” 

He nods and waves off one of the footmen to fetch a reward. The butler places three heavy purses, two of silver coin and one of gold, onto the desk—more than Edward Kenway would have demanded in ransom had it still been his priority. “Thank you,” the pirate starts, looking at the bounty, and then something twists in his stomach and chest—is this the price for a father’s daughter?—“but I cannot accept this.” The answer surprises all those in the solar, but none more than you. Edward looks at you. There’s guilt shining in his eyes and another look you cannot quite place, but you know it frightens you. “Knowing your daughter is safe is reward enough,” he says earnestly.

The judge’s brows lift in surprise. As a man of wealth and station, he cannot fathom such a reward being refused, least of all by a man who bore the rough edges of a privateer—perhaps worse. “Now there’s a fine lad,” your father muses, considering the dealings already done.  

And with nothing else to say and no bargain to strike, Edward Kenway turns to make his way back to the Jackdaw. “I’ll see you out, Mister Walpole,” you announce, almost too hastily, given the terse look on your father’s face. “To give my final thanks,” you amend. 

Edward hesitates, his clear and sharp gaze flicking to the guards and servants lingering in the periphery—they watch from a respectable distance, skeptical of his presence. Then, with a curt nod, he follows you, and once out of earshot, you let the formality slip. “A moon ago, I was just a coin purse to you,” you remind him. He exhales, a faint chuckle escaping him, though it holds no real humor. He doesn’t meet your eyes at first, glancing ahead at the wrought iron gates instead. “What changed?” You ask. 

“Everything.” Edward finally looks at you then—really looks at you. His expression teeters between indifference and contentment. Then he shakes his head, a fleeting, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing.”

You slow as the estate’s gated entrance draws near, heart beating in your throat. When he goes, so will your first taste of true freedom.  “Will I see you again, Edward?” You question, hopeful. Foolish, you curse yourself, he’s a pirate, you foolish girl.

“If the winds and seas are kind, Your Highness,” he tells you.

Reaching up, you unclasp the silver chain and pendant molded into your family’s crest and adorned with a dark red stone from around your neck. “Take this” —you pass the necklace to him— “to remember me by.” His lips twist upward when he takes the necklace, thumb running over the imprinted crest and garnet before he tucks it into one of the pockets of his blue woolen coat.

You both hesitate, then Edward glances over his shoulder, checks no one is watching, and moves toward one of the trees and stone columns marking the estate’s entrance, pulling you with him—out of sight from any would-be wandering eyes. His rough, calloused hand cups your cheek, and then you’re drowning again in his eyes—like a stormy maelstrom. Edward, you aren’t sure if his name is a whisper on your lips or not when his lips find yours, tentative—as if asking permission, just the same as when he first kissed you on the Jackdaw. You lean into him, and he deepens the kiss, hand slipping from your cheek to the back of your neck. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing uneven. “To remember me by,” he echoes with a roguish smile, slipping away back to his life on the sea.

THE LETTER TO a dear friend across the Atlantic is almost fully penned when one of the commanders from Fort Charles arrives in the manse’s solar. He greets you proper, then turns to where your father sits at his desk, reviewing letters and documents from the governor and those delivered on the last ship from England. “Brought in a haul of pirates, sir,” the soldier announces. 

“Names?” Your father requests, appearing uninterested though you know he’s listening intently to see if there’s a sea rat with enough prestige amongst the lot to help raise his status here in the Caribbean colonies. 

The soldier begins rambling off a list of names from a rolled-up piece of parchment. No one of prominence by the sounds of it “…and a hothead, Kenway,” he finishes. 

You lay down your goose quill and shift in your chair, looking back at the soldier. Your father doesn’t seem to place the name, but you do. “Edward Kenway?” You inquire, not that there’s likely to be another Kenway sailing under a black flag in these parts. 

“Aye,” the commander confirms.

It’s been months, maybe a year or more since you last received word from Edward Kenway—even longer since he’d last come to steal you away in the night. The memory of your shared times together and the thought of having to watch him hang makes your heart start to race and your mouth go dry. I must do something, you tell yourself, even though the new gold and sapphire weight on your left ring finger feels heavier now than it ever has before. 

IT’S A FOOLISH thing to do, especially if you get caught, but it only feels right to return a favor. Your father said all those convicted of piracy would have fair trials by the week’s end. But fair trials for pirates always end with a long walk to the gallows and a hempen halter. A fate you’re determined to save Edward Kenway from—at least for a little while. 

You dash from the bushes to one of the side entrances of the prison whilst the guards on duty are changing shifts. The halls are damp and dimly lit, and smell of mold and foul excrement. Some prisoners leer at you from within their iron pens—clearly a woman trying to pass as a man given how ill-fitting your breeks and woolen coat are, and clearly looking for someone who isn’t them.

“Edward,” you whisper into the darkness, having yet to pass where they’ve thrown him to await the noose. There’s no response. Frowning, you glance around the line of cells and then around the corner to check the hall is clear before starting forward again—quietly calling out his name every dozen paces. You spot his blond head leaning against the iron bars of the cell’s door and wall. 

He shifts as you draw nearer. “Risking your neck for a pirate?” Edward asks softly, his voice low, laced with disbelief as he rises from the damp floor. You offer him a fleeting smile before trying the first key. “You’ve gone mad, lass,” he says, smile widening. You shake your head—half-refuting his claim—trying a second key on the heavy iron ring, but the lock doesn’t budge. The third key opens the rusty cell door with a creak and a squeak. He hesitates just beyond the threshold of freedom, his gaze flickering to the darkened corridor beyond, then back to you. “Why?” He finally asks.

You don’t answer, not directly, anyway. Stepping back, you motion for him to go before it’s too late. “Get out of here,” you nigh hiss. “Before someone notices.” New patrols will be starting soon, and both of you need to leave undetected. You don’t fancy having to explain to your father why you’d been caught freeing a notorious pirate from prison or why he bears such a similarity to Duncan Walpole from those years ago.

But he doesn’t move. Instead, Edward closes the distance between you, his hand gently grasping your wrist. “Come with me,” he says. “For tonight.” Like old times. 

You shake your head—trying to resist the devil’s temptation. “I should protest,” you tell him. Things are different now, but his smile grows wider still, and his grip on your wrist tightens just a little.

“Aye,” he agrees, teasing, “you probably should.” And against better judgment, you find yourself nodding, a small smile tugging at your lips as you let Edward guide you farther into the prison in search of his things.

He recovers his effects from one of the chests in the officer’s quarters, tucks them under his arm, and then takes your hand again, retracing the same path you’d taken through the halls. You both slip unseen from the prison’s entrance, and Edward pulls you away from old Fort Charles to one of the dinghies on the sandy beach. He tosses his things into the boat, then pushes it to the water, helping you in before rowing toward the far end of the bay.

Once the rowboat is ashore and you step from it onto the beach, Edward surges forward. His hands frame your face, roughened by his time at sea, and his lips find yours as though the years that've passed are only days. Even so, it’s reckless and desperate—a kiss stolen in the dead of night, a treasure neither of you is meant to have. He can tell there’s something different in how you respond—maybe time has been cruel, after all. Edward rests his forehead against yours, hands sliding down to your waist. “If you don’t want this,” he breathes, “tell me.” Because by God, he wants you. 

You press your hand against his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer, but morality and duty win over. “I’m to be married, Edward,” you whisper, turning your cheek to deny him another kiss. His brows furrow. You’d risked life and limb to defy the law in freeing him from his cell, and yet, he shakes his head disbelieving. “We made no promises to one another,” you remind him. Rare stolen nights and sparse letters to fill the time, but no promise of something more.  “And you’ve not returned to Kingston in years until now when you’re bound for the noose.”

He won’t deny it; you speak the truth. It’s not that he hadn’t wished to return, only that so much had happened with Nassau, the Templars, searching for a grand treasure called the Observatory. Edward hadn’t expected you to wait for him—not really, but he hadn’t expected this news either. He had hoped. A fool’s hope as it happened to be. He steps back and paces. Of course, you had to marry. It was expected for a woman of your caliber. He won’t ask who the engagement is to or what your new fiancé’s status and profession are. No, all Edward asks instead is: “Is he a good man?”

But the tears shining in your eyes and your silence is answer enough. Duty is the death of love.

Taking your hands, Edward looks you in the eye—his are as clear and blue as you’ve ever seen. “Sail with me.” It takes a moment for his request to sink in, and your brows furrow—gone for years and now this. “You’ll have freedom from those who would seek to cage you,” he tells you, “and should anyone try to come for you, hurt you, I’ll-” he doesn’t have to finish—you already know the lengths to which Edward Kenway is willing to go to keep you from harm. 

“Become a pirate?” You ask, incredulously, glancing toward the dark horizon where the sea meets the sky. Saying it aloud makes it seem even more ridiculous. And then you hesitate to say anything else as you ponder the thought for only a moment. The life you’ve always known—duty, expectation, a future never truly your own—is a heavy weight upon your shoulders in the wake of his offer. But Edward knows he’ll get no answer from you tonight, though maybe, just maybe, the newly planted seed will take root.

“If your answer’s yes” —he reaches for you, his careworn hands cupping your cheeks— “come to this spot in a fortnight at sunset.” Then he points toward the opening of the bay. “You’ll see the Jackdaw’s sails on the horizon.”

“And if I don’t come?” You ask, voice hardly a whisper.

Edward’s jaw tightens, hands falling away from your face, and, for a moment, his confidence wavers. He looks out toward the sea, the horizon painted in a curtain of indigo and blue, shining silver in the moonlight. When he turns back to you, his expression is resolute. “Then I’ll know you’ve made your choice,” he says, his tone firm but not without sadness. “And I’ll not darken your doorstep again.”

But before he goes, Edward takes your hand, pressing something into your palm—a small token, rough and weathered by the sea—the pendant of the necklace you’d given him as something to remember you by in his travels and adventures. His fingers linger before he steps back, and his eyes never leave yours. “Remember,” he says, his voice softer now, tinged with hope. “A fortnight. At sunset.”

Edward holds your gaze a moment longer, then releases your hand and turns, climbing back into the waiting rowboat. You watch him go, his silhouette growing smaller with each pull of the oars. The Jackdaw waits beyond the bay, her dark sails ghostlike in the fading moonlight. You curl your fingers around the pendant, heart beating in your throat, torn between the life you’ve always known and the allure of the unknown…of freedom.

FOR DAYS, YOU try to forget—try to return to the silk gowns, to polite tea parties with the other ladies of society in the city, to garden walks, to wax-sealed letters and obligations spoken in hushed, clipped tones behind parlor doors. But Edward's words linger in your mind like the stubborn fog that clings to the city when it rains, like it is now—his touch, his kiss, the way he said your name. And every night, you dream of sails and starlight, wind-tossed hair, and the taste of rum on his lips. And every morning, you rise, telling yourself you won't go. That you can’t go.

A fortnight. One final day. The hours are slow to creep by and yet the mantle-clock moves faster than you’ve ever seen. You run your thumb over the pendant as you’ve done for the last thirteen days, having taken to wearing it again on a silver chain since Edward returned it. Perhaps deep down in your heart, you already know the choice you will make. But the creeping doubt and more sensible piece of your being argues against the allure of the seas and the feelings you have for Edward Kenway.

But as the sun begins to dip low in the sky—turning the horizon a fiery red and gold that makes the world look half on fire, half in a dream—your resolve wavers. The window in the drawing room is open, and the evening breeze carries the scent of salt air and water. There is no escaping, not even when you squeeze your eyes shut and bid yourself to think of anything besides him.

Heart pounding in your throat, you take a sharp breath and move quickly. There’s no time to think about what you’re doing—the consequences of such an action—otherwise, you might stay. You slip out the servant’s entrance before anyone can see or stop you, and head for the manor’s entrance and down toward the beach.

The sky is bleeding into twilight as you reach the place where Edward told you to come, and there she is, anchored just beyond the breakers. The Jackdaw. Though, her colours are replaced with a flag of white and red—Saint George’s Cross. Your breath catches, watching as a lone boat rows toward the shore.

Edward doesn’t say anything as he climbs from the rowboat into knee-deep water, wading closer. He doesn’t have to. He just looks at you—searching your face for hesitation, but there is none. The fleeting moment passes when you step toward him in the surf, surging forward to close the remaining distance between you. And this time, you are the one who kisses him. He tastes of salt and rum, a tinge of tobacco and gunpowder, too. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, and you can feel the tremble in his chest as he exhales upon parting.

“You came,” Edward breathes against your lips, his voice rough like he doesn’t quite believe it but tinged with relief, too. You nod, unable to speak past the knot in your throat. He steps back after a moment and looks between you and the Jackdaw with a smile, rogue and handsome, his eyes shining in the golden hour.  “I don’t know where the wind’ll take us, love, but if you’re willing…” he offers his hand—a new life—and you take it.

[Edward taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @jadynchronicle / @morganamayne / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak / @thatrandomfeministgamer ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Edward taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[aralezinspace]

~~Read It Here~~

Immortale: Italian, 'immortal' Hob Gadling finds himself entangled in a struggle that spans millennia. Dream of the Endless sends his blade to ensure their wager is unaffected. When they both meet famed Mentor Ezio Auditore, things take an expected and yet somewhat surprising turn.

FINALLY IT'S HERE my entry for the @sandman-connect4 fic game, filling prompts prison, willpower, belt, forum

I almost didn’t finish this on time because Ezio and Hob sprinted away with it while laughing maniacally- what I thought would be maybe 9k ended up being LITERALLY DOUBLE THAT

This work isn't a direct sequel, but it does come after The Tale of the Blade in the Dark

[aisharain]

And that's why my latest fic is called "Birdhouse" XD

[unpersoniverse]

In the woods, somewhere.

synopsis:

Following the aftermath of the revolution, Connor is tossed in the midst of another war. One that might be his entire undoing, or a chance to redeem his spirit. Now, he runs in a new and unknown battlefield that will put his body and his heart -or what’s left of it- to the test.

(Or aka, the story of how Connor met his wife and fell in love like he deserves)

content:

Slow burn, post-canon, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, healing, found family.

inspiration

read in ao3

Davenport Homestead, Rockport, Massachusetts.

October, 1782.

The rain begins to fall the moment he catches sight of the familiar tree-lined entrance to the Homestead. The horse whines—the poor beast is as weary as he is. He spurs it forward anyway. Vision blurs; he can't tell if it's from the raindrops or the loss of blood.

He collapses. Face down into the mud, only a few feet away from the door he had meant to knock. His hands stretch out, fingers pressing into the earth, wet and cold. Everything is cold, soaked under the ticking autumnly rain. 

He closes his eyes, hoping to become one with it, before someone opens the door.

A few moments pass. Or maybe it is just seconds, he can’t really tell.

"What the HELL, Connor?" the doctor gasps, horrified. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton’s vision is stained. Streaks of crimson cover everything; from the ground he lays, his clothes, his hands, the doctor’s hands. 

Even with the rough first aid he’d gotten earlier, it’s a miracle he made it this far. But if he was going to fall, he wanted to at least make it to the Homestead. One last time.

The doctor curses as he hauls him inside, rambling all the while. He lays him on a cot in the modest, cluttered quarters and fumbles through supplies with trembling hands. He tries to stem the bleeding, to patch the gruesome stab wound tearing through his side. Ratonhnhaké:ton hears him repeat, over and over: what on God's green earth were you thinking? You should’ve sought help immediately! 

But all he can recall was mumbling: he had to kill Charles Lee. And if he had to die, at least he would have taken him with him.

The Templars, leaderless, diminished. His purpose fulfilled. 

Ratonhnhaké:ton is ready for death. And it is not nearly as scary as people make it out to be. 

Through torn breathing, this is the most peaceful he has ever been.

There’s voices around him all the time the doctor tries to keep some air inside the battered carcass he is slowly becoming.

He hears all of them. Some are there, and some are not. 

But all are real, as the fever that scorches his veins the following days. 

He spends weeks drifting between in and out of consciousness, like a leaf tugged around by a gust of wind. 

His body battles off the infection. Sweating out what's left of his soul through his pores, muttering feverish incoherences into the air.

That’s when he dreams— sees her. 

His mother sits beside him. The entire world falls silent —far from the agony screeches he often dreamed about. She rubs her thumb gently across his forehead, over and over again.  And somehow, Ratonhnhaké:ton feels it. The warmth of her skin, her love. 

As if she were really there, and time had never passed. As if she had never gone.

Maybe it’s really her. 

She had come to take him instead, because she had missed him as much as he had missed her all these years. Kaniehti:io is not going to allow Death to separate her from her son again.

He is ready to return to that starry-path from whence souls come with her. Hand in her hand like when he was a child. 

He wants to.

So naturally, when his eyes open for the first time in who knows how long, the first thought is a question: for what reason has death forsaken him?

[beeboos-creativecorner]

Liberating - an Evie Frye x reader one shot

Today is day 6 and the second part to the One-night Writing Blitz of 2021 !! This time with Evie. I like this one better. It's longer, and Evie, my beloved <33 I was simply prompted by an in-game child liberation mission, where a music box (playing the tune of this song from the OST) was located close by. I love Evie Frye guys ;-;

Fic under the cut x

Releasing a fatigued sigh, you let your fingers slide past the paperwork in your hands and allowed it to float onto your lap. It was taxing, mental labour, having to sit for hours at a time, searching through Henry Green’s contact’s information on a Templar ally, who you sought to extinguish their life in the most brutal manner: abruptly. Your eyes were strained from reading rough handwriting and your neck had tensed significantly more than before you began your studies. To relieve yourself of those aches, you leaned your head to one side, hearing a satisfying click. The motion eased the pain, so you ensured the other side got identical treatment. Another click reverberated within the train cart. Adjusting your position in Evie’s soft armchair, you took it a step further and popped your knuckles, eliciting a rhythmic cracking sound.

“Do you mind?” Evie asked, on the brink of snapping, but the disgust coated it well as a preventative.

“Sorry.” Picking up the pile of papers once more, you set them down on the side table, making your way to meeting her at the desk. She was writing, again. No doubt another journal entry that would never see the light of day, or your sights, rather. It was an ethereal experience, watching Evie write. Her stiff, slim fingers, her thin wrist guiding her hand to curve and flick at intervals. Earthen locks fell across her face, her brows cemented in fixation. She hadn’t yet noticed you peering over her shoulder. “Been at this too long. Muscles getting cramped and all,” you explained, craning to acquire a cup of steaming tea beside Evie's forearm. Only then did she jolt in fright, resulting in her hand to slip, a black smear making its debut on her entry.

“Damn!”

“Sorry,” you repeated. Sheepish from your error, you brought the rim of the cup to your lips, hiding your guilty expression. Evie exhaled, dropping her current task and turning to face you, piercing blue irises shocking your system.

“What is it?” Her tone had softened, rectifying her mistake of raising her voice at you.

“I think I want to go out. Outside,” you stammered, panicked by the steel of her gaze.

“Where to? You don’t always have to ask for my permission to go places. Jacob does it and he comes out worse for wear. But I trust you can keep yourself safe on the streets.” Being honest, you heard the ‘I trust you’ part and nothing more. Evie trusted you, which thrilled you down to the core.

Keeping your professionalism was an objective at best and an obstacle at worst. How could one stay at ease when in company of the most beautiful woman one had ever encountered? You certainly couldn’t, and although she drove you into utter pits of confusion and anxiety, there was an energy she emitted and it was addictive. So, you developed any excuse to spend at least an hour with her a day. Because in the midst of the sickening feelings, she was the physical representation of the beauty and joy in life. It had you hooked.

“I don’t know where we’re going, Evie, but we’re going somewhere.” That disregarded everything Evie told you prior, but in a spur of the moment decision, you craved for her to accompany you. You knew why it was you wished for her attention, you couldn’t resist it. For a split second, you almost thought she was going to laugh, politely decline to send you back to square one.

“We? I suppose this can wait a while longer…” she trailed off as you took her hand away from the desk, tugging her towards the nearest adventure. Which the train hideout agreed with you, stopping at St. Pancras Station. Hopping from locomotive to solid ground, you ushered Evie onwards, as your adventure lay just around the corner.

—

“‘Lynch's Fine Ornamentation,’” Evie recited, her hawk-like watch on the sign announcing the factory’s existence. A light breeze licked rogue strands of her hair into her complexion dusted with freckles. The afternoon sun gave her the look of a goddess, her face glowing with a gold tint. She matched, if not surpassed the foreboding shadow looming over the brickwork of the factory. Faintly, there was the chiming of what you may have thought to be the labourers inside the workplace, getting their jobs done. It was indistinct, incomprehensible and you abandoned it to stare at Evie, whose focus was directed at the workers hauling their weight, spinning fabrics on heavy machinery and sweeping floors.

“Look,” she exclaimed out of nowhere, “those are Clara’s children. We must save them and get them to Babylon Alley as soon as possible.”

“We- what?”

“We cannot just leave them there,”  she pressed, explaining with as few words that it was inhumane and no child should be doing the work of an adult, including the risks of them being injured or worse, killed. It was a wonder she had spotted them amongst the business operating at full capacity.

“You’re right. We can’t, especially when we have the ability to do something about it. What’s the plan then? I can provide a diversion, while you infiltrate and liberate the children, how’s that sound?” you offered, patting your belts, taking an inventory of your gear.

“It sounds perfect, ____. One step closer to becoming a Master Assassin.” It wasn’t often Evie Frye herself cracked a joke, but when she did, it was subtle, hard to pick up on if you weren’t the discerning type. But you were, to which you chuckled at the sly joke. In that time, Evie was slinking off into the shadows, hood up. You uncuffed that restraint that nagged at you not to gawk, following her ever so graceful movements with fascination, the deliberate steps she took to take down an unsuspecting Blighter who groaned with a blade struck through his chest. She was mapping the perimeter, an invisible ghost. Fortunately for her, she stumbled upon a group of three, sunken-eyed children, washing fabrics in a wooden tub. You saw her mouth,

“It’ll be alright, trust me.” And they thanked her profusely for her freeing them from long hours of working. Your heart melted at the sweetest sight you had witnessed all day. Evie had the power to do that. Save children, melt your heart, the whole nine yards. By god, she was incredible, wasn't she? The admiration didn't last forever, the shoutings of another bad-tempered Blighter who had detected the disturbance became the centre of attention.

“That Frye woman is here!” he shrieked to his comrades, who all ran in tow, advancing to attack her. This was your cue, you figured, tossing a smoke bomb underarm, temporarily disorienting every man and woman in the vicinity. You took half the pack out, whilst the others swung knives about willy-nilly, one man was left fumbling for the rope of the alarm bell. Ding, ding, ding.

“No, no, no,” you cursed, hurling a throwing knife at the snitch, hitting him dead between the eyes. Thinking it was over and Evie had escaped peril was a little too much to ask for, reinforcements arriving in haste with thunderous footsteps. “Shit.” Drawing your intricate designed kukri, you prepared for a bloody battle.

One that did not end in victory. The Blighters had overwhelmed you with their numbers and it took mere minutes before you were held at knifepoint by a man with a nasty snarl and blemished skin.

“Alright, now, how many more of ya are there? Wanted to save the little kiddies from their poor little fates, did ya? Not all of us can be heroes,” he growled, the smell of dastardly alcohol wafting into your nasal passages. He applied pressure to the knife at your throat, and somehow, that didn’t scare you. Either, you were going to die doing what you loved with whom you loved or your subconscious was aware of your rescuer.

Perhaps both.

With no sound whatsoever, the gang member with his knife at your jugular, Sir Scarface, slacked. The weapon, along with his fresh corpse crumpled to the grass; Scarface with a blooming red hole in his head. You recognised the handle of the disposables immediately. Evie had come back for you and had just saved your life. She was in view now, slaughtering Blighters left, right and centre like it was easy. You were cast to the sidelines, hearing less of the brawl at hand and more of that delicate, charming pinging you heard earlier. You crouched low to the ground, discovering that on a suitcase, in the middle of a park, was a music box. Its case sported the bold, black insignia of the Assassins and you took it in your hands gingerly, smiling at the familiar tune it repeated.

“Are you alright? You almost jeopardised the mission! Are you hurt?” The onslaught of questions confirmed the irony of her statements earlier in the day. Could you really stay safe on the streets like she said you could? You reconsidered, in these events, you weren’t so sure. Evie’s fretting ceased upon seeing the object you cradled. “What did you find?” Evie inquired, removing her hood, wiping the rich blood from her cheeks and sheathing her blade back into its home. You giggled, in spite of all that occurred in the past few moments, relishing in the cheery tune the box chirped. Evie’s face lit up like a candle, grinning at your rare find.

“Oh, she was

As beautiful as a butterfly

And proud as a queen

Was pretty little Polly Perkins

Of Paddington Green~” you sang with the music box, dancing around the bodies of many Blighters, a thought you dismissed. The song and Evie was all you could focus on. Her vision locked with yours, making you both smile, every emotion being exposed. Relief, exhaustion, concern and joyous ecstasy. Evie stepped forward, a glassy haze in her ocean blue eyes, and she embraced you, squeezing you so tight that you might’ve died from your love for one woman. Tears streamed down your face, stinging the incisions caused by a hard fought battle. She shuddered and sniffled, making the educated assumption she was feeling the same as you did.

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” she said in fragments, speaking her truths. And she needn’t say anything more.