#they are so tangled...shai what are you doing in there...

[sweetprinceanunoby]

Pacers vs Thunder (NBA Finals: Game 5) - Jun 16 2025

[sipthegossip-if]

SIP THE GOSSIP! is a slice of life IF rated 18+ for explicit language, skippable sexual content, substance abuse, extra marital affairs and more. Best to be avoided if romance, drama and angst are not your cup of tea.

✭ DEMO (TBA) ✭ FORUM (TBA)

You have had everything in the palm of your hand since birth.

Fame, fortune and a last name that opened every door. Success kissed your feet, the billboards sang of your symphony and the public chanted your name.

Until they didn't. Until it all went up in flames.

After years of riding high on a streak of blockbusters— all conveniently produced by your beloved uncle— your perfect little world came crashing down when you found yourself tangled in a mess of scandal and allegations that left your reputation in shambles.

One fucking scandal. That is all it took to turn your carefully curated kingdom into a graveyard. You lost thousands of followers across all your social media accounts, all your endorsement deals and the industry turned its back on you.

But you persisted.

Once the dust settled, you clawed your way back. Starred in films that had no connection to your dearest uncle. You are more than your family name.

But here's the thing: they all flopped. Badly, at that.

And you found yourself, once again, at rock bottom.

But you see, you were born with this insatiable hunger in the pit of your stomach. It refuses to leave you alone. It's sunk its teeth deep into your intestines. You have tasted the top, and you're not afraid to bleed for it. So, you did what you thought was best for you at that time. Disappear from the public eye for a while.

Now, after a long silence, you've decided to make a comeback by doing what you have always been good at. Using your connections to gain a spot in the upcoming romantic drama TO THE MOON AND BACK with just enough buzz to restart your career. You know the right people. You know the wrong ones, too. And you're not above using either, pulling strings or calling in favors.

You will do anything to get your stardom back, even if it means getting your pretty hands a little dirty. Fame is a game. One you have played countless times— you're not about to lose now.

Play as male, female or non binary. Straight or queer. Customise your brand and appearance.

Choose the article that destroyed the reputation you spent years building.

Engage in a scandalous & fiery romance off and on set!

Use whatever means you can to avoid being teared to shreds on the internet.

It's been long since you have acted. You haven't forgotten how to bring those tear ducts to use, have you?

Give interviews. Because isn't that what the blizz and bling all about baby?

Engage with your fans. If they still haven't forgotten about you, that is.

Escape or annoy the unrelenting paparazzi.

Customise your public persona. Do things that transpire behind cameras differ from on camera?

Choose the plot of TTMAB.

⛓ THE BODYGUARD :

Kai D'melio. [he/him or she/her]

Single and in early 30s. Stoic and all business. It's hard to get a read of them. They are a constant in your life.

Tropes : Bodyguard romance, extremely slow burn, quiet yearning from distance, "crush" route, steel armour— soft core.

❂ THE VETERAN ACTOR :

Shiron "Shay" Hill. [he/him or she/her]

Married and in mid 40s, they continue to be a social media sensation to till this day. A friend of you and your uncle. They are the one who introduced you to the director and producer of To The Moon And Back and helped you score the lead role.

Tropes : Extra marital affair, steamy, age gap, forbidden romance, "married in name only," wedding band that feels like a chain and accidental touches that burn.

✵ THE DIRECTOR/PRODUCER :

Victor/ia "Vic" Alvarez. [he/him or she/her]

Single, former actor and in mid 40s. An incredibly close friend of Shiron. They have been attached at the hip since the two first began working together in the industry. All their works have proved to be the public's favourites and you hope that is also the case with T2MAB.

Tropes : Work romance, steamy, commitment issues, power imbalance, age gap, says "We can't do this," and does it anyway.

☼THE M/F LEAD :

Alexis "Alex" Sinclair. [he/him or she/her]

Co-actor and in late 20s. Charming and titled 'Industry's Budding Star' by People's Magazine. They seem to have a tendency to flirt with whatever that breathes. It would serve you best to not get involved with them, judging from their messy dating history.

Tropes : idiots in love, hurt/comfort, emotional intimacy, himbo/bimbo, friends/co-workers with benefits, "I will break your heart or, will you break mine?"

𝄞 THE SECOND M/F LEAD :

River Fox. [he/him or she/her]

Co-actor, singer and in late 20s. After having caught their now ex partner cheating on them, they seem to have a hard time trusting people. The fact that they dislike you for the means you used to get the role and the consequences it led to, doesn't help either.

Tropes : Slow burn, enemies-to-lovers, melting the ice king/queen, forced proximity, kind guy/gal who's mean to only you. "Your hurt recognises mine," in some instances.

☌ THE CAMERA(WO)MAN :

Arlo Kent. [he/him or she/her]

Single loyal to you and in their early 20s. They get all starry eyed and overly enthusiastic at the sight of you. More often than not, you have caught them not so discreetly keeping an eye you. You can only hope they are merely star struck and nothing more.

Tropes : Stalker/yandere fluffy romance. "I have always been watching," that somehow turns romantic. "You'll love me eventually," kinda horror romance.

[sun-snatcher]

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

✠ | LIGHT HATH NO TONGUE ; SHAY CORMAC

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

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

— John Donne, “Break of Day”

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

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

Connor inhales. Draws his bow. Relea—

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

He huffs.

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s an--”

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

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

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

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

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

And yet. 

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

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

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

Your laugh is sudden. Weak. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M’right here, dove.”

I’m glad it wasn’t you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world dips into dark.

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

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

A lot like you.

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

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

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

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

Revenge does.

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

— John Donne, “Death Be Not Proud”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A seemingly endless moment passes. 

“Thank you, Shay.”

He winces. 

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

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

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

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

A beat. 

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

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

Shay is still. Glacially so. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—wants to kiss your palm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re right,” you hum. “I don’t.” 

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

“You’re—” 

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

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

“Yes,” you patiently say. “I am.” 

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

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

“Y’needed it more than I,” he says.

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

Shay isn’t quite sure how to answer. 

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

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

— John Donne “A Hymn to God the Father”

“--old friend of mine.”

“He wanted to kill the old man.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I think--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shay had held your gaze until you turned away. 

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

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

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

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

“Shay, this is a terrible idea.”

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

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

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

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

“Attagirl.”

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

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

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

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

“And when night falls?”

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

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

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

“Aye, Captain,” you narrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your musical laugh is cut short.

You yelp.

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

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

(Heart against heart.)

Shay has steadied you. 

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

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

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

“Easy, now… Jus’ a few degrees.”

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

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

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

“Attagirl,” he praises.

Something zips through your nerves.

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

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

“You, dove. Ofcourse.”

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

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

- John Donne, "The Anniversary"

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

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

“Boys,” Shay says, by way of warning. 

They shrink quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, when you’d grown tired—

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

A beat. 

“Sad,” Shay decides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He offers a hand to help you down your stand.

(Ever the gentleman.)

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

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

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

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

“Well then, don’t talk.”

“What?”

“Y’heard me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A manifestation of his sea-pelagic loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something in his chest lurches.

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

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

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

“Or do. Aye.”

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

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

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

He seems to bite his tongue in a flinch.

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

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

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

“Not nearly enough.”

Something charged passes in the air. 

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

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

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

He finds himself brushing his fingers against yours. 

For a terrifying minute, the idea makes itself known.

“…We shouldn’t,” you say.

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

“We shouldn’t,” he agrees. 

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

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

Goosebumps line your skin. “Yes.”

—Crossed.

Kissing Shay Cormac feels like coming home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

(Ever the gentleman:)

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

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

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

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

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

The plea is a strike of a match.

The tenderness melts away into something more ardent.

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

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

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

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

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

He sinks one, gingerly, to the knuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something flickers in his eyes.

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

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

Press them into your mouth.

His ring finger. His middle. 

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

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

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

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

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

Good God. “Christ, Shay, you’re…” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re perfect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Ever the—)

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

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

And then—

You curl your fingers around the base of him.

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

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

He might ruin you.

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

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

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

So he’ll be gracious. Generous.

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

You whine at the fit. 

The wrecked, immodest sound alone unmoors him. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The answer is stolen from you.

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

His release stutters close after. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your natural predator.

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

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

Bloody hell—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat.

“You could never hurt me.”

Yes, he very nearly agrees. I could never.

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

“Dove,” he acknowledges.

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

“What did we just do?”

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

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

Against all odds, however—

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

“Told you you were a learned poet.”

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

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

“We’ve voyaged weeks,” you point out.

“You know what I mean, dove.”

“Ah, the sex, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In what?”

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

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

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

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

I--

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

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

“Just because I trust him onc—”

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

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

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

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

You stop short. “Again?”

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

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

Connor disappears from your view.

In the far distance, a lone rooster crows.

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

— John Donne, “A Hymn to Christ”

More footnotes & insight in AO3!

[g1rlsp1ckins]

𝓐BOUT 𝓣HE ✶ 𝓐RCHIVIST

    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊𝖓𝖙 𝖒𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖝𝖚𝖆𝖑 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖘 𝖆𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖆𝖞 𝖙𝖔𝖔 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖓 ୨ৎ

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐀𝐘 !!

my name is tay but you can call me whatever you please. i am from south africa! i am currently 21 years of age and i’m a gemini queen. i am that girl in class who talks a lot but never actually says anything. ask me about the stars, or anything witchy and you’ve got your girl  ⭑.ᐟ

i am a soul of boundless light, dancing through the days and finding beauty in life’s unknowns. the world is so expansive and sometimes i feel like it’s all in my head and then i look a little crazy :) i’m a lot but also nothing at all. i’m like if you gave a shooting star a personality. i am a shifter for those fellow shifters out there! that's mostly what i made this account for. i have/had a writing account, but that's mostly just smut. nothing worth reading.    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀

𝐓𝐀𝐘'𝐒 𝐘𝐀𝐘𝐒!

misty places, animanga, tea, art, writing, long talks at 3 AM, museums, when people make playlists that remind them of me, sad music, cuddles, weird films that people don't really understand.

𝐓𝐀𝐘'𝐒 𝐍𝐀𝐘𝐒!

sexism, racism, transphobes, etc…, police, toxic masculinity, waking up, working, writer's block   

  ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀    ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀

currently watching: goosebumps s2

currently reading: the naturals by jennifer lynn barnes

𝓜Y 𝓚INDRED 𝓢PIRITS ⭑.ᐟ

¹ ˑ sirius black - the maruaders

² ˑ fleabag - fleabag

³ ˑ rachel green - friends

⁴ ˑ charlie dalton - dead poets society

⁵ ˑ kat stratford - 10 things i head about you

⁶ ˑ santana lopez - glee

⁷ ˑ eugene fitzherbert - tangled

⁸ ˑ spencer shay - icarly

⁹ ˑ johanna mason - the hunger games

take what you want from that above list 〃

𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐘 !! ٠ ࣪⭑

i’m not from america but since everyone is moving to shiftblr, i am here for it <3

i've been shifting since 2020, and so far i think i’ve minishifted once! i've been on shifttok since the dawn of time. do not cite the deep magic to me, i was there when it was written.

i love making edits of my drs so you can find me on tiktok too!

𝐃𝐍𝐈:

meet the basic dni criteria

if you sent hate, anonymous or not. don't do it.

obviously anit-shifters gtfo

────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

[sturn0bs3ss3d]

but i don’t know how not to think about you…

Summary: matt and Y/n Hook up once and neither of them can get eachother off their minds. They need more. Matt x Fem; reader

Warnings!- Slight smut, Making out, matt the munch. Use of y/n.

a/n: This is my first smut, or story at all, so i’m sorry if it’s bad! Please give me criticism if it’s needed 😭 Hope you enjoy!!! Ps. Listen to the song while you’re reading!!! (I’m not sure if it’s big for you guys but the song link is HUGE for me) Plus not proof read!!! Sorry if there’s mistakes!!

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

It was late at night, Y/n was sitting at home watching a movie. Her and matt had hooked up about a week prior and then the triplets left for LA, She couldn’t get him out of her mind since then. She was to scared to text him, the triplets came back to Boston today but she wasn’t supposed to go over till tomorrow…

She was laying in bed watching the movie when her phone went off. Y/n’s eyes widened in shock when she saw matt’s name on the notification.. She opened it and matt’s text said “Leave your front door unlocked princess. I’m almost there.” Y/n quickly shot up and went to unlock her front door, after she did that she ran back to her room and put on a pink set of lace lingerie.. and waited for matt.

About ten minutes later she heard the front door open and matt’s voice “Princess? Where are you?” Matt’s voice rang through the hallway as he approached the bedroom. Y/n had threw a hoodie over her lingerie incase that’s not what matt wanted.. “In my bedroom matt!” She said and then matt walked through the door. “ Princess i can’t get you off my mind.” Matt said as he walked up to her. “Princess. I need you again. I don’t wanna be without you. I don’t know how not to think about you.” Matt said and gently hooked his finger under her chin.

She stood up and looked up at him as matt towered over her slightly. “Matt. I need you too, i’m sick of pretending i don’t want you.” y/n said.. “Can i kiss you?” matt asked and then y/n nodded and matt’s lips connected with hers. Working against them with need and passion. Y/n Immediately melted into the kiss and kissed back with just as much passion and need as matt.

matt’s hands were roaming her body and he started to toy with the hoodie before he tugged it off over her revealing the lingerie she was wearing under it. “oh princess your so beautiful.” he said and gently put her on the bed and kissed her again. His tongue gaining access to her mouth and he fought with her tongue as they kissed passionately..

Matt pulled off her thong and threw it on the floor, and kissed down her body and looked up at her before he attacked her clit. “Is this okay princess?” he asked and Y/n Nodded frantically “yes yes! Please matt.” she said and then matt attached his mouth to her clit flicking his tongue on her core.

It didn’t take long for matt to start pumping his finger in her as he attacked her clit with his tongue. “F-fuck! Baby!” y/n moaned and matt pulled his mouth away slightly only a string of saliva connecting them.. His fingers still pumping in her “Yea? You gonna be my good girl and cum all over my fingers?” matt said and sped his fingers up and reattached his mouth to her clit. “Yes yes! Fuck- c-close babe!” Y/n moaned out and tangled my fingers in his hair.

y/n reached her climax and her legs started to shake, and she moaned loudly and practically screamed matt’s name “Fuck- Matt!!” she moaned out and squirted all over matt’s face and fingers before she could give him any warning.. “W-woah sorry!” she said and smiled and turned red. Matt just chuckled and kissed her “It’s okay sweetheart. I love it when you do that” he smiled and kissed her but then when everything was quiet we heard a muffled voice.? It was just us so i grabbed my phone to call the cops thinking someone broke in.

Then i heard nick on the other line… “You nasty fucks! Ewww! Keep your phone away! You butt dialed me!” nick yelled through the phone…

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

[bonesxbows]

~Masterlist~

One place for all my fanfics, also on Ao3 under the same username

Always open to requests and prompts! All fics are marked with warnings in their descriptions and all pronouns are kept neutral unless otherwise specified!

Banners by @strangergraphics

Destiny 2

The Drifter

Hope Comes In Many Forms (Drifter x Reader)

(Self-Harm Warning) The past is being repeated, and the drifter isn't particularly happy about it. But nevertheless he's right there to help you through it, no matter what it takes.

Mithrax

The Only Hope for Me is You (Mithrax x Reader)

You get back to the Elsikni quarter in the last city barely being held together. Mithrax helps you get back on your feet and the two of you make a discovery together.

The Legend of Zelda

Link

I'll Be There For You (Botw Link x Reader)

(Self-Harm Warning) When you both make a trip to the desert things go sideways when you have to wear short sleeves. Link tries to make it all okay though.

Bittersweet Tragedy (TP Link x Reader)

Link arrives back at his home village as a wolf to find the place covered in twilight and the place raided by monsters. His first thought is to find you and make sure you're safe, despite how different he looks.

Disney

Tangled

Shining in the Starlight (Flynn Rider x Reader)

(Fem FTM Trans Reader) You're the princess except you're trans and are actually a prince. Eugene tries to help you through a moment of dysphoria.

Fallout

Beckett (Fallout 76)

The Sharpest Lives (Beckett x Reader)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

(Violence and Torture Warning) Beckett's former gang has ambushed you and captured you, doing whatever they so pleased to you in order to "teach him a lesson." But in one way or another, you escaped from that hellhole they had locked you up in and crawled back home to him.

Aries (Fallout 76)

Old Scars, Future Hearts (Aries x Reader)

After hearing a certain holotape, and it getting stuck in your head, you're plagued with reoccurring nightmares. Aries is there to help you through the aftermath of one and some secrets are spilled.

Something's Gotta Give (Aries x Reader)

(Self-Harm Warning) After a rough run through the big bend tunnel, Aries helps you with your wounds and unexpectedly finds something he wasn't supposed to.

Hancock (Fallout 4)

Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall (Hancock x Reader)

There's a radstorm brewing and you and Hancock need to find shelter fast. There's a place nearby that'll work, but it's awfully cramped and the thunder outside isn't helping.

The Other Line (Hancock x Reader)

(Slight Starvation Warning) There's not enough food in your stash for the both of you so you try to give what you have left to Hancock instead of yourself. He isn't having any of it though and insists you at least share, and no isn't an option with him when it comes to your wellbeing.

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard (Fallout Tv Show)

Ring of Fire (Cooper Howard x Reader)

You and Cooper are heading to collect a bounty, but it's a lot farther away than you anticipated. He's used to the sun but your pristine and non-irriated skin isn't. Heat stroke is imminent and could end up killing you if Cooper doesn't intervene.

Act Naturally (Cooper Howard x Reader)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

(Anger Issues & Sad Ending Warning) While exploring an old section of Hollywood, the two of you stumble upon an old advertisement for a cowboy movie. But the man on the poster looks suspiciously a lot like Cooper, even down to the same smile. But it couldn't possibly be him...right?

Assassin's Creed

Ratonhnaké:ton/Connor Kenway

The Lonely Wolf That Stalks (Connor x Reader)

(Animal Attack Warning) Beauty and the beast/princess and the frog inspired except it's you and Connor and there are no princes or princesses.

Through the Frontier (Connor x Reader)

(Horror Story Warning) You and Connor are riding through the woods at night and Connor can sense that the two of you aren't alone.

Bayek

Apep's Vengeance

Bayek tells Khemu of his battle with Apep in the form of a bedtime story.

Shay Cormac

Windy Old Weather (Shay Cormac x Reader)

(Panic Attack Warning) A severe storm catches you and Shay off guard and you're forced to face your fears. Luckily he's there to keep you safe and comfort you through your anxiety.

Baldur's Gate 3

Gale

Weeping Dawn (Gale x Reader)

You have a breakdown and seek out Gale for comfort.

Astarion

Colors of the Underdark (Astarion x Reader)

(Panic Attack Warning) A trip to the Underdark goes south and you're left with no light source. Your human eyes become useless and you start to panic. You're terrified of the dark and there's nothing but darkness around you down here. Astarion can tell and can actually see you start to panic. He tries his best to comfort you.

Surgery of a Hope (Astarion x Reader)

(Sexual Assault/Assault Warning) Someone dared to try to lay a hand on you and Astarion finds out. He leaves Gale to comfort you while he goes and "takes care" of it. Or alternatively, Astarion is trying to show you he loves you in one of the only ways he knows how; by killing.

Hazbin Hotel / Helluva Boss

Lucifer

Wash My Dreams Away (Lucifer x Reader)

You wake up in a panic, a new nightmare still fresh in your mind, but Lucifer isn't in bed with you like he should be. The darkness and anxiety your dreams have left you with won't let you fall back asleep so you search through the castle to find him. He uses his gifts to help calm you down enough to go back to sleep.

What This Means To Me (Lucifer X Reader)

You've sold your soul to Vox and Lucifer doesn't know. That is until you can no longer hide the scars he leaves when he treats you like his personal play toy.

Once Upon A Dream (Lucifer X Reader) (Alastor X Reader)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (Alastor X Reader starts here), Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17

(Major Depressing Themes Warning) In a sleeping beauty-inspired AU, a curse is placed over you when you strike up a deal with Heaven to protect baby Charlie, causing you to lose your memory. You remember nothing once the curse takes over; not your marriage with Lucifer, not the family you had with the two of them, nothing. So when a strange smiling demon offers you a place to stay when you can't remember where 'home' is, you take him up on his offer. 

Brain & Heart (Lucifer X Reader)

(Female Reader) (Ace Spectrum Reader) (Plus Size Reader) It's Valentine's Day; the most romantic day of the year. For most. For you, it's another reminder of just how...different you are. Society, even in Hell, expects you to act a certain way on this holiday, so you do, despite the overwhelming distress it causes you. That is until Lucifer notices just what these expectations are doing to you and he promptly puts a stop to it.

Curses & Snakes (Lucifer X Reader)

(Female Reader) You're a princess, locked in a tower from the day of your maturity. Until the day that a peculiar snake comes slithering into your tower's window. He brings a strange curse, along with a demon clad in smoke and swindling red fabrics, along with him.

Alastor

Unforgettable (Alastor X Reader)

(Autism Spectrum Reader) Everyone at the hotel seems to be overlooking you, talking over you, acting as if you're not really there. Though it's not on purpose, you know they don't really mean to be ignoring you, it still hurts. Everyone except Alastor. He's the first to notice when you start to shut down and slink away. 

Once Upon A Dream (Lucifer X Reader) (Alastor X Reader)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3 (Alastor X Reader starts here), Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17

(Major Depressing Themes Warning) In a sleeping beauty-inspired AU, a curse is placed over you when you strike up a deal with Heaven to protect baby Charlie, causing you to lose your memory. You remember nothing once the curse takes over; not your marriage with Lucifer, not the family you had with the two of them, nothing. So when a strange smiling demon offers you a place to stay when you can't remember where 'home' is, you take him up on his offer. 

L’amour de Bibliothèque du Tueur (Alastor X Reader)

Alastor is plagued with flashbacks of his past life when you put yourself in a precarious place and almost meet the same fate as one of his victims; if he can't save you in time. The two of you find a compromise that keeps him from becoming too worried and overbearing.

Blitzø

Sticks and Bricks (Blitzø X Reader)

(Negative Self Talk Warning) When you start comparing yourself to others Blitz uses himself as an example to show you that anyone can be anything, regardless of how much smarts or knowledge they have. He refuses to accept what you say about yourself, and he sits with you through your breakdown, no matter how much you tell him he can find better.

Twisters

Tyler Owens

The World Ender (Tyler Owens X Reader)

You have some ideas on how to help heal the environment, but your hopefulness is shot down before it can even get off the ground. Tyler believes in you, but will that be enough? Or will you have to watch another tornado rip apart people's livelihoods?

Stronger Than A Storm (Tyler Owens X Reader)

There's one hell of a tornado outbreak speeding across Oklahoma, making a path straight for the two of you. You take matters into your own hands and try to do what you can to stop the devastating weather before it can hurt someone else.

Warframe

Arthur Nightingale

Infection (Arthur Nightingale X Reader)

(Female Reader) You can't get sick...right? You're a child of the void, immune to simple bacterial viruses. But yet when you pull into the Mall's garage one day, head throbbing and body aching, you can't help but wonder if that's actually true. To make matters even worse you've been so busy running errands and missions for the Hex that you haven't been keeping an eye on the calendar; it's closer to the end of the time loop than you thought. Arthur's the first to remind you, and the first to notice your change in health.

Ghosts of the Void (Arthur Nightingale X Reader)

You're unsurprisingly plagued by nightmares. Arthur offers to stay with you through the night when he hears you calling out to him, but what ends up happening is more than either of you expected possible in the realm of dreams meeting transference. He doesn't seem to mind though, guiding you through the hellscape of your mind to bring you back to reality.

The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes - NSFW (Arthur Nightingale X Reader)

(Female Reader) “*Bite me*, Nightingale.” she spat, shoving him hard with both of her hands...He pinned her wrists to the wall, his body caging her against it, not even giving her an inch of breathing room. “Don’t tempt me, love.”

Amir Beckett

Baby, I Believe In You (Amir Beckett X Reader)

The universe seems out to get you, with how one thing leads to another and the anxiety seems to just pile up. You can't catch a break. One more altercation and you might crack into a million pieces. But Amir can notice the signs better than anyone else in the Hex. And he plans to repay you for all of those moments that you've helped him.

Flare Varleon

Drowning A Star (Flare Varleon X Reader)

(Alcoholic Reader) The techrot has receded in a section of the Mall, exposing an old bar area that the newer members of the Hex had "taken over" for themselves. A space which you *gladly* take advantage of. Drinks and all. Maybe it gets a *bit* out of hand, but who can blame you with the amount of pressure you're under? You learn to stay far, far away from the rest of the Hex when you're deep in a bottle, for nothing if their comments and side looks that definitely *don't* help. Except Flare. Who seems to find a different way to help you deal with your situation without outright telling you "no".

[tangledbea]

What do you think about the ocs??? You like any tangled oc? Like: Rudy, Semeli, Maria, Lashanie, Judy, Shay, Danielle etc, (if you don't want to say I understand:)

I have no issue with the concept of Tangled OCs (god knows I've made my fair share of fandom OCs in my day), but I admittedly don't pay attention to most of them, primarily because the vast majority of them were created to ship with characters (usually Varian), and I'm just not interested in that.

My favorite OCs belong to people who are no longer on Tumblr, so this goes out to them and everyone who remembers them:

Rose by Bri and Landon by Star Apple.

(They were not even close to being a couple, FYI. They just happened to be my favorites.)

[thethistlegirlwrites]

Unconventional Medicine

“I hate cows.” Sierra looks down at her hands with a grimace.

“That’s what the gloves were for,” Shay says, holding them up. 

“It was a two month old calf!” Sierra says. “She was cute!” She sighs. “Until she dragged me ten feet through the pasture and tore my hands up.”

“You really don’t know when to let go.” Shay puts a hand on her shoulder. “Come on, let’s go back to the house and get those cleaned up and treated.”

“It’s not that bad. There’s not even blood,” Sierra objects. 

“You were complaining it hurt two minutes ago.”

“Well it’s going to hurt even more if you use that antiseptic from Abuela’s medicine cabinet on them.” She shrugs. “I’ll just wash them well and it’ll heal.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to mess around with these things. If they heal wrong it’ll curl your fingers right in on themselves.” Shay shakes his head. “Happened to guys on the docks sometimes. They’d hold onto a line too long or let a crate come down on the tackle too fast and the rope would cut through even a glove. Messed a couple guys up for life.”

“Okay, okay. Thanks for the scare tactics,” Sierra mutters, grimacing. “Can I at least take a shower first?” She gestures vaguely to the mud and other grime she doesn’t want to think about on her clothes.

“Probably a good idea. Gonna be hard to do with your hands wrapped,” Shay says. “Just try not to get that mess in the cuts.” 

“Ugh. Yeah.” Sierra frowns. This is going to be harder than she thought. She has no idea how Wren does anything. That woman is in a cast, brace, or has multiple bandages at pretty much any given time. 

Maybe fae have some sort of special injury management skill set, because Tio’s partner Robin is usually in the same situation. 

Whatever it is, Sierra certainly doesn’t have it. It’s hard enough getting the buttons on her shirt (that’s going straight into the trash, the elbows and back of the shoulders are shredded and besides, she’s pretty sure the dirt is ground in and would never come out) undone, let alone the thought of handling soap and trying to work her hands through her hair to get out the dirt and straw and debris that got tangled up in it.

This is just not happening.

She knocks on the door, knowing Shay is waiting outside for her to be done and ready for her hands to be cleaned and bandaged.

He opens the door and frowns, probably at the mud still streaked on her face and caked in her braid.

“I could use a little help,” She mutters.

Between asking for help stinging her pride and Abuela’s homemade soap stinging her hands, she’ll take the former. 

“You sure?” Shay asks, head tilted like a confused puppy.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.” She raises an eyebrow. “Do you really think I’d be asking you to open the door when I’m standing here in my underwear if I didn’t think this was the best option?”

“Point taken.” He steps in and closes the door behind them, then turns on the water. “Is it the hair you need help with?” he asks, shrugging out of his own t-shirt and folding it up on the top of the laundry hamper.

“Mostly.” She shrugs. “If you can get some of the soap lathered on a washcloth I can do my face without too much trouble, but whatever Abuela puts in that stuff burns any cuts.” 

“Okay. That I can do.” He grabs a washcloth from the teetering stack on the small wall shelf, and the bar of soap hanging in a little string bag. Sierra steps into the shower, tilts her head back, and lets the water run down her face, until she feels the cloth touch her fingertips as Shay hands over the soapy material. Holding the washcloth with her fingers pressed together so it doesn’t touch her palms is awkward, but she can at least manage to scrub the dirt off her face and neck more or less effectively. She’ll worry about her arms when they worry about her hands. 

“Okay. Now the hair.”

She turns around so the water is hitting the back of her head, and feels Shay work the elastic out of the end of her braid and then start combing his fingers through the braid to loosen it. His hand hits a knotty spot, and she takes half a step back at the tug, shoulders bumping into his chest. His skin is cool, and she can’t quite help the little shudder at the odd sensation. It’s easy to forget vampires have no body heat of their own, until touching them reminds you of that fact.

“You okay?” He asks. 

She nods and blinks a few times, opening her eyes and hoping she did a good enough job rinsing the soap off her face. If she can see, she’ll have better balance. “Yeah. Just a snarl.”

She hears a brush clatter off the edge of the sink, and then feels it moving through her hair. He’s gentler than she is, and another shiver runs down her back, but this time at the sensation of a hand other than her own on her scalp. She can’t help it. Ever since she was a kid, every time her mom combed her wet hair, she’d have a weird little shudder in response. 

“Sorry my hands are cold,” Shay apologizes, clearly misinterpreting the source of the shiver. “I can hold them under the water for a bit if that helps.”

“No, we’re good.” Sierra says. She closes her eyes again as she hears the cap of the shampoo bottle click, and leans her head back so as much of the lather as possible avoids her face. Shay rubs the soap in deep, then runs fingers through her hair as he rinses it out again.

“You do anything else to it?”

“We share a shower in the apartment. Have you ever seen anything in it other than the bar soap and generic shampoo?”

“Just figured I’d ask.” He squeezes gently down the length of her hair and puts a hand on her shoulder to turn her around. “Okay, let’s do your arms.”

She grimaces. She wasn’t kidding about how much that soap stings.

Shay lathers another handful of soap from the string bag and rubs it along her forearms, cleaning away what’s left of the dirt and manure stains. When he turns her hands over, and the warm water hits the raw spots, Sierra hisses and jerks back slightly on instinct.

“Sorry.” 

“I’ll manage. Just give me a second to adjust to it.”

“I could lick it, that might help.”

“You know how weird it sounds when you say that, right?” Sierra asks.

“That’s why I do it.” He shrugs.

“You know, it’s kind of weird that ‘kiss it better’ is actually a real thing if it’s a vampire kissing you.”

“It won’t make it better, the saliva doesn’t heal you faster. It just numbs you.”

“You’ve been hanging around Pete too long if you’re that hung up on the details,” Sierra chuckles. “Ah what the hell, why not.” 

It feels really, really weird for the approximately ten seconds before the numbing agent kicks in. But it does make the ensuing cleaning, disinfecting, and then drying and bandaging of her palms a whole lot more bearable.

She’s shivering a little when he’s done, between the wet hair hanging down her back and her now soggy and clammy underwear. Shay wraps a towel around her shoulders and another around her hair, rubbing gently but briskly and very clearly trying to avoid touching her as much as possible. She appreciates it, but he’s got to be even more chilled than she is. His body just doesn’t show it the way a living one does. 

When he moves around to dry the front of her hair, she lets go of the towel she’s been clutching around her shoulders with her fingertips and wraps her arms around him instead. 

He is cold, and the weird lifelessness of his skin makes her shiver all over again, but she leans into him anyway.

“Okay, good enough. Now, both of us need to go get some dry clothes on.” She looks up at him. “And I’m pretty sure Abeula will make us her hot chocolate even if it is seventy degrees in the shade today. She just might never let us live it down.”

Shay smiles, water still dripping off the ends of his short faux-hawk and landing on her face. “That sounds like a good plan to me.”

(You can read this story and others from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter

[piece-of-the-pie-if]

These for everyone?

🍄 What are your OCs favourite snacks? Their favourite comfort food which always cheers them up when they’re down? Favourite meal to make? Do they enjoy baking and cooking and are they any good in the kitchen?

🌳 What is your OC’s favourite way to relax after a stressful day? Do they have a favourite book to curl up with? A hobby? Or do they have a nice bubble bath and have an early night to bed?

from this ask list.

🍄──favourite snacks...

Dylan, Dyl can't cook to save their life, which goes for baking too. However! They're quite adept at the decorating phase, especially cakes and cupcakes with stiff icing!

In true British behaviour, Shay's favourite snack is Burton's Fish'n'Chips, the strong salt and vinegar fish (and chip) shaped mini baked biscuits. He's also partial to a tube of jaffa cakes!

Kinsley loves cookie dough──whether it be cookie dough ice cream, baked cookie dough, raw cookie dough or actual cookies (white chocolate chip and macadamia nut!)

J actually has quite the sweet tooth! They're usually seen with something in their mouth, and if it isn't a cigarette it's usually a lollypop! Their favourite flavour is either grape or blue bubblegum.

Theo has a penchant for sour sweets! Their go to is a bag of sour patch kids or tangy haribo fantastics. (Their favourite colour sour patch kid is blue raspberry and their favourite tangfastic is the cherries!)

🌳──ways to relax...

It comes as no surprise that Dylan's way to relax is to get stuck in to something creative. When they want to shake off stress or anger they start throwing clay to make pottery (or just play around with it) but usually to unwind at the end of a normal day they tend to just spend a couple hours sketching the events of their day. It's usually a couple of portraits and an event but lately they've been drawing a lot of a specific few people...

Shay throws some hours into a video game when he can. Most of the time it's a more relaxed game like Minecraft or mobile games like Brick Out. And if he doesn't feel particularly motivated to game he, and this might be the surprising part, loves a long bubble bath!

Kinsley usually goes running to unwind, but when that's not feasible (or she just doesn't want to get sweaty) she has a little self spa session──face masks/skin care and taking some time to file her nails or paint them. If she's feeling particularly tense she'll use her face mask time to meditate/do yoga to help relax her muscles as well as her mind!

Being the (unlikely) bookworm they are, J often does read in their relaxing/free time. Lately they've taken to reading out on their balcony, reclining in one of the deck chairs squashed out there, legs resting on top of the railing with a smoking cigarette between their fingers. They stay out there, reading and listening to the street bustle until it gets too cold to stay out. (unless someone were to join them with a blanket and a book of their own? or perhaps J could tuck you under their arm and softly read aloud until both your eyes are too heavy to keep going.)

Theo is a lover of music──they like creating it at just listening. After a stressful day they'd find one of their playlists and just lay down and listen to the music with closed eyes. Sometimes they'll turn all the lights off or wear an eye mask like a pseudo sensory deprivation tank and just feel the music. (Most times Theo falls asleep with their headphones one, the wires getting tangled or the bulky frames digging into the side of their face when they roll over, so they're grateful when you join them in slumber after making sure they're more comfortable. Perhaps, in the future they'd skip the headphones and play the music straight from their phones speakers from between your heads.)

[agentcable]

Chicago Fire Season 1 Ep. 12 "Under the Knife"

Severide talks to Chief Boden about his injury and makes some important decisions about his future. One of these involves Renee. Casey has to deal with family issues after Nancy asks him to appear at her parole hearing. Dawson takes matters into her own hands when she discovers a young girl who is the sole survivor at the scene of a rescue call.

If you want to watch the series for yourself, stop reading! This post contains spoilers to the storyline.

Dawson wakes up naked and tangled in the sheets. She goes to the kitchen and finds Peter Mills making breakfast. She feels awkward about the night before and thinks it was the wine. Mills knows what's going on and says no one at work will find out. He says it's just between them. Dawson relaxes and kisses him.

The team arrives at a border crossing and finds a truck filled with dead immigrants. They find one girl alive and take her to the hospital. Dawson speaks hre language, which comforts the girl. Dawson hopes that even though she's undocumented, immigration will help the 16-year-old-girl, considering how she got to the US. She gives Dawson the number of her uncle in Chicago, who helps her.

At Shay's urging, Severide finally tells the chief about his injured shoulder. Boden is glad Severide came forward, even if it was too late. He says nothing is certain until the doctors gives the official diagnosis and orders treatment. Until Severide's appointment, Boden has no choice but to put him on leave. Severide gets in his Camaro and drives off.

The team arrives at a plane crash in a residential street. The pilot was an old man who shouldn't have been flying. He emerges unscathed, but the passengers of a minivan aren't so lucky. Additionally, a man working on electrical wires falls through a nearby home window. The team works hard to help the electrician and the survivor.

Severide and Renee are getting closer. She helps him when he goes to the doctor to find out the real diagnosis of his shoulder condition. The spinal fracture is worse than they thought. His recovery time will be a year, not six months. The doctor says she's never seen anyone return to full duty after a procedure like this. Severide should accept an administrative position. This news crushes him.

Dawson learns that Rosa, a young refugee, is being deported because she's 16. If she were just a year yonger, she would have been eligible for refugee status. Dawson decides to help Rosa. With Matt's help, she tells the Chief that she misheard Rosa's age. She's actually turning 16, but isn't 16 yet. It was an innocent mistake. Rose is reunited with her uncle.

Casey's mother is up for parole. He goes to visit her in jail to sort out the details. It all comes down to the house key that Matt left on the kitchen counter. Matt's mom wants Matt to testify that he left the key because he wanted his father dead. This brings up old issues and makes Matt angry. He storms out. His mother says she's sorry for suggesting he say that, but it may be too late.

Mills and Dawson agreed to keep their relationship secret at work. Boden finds out about the tension between them and tries to stop the relationship. He takes Mills to his office and says that he needs to focus on his job and not his personal life. Mills says that his personal life is his business, but Boden still won't accept this. Boden tells Mills that he won't respect him if he's more interested in having sex than doing his job. It seems like Boden has finally made his point clear. But will it be enough to scare Mills straight?

The news of Severide's condition shocks the station. He meets Casey at a bar and tells him he's moving to Madrid to be with his new girlfriend Renee after his surgery. Casey is shocked but congratulates Severide on his new life.

[fkyumerica]

Jan 19, 2024, 6:50 PM

Best Trends Laughs Gags Funny Prank fail. Bromas Divertido Risas Chistes. Lachen 000239 #shorts

did we find steve

meghan and her son at the end at 5 years old, shes 5

then they mate with one that age and laugh

that girl laughs

the pick up line

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0R3YS_k6a5E hahah show your wife

Tangled Live Action (2025) | Teaser Trailer | Disney (4K) | rapunzel trailer

Frozen Live Action (2025) | Teaser Trailer | Margot Robbie & Disney (4K) | frozen trailer

new disney ones

Disney’s Brave (Live-Action Version) Trailer

that one was a favorite

brave

MOANA Live Action - Official Trailer (2024) Zendaya, Dwayne Johnson | Disney+

holy shit the rock

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EZOCFmPPQK0 she is meghan the jennifer garner love hewitt bitch

Pocahontas live action trailer (2019) Shay Mitchell, Chris Hemsworth (Fanmade)

twilight

girl bella

american pie

got her head cut off in scary movie by scream

then jen went in and shit after

giving a kid up was that

she gave birth

to his kid too, the goblin in spider man

clint eastwoods family

filipino, mexicans

whose got the beautiful story this time

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcZ75LcIcX4 and her gay daughter with her too with her real face

Princess and the Frog: Live Action (2024) Disney Teaser Trailer Pitch #1

scottish

aww troll

moomins o-o moomins are here

make the face no one is mad

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aekkl177gKE oh my god

Harry Potter And The Cursed Child (2024) - First Trailer | Daniel Radcliffe | Concept Version

Getting dressed in 1885

duchess was his friend makes him laugh so she rides him to get pregnant

and he better be a king when i see it

long line of them

why do they think they are related

and turn out to be the same kind of retarded too

lori always wore a bitch mask

is the other lori too

mean greener

i threw so much shit out

im so glad

3 tubs gone

hung things up on hangers

found the rammstein hoodie

retarded cow women

now you gotta get me a cow

and they fuck so loud

and build houses around them im scared

built a grocerie store and other stores illegally

this is what happened its them

and nurses help us people moved in

afterr

the block party

she was drunk the whole time

pregnant too

he will smash

into something

the kid

and be pregnant thhen with her gave them a opportunity to be together

at 5 i had tits to cut out a organ

and balls gone

still there

reindeer

Jan 19, 2024, 8:13 PM

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/jDswQSbXGyc they gave me gun shot weed

Rammstein 2022 crazy fun Till Lindemann live

and then he got it and gave it to his dad

and he wrote engel

they left it on for 18 years

these giants heads

making the noise

behind buildings in detroit

wayne knew it

no one knew wtf it was

or rememberd it

those arent bells

its their heads and mouths

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GVRD0gOEz4 these girls are just bitches. "money" LIE no i want it, no i dont want it get rid of it mom. thats a cerebral palsy too.

Jan 19, 2024, 9:06 PM

miranda ?- now that i come back i go to do everything at anyone again. i wanted to kiss each girls boyfriend and fuck them too

i think it is amanda

the brave princess

she move on again

fake judge wtf attorney

they sing to hide their accent that they are retarded

scottish sort of you too dad

cabreas

was that her lsat name

miranda

she robbed everyone and made a beach house for bands to play at

and she fucked them

married jeffery and his dad

caligula

had three kids with caligula

all infants at once its in the movie

and fake mom came back

yea i talk and leave

so do they all they did ahhh scream

teach them to lie and leave her mom said it too

Jan 20, 2024, 11:13 AM

theres so much to read in a class

half of these cheerleaders are pregnant eww

amanda just had a baby I think

the profile photo is before she had a baby

the other ones are after

'the it crowd' is her on it

her eyes are different now

I wouldent recognize her

Jan 20, 2024, 4:22 PM

The Real Reason Why Stan’s Family Loves Church - South Park

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/lIX5xlH-Fq8 eww there she is she did mate with george harrison, amanda did

Nita Strauss master guitar solo live 2022 🎸🤘| Alice Cooper Show

i had to teaach her lita ford in 10 minutes

she sucks

fake blood

small boobies

guitarists didnt like that

she didnt even strip for motley crue wtf

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4dGPwEEvKc eww

(مصطفى - علي - فطومة) .. 3 أشقاء قصار القامة يعيشون في غرفة #جاري_الأمل…

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yXtCDzZ-X4Y nut house deformed head fred

Los dos BEBÉS adultos de SIJA

retarded

they hide it as a dead body and carry it

their word of boy is it

when they say it

they point at all of them

who did it too

rob them and leave, amanda does

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bu6ZN0sdIZc a infant gives birth to one like this they already put pieces in its head, forehead, cheeks, and mouth. this was anne marie.

UnKitSmilePara Danna - Campaña Social - Parálisis Cerebral

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jadg69pcoeY then more pieces and it looks like a stephanie or shannon and amy winehouse. she was smiling her whole life. and skating. and dreaming. and going. and washing. and singing. tell her no. no. I wanted to curse you with a dreamer.

Menor con parálisis cerebral necesita coche neurológico [Noticias] - Telemedellín

a new york bitch

no i get it all

what did their mom on crack do

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PeXDGOxu8vI then a amanda i get all the ape bitches, planet of the apes, it was bitches of the apes

Un ordenador permite a una niña con parálisis cerebral comunicarse con la mirada

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Izs-ug_-6qM and one dead

Florencio'renz' sanciangco in morgue 2015

they will change face pieces to go back in the store nonstop and steal shit

18 different cars we fuck shit

up? if they raped people in the store

they get too close and do it

dont go down a aisle with one

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=745yXHizKuA this was the face of one, eyes out

Miguel Angel Prieto - Tanatopraxia y Tanatoestética

enormous hand

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0jEbYEgWRM you can only recognize him with his mouth out

Awake oral fibreoptic intubation in difficult airway

all these toupee guys are it

george

their dad in all the dearborn houses

bigger people

hit us

8ft and up

a pregnant one giving birth looks korean, shut eyes sex all day, so are the black ones

and minority we get the hospital

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Af5Gnj3V_Gw and there you go sex all day too

Cuidadores desamparados: Un día con la familia de Macarena

they say it nonstop to one

on a guy all day

so the guys do it

and vacation g uy

and hey face lift, her or not

steal her house and we can fuck in it for a day, she says it

that thing wont talk who cares

8 infants, gets a hut with all of them, switches with another guy, goes gay with all of them to love him too come back we raise you

imprint was it

and gay girls run around

amanda

south

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J5God-lnTJM the boys look like this

INOCENTE 2015 Video de los niños con Parálisis Cerebral que atiende la asociación El Despertar

wild or not

? old women ask it

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmHJnfBR3HY wild they did it

Parálisis cerebral

want a wild one, head back

jewish guys

gay girls

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9SCvFSsmbS0 what a infant giving birth looks like

紧急情况！妈妈大出血需要马上手术治疗！

half were c-sections for plastic surgery since

and give her the other one

two diets go together

then they make a town

sex with all the guys whose the dad?

vegetables or meat, boy or girl

the diet

mated them nonstop

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FTunTKfH85Q and we're this gay. different races know which dad

Peter Griffin gets molested several times compilation seriously so funny

then race up the mountain both tan

when you were young

who am i

which

henrick zetterberg is down the street and i dont wanna meet him

dream street, their family

all the bradys were men

its out

[sclfcare]

if ruby a few months back could see ruby today , she'd slap herself silly for letting herself get so swept up in this affair with aaron . went into this anticipating one taste would sate her , quickly realizing the gravity of her feelings . only hope was to keep homme at arm's length until he gave her what she's been asking for since night one . that plan fucking backfired . now she really is at his mercy and she loathes that . he doesn't see it : he holds her beating heart in the palm of his hand ─── has the power to crush it , destroy it irrevocably . prays he sees it in the way she stares into his eyes , her vulnerability . didn't think she would be the type of woman to beg for a man's affection , but she's nearing it , inching closer and closer to the moment she inevitably shatters and she's down on her knees pleading that he leaves shay for good . " play twister . . . ? " ruby queries coyly , effortlessly tangling tanned legs around lover's middle as he lifts her into his embrace . " for real ? ─── uh - huh . . . i'm not sure i trust you , sir . " though she obeys , eventually , hazel optics closing shut as face finds new residency in the crook of his neck . all she can do is come along for the ride . how fitting . fresh air meets naked physique , soon followed by the pungent aroma of chlorine . " oh you mother fu─── ! " cut off by a loud squeal as he throws her into the pool , surfacing only to jump forward , grabbing onto aaron's leg to yank him in right after . " you bitch , you're dead ! "

the feeling of fem's soft lips on his concluded his decision , he was definitely ending his relationship with shay the next time homme saw her . has to admit that he was being a loaf as of recently , distancing himself from the other girl to have shay realise that the pair weren't working and she could break up with him but those efforts ––––  or lack thereof , weren't working . aaron would have to do it properly and this time , he would . ruby was it for him . ' because you love getting naked for me . ' he reminds the blonde , kissing her quickly once again as ruby finally allows him to remove her shirt . hazel hues trace her upper body , god she was gorgeous ––––  and he voices those same thoughts as her hands reach for his shirt . brunet doesn't fight , in fact he stands closer to make it easier for the fem to unbutton his shirt , soon exposing homme's toned torso . ' you know what we should do now we're almost naked ? ' aaron teases against her lips , lifting the blonde up off the ground and wrapping her legs around his waist . ' close your eyes . ' doesn't move a muscle until she listens to him . moving through his home , aaron acts as if he's taking her upstairs but instead he slips through the sliding door toward the pool out back and it's only when he's standing by the edge of the pool does he allow her to open her eyes but homme launches the girl softly into the water before she has time to adjust .

[allieebobo]

hi allie!! not to be a simp for all your merry crisis ros but if it’s okay, can i please ask for some cute fluffy facts about them? 🥺 thank you <333

Shay

Active and outdoorsy. Huge plant nerd.

Had taken up a government scholarship to study overseas, tuition fully paid for - in exchange for working in the National Parks service for at least 6 years (researcher/seed collector). Quit after 6 years to become a musician.

When not mtn biking, hanging at the beach or rock climbing, playing music at pubs, they: have friends over for lazy brunches and/or can be spotted haggling over fresh produce in the wet markets, and sipping kopi (coffee)/ beer w their mates at the hawker centres.

Once did an iron man triathlon but never again ("training for it was so boring")

Low attention span, brain works like a giant tangle of noodles. Fidgets. (Didnt make them a partocularly "good" student). Loves working with their hands/tinkering.

When they have strong feelings, they try to outrun/distract themselves with music or nature or physical activity.

Nat

Very close to their family, who live on Long Island.

Post doc fellow, working towards a tenure track position in NYU.

Big nerd and full of little weird facts about volcanoes and sharks. Brings home little cards and gifts from their students, and puts them all up in a little alcove by their desk.

Patient, kind, and giving - puts everyone at ease - even people they've only just met.

The sort of friend who will be there for you no matter what, would drop everything and come with tissues and ben&jerries after a nasty breakup, remembers all the little things you say, and surprises you with thoughtful gestures, checks in with you when you're feeling down. In general, just someone who feels like a warm cosy blanket.

Has a funny, silly side to them too, with infectious enthusiasm about the small pleasures in life, like good homemade sourdough or a cute interaction between a baby and a dog on the street.

Is an amazing, amazing cook - like, phenomenal.

Qiu

Finished law school about two years back and is now a hotshot public prosecutor who's going places.

Ambitious as heck, an incorrigible workaholic, extremely focused. Practical, dexterous, and extremely intelligent. Has had a string of casual 'fwb' partners since graduating from Junior college, but has never sacrificed enough of their time - or their soul - to be in a serious, commited r'ship.

Parents are very rich, and put a lot of pressure on Qiu to do well. Respectability matters a lot to them.

Qiu has become more distant from their parents over the years but still has a niggling need to prove their worth / be a dutiful child.

Very rarely shows weakness/vulnerability, believes strongly in self sufficiency over co-dependence.

In school, played basketball, but is now way too busy to do much of anything besides work, grab drinks/hang out with their best friend (from the hospital) or Joony (sometimes) on Sunday.

[bullet-prooflove]

Dreams: Joe Velasco x Reader

Tagging: @iyoskyslover​   @plaidbooks​   @misscharlielulu​   @witches-unruly-heart​   @shay-o-fiction​   @kimm4710​   @ednastvincent​   @storiesofsvu​   @magic-multicolored-miracle​  @rosaliedepp​     @cycat4077​   @crazy4chickennuggets​

It was the bodies that kept Joe up at night, the ones that they had found back in the warehouse where the kids had told them a vampire lived. That putrid stench haunted his dreams, filling his nostrils as if he was there all over again. He’d never seen evil or insanity in such vividness before that day. He considered himself a seasoned detective, but nothing could have prepared him for the mummified corpses of those women. Their empty eye sockets boring into him, their bodies draped over chairs like dolls in some sort of sick little game.

When he closed his eyes he saw them, he saw Tania and Beauty, the girls that they had been looking for laid out on tables in a state of preparation. There was no rhyme or reason to their deaths just some sick fuck getting his jollies. These women hadn’t deserved that, they’d simply been trying to survive.

You were there when he jolted awake, his heart racing and his mouth dry. His face was wet, tears leaking from his eyes as he scrambled through the tangle of sheets. He couldn’t breathe, his chest was tight, the muscles constricting his lungs.

“Hey, hey.” You said softly, propping your head up on your pillow so that you could see his expression. “It’s alright.”

“I’m fine.” He muttered, rubbing his hands over his face to chase away the tears. “I’m fine.”

“Stop saying you’re fine.” You told him gently. “This is the third night you’ve woken up like this, something is clearly wrong.”

He turned onto this side so that the two of you were facing one another. Moisture still lining his lashes as his hand reached for yours, grasping it tightly.

“It’s the women from that case.” He told you, his fingers entwining with yours linking the two of you together. “Every time I close my eyes, I see them.”

He swallowed hard against the agony that wrenched in his chest. His nostrils flaring as his breath erupted from him in ragged pants.

“I didn’t want to look at them, but I had to. What those women went through…” he trailed off, unable to speak. You brought your joined hands to your chest, pressing his palm against the place where your heart resided.

“Can you feel that?” You asked him. He closed his eyes, his teeth biting down on his lower lip as he nodded. “That’s your anchor. That’s the thing that’s going to get you out of your head right now and back to the present. I want you to focus on the rhythm, the feel of it underneath your fingers.”

It took a few minutes before he started to relax. You watched for the cues in his body, the unfurling of his muscles, the way his breathing began to regulate. His dark eyes flickered open once more, his gaze coming to rest upon your entwined fingers.

“Thank you.” He whispered, his arm wrapping around your waist as he drew you close. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Love Joe Velasco? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[juletheghoul]

In The Desert

I dreamt about Duncan Idaho, and now you all have to deal with it lmao.

Enjoy.

Pairing: Duncan Idaho x F!Reader (fremen reader)

Word Count: 700

Warnings: (18+ NO MINORS) slight dirty talk / p i v sex (wrap it up) vaginal fingering, creampie, talk of knives / fighting / sandworms / training, (reader is fremen, eyes are blue from living in the desert)

Let me know if I missed anything!

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist

----------------

The desert isn’t your place.

He could see it written on your face, see it in the spice-blue of your eyes.

It was obvious why he was here, with the changes happening on Arrakis. With the Harkonnens gone, the emperor would surely send another house to ‘bring peace’.

We don’t need peace, we need to be left alone.

It was difficult not to want him though, with his size and strength. He was good with knives, but not as good as you. Maybe that was why he gravitated towards you. Why he trained with you endlessly, why you beat him over and over.

“I thought you were better than this?” You taunted with your crysknife at his throat.

“So did I.” His smile was tinged with something, annoyance but respect as well.

“Again. You must be better.” You pushed him, knowing he could not hope to beat you.

“Again.” He repeated, getting into position once more - his attack changed, but the outcome didn’t. You outmanoeuvred him faster only now he chased your mouth with his, and this time you let him catch it. His tongue tangled with yours, just as your knives had.

He gave you the moisture of his body willingly, and you couldn’t say no.

-

It happened at night, no matter how stealthy he thought he was, you heard him coming a mile away. You watched him, the great bulk of him searching for you.

“You’ll call Shai-hulud blundering around like that, is that what you want? To call forth the sand-worm?” Your voice was sand whipping around him and he spun around to face you. His dark eyes finding your bright blue in the moonlight.

“I was looking for you.” His smile was predatory and it made you drip. Your body gave up it’s moisture without your permission. He stalked towards you, his body was honed for this, a weapon. You could have had your knife ready, but you wanted this.

“You’ve found me.” He towered over you in the shadows of your sietch, herding you towards the rock wall. “What do you plan to do now that you have me pinned?” You tipped your chin up at him. Unafraid. Defiant. Fremen to the bone.

“I think you know.” His smile widened and it pulled at something inside. He was brutal, you knew that by the way he fought. He was beautiful too and he knew you noticed.

There were no more words after, only his lips pressed tightly against yours. He tasted like rain, precious water and the thrill of the kill.

He lifted you up, pressed you up against the rock as if you weighed nothing. Your cunt ached to be filled by him and despite the fact that this man was an outsider your arousal flowed freely. His fingers were nimble and they opened your stillsuit enough to find the crux of you. His fingers curled deep, stretching you open, drawing forth a hushed moan from you; a sly smile from him. Your arms wrapped around his neck tight enough to hurt you knew, but you couldn’t focus on that. Not when he pressed the pads of those fingers against something sacred.

“Is this where you want me?” He stroked at the spot again for emphasis.

“You know I do.” You bit at his lip and he groaned into your mouth, his rhythm making your toes curl. His thumb joined the fray and it snuck up on you faster than you’d hoped. The swirl of him around your clit made the stars explode behind your eyes.

He gave you no respite and pressed forth, the pearl of his arousal glinting for only a moment before he buried himself into your wet heat. His forehead pressed against yours for half a heartbeat before he was driving himself into you with the same brutality he showed when he fought.

“At least you fuck better than you fight.” You couldn’t help but taunt him, even as he made you whimper, he laughed - breathless. The scar on his brow begged to be kissed, you ignored it.

“You fight like a demon, and I fuck like one.” His hips were a piston and sooner than you hoped he was filling you, your puffy little cunt overflowing with his passion.

“Again.” You smiled at him.

“Again.” He repeated.

--

Tagging those who I think would be interested. (sorry if you aren't!)

@wheresarizona @foli-vora @charnelhouse @anaaaispunk @ezrasbirdie @frannyzooey @absurdthirst

[btsqualityy]

Can we have mama KNJ working out with Joon and when he does his pull ups she holds onto him and that turns into some sexy workout smut? Please and thank you Shay!

Warnings: smut, creampie

"Here, hold onto me," Namjoon said and you hopped up into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist.

"Are you sure you won't drop me?" You questioned skeptically and he chuckled as he reached up and held onto the pull up bar.

"I won't," he promised. "I just want to make sure my form is correct and if it is, you shouldn't move at all."

"Ok," you replied, watching as he began to pull himself up before lowering back down. To your surprise, you wouldn't have even known he was doing pull ups if you weren't watching because that's how still he was being.

"You alright down there?" He huffed, his breathing coming a little harder now as he put a little work into his pull ups.

"Yeah, more than," you nodded. "You look really hot like this."

"Do I?" He chuckled.

"Mmhmm," you smiled. "Makes me want to ride your cock."

"Y/N-ah, don't," Namjoon tried to warn you but his words died off when you leaned forward and attached your lips to his neck, sucking a hickey into his skin. "Baby."

"What?" You whispered.

"I'm trying to work out," he whined.

"Work out with me instead," you suggested and Namjoon gently lowered himself back down so that his feet were on the ground again.

..............................

"Fuck yes," you moaned, using your arms that were wrapped around Namjoon's neck as leverage to lift yourself up and down on his cock.

"Oh, that's it Y/N-ah," Namjoon groaned, leaning back against the exercise bench as he watched you with low eyes. "Ride my cock baby."

"You feel so good inside me Joon," you whimpered. "So fucking big."

"I know baby, I can feel you stretching around me," he replied, reaching down and cupping your ass in his hands. "God, you're so tight."

"Are you close?" You asked him and he nodded his head. "Thank fuck because I am too."

"Come with me," he said and you nodded, leaning down and kissing him passionately. As your tongues tangled together, you and him both moaned into each other's mouths as your orgasms washed over you. You whimpered when you felt his cum pouring into you, and he couldn't help but to smack your ass when he heard you.

"How was that for a workout?" Namjoon wondered as you slumped against him.

"Great. My thighs are burning from riding you so long," you reported, making Namjoon laugh.