#AC: Black Flag

[howtotrainabraincell]

Head cannons bc I can - Assassin’s body parts preferences (and extras...)

AN: I would just like to say that ALL of the Assassin's will protect their love with their lives, not standing for any disrespect or rudeness toward her in any way shape or form. I may not have put it in the description of every Assassin, but it goes without saying. ALSO, plz don't @ me bc this is my first ever spicy post lol

Altair Ibn La’Ahad - loves burying his face in her neck and grabbing her backside cheekily lol, loves bathing with her but won’t deny that’s it’s hard to control himself around her naked body. Comes to her after a mission (if they didn't go on it together that is or if she's not an assassin) to hold her and just melts against her, grateful to have her and be back in her arms alive. Pulls her away ever so often to a corner where he'll kiss her breathless and then just walk off like nothing happened (this man-), loves to chase lol if she runs from him, it sets something deep and primal off in him, and when he eventually catches her? 😳😳😳

Shay Patrick Cormac - definitely breasts lol and has a thing for waists, also loves thighs & has a thing for kissing from the top of her foot to the inside of her thighs, this man can pick up grown soldiers, flip them over his shoulder and then just toss them to the ground like it nothing so he’s strong - tell.me he doesn’t pick up his love and carry her off for some alone time. She won't have to worry about anyone on the Morrigan getting any ideas because Shay has made it VERY clear that she's his and his only. He'll legit fight for her if someone makes her uncomfortable or harasses her and make them regret the day they were born (that is if they can even think afterward bc they'll probably be dead). It - depending on the mood he's in - makes him feel very loved and cared for or very turned on and ready to pin her down, when she kisses the scar over his eye. Don't even get me started on how naughty this fricken man is in Irish Gaelic. (Sir! Control thyself!)

Edward Kenway - an ass man for sure and he loves the thighs too, stands behind her and glares at anyone who checks her out from his spot behind her where he’ll press a possessive kiss to her shoulder while glaring at them. Why do I have feeling that this man has a thing for women who can shoot guns? If she shoots a gun in front of him all pirate-esque he'll literally beg her to step on him haha. Loves him a mouthy feisty woman because not only does it turn.him.on, he gets a kick out of a lovely woman being able to blow someone out of the water with her insults & statements of self-defense. Will also waylay anyone who disrespects her, he'll actually feed them their teeth (don't test him with her)

Jacob Ethan Frye - both the man’s bi lol he can have both if he wants, he for sure does playful butt pats and grabs occasionally but usually when they’re alone (USUALLY & if a Rook bore witness? THEY SAW NOTHING), definitely into holding his love on his lap and whispering dirty things in her ear to fluster her. Will fight to protect her and God help them because they'll have him and the Rooks to deal with (that is if Jacob doesn't crush them and turn them into dust that blows away in the wind lol). Also loves him a feisty and mouthy woman, if she's sarcastic, witty and goofy on top of that? This man is more whipped than whipped cream. Total gentleman even if she can hand his ass to him on a silver platter, he still treats her with utmost respect. Enjoys lying in bed with her and cuddling (give the man all the cuddles STAT) lazily playing with her hair and believe it not - not all kissing with the amorous assassin leads to *wink wink*. He genuinely enjoys laying there with her on a slow day and kissing her sweetly, over and over again. Man is a genuine romantic sweetheart (and nothing will change my mind). It's not an odd occurrence for Evie to wonder where her younger brother is, only to find him conked out on his love's chest just peacefully snoozing away as she holds him reading a book or some files. Totally see him tracing his fingers down her sternum until he reaches her breasts and tracing the insides of them to get her riled up (if he's feeling mean he'll even give a cheeky kiss haha). Also loves to chase her across rooftops and make bets of a spicier nature...

Evie Frye - loves to kiss her loves hands & jaw (particularly that one little spot…) and trace kisses down her sternum, has a habit of cornering her and making out with her lol then she just goes on about her day like nothing happened, plays footsies underneath table surfaces (CHANGE MY MIND). Loves all of her and honestly don't think she would have a preference, Evie's just grateful to have her at all and be with her. Woman was dedicated to being alone as a result of being in the Brotherhood. Think she would get a kick out of witty and playful banter, the more her love speaks the more in love she falls and the more she desires her. She's good with her hands. I said it. Sue me. She.has.good.hands. The woman tis skilled (in more ways than one...) This also pertains to corsets and buttons whether it be doing them or undoing them... Kind think she would like chasing her love through the city too and if it ends up in a garden? The woman internally swoons.

Kassandra of Sparta - breasts she likes pulling her love against her and then looking down to see them pressed against her armor being gorgeous as usual and she loves to grab hips, she will CUT Alcibiades if he looks at her love lol bc she KNOWS what he's thinking about, only lets her hair down around her love and adores laying in between her thighs while her fingers give her a head a very relaxing massage (seriously they can put the woman to sleep lol)

Ratonhnhake:ton/Connor Kenway - I think we can all agree that this sweet man isn't very sexual BUT once he settles down, he does have an appreciation for his loves figure. Loves to hover over her from behind and kiss the top of her head, and when things get more intimate between them, he loves to give her kisses all over her face. Flowers with him would be a common occurrence, often times she wakes up to beautiful wildflowers on her bedside table or on the pillow beside her. This man is a good provider. And if she takes an interest in hunting with him, more than a few times he'll briefly lose interest in hunting the animal and playfully hunting her instead... Feel like he strokes her legs lovingly and takes his time exploring the sexual feelings he has for her. He would love her breasts because they're beautiful, soft and full of life.

Alexios of Sparta - ass for sure he seems like a butt smacker haha she’ll be minding her own business when he comes out of nowhere and gives her a light loving smack. He comes up behind her and literally sweeps her off her feet - no pleasantries, just "you're mine now" lol

Haytham Kenway - breasts has a thing for tracing the tops of them when she wears dresses to get her riled up all while delivering an “innocent” kiss to her flaming red cheek, will randomly stoop to her level to whisper something 😳 in her ear. Get a vibe that he would spoil her with beautiful jewelry and then woo her until it's the only thing she has on, before taking her to bed... Morning sex seems like the norm for him because he's not always there when she falls asleep arriving home late, but when he sees her in the morning, he more than makes it up to her and greets her in very steamy manner. He reminds her to remain neutral when she stands next to him during a meeting as he sits down with his hand hidden by her dress on her backside gently squeezing and acting completely casual about it the cheeky -

Desmond Miles - breasts & when Shaun stresses him out, he presses his head into them lol it’s stress relieving, comes up behind her and hugs her tightly, definitely into spooning he likes the physical contact, and he melts when she kisses his forehead. Before everything he screwed, but now with the woman he loves? He makes love and thoroughly enjoys every second of it with her. Having her by his side through everything means more to him than he can express.

Arno Victor Dorian - this man feels like a worshipper he would love all of her body and take his time with her, but he does tend to go for breasts more coming out of nowhere and kissing the tops of them reverently throughout the day, definitely takes her hand in his and kisses it with full eye contact to the point where it makes her blush, earning a chuckle from him. Tell me that this man doesn't pull her away to corners throughout the day or on a mission and kiss her before walking away casually like nothing happened lol. Got a feeling he's very into whisking his love away just getting her attention and pulling her away to wherever they can have a few moments alone together. Good kisser. I refuse to believe anything else. He swoops in gives a sweet kiss that leaves her flustered, and he stands there watching her with a smile on his face. For some reason I think he's into the whole secret lover rendezvous thing, aka coming in through his love's window or meeting her secretly (it's exciting and he gets her all alone...)

Ezio Auditore Da Firenze - also feels like a worshipping type of man except everywhere, everything, all the time lol, but he does have a preference for breasts often times hugging his love around the waist and burying his face in them. We've all seen how this man has thing for pinning his lady to the wall...do with it what you will. But he does it to her and OFTEN lol. A little more promiscuous in public - stopping of course if she gets uncomfortable - than others and is not afraid to show how he feels about her. Also, a good kisser. I mean COME ON.

Bayek of Siwa - he loves her breasts because beneath them lies her heart and he cherishes the fact that she has given it to him, loves to star gaze with her - they lay there together peacefully as he tells her about the constellations and their meaning. Loves bathing with her just laying back and relaxing, eyes roving her form as she cleans him and gives him a shave (he refuses to shave unless she does it for him bc he loves her touch and how great her handiwork is). Gives the kinds of kisses that melt her like a stick of butter lol, a kiss from him has a lot of emotion poured into it telling without words how much he loves her.

[gronnulv]

Here you can download the original file. This can be printed for personal use, not for commercial purposes ☺

[author-morgan]

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

an early b-day gift for @mrsragnarlodbrok

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye,” the commander confirms.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[hidden-nowhere]

love those "ye did WHAT" looks they give each other

[s-pirth-lemonade]

Happy birthday trash pirate 🏴‍☠️

[melonyfelonyfellonme]

Had the most false of false starts to this year (in work mainly) and I just went back to AC: Black Flag after a year

Realised that Past Me decided to pause playing just before starting one of the more devastating missions, and then was smacked in the face right after with Leave Her, Johnny

It's kl I still have tears left apparently pfffff

[0luna123]

James Kidd Assassin's Creed: Black Flag kinda gender ngl

[k-she-rambles]

AC Black Flag but with vampires and werewolves. Do you get it?

[thou-babbling-brook]

I ranked ac characters based on how well I think they can line dance

[pandaaaaaaaaxd]

😈Bad adults are stealing candy from children

[howtotrainabraincell]

Head Cannon bc I can - What kinds affectionate the different assassins would be - Part 1

Ezio Auditore da Firenze - The Lover of Love. Family man very affectionate/grew up in a loving closely knit family/family oriented/notices little things/sweetheart with a side of spice/he reminds me of the hot tamale candy lol spicy AND sweet at the same time bc he can be a cinnamon roll one second and then become the oven that you PUT the cinnamon roll IN. He seems like he would play the lute for you the few chords that he learned when he was younger that is, and he MIGHT sing but don't count on it haha. Man wrote some real nice letters when he was older so I bet he would try his hand at love letters no matter which Ezio you prefer, and they would be sweet. Loves to give hand kisses whether they be sweet or steamy. Often comes up behind you and wraps his arms around you in a hug, and imo LOVES it when you rake your fingers through his hair gently scratching his scalp. Would instantly be down bad for someone who cooks Italian food for him because it makes him feel loved and cared for.

Bayek of Siwa - The Kind Lover. Proud affection/"look at how awesome my partner is I worship the ground they walk on"/offers an arm for escort/is not afraid to hold your hand/great at letting people know where they stand and setting boundaries so no one will be confused about who he has feelings for. Very attentive and notices the little things/can kick ass and then some but is so gentle and sweet with the one he loves (no one touches a hair on their head or disturbs the air around them or so help him Anubis...) /great at communicating and is not afraid to talk about feelings. Have a feeling that he enjoys fresh baked bread and anything sweet he can get his hands on, and also loves to share them with his love. NO ONE can tell me that he doesn't take good care of the person he loves because man is a sweetheart protector and dang good provider. Forehead kisses are a big thing with him, where he gently cradles your head to do so, and lots of eye contact when he tells you that he loves you.

Edward Kenway - The Cheeky Pirate. sexual tension/handsy and cheeky but will stop if you're uncomfy/he knows when to behave/won't hesitate to smooch you to the ninth realm and back if someone looks at you like they want you/ have a feeling that he is BIG TIME into holding his partner in front of him at the wheel and steering the Jackdaw (letting them drive but not really)/spoils his loved one rotten any chance he gets (even if it is stolen lol)/will probably make you his co-co-captain alongside Adewale.

Ratonhnhake:ton/Connor Kenway- The Respectful Lover. Not really one for PDA but you'll know that you're loved by him/does gush about you to people from his tribe and everyone at the Homestead knows he's DOWN BAAADD (the tribe elders have predicted a wedding date lol bc they know that he'll marry you. Definitely teaches self-defense and fall in love 5,000 times harder if they made an attempt to learn Kanien'keha/if they love animals and nature, he again will worship the air they breathe. If you cook for him especially recipes from his tribe, he'll probably get emotional because they remind him of home, and he would be head over heels in love with someone who was open to learning about where he comes from and the ways of his people. If you defend him when someone is rude to him (despite being well able to defend himself as we all know) he will feel protected and loved, which he's rarely felt in his life since his mother.

Jacob Ethan Frye - The Sweetheart. Makes his partner feel valued ESPECIALLY as a woman because he's not a typical 19th century man who's all "women's place is in the home having babies and cooking and cleaning". He WILL LISTEN TO YOU and also put great faith in your opinion/cheeky and very flirtatious/can get flustered if partner matches his energy though lol/ something tells me this man LOVES and is WHIPPED for domesticity he's had a crazy, dangerous life with too many near death experiences to count at only 21 years old and while he would still be the chaotic cinnamon roll you fell in love with the Rooks and fight club and all he would love to come home to peace and calmness. If you cook/bake for him he will literally turn into a bottomless pit he LOVES IT though it will sometimes start sibling squabbles between him and his older sister because she loves your cooking too haha. Also teaches self-defense but will get flirty with you real quick so it's probably best to learn from Evie lol. VERY genuine and he means every loving word he says and every touch he gives. Protective of you and will throw hands if someone disrespects you. He also loves to make you laugh and tell.me.WHY I am so dang sure that he LOVES it when you play with his hair especially if you scratch your fingers lightly against his jaw and the scratchy whiskers he has there.

Desmond Miles - The Lonely One. Proud as well/total gentleman with sexy swagger lol/loves to take you out on his motorcycle/loves it when you come visit him at work because he'll be doing his job and look over to see you which makes him instantly happy/TOTALLY shows off his bartending skills and winks at you while doing it being a total flirt/ love language without a doubt is quality time and physical touch. Man is VERY affectionate imo because he's touched starved and most likely lonely (even with the Animus he still wants you because you comfort him). If you defend him from Shaun when he's being annoying or pushing him too much or clap back at the male half of his DNA, he will literally love you forever. Man is FERAL for a significant other that will defend him and care for him the way he wasn't all those years alone.

Altair Ibn La'Ahad - The Reserved Soldier...who's Smitten. Doesn't do PDA most that might happen is an arm offered for an escort or a hand on the waist to push you behind him/will kiss you on the cheek before he goes off on missions the same way he does the rest of the members of the Brotherhood (even if you're not part of it) while saying to you in Arabic "Safety and Peace my darling". Shows affection by smirking at you when you're flustered and acting as your intimidating AF bodyguard/in private tho...he's very amorous and loves having physical contact with his partner. Totally the type to lie there and rest with them or lazily kiss and hug. Not averse to showing that he loves you in public or declaring his love because he does love you very much, he just wants to protect your honor and avoid anyone (read: MALIK) heckling/harassing the both of you about being lovers. You are for his eyes and his eyes only whether it be hand holding, kissing, or various other things that he often thinks about...

Arno Victor Dorian - The Hopeless Romantic. Very affectionate also from being lonely and touch starved/not afraid to show his love for you in public. He DEFINITELY writes you love letters that are just - SIGH. He has a way with words and just pours everything into the letters he writes you, what he loves about you and why, how much you mean to him, how he would do anything for you. He's a hopeless romantic and when he falls in love he falls HARD and gives the one he loves everything (cue traumatic flashbacks of a certain ex-now deceased red haired lover of his). I think he would be SO in love with someone who noticed the little things about him and took care of those things. If he's sleep deprived? You let him sleep in and fix him breakfast in bed. If he's lonely while working? You sit with him wherever he is and read/ write/look out the window and watch Paris silently comforting him with just your presence. If he forgets to eat? You fixing him something delicious to eat and bringing it to him giving him a kiss and words of encouragement. Bringing him tea/water/coffee/hot chocolate while he's working. Would definitely spoil you with treats from the Cafe and if you work there, he'll drop by every so often to give you a sweet quick kiss. I think he would also show affection by helping you get ready in the morning and take this the way you wish...but he's really good with corset laces, buttons, and layers upon layers of fabric. He's thoughtful and sweet taking time to think about you (even though he barely thinks about himself). Will legit protect you with his life he refuses to lose you and will do anything to keep you safe. He loves to have slow relaxing days with you to have a moment away from his normally stressful life. You pulling him away from his work for distraction or holding him when the Council annoys him is always welcome. You will definitely know that he loves you with everything that he has.

[gronnulv]

[inonibird]

Ope, it's International Ace Day~ 🖤 🤍 💜

[rm-cain]

[hard-times-paramore]

Reblog or like this post if you're active in the Assassin's Creed fandom but doesn't ship Desmond Miles with his ancestors.

[hidden-nowhere]

The paradox of Edward Kenway for me is the fact that I think that he’s actually one of the most well written characters and one of the most bad written characters AT THE SAME TIME

Like in his game??? I can write essays about him as character… BUT THEY ALL WOULD CRUMBLE DOWN IF MENTION ATLEAST ONE MEDIA WITH HIM OUTSIDE AC4

And all becuz Ubisoft doesn’t have someone who will keep watch on writers for diff media and how they write characters

AC Forsaken: Yeah, Edward was kinda a sexist who didn't want to teach his daughter assassin way and wanted to give her away into a marriage to a guy she hated...

AC4: Well... he had Mary Read as one of close friends and Anne Bonny as his quartermaster... so I guess he kinda respected strong women

AC Forgotten Temple: Yeah, he respects strong women... but with our "modern-days-Edward-descendant" we kinda implying that he wasn't faithful to Tessa...