#Assassin's creed fanfic

[gococogo]

A Fool's Life | Shaytham

Synopsis: Desmond has to dive back into Haytham to find out where a power source is for the temple. But the last thing he expects is something akin to when the Templar first met Ziio. But these emotions run something deeper, crueler.

Word Count: 3.8K

Pairing: Shay Cormac / Haytham Kenway

Warnings: Internalized homophobia

“We need you to dive back into Haytham.”

A few simple words that Desmond wished he would never have to hear. Desmond stares at his father with a scowl upon his lips waiting for the punch line. He glances to Shaun and Rebecca. Yet, they stay quiet and that is just saying a thousand words as is. It’s not some joke.

“Why?” Desmond asks as he looks to his father once more.

“Because Haytham came in contact with a power source for this Temple,” William explains monotonously. “We need to know where he put it.”

He tries to not put any hint of emotion in his words. Desmond knows what he’s doing. But it only makes him feel that itch of anger inside and he tries not to let it show.

“Can’t you just track this one like the others?” Desmond asks with bitterness in his tone.

So much for keeping it hidden. It can’t help it when it comes around his father. Almost everything he says makes Desmond want to retaliate in a frustrated manner.

This has William scowling. “It will only be for a moment, son,” he firmly says.

It’s not like Desmond has a choice at this point of time. His father will just tell him to do it until he does. They probably won’t continue on with Connor until he goes back into Haytham’s mind. Desmond throws up his hands and lays back down into the Animus with a grunt.

“Fine, but let’s get his over and done with.”

-

It’s the first day of Fall in Boston and the cool breeze is an ease on Haytham’s skin. But with Desmond being in Haytham’s mind again, it’s almost criminal. He can feel the anticipation on his mind, the quickening of his heart as he spots red sails coming onto port. There’s a man on that ship that Haytham knows, and it has the man itching. Which is something Desmond has only felt when Haytham was around Ziio.

Haytham may be blind to his emotions, someone that sees too much but doesn’t focus on himself, but Desmond knows this feeling. This breathlessness at the mere thought of someone.

The worn ship docks, her crew shouting out at each other, pulling ropes and bringing in sails. The Morrigan her name is and she’s seen her years for sure. Her once yellow paint is chipped and faded from years at sea. She’s an older ship, not up to date like the ones now. And she has people looking upon her that stand on the dock. Haytham only sees beauty, a fine ship that has lasted so long. But one could say that she’s only as strong as her captain. Working hand in hand.

The captain, Haytham sees him straight away and Desmond takes him in. He’s a tall, broad shouldered man with salt and pepper hair. It’s tied back into a short ponytail, one thing that hasn’t changed with him. But he now sports a brown leather coat with blue clothing. It makes him look older and wiser. Nothing like the young man Haytham knew almost twenty years ago.

All these emotions that Desmond feels nearly overwhelms him. The animus glitches for only a moment but Desmond retains himself. Haytham may present himself as a stern, serious man but by god can this man feel. And is he ignorant to his own emotions.

The man, Shay Cormac, smiles as he spots Haytham standing on the dock. Haytham had received a letter from Shay a week ago, telling him of his arrival soon in Boston. Said note is currently tucked away in Haytham’s breast pocket, just in case he got the dates wrong. Something that Shay will never know about.

A plank is drawn between the Morrigan and the dock and Haytham stands at the end of it as he watches Shay walk down. Desmond has never seen Haytham look upon a man like this as of right now. Haytham looks upon a much older version of the image he has in his head of Shay, but he still finds himself marvelling at the captain.

The two of them clasp hands in a firm handshake that feels like neither of them want to let go. But Haytham contains himself.

“It’s been a long time, Shay,” Haytham is first to speak.

Shay’s smile is something the Grandmaster has missed. It’s the exact same, just with added lines and wrinkles.

“Oh, it has been,” Shay speaks as if all those years away are now playing on his mind.

Where he’s been, who he’s met and the time he’s spent away. All something Haytham wants to know of.

“And you’ve retrieved it?”

With a soft nod, “Yes,” is what Shay replies with.

Haytham gestures out a hand. “I’ll lead you to the Green Dragon, it’s not far.” He begins. “I’d love to hear of your ventures away.”

Course you would, Desmond snaps out.

The simulation suddenly glitches and everything begins melting away into a blue, glitchy effect. Desmond groans in pain as he begins desynchronizing from the animus. This hasn’t happened since he first began with Altair. He’s aware he dislikes Haytham but not enough to desynchronize to this extent.

“Desmond. You need to follow Haytham,” Shaun’s voice comes through the animus.

It’s very hard to when it’s Haytham, Desmond snaps back.

“Just calm down. It’ll only be for a short while,” Shaun inquires again, trying to get Desmond to sync back up.

Desmond can suddenly feel his beating heart, thumping in his chest like a jack rabbit. He slows his breathing and calms his mind. The animus begins to flow again, the simulation changing from the docks to a tavern area. They’re at the Green Dragon.

It’s just Haytham and Shay sitting at the table that the Templars like to use for their get togethers. The very same that Desmond found out who Haytham truly aligned himself with.

Shay takes a long, slow drink of his ale. Haytham hasn’t touched his, still full in its cup. He watches Shay’s Adam’s apple bob up and down with each gulp before pulling his gaze away. Shay exhales loudly as he sets the cup on the table.

“I will have to say,” Shay admits. “I have missed American ale.”

Haytham looks to the other again to only find him staring at him already. He knows he shouldn’t be so sheepish around Shay. Even though they haven’t seen one another in nearly two decades, it shouldn’t be this awkward on Haytham’s end. Nowhere as near.

“Did you find you didn’t partake in the delicacies overseas?” Haytham asks.

“I don’t think that’s it, sir. I think it’s just something about this that speaks home,” the Irishman smirks.

That gets a short chuckle out of Haytham. Something that makes Shay’s brows lift ever so slightly. A warmth spreads to Haytham’s chest that has Desmond second guessing everything. He hasn’t felt this since Ziio. A longing, a want. But this runs deeper. Much crueller in its wake that Haytham wants gone. But he can’t help himself looking at Shay with a eyes that speak a thousand words.

The two mingle and talk about their lives some more. Something that Desmond finds himself getting lost in. Shay is so open with Haytham that it’s almost scary. But Haytham finds it so comforting and like Desmond, he almost gets lost in the Irishman’s tales and his way of words. He’s been everywhere and anywhere in these sixteen years away. He’ll be speaking on one thing and it’ll remind him of another story that has him talking for another thirty minutes.

But Haytham doesn’t stop him. Not once. Not even when he grabs another round of ale for them, he keeps listening. And this is so rare of Haytham. The warmth in his chest is something the British man rarely allows himself to indulge in.

-

As the night grows old, the two men move from the tavern to Haytham’s home. And as far as Desmond is concerned, not even Charles Lee comes around to Haytham’s in worry of disrupting the man’s privacy. In which Haytham is very grateful for. Yet with Shay, he’s more than welcome to bring him around.

The entire walk, Shay doesn’t stop talking. It isn’t an annoying chatter. It’s something so welcoming to Haytham’s ears since he has not heard that Irish accent in nearly two decades.

Shay finishes a story as they enter Haytham’s house and he doesn’t pick up another once, being self-aware to know when to stop. The host guides Shay to the living room which is something that Haytham has tried to replicate of his old home. The one where everything was right and just in the world before everything terrible and malicious that could happen in the world, happened. It isn’t the best, but the lounges are from Britian, the floral patterning hand woven instead of machine made. Bookshelves line the walls that are made from a walnut stained oak, made here in America. Each book that lines the shelves is something that Haytham holds dear to his heart, but he would never say such a thing out loud. The coffee table is also oak but stained with something darker that Haytham can’t remember at this given moment.

Not when Shay, - before he gets himself comfortable and rids himself of his coat- places the precursor box on the coffee table next to the empty fruit bowl.

The small wooden box seems to hum, and it has an energy to it. Something that Haytham doesn’t know if he’s imagining or if he can feel it. Could also be the blood rushing past his ears as his heart skips a beat or two within his chest.

Desmond has never seen anything like it, but Shay seems very familiar with it. He sits down in the lounge across from Haytham with his coat in his lap and looks to his Grandmaster with a raised, scarred brow.

Haytham, unlike Shay, doesn’t seem to be pleased with it. From where he stands, somehow on the other side of the room, he walks over and picks it up with a gingerly touch. The box is still and firm in his hand, but warm. He has to hold the shiver that threatens to run down his spine and over his arms.

“You actually found it,” Haytham finds himself muttering before he can stop himself.

Shay is a little taken a back but, he gives a heavy nod. “It took me longer than it should have, sir, but I found it,” he answers firmly, that casualness that he once possessed him gone and replaced by a formality found in soldiers.

Haytham sets it down before he drops the damn box. Such a small thing that has kept Shay away from the Order. Haytham could count how many times he could have used such a man like Shay for jobs here in America. He wishes he never sent him away after such a stupid little box. But both would argue on how important such a thing is. To keep out of Assassin hand.

Without even thinking, something that Shay catches, Haytham rubs the hand that touched the box on his coat.

“Thank you, Shay. This means a lot for the Order,” Haytham says, raising his chin a bit higher.

But Desmond hears the unsaid words. This means so much to me.

A softness comes to Shay’s hardened features that has Haytham turning his gaze away. He wonders over to one of the bookshelves and takes out one of his old journals from five years back now. Dust has settled upon it and the pages have begun to fox. He flips through to the middle and takes out a piece of loose paper. He slams the book shut before sliding it back into its place smoothly.

“I have something for you,” he says as his eyes quickly flick over the document.

Haytham turns back to Shay, who has been watching him the entire time with dark eyes. Instead of pausing or acknowledging the way Shay tracks his every movement, Haytham holds out of the piece of paper to him.

“This is your next task for me,” Haytham instructs.

Shay looks to him before down at the piece of paper as he takes it. Something shifts within his eyes, as if a flicker of hope was just snapped out like a candle snuffer. Haytham moves around the coffee table to the lounge that sits across of the Shay and sits down with his hat being placed next to him. He, in return, watches Shay’s dark brown eyes dart back and forth on the paper. Said paper is a rough sketch of an artifact that is rumoured to be a power source for a precursor sight. There’s little information and it’s outdated since said information is five years old now.

Haytham knows this could take another decade to find. And he’s very self-aware on what he’s doing. As much as Haytham enjoys Shay’s company and wishes him to stick around. As much as Haytham wishes to listen to Shay speak about his journeys across seas and in Europe. As much as Haytham would love to just be in the company of Shay, the Irishman is loyal to the course -loyal to Haytham- and is the only man the Grandmaster can trust to retrieve said items.

There were at times that Haytham thought Shay had given up, but a letter from the man would come not even a month later. It would only speak of how he is still on the trail of the box and that his loyalty to the Order has not wavered. How he misses New York and how he has missed many other things. How he’s missed the blue flowers that grow in Fort Arsenal and how they only bloomed in spring. He had said they remind Shay of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d write in the next letter if he remembered but the next letter it seemed like he had forgotten entirely. Oh well…

Haytham had kept every single one of those letters, but Shay doesn’t need to know that. And never will.

The look that Haytham receives from Shay is one of hurt and sorrow. A long exhale escapes through Shay’s nose that has his shoulders sagging slightly. He seems to melt back into the lounge.

“This could take me another lifetime to find with this outdated information,” Shay comments what Haytham already knows.

Desmond can hear the plea.

 “I know,” Haytham nods. “But there is no other man that I would trust to find these artifacts.”

Shay’s jaw clenches. “Is there no one else to find this, sir? Someone that is familiar with these rumours and whomever has given you this information.”

Another plea that goes unheard. Haytham is set in his ways, and he will not listen to reason.

“I can give you the contacts on who gave me that information. But I have been holding onto it in hopes you would return back with the box. This, I need for my further research into the precursor site I have been after,” Haytham tells Shay firmly but, softly.

A defeated look comes over Shay. He looks over the single piece of paper again with a deeper set frown. He lets out a sigh.

“I’ll do it, sir” Shay agrees. Only because it’s you asking.

And with that, Shay says his farewells and is off before Haytham can blink. A deep ache settles in his cold heart that has him inhaling deeply to try and rid himself of it. It only worsens and he curses to himself for having such feelings towards such a man he has only known for such a little time.

Was it amongst the letters from Shay he realized the origin of the warm feeling whenever he was around said man? Or was it when that Morrigan had disappeared over the horizon when Shay first set out for the precursor box that the first real ache came to his heart. Or maybe when he first saw the broken man at the other end of the table to pledge himself to the cause. He saw a man willing to lay down his life for something greater and for a better future.

Maybe that’s why Haytham has always had an eye watching the Irishman when his back is turned. Or reading the letters he had sent over and over again when he feels the need. It’s such childish behaviour. He can admit that to himself.

But even so, he still finds himself staring and watching the back of Shay disappear around the corner of the room with a longing. He could speak. Say something. Say such few words that he knows would change everything. His tongue feels so heavy. Even when he hears the front door click open and shut, his tongue doesn’t even know how to form words.

Even if Shay had stopped and turned, what would have Haytham had said? For once, he’s speechless with himself. He doesn’t know how long he sits on the lounge for, staring at the empty space that once had Shay. He knows this is foolish of himself, but whom is to judge him? Such a sad man in a foolish world.

-

The animus skips time for Desmond, and he quickly realizes that it had only taken Shay Cormac two years to find the artifact. He was good. Too good for what he does. Took him much less time to find this artifact than the box.

This time, there was no grand entrance at the dock. No long-lost lover type movie thing coming back.

Three sharp knocks come to Haytham’s door, and he looks up from his newspaper. He wasn’t planning anyone coming over at this time of day and he had planned to stay inside for the rest. He wills himself to stand off his lounge and wonders over to the front door in nothing but his white, laced collared shirt. He’s rid himself of his heavy coat and cloak, not needing it in his private home.

He opens the door, expecting someone like Charles Lee or one of his own hired men to come and spill some nonsense to him. He’s all ready to wave them away to tell them to not bother him until later. But Desmond can feel all irritation melt away as Shay Cormac stands at the front door with his back turned.

As soon as the door has opened, Shay turns to greet Haytham with a wide smile. Something that instantly reddens Haytham’s ears.

“Back already, Shay?” Haytham asks with the slightest of cockiness in his tone.

This has Shay scoffing a light chuckle. He unclicks something on his belt, something wrapped up in cloth and hands it out to Haytham. The Grandmaster takes it with a nod and unwraps a bit of it to unveil what’s inside.

“Despite with what little you gave me,” Shay says. “It didn’t take me long to track it down since this thing was actively being hidden away from me.”

Haytham peers down at the unknown artifact. It’s a steely grey with lines that run over that, glowing a bright blue like glow worms. The shape is odd and cube like.

Desmond recognises instantly as the power source for their current precursor sight. So, it was Shay that brought it into Templar hands. Now they just need to pinpoint what modern Templar base has it and they’ll be able to find it.

“I’m going to pull you out now,” Rebecca’s voice sounds over the scene laying out before Desmond.

No! Wait a moment. Desmond quickly shouts out. I want to see where this goes.

“Uuhhh. Okay?”

Haytham folds the cloth back over the power source and looks to Shay again.

“Would you like to come in?” He asks Shay, side stepping a tad with an outstretched hand.

Shay’s brown eyes look into the doorway with a longing, but he shakes his head with a, “I’m sorry,” on his lips.

“I do apologize for this quick meeting, Haytham.” Shay speaks with regret heavy on his tongue. “But I must be heading back to New York to find out what has truly become of my estate.”

Haytham can’t help the silent, “Oh,” the comes from him as he stands fully in the doorway again. He wished to speak more with Shay about all of this. To just, sit with Shay would be a pleasure.

“Is such a matter so urgent?” Haytham asks, his tone stern and rough to hide the neediness behind its meaning.

Shay bows his head, “I’m afraid so.”

“I see.”

“Are there any other artifacts you would like me to look into before I leave?” Shay asks, his voice becoming soft.

Haytham looks to the wrapped artifact in his hand. He doesn’t have any other leads he would like chased up his sleeve. But he wishes he did. He wishes he could make Shay stay a little bit longer.

“No,” Haytham all but mumbles out.

He meets Shay’s soft gaze, one that Desmond recognises as disappointment. Why fall for someone like Haytham? Desmond is real curious on what goes inside Shay’s head. He wishes to know more about him despite being a Templar. In wanting to know more, to see if Shay’s look of disappointment comes with an ache in his heart similar to Haytham’s. Both must be feeling such similar things, yet neither of them wanting to say such out loud.

Shay nods with a sniff. “I’ll be off then, sir. I’ll still be at the ready if you need be,” he says before he turns to leave.

Haytham isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he reaches out and grabs onto Shay’s wrist. He’s curious in his own mind on why he’s done such a thing. But he meets Shay’s eyes once more and sees hope. Shay doesn’t say a word, waiting for Haytham to say something. His crow’s feet furrow together as Shay’s eyes narrow onto him.

Haytham wishes. But not now. He recoils his hand away and places it behind his back. He juts out his chin and straightens his back. The Grandmaster of the American Colonial Rite stands before Shay Cormac, and that is the last person the captain wanted to see.

“I will still want those reports of your contribution to the Templar course, Shay,” Haytham says instead of all the things on his mind.

Shay’s shoulder slouch and he smiles with hurt on his features. He looks Haytham up and down before giving a slow nod.

Haytham you stupid old man.

“Of course, sir.” Shay says. “I expected nothing more.”

Haytham gives a nod back with a frown upon his features.

“Goodbye, Haytham.”

And with that, Shay leaves. He all but disappears into the crowd on the Boston street, his assassin upbringing never truly leaving his blood. Haytham lets out a shaky breath and returns to his home, the door once again clicking softly behind him with Shay on the other side.

Did they ever see each other again?

There’s silence in Rebecca’s end before a sorrow filled, “No.”

[thou-babbling-brook]

Cold Feet

AO3

Rating: G

Word Count: 2216

Tags: Davenport Homestead, Assassin's Creed III, American Revolution, Canon Compliant, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, "The Wedding" Mission

Summary: Connor convinces Myriam to start her new life with Norris. Set during "The Wedding" Homestead mission between the chase sequence and the wedding scene. Hope you guys enjoy!

Connor would be the first to admit that he knew little to nothing about colonial wedding customs. Aside from a few comprehensive history and culture lessons from his teen years when he first traveled to Achilles, Connor knew nothing about the complexities of colonial weddings. Father Timothy had been kind enough to explain a few key details, such as “giving” Myriam away at the altar (which Connor was more than happy to do for his old friend), but details slipped Connor’s mind from time to time over the next several days of intense planning and preparation.

But there was one thing that Connor was sure they did not include: chasing the bride in question through the snow-covered trees minutes before her wedding.

The day began with as much chaos as one would expect. Before the roosters began to crow, nearly every member of the Homestead bustled about preparing for the joyous celebration. Oliver and Corrine worked hard preparing their finest wines for the occasion while preparing the livestock meat and crops gathered by Warren and Prudence – and of course, little baby Hunter, who cooed excitedly against his mother’s back. Once finished organizing the food, Prudence and Corrine joined the ladies in adorning Myriam in fine, comfortable fabrics suitable for the huntress. Ellen poked needles into the sides to ensure the stitching was up to par, while Diana and Catherine squawked at Connor and Norris for accidentally stepping near the bride’s suite (which Connor did not dare remind the ladies was his home). 

In the meantime, Big Dave and Lance worked tirelessly to adorn both the inn and the church with banners and decor fit for the Homestead’s very first wedding. Big Dave lifted the chubby woodworker up to pin the wooden posts on the side of the inn, waving to Terry and Godfrey as the lumberers warned Norris of the horrors of marriage to come.

“You’ll ne’er be right ‘bout anythin’ again, ya hear me, boy?” Godfrey teased as he slapped his palm against Norris’s back.

“Aye, and forget about havin’ the covers to yerself! You’ll be shiverin’ like a leaf!” Terry explained. Norris merely laughed and shook his head.

In the church, Dr. White and Achilles aided Father Timothy in preparing his short sermon, arranging the pews, and finishing the final touches hours before the wedding. Even the Assassin recruits were more than happy to help with the preparations. Stephane set to work in the kitchen alongside Oliver to cater the large meal ahead. Duncan, ever the Catholic, assisted Father Timothy in rehearsing his sermon. Jacob offered his wisdom for marriage while he straightened Norris’s hair, while Dobby stood guard outside Myriam’s dressing room in case of wandering eyes from stray men. Clipper and Jamie helped Mr. Faulkner and the crew of the Aquila find their drunken ways to the church, all while Connor wandered about and assisted where he could.

So, given the day’s chaotic events, it was not surprising to Connor as he announced happily to the pacing Norris that all was in order that Myriam was “missing.” After all, the ladies had only just left her room. How much trouble could the huntress find herself in?

Apparently, thought Connor as he raced through the trees and leapt through the branches, quite a lot. 

“Leave me be!” Myriam shouted as she jumped to the next branch, a stray branch slowing her down as it caught on her white dress. It was not enough to stop her, but it was enough for Connor to come within speaking distance.

“Why do you run?!” Connor replied, his voice echoing through the forest with concern lacing his tone. He swung to the next branch, careful not to slip and even more careful to ensure Myriam did not.

“Leave me be!” Myriam exclaimed. She crossed over to the next tree in an attempt to throw Connor off her trail. “I’m no housewife!”

Connor’s brow furrowed. While he could not necessarily speak for the entire Homestead, “housewife” would be one of the last descriptors attributed to Myriam. She was a huntress, and a respectable one at that. Through his confusion, Connor quickly ducked through another tree and sprinted across the large, sturdy branch. “No one thinks you are one!”

Myriam slid down a fallen tree, stumbling into the snow before whirling around to face Connor. “That’s what all of this means!”

A silence passed between the two as flurries of snow cascaded around them. Myriam sighed, grabbing her crown of flowers and tossing it to the ground. She sunk to the snowy ground and hid her face in her knees.

Quietly, Connor knelt beside Myriam. Lifting the flower crown into his hands, he joined her in the blanket of snow. He said nothing, only silently thumbing the daffodils adorning her crown. The two sat for a moment while gazing over the rushing river, watching as it cascaded over weathered rocks. Myriam reached forward and threw one into the water. When it sank to the bottom of the river, she huffed angrily through her nose.

“I don’t want to be some housewife that sits around waiting for her husband to come home,” she explained, tossing her hands into the air in frustration. “That’s not who I am. I’m not… I’m not some lady wanting to be kept pregnant and barefoot!”

“No one thinks you are one,” Connor repeated gently. Myriam shot a glare at the hulking man, Connor shrinking in on himself in response despite his size. 

“That’s what this means! This whole wedding! Shoving me into this stuffy dress, preparing me to take vows, giving me away!” She stood, pacing by the riverside. She gave Connor an apologetic look. “No offense. If I want anyone to give me away, it would be you.”

Connor rose and nodded his head. “None taken. But what is it that causes you to believe that you will become a housewife?”

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Myriam groaned before settling her hands on her hips and staring out into the river. “I… I don’t know!” She tossed her hands in the air again, rustling her hair and pacing back and forth. “I don’t belong inside a house cooking and cleaning and caring for a husband and an entire brood of children. I belong in the open air, in my hunting blinds, with my rifle in my hands!” Her hands formed the gesture of her weapon in question. Then, they fell to her sides. “If I marry Norris… I’ll be leaving behind all of my freedom that I worked so hard to gain.”

Stepping closer, Connor laid a hand on Myriam’s back. “That is not true,” he murmured quietly. “You know that better than I. Norris wants only for you to be happy.”

“Do I?” Myriam asked. Her voice faltered and she turned her nose to the rushing river. “What if, when we get married, all he wants is for me to sit at home and… I don’t know, wash his feet?”

Connor unintentionally wrinkled his nose. At the very least, the gesture provided a quick laugh for the two hunters. The uncomfortable silence returned soon after, broken only by the sounds of quiet chirping and rustling bushes.

“Norris did not fall in love with a housewife,” Connor finally spoke up. He met Myriam’s gaze with his own, gentle eyes. “Why would he expect such?”

“All men do,” Myriam sighed. 

“I do not.”

“You are not all men.”

Connor glanced down at the flower crown in his hands, thumbing over the white petals. “Perhaps I am not.”

Myriam pinched her nose again. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to offend–”

“No, it is alright,” Connor assured her. His brows furrowed in thought while Myriam squinted into the horizon. Then, a candle sparked in his mind. “How much do you know of my people, Myriam?”

“I don’t see the point of your question,” Myriam remarked tersely. When Connor gave a serious expression, she sighed. “But to answer it, not much.”

He moved in front of Myriam. “I think you would like it very much. For my people, it is the women who lead. We may have chiefs and war councils, but these men are voted upon by our women. Clan Mothers lead the village. We trace our ancestry through our mothers. For women, marriage is not just a union of the husband and wife, but of the village to the couple.”

Myriam raised a brow. “Your point?”

Placing the flower crown upon her head, Connor continued. “You are not a housewife, but even if you were, it would not change who you are. You are a skillful leader and hunter. Norris knows this. He marries you because of it, not in spite of it. He admires you for who you are. You need be nothing else. And by marrying Norris, you unite our friends as a whole, too.”

Silently, Myriam adjusted the crown and tucked stray strands of hair behind her ears. “Do you really think so?”

“I know so.” He cracked a rare smile. “Besides, you are a better shot than Norris. If anyone will be the housewife, it will be him.”

Myriam snorted. “The bad part is that I think he would enjoy being a housewife.” Her shoulders shook as she began to laugh. “Could you imagine? Me, coming home with a pipe of tobacco sticking out of my mouth, my rifle on my back, and hares in my hands while Norris cooks and cleans?”

Connor chuckled, then gently led Myriam towards the path leading to the church. “But you cannot imagine such a fate until you are wed.”

“No,” Myriam smiled, “I suppose I can’t.” As they reached the church, Myriam turned to Connor with a mixture of fear and excitement.

“I’m scared.”

Connor nodded. “I know.”

“What do I do?”

“What do you do when you face a cougar?”

“I shoot it. Are you suggesting I shoot Norris?”

“No, but I am suggesting that you face him like you would any animal.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, squeezing gently. “You are a strong, cunning woman, Myriam. He loves you deeply. He would not be marrying you if he had no intention of respecting you.”

Myriam inhaled sharply. “How do I get over it?”

“The fear?”

“No, the weather – what else would there be?”

“You won’t,” chimed a gentle, soft voice. Prudence and Ellen emerged from behind the church. Ellen offered Myriam her bouquet of flowers while Prudence wrapped a white shawl around her shivering shoulders. Prudence patted her cheek. “When I married Warren years ago, I was terrified of our future. But you learn, in marriage, that you are both equally frightened.” She giggled along with Ellen and Myriam.

Ellen took Myriam’s hands in her own. “My marriage was an unhappy one,” she confessed. Connor looked on solemnly, catching Ellen’s somber gaze for a mere second before Ellen mustered a smile. “But I can offer this wisdom: a good husband will cherish his wife for her talents, her wit, her love, her devotion, and her faith. Norris practically worships the ground you walk on. He will make a fine husband.”

Myriam sniffled. “Fuck,” she cursed. “I can’t believe I’m crying like some… some old hag!” Prudence and Ellen laughed, rubbing Myriam’s shoulders before holding her tightly.

“Besides,” Prudence cooed, staring over Myriam’s shoulder into Connor’s watchful gaze, “once we have you and Norris married, we can finally focus our attention on finding Connor a wife.”

Cheeks flushing, Connor brought his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “That will not be necessary.”

“Oh, hush, Prudence,” Ellen giggled. “We mustn't scare him from the prospect yet.” She turned back to Myriam, kissing her cheek. “We have to go back inside, but we will support you no matter what.” Prudence nodded in agreement before waving goodbye, giggling alongside Ellen as they hurried into the church.

Myriam rubbed her arms and faced Connor, walking with him up the steps. “You will be there every step of the way?”

“Every step,” Connor assured.

“Okay.”

“How do you feel?”

“Terrified. Like I want to run away again,” Myriam chuckled breathlessly. Connor hummed and looped his arm with hers.

“I will be there regardless. I am sure Norris will be as well.”

Myriam smiled. “Thank you, Connor.”

“You do not need to thank me. You are my friend.”

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her frigid lips to Connor’s freckled cheek. “No, but I will. Thank you.”

Blushing, Connor cleared his throat and led Myriam to the entrance of the church, where the guests began to rise as they spotted the bridge.

“Prudence and Ellen are right, though. We must find you a bride,” she whispered, doing her best to ignore the endless amount of eyes upon her and Connor. 

Connor chuckled, patting her hand. “I can only hope she is not as fast nor agile as you.”

“Ha, ha. Who knew you had such a sense of humor?”

Years later, when Connor would find himself fidgeting in front of his betrothed’s longhouse, Myriam would loop her arm with his, kiss his flustered cheek, and walk him into the longhouse with the same kindness he had shown her before.

Luckily for Connor, his wife did not run into the trees. How fortunate he was indeed. 

[reemonna]

Getting drunk with Jacob Frye

He mentions his urgency to make his own 'the rooks' gang every 5 seconds

Right after you're both done with drinking, he will take your hand to climb with him on the buildings' rooftops with your both laughter blaring all over the place

(NSFW/+18) You will end up making love on the rooftop of some building under the pale moonlight

He doesn't really like drinking to the point of getting wasted a lot, to keep his perception in a good level and stay connected with his surroundings. But he will definitely get drunk when he's around you. He would be so taken by you that he won't realise what he should and shouldn't do

His sense of humour increases and he throws more jokes when he gets drunk than he does in usual

You both talk about all the mess he did in the whole country. How he derailed a train, set fire to theatres, messed up factories, took the prime minister's spouse for a walk to one of the most dangerous England streets, and nearly crashing Britain's economy

And of course he must mention how Evie always interrupts his plans, which -in fact- means fixing his dumb doings and saving the day

"When Evie first heard of the squabble that happened yesterday in town, she pointed her fingers of blame at me, accusing me of starting that fight. Yes, I may have started it by accident, but she really must have a little faith in me, right?"

Will obviously start random fights with everyone in the inn

You don't really want to see how brutal he gets if someone tried to harass you one way or another, it's like releasing a monster -that's been tied for years- on the loose

It should be obvious that he grows more confident to flirt, and his feelings towards you loom clearer. He might even propose to you

Shouting in the middle of the inn, telling everyone how gorgeous and smart you are and how lucky he is to have you by his side? That's undoubtedly happening

[aiza-luna]

☀️~{AC SYNDICATE: AN ASSASSIN'S PORTRAIT}~☀️

★・・・・・・★★・・・・・・★

★・・・・・・★★・・・・・・★★・

- Portrait of Solange Cotoner at the Headquarters of the Spanish Brotherhood in Barcelona, 1867 -

Lady Solange Teresa Vivianne Cotoner-Artois (1848 - 1926) also known as Lady Solange Teresa Vivianne Cotoner-Frye and Dame Solange Teresa Vivianne Cotoner-Artois, as well as by her nickname "Noble Assassin of Tarragona" and her noble title as "Condesa de Tortosa" (Countess of Tortosa), was an Spanish Philantropist, Naturalist, Paleotologist Noblewoman and Master Assassin of the Spanish and British Brotherhoods of Assassins active during the 19th Century. Born in Tortosa, in the Provice of Tarragona, in Catalonia, Crown of Aragon, Solange was the oldest daughter of Carlos Rafael Cotoner y Moncada, Count of Tortosa and his wife, Aimée Isabelle Henriette Artois and older sister of the famous swordwoman Serena Hélène Josefina Cotoner-Artois. Rightful Heiress to her father's maritime business and noble title, she was raised into the Assassins Ways by Carlos and his sibilings, all members of the Spanish Council of Assassins, much to her mother's worry. She becamed a Master Assassin in 1866, after sucessfully killing her target, the Templar Raúl de La Cruz. In 1867, she was send to England to aid the British Brotherhood, as a spy along her aunt Desirée Charlotte Madeleine Pleydell-Bouviere to Henry Green, also known as "The Ghost". Solange played a important role in the Liberation of London in 1868, and later, she was of vital importance to track down the Piece of Eden known as The Holy Grail, along with avoiding the rise of power of the Neo British Templar Rite in the years of 1870 and 1874. After the Liberation of London, she married her fellow Brother-in-Creed, the British Master Assassin and Gang Leader Sir Jacob Frye. She was the one responsible for the truce and diplomatic missions to Morocco in 1887-1888 in amids of the Spanish-Moroccan political tensions, she was also responsible of the rift and tension between the Spanish Council and British Council, after she stood for their lack of action in regards to the Autumn of Terror. Solange was a direct descendent of the legendary Spanish Mentor Renato Valentino Cotoner, the one responsible to modernize the Spanish Creed in the 17th Century. Solange is a Franco-Spanish Assassin of Moroccan-Moorish, Greek, Russian and German Ancestry. Her family comes from Assassins and Knights at the service of the Spanish Crown.

Solange Cotoner's Wiki / Helix Data Base.

★・・・・・・★★・・・・・・★★・

Comission done by I_Am_The_Vigilante (on Instagram) 🩵

Solange's information and design by yours truly 🩵

[aralezinspace]

Sweet Nightmares (The Tale of the Blade in the Dark) Part I

A single Hidden One goes against Dream of the Endless, and gets way more than they bargained for. One does not emerge from a nightmare unscathed. Next

A/N: (crossover with Assassin's Creed) My contribution to @roguelov's Sweet Nightmares challenge! I had so much fun writing this 🤩Writing action and stuff like this is one of my favorite things. parts 2-4 will be out this week as I edit them. Enjoy! gif by @honeybeezgobzzzzz

Warnings: AFAB, named, they/them reader, blood, nightmare!Morpheus, some Endless style torture, copious use of petnames

The Fortress of Alamut, Persia, 999 AD. 

The night was bitterly cold. A Master Assassin in the twilight of their prime doggedly trudged up the path to the main courtyard before the fortress. They could see a campfire burning, with a dozen men mingling around it. They shivered, even the heavy cloak they had purchased from a village at the foot of the mountains couldn’t keep out the cold. They missed the warmth of the sun and grit their teeth against the ice trying to settle in their bones.

“Halt!” one of the men cried, drawing his sword as the Master entered the ring of firelight, their face shadowed by their hood. “Who are you, stranger, what are you doing here?” The Master could see these men and women were mostly novices and a few journeymen Assassins by the state of their robes, but they had all settled into a fighting stance, ready to defend their home themselves or get reinforcements. 

They chuckled, their hands held up by their shoulders. “I am no stranger, but one of your brothers from the Levant.” They took a few more steps toward the fire, the heat of the flames just tickling their nose. The one novice lowered his sword just a fraction of an inch, his eyes darting to the pattern of their robes and armor, the Assassin insignia on their belt. “Forgive me, Master.” His words were shaky, humble, as he sheathed his sword. 

“There is nothing to forgive, novice,” they replied with a smile, lowering their hands. “Were I actually an intruder who meant you harm, you would have been ready. May I share your fire for a while before going inside? Your Mentor is expecting me, but I am weary from the road.” 

“Yes, please, of course.” The novice gestured to the circle of logs around the fire, and the others sat down as well, scooting closer to each other to make room for their visitor. The Master sat heavily, exhaustion settling on their shoulders as the fire began to warm them. 

“Thank you,” they murmured. “In return for your kindness, let me give you a story.” The novices all shifted, staring at the Master with rapt attention. Stories told by Master Assassins were rare things; usually they were too busy with the work of the Brotherhood to indulge in oral tradition with those beneath them. The Master continued, “I never sleep well on the road, and the long nights have brought this particular story to mind. It tells of a Hidden One, one of our own, and the King of Dreams. Where I am from, we call it the tale of the blade in the dark.”

The City of Baghdad, mid 700’s AD.

The sun pounded on their head as their running feet pounded the streets of Baghdad. Clouds of golden dust sprang up with every step, booted feet slapping against the stones pressed into the ground. Every breath of hot, dry desert air laced with sand burned in and out of their lungs. Sweat dripped down the back of their neck, rolling down their spine only to be soaked up by their blouse and mixed with the blood staining the fabric red. 

Robes that had once been the white of a dove’s wing were growing dull with age and wear. A white hood with a beak like an eagle covered their head, keeping the sun out of their eyes and their face out of the enemy’s. The leather cuirass, bracers, and greaves had seen better days, but the material was still strong. The left bracer held their hidden blade, its snug weight around their forearm a grounding sensation in the midst of all the chaos. Their blade had never let them down before. A scimitar hung from their belt, a curved dagger securely sheathed across the back of their waist. 

The armor would need to be repaired, if they made it out of this alive. A brute with a great two handed sword had almost gotten the better of them- rather than an immediate death blow, the Hidden One had managed to strafe away just far enough for the blade to rip through the leather covering their side, along with their flesh. Blood that was not theirs had been splattered across their face and neck, along with a few smudges on the bottom hem of their robes. Their palms were coated in red as well, rapidly becoming dry and sticky as they ran.     

Angry shouts of armed guards followed close behind, mixed with the clattering of their weapons and shouts of civilians being roughly shoved aside. The guard captain had almost lost the fleeing assassin, but the steady trail of blood droplets staining the sand provided a reliable trail. They wouldn’t escape this time, not with that injury.

The Assassin grit their teeth and continued to run, gasping for breath. The gash in their side throbbed with every step, every beat of their heart. The shirt under their robes and leather armor and weapons belt was soaked with blood, the fabric clinging to their skin and creeping into the wound. The Hidden Ones bureau wasn’t far, just a few streets away, but the guards were almost on them, and they could not, would not, compromise the brotherhood. 

They were running out of time and options: either lose their pursuers in the maze of Baghdad’s streets and alleys, or face them head on. Six against one, a fight they could win any other day, when they weren’t bleeding out. They pressed a hand to their side, grunting and grimacing.

The Hidden One turned a corner and stumbled, a harsh gasp forced from their lungs as they leaned hard into the cool stone of the building next to them. Their hand left a smear of red on the tanned stone. Their vision went fuzzy around the edges, a shudder wracked their frame. They swore under their breath; the guards were almost on them. Frantic brown eyes darted around, looking for a way out, somewhere to disappear. 

There, a dozen steps ahead: a ladder to the flat rooftops, connected by a scaffold of ropes and planks. Gasping for breath and snarling in pain, they pushed their screaming body forward, their steps heavier and slower by the second.

The guards turned the corner just as their target reached the top of the ladder and began tiredly sprinting across the rooftops. The captain shouted a series of frustrated commands: two guards followed the fleeing assassin up to the roof while the rest split off to follow from the ground.

The Assassin kept running, kept leaping from building to building, kept weaving around rooftop gardens and clotheslines, pushed their pain riddled body to keep going. Every step was heavy agony, every reach for the next ledge ripped them apart. If they couldn’t lose their pursuers, they could at least pick the best spot for their last stand. 

They continued to climb, tears of pain and desperation mixed with the blood and sweat and sand already clinging to their face. Just a little further… 

The roof of the covered bazaar. Long, flat, free of stray obstacles, intermittently dotted with enclosed rooftop gardens. Each was a small, house-like structure: a square of knee-high fencing, four posts, a roof, and a thin curtain on each side, flowing in the breeze. As they panted for breath, a thought occurred: hide, and maybe live to fight another day.

They started to run to the furthest garden, their legs giving out after just two steps. They cried out as they fell, the stone of the roof scraping their palms. Despair settled fast and heavy at their back. Before they could give in, the guards’ shouts cut through the hum of activity and conversation from the market below. Their heart pounded harder, primal survival instinct dragging them slowly to leaden feet and pushing them forward. 

They had just tumbled over the fencing and into the garden when the soldiers reached the rooftop. Squished leaves and vegetables crunched under the weight of their body, the moisture in the soil traded places with the blood soaking their clothes. 

They breathed deeply, forcing themselves to calm their racing heart while resisting the temptation to let their eyes fall shut and succumb to blackness. The guards were definitely looking; they could hear the confused shouts and orders to spread out, the footsteps that tried and failed to be quiet. 

It was only minutes, but it felt like hours before the last of them finally gave up and clambered down from the roof. A heavy sigh rattled out of their lungs and they let their limbs fully relax into the soft earth beneath them. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe, it hurt to think. 

The Hidden One felt tears burn at the back of their eyes, and a high, pathetic whimper bubbled unbidden from their mouth. They had failed in their mission. They had failed to kill the target. Looking back, it was a miracle they had managed to escape the palace alive. After all, who sends a single Assassin against Dream of the Endless? 

They had to get back to the bureau- They were a Master Assassin, and refused to pay for the folly of their superiors with their blood. 

Groaning, the Assassin lifted themselves up to sitting and looked around, hoping and praying they had chanced upon a garden with at least one intact medicinal herb… no such luck. With another groan, this one in exasperation, they stood and released their hidden blade with a quick flick of their wrist. Gritting their teeth against the pain of reaching up, they cut down one of the curtains concealing them and sliced it into strips, tying the ends together. Once they had a sufficiently long piece, they wrapped it around their torso, covering the massive gash splitting their side open, and tied it as tight as they could bear. That was all they could do, and it would have to be enough. 

Taking a deep breath, they hauled their body out of the garden, leaning heavily on the structure for a moment to regain their balance. When they looked up to get their bearings, a man stood before them. 

~~

Some would describe what Dream of the Endless was currently doing as lurking, but he preferred to think of it as waiting, as biding his time. Sitting atop a domed roof in the midday sun, he waited. 

The city spread out beneath him hummed and bustled with life, he could feel the magic in the air. Baghdad was truly prosperous, a wonder among the cities of man. It didn’t seem quite real, which he supposed made sense. There was real magic here, a force that no other city on earth possessed. It was as if someone had cast the mirage of a city from the Dreaming onto the desert sand and let it grow and adapt to the world around it. A city straddling two worlds. 

Beneath his alabaster skin, red rage was simmering like lava beneath a volcano. An attempt had been made on his life, and the one responsible had escaped. For now. They had gotten in one good shot, the blade hidden in their bracer piercing deep into his chest, but ultimately missing anything vital. Besides, he was an Endless, it would take much more than a clever blade to dispatch him. 

Nevertheless, such an offense could not stand. His assailant had been gravely injured in the subsequent fight with the palace guards but had managed to flee. He followed the pull of their consciousness, the scent of the blood that dripped from their wound. They were getting closer. His hands curled into tense fists as he perched like an eagle, waiting to descend from above for the death blow. 

Anger mixed with arousal, his wounded pride roaring like a dying animal. No one had dared even think of attempting to assail him, steps away from the border of the Dreaming no less. And yet, this one would-be assassin had done all that and more. They had attempted to claim his life, to claim all function of his physical form. His pride couldn’t wait to return the favor- they were wounded, but they were also fast, deadly, clever. Had he been human, it would have been the end of him. They would be worth the time it took to break them. Morpheus forced himself to be strategic, to cool his rage. It had been quite a while since he had an interesting plaything. 

Fathomless eyes focused on a lone figure darting across the roof beneath him, their steps faltering against their will. He growled lowly to himself at the sight of his target. Dream slipped into the space between the wind and moved closer. He couldn’t see their face, only the beaked hood that hid their features, and blood-soaked robes beneath worn leather armor. They were on their last legs, but so determined to keep going. 

He scoffed as they drew closer- watching, waiting. They dove into one of the enclosed gardens, and after a breath, it was as if they had never been there. Dream had never seen a mere human vanish without a trace that quickly. He watched the rooftop intently, observed the guards frantically looking for their lost target. A disdainful chuckle shook his chest at their frustration- one guard even unleashed some of his ire on a stray fragment of wood, kicking it down to the street below. 

The guards slowly dispersed and headed back to their posts. He could tell they were nervous: how would they explain to their lord that they had lost track of his would-be killer? It didn’t matter to the Nightmare King, he’d blunt this little blade personally. Black hole eyes were focused on the enclosed garden where the Hidden One had taken shelter. He hoped they hadn’t succumbed to their wounds in the time it had taken the guards to give up- that would not suit his purposes at all. He waited, waited, hardly moving. Even the wind had stilled, holding its breath in anticipation. 

Then, movement. So they weren’t dead after all. He was almost relieved; it would be disappointing if they died in any manner other than by his hand. The faded red fabric hiding the garden fluttered before appearing to split itself in two. A hand reached up and out, tearing the fabric from where it was attached to the little wooden roof. 

Dream prowled closer, his robes and feet making not a single whisper as they slid across the sand-dusted rooftop. He heard pained grunts and groans as he drew closer, along with the shuffling and shifting of fabric and leaves. Any moment now…

Morpheus skittered backwards as the Hidden One tumbled out of the garden, holding onto the wooden frame like a lifeline. He held perfectly still, even as he committed their form to memory (it was much easier to take in the details when they weren’t stabbing him). Their face was still shadowed by their hood, but their build was lithe and lean, like a dancer, or a well-tempered sword. His eyes widened slightly when he saw the slight curve of their breasts beneath the leather chest piece. Would wonders never cease…

~~

Their eyes locked and the two stared at each other for a frozen, infinite moment, trying to make the opposite figure make sense:

Morpheus took in the armor, the weapons, the blood spatters that ranged from scattered ruby drops on their strong yet delicate face, to their side where their robes had almost been stained black from how much had soaked into the fabric. He took in the way they leaned against the garden: nails digging into the crevices of the wood, frustrated and resentful of their reliance on the structure. Even so, they held themselves with a dogged determination that, combined with the blood covering them, was making his stomach churn, and not unpleasantly. They looked like they had barely escaped clawing their way out of hell, and yet still challenged every demon to face them if they dared. 

The Hidden One’s eyes flickered over and around the figure before them, unable to remain focused on any part of him for longer than a blink. Now that they weren’t running for their life, they could properly take in his features: he was pale, practically the same shade of white their robes had been when freshly sewn. He held himself with all the authority of a king, back ramrod straight even as he stared them down with open disdain. His raven black hair fluttered gently despite there being no breeze to move it. They wondered how sweat was not leaking from every pore as a consequence of wearing deep black robes in the heat of the midday sun. He was the most hauntingly, dangerously beautiful person they had ever seen. 

After the second that seemed to last an eternity, primal survival instinct took over. Every muscle screamed in agony from the speed and force of drawing the dagger from their belt. Dream jumped back as they slashed at him with a desperate yell. They took another lunge and slashed at him again, the Endless easily evading it, his frown deepening. 

After the third cut at him, Morpheus’ form lit up with prideful anger. How dare this single tool of a secret organization attack him, the King of Dreams? He, who was older and had more power at his command than any of those humans could possibly fathom? 

Power flooded into his hands, ready to be unleashed with a thought. Dream hadn’t seen combat up close for literal eons, but survival was not something one forgot. The easy, casual cruelty that came with battle and warfare was not something that ever went away, only dormant. 

One arm blocked the Assassin’s next attack while the other hand snaked through their guard and firmly latched onto their throat. They choked and sputtered as he squeezed ever so slightly. The fire didn’t leave their eyes, but was quickly being replaced by fatigue and fear. The dagger slipped from their grasp and clattered to the stone at their feet. 

“You dare?” he growled, angered, and somewhat impressed at the bravery and tenacity of this little blade. Both hands scrabbled at Dream’s wrist, staring at him with terrified awe. He snarled and squeezed harder, hard enough to feel their erratic pulse beneath the pad of his thumb. He felt their struggles weaken before he saw their eyes roll back into their head. 

Once he sensed they were no longer conscious, he released his grip and let them crumple into a heap at his feet. He needed to get them back to the Dreaming; that wound would be fatal otherwise, and he wasn’t done with them just yet. A smile that would have frightened anyone who saw it spread across his face as he swept his cloak over their body, and the two vanished.

[itseivwhore]

♡ 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 ♡

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Valentine Special, day 9th : “Candy Hearts”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Pairing: Ezio Auditore x fem Reader 

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ Summary: Another year, another Valentine's Day, spent in very luxurious and expansive restaurants, showered in plenty of gifts with your boyfriend also showering you in compliments, attentions and kisses...or at least, that's how it always has been until this Valentine's Day, when Ezio decided to try something new and simple: staying in the comfort of his home with you, with some music, his cooking skills, his Italian charm and a lot...a lot of candies.

*˚ .♡⋆ﾟˊˎ -

A sweet and muffled melody slowly crept into your light sleep, mixing with your confused and numerous dreams and altering them. And this sweet melody, which seemed as if it were floating in your mind, was none other than one of the old Italian songs your boyfriend used to listen to in your company: and you were immediately able to recognise it.

Along with the light-hearted, carefree notes of the song, you could also catch a glimpse of Ezio's tuneful voice humming quietly over the song. You were also able to perceive a delicious perfume intruding into your now drowsy sleep that slowly and gently woke you up completely.

You blinked a few times, quickly bringing a hand in front of your eyes as if by instinct, to protect your still sleepy vision from the sun's rays as was your custom. But no ray blinded your eyes, and no ray touched your skin; peeking through the cracks between your fingers you saw that the living room was warmly lit by numerous candles, their small flames flickering whenever the breeze flew through the open window, making even the light curtains move in a sensual dance.

Removing your hand from your face, you yawned and then took a few more seconds to bask in the quiet, comforting atmosphere of that February evening, continuing to listen to Ezio who, a few steps away from you, was busy as he continued to sing lightheartedly. Closing your eyes, you grabbed the blanket to adjust it better over your shoulders: but as soon as you pulled it up, you heard objects falling on the floor.

Propping yourself up with an elbow, you raised yourself on the couch, an expression as surprised as moved when, peeking down, you saw some red, heart-shaped lollipops laying on the ground. Stretching your arm out you picked them up, only becoming more joyful when you noticed plenty of the same lollipops scattered all over the couch, over you, over the coffee table: the more you looked around, the more you found them all around the living room.

Caught up in such happiness, you let out an excited giggle as you hurried to open the candy wrapper, thus arousing the attention of Ezio who suddenly stopped singing.

"Oh no, she woke up!" you heard him exclaim from the kitchen in a tone that was exasperated and theatrical to say the least, as if he had been taken aback by your sudden awakening. As you tried to open the plastic surrounding the lollipop, you sat up cross-legged on the sofa, collecting all the candies on your lap, looking at them excitedly.

"You don't seem particularly happy about it," you replied in a falsely sorry voice, triumphing when you finally managed to remove the candy wrapper.

"I am not particularly happy, amore mio bellissimo..." Ezio retorted in a high tone so as to be heard, while the noisy clanking of pans and dishes punctuated his every word. "...because I haven't finished yet".

"Finished what?" you asked as you turned your head towards him over the sofa, seeing him quickly walking around the kitchen, rising a questioning eyebrow at him. As soon as he heard your question, he stopped all together, standing behind the counter and, watching you with an almost disappointed face, he placed his hands on his hips.

"The surprise" he answered as he mirrored your inquisitive eyebrow, spreading his arms wide and giving you a knowing expression, as if he expected you to have already known the answer and were lying to him.

"Another one?!" you almost screamed, surprise and disbelief taking the best of you again. You knew very well that this was what characterized Valentine's Day: every year on this day, Ezio gave his best, giving you lots of attention, taking you out to dinner at luxurious and expensive places, buying you anything you wanted. Every year until this last one: Ezio decided to change plans, to do something different but that you would both enjoy. So you both decided to stay at home, not going out and do nothing else but enjoy each other's presence.

During the course of the morning he had continued to make little presents appear out of nowhere, just when you least expected it, leaving you happy, thanking him if not with many kisses and praises. But you didn't expect that, after all those presents, he was planning another surprise. But then again, no wonder: if Ezio was anything, he was an utterly dedicated man to you and his love for you.

"You don't seem particularly happy about it" he sarcastically replied, mocking your own phrase, trying to mimick your voice as he resumed to walk, coming closer to you with a playful smirk on his lips.

"You have done so much already for the whole day Ezio, there was no need for more" you muttered in a low voice while slightly frowning, placing your chin on the back of the couch and watching him, starting to notice how handsome– and appealing he was with that white apron tied around his torso, hugging his waist and hips just right, his brown hair tied back in a low ponytail, a few strands falling on his forehead. There was something incredibly charming and sensual about him while he cooked for you that it drawn you to him even more than usual; while those old Italian songs played in the background.

"Oh please piccola, you deserve this and so much more…" Ezio replied, smiling and making a vague gesture with his hand as he walked towards you. He stopped just behind the sofa and, after wiping both hands on his apron, leaned back on the sofa; leaning down in your direction, he left a tender kiss in your forehead, for then leaving more sweet kisses on your nose and cheeks, feeling him smile when he pressed his lips to yours, kissing you with a little more passion as one of his hands cupped your cheek.

You moved as to get up so you could kiss him better, but he tutted at you, purposely and lightly biting at your bottom lip whole deteaching from you. Seeing you fight, he completely detached from the searing kiss, leaving your mouth open and with a taste of red wine on your lips. Ezio then placed his entire hand on your face, covering it, and gently pushed you on your back on the couch.

You laughed amused at his gesture, taking his wrist with your hand, trying to pull him towards you again. Ezio fondly smiled at you and, leaning down to kiss your knuckles that were wrapped around his wrist, he freed himself as he took your chin between his fingers, caressing your jaw.

"Stay here" he whispered as he walked back in the kitchen and leaving you laying and staying still on the couch while he resumed to cook.

But despite his soft spoken order, you got up completely, turning your steps into the kitchen while still wrapped up in the blanket. You saw your boyfriend finishing to prepare what looked like two heart shaped pizzas, and your own heart melted at the sight: nevertheless of what he said just some moments before, you still felt a bit guilty that he had been busy and fussing all over you for the whole day, and it looked like he wasn't going to stop anytime soon...all the gifts, the attentions, and now also all the food he was preparing for you with so much passion and love.

If St Valentine was about something, it was indeed about love, but also about giving and receiving. And you wanted with all yourself to let him rest for a little while.

"I still haven't done anything for you" you let him notice while you leaned with your side on the counter, reciprocating his witty smile when he raised his gaze up at you, seeing a light malice quickly glistening in his brown eyes, already knowing what he was thinking about: but his words betrayed your thoughts.

"You don't have to" Ezio insisted as he placed the last basil leaf on the pizza dough, looking at it proudly, then turning his smile to you, watching in amusement as you licked the lollipop.

"I must" you pointed at him with the candy in a playfully threatening way, him spreading his arms wide in a sign of surrender, carefully scrutinising both your face and the lollipop. Still sporting a mocking grin, he turned away, taking the trays where the pizzas were laid out and placing them in the oven. But you were shocked when he, as soon as he turned away from you, quickly stretched out an arm and swiftly took possession of your lollipop, putting it straight into his mouth, laughing loudly when you gasped in amazement.

He turned to the other side of the counter, untied his apron and threw it on a chair, then turned his gaze to you, who were still upset about your stolen candy.

"Mhh well then, what about you'll come here…" Ezio began in a nonchalant tone, gesticulating as usual as he sat down on the chair. "...and sit on my lap..." he tapped one of his thigh with his hand, never breaking eye contact with you, truly seeming like you had already forgotten about the way he stole your lollipop.

"...and you'll read aloud what there's written on those candies?" you followed his other stretched arm, seeing what he was pointing at: a white small bowl with many pastel coloured heart candies, on which there were written little wholesome phrases. For once again in that day your heart melted and your eyes lit up at the sight in front of you, happy of how much joy you both could find in small things such as simple heart shaped things, food, songs, candles and each other's kisses and presence.

"That will be your present for me. While I listen and watch you. Mh, che dici tesoro?" Ezio concluded with a suggestive tone, that charming smile still curling his lips up which always made you all giddy inside, him giving one long lick to the lollipop, winking at your flustered expression as to tease you even more.

Warmth rushed on your cheeks as you walked towards him and, placing one hand on his strong shoulder, you sat on one of his thighs, his hand immediately finding your hip, steading you. Stretching out an arm, you reached for the bowl filled with the heart candies, starting to take a look at the candies, humming as you took some in your palm, examining them.

"Even though those hearts will never properly show my love for you...it sounds perfect" you whispered near his ear, smiling before eating one of the candies, hearing him chuckle as he patted your thighs.

"That's my girl"

---

｡･:*˚:✧｡ Translations

° Amore mio bellissimo = my beautiful love;

° Piccola = baby;

° Che dici tesoro? = what do you think darling?

[ssantisheep]

Hey... Hello people. So. I have written a fic. An eight chapter Desmond centric fic. The fic is set in middle-earth. yes. You have read correctly. Desmond in middle-earth during the lotr timeline. Anyway.

Is anyone interested to beta it ? You can DM me for more info!

[erzsebetrosztoczy]

Hi! Idk if you write for Sigurd or Tyr but if you do, can i request a lil something with them, maybe comforting them after their arms got chopped off or something?

At your request 😌

Pairing: Sigurd x reader

Word count: 2770

Genre: fluff, angst

Notes: BB boi needs love. Give him love. Give him therapy and kisses and cuddles.

The mild spring weather, which you would otherwise have been grateful for, was now playing against you as you tossed and turned in your bed, your skin slippery with sweat, your forehead furrowed into deep wrinkles, your breathing ragged.Your dream images have now been ingrained in your mind - you have seen the terrible moments over and over again, you have felt the fear, sorrow, despair, helpless anger so many times. But these feelings did not rise in your heart because of your own suffering. That is, not completely.

The center of your dreams was not you. Your person, your presence was just an insignificant detail, as if you had become an outsider, a ghost, who was only an observer of all the bad happenings, unable to scream, run, or do anything to stop the horrors.

In the end; as always in this dream, you reached the point where your mind could no longer bear to see the further course of events - your awakening was a salvation. 

Gasping for air, you swallowed, your eyelids popped open as if a snake had bitten you; Throwing your blanket aside, you sat down among the furs. With a buzzing, dizzy head, you looked around thought zigzagging, wanting to make sure that it was just your imagination playing tricks on you- you were really in your bed, at home, safe, under the protection of your people, and all the ugliness you saw before was just a figment of your imagination. 

Your pounding heart echoed in your ears, a thin layer of sweat covered your skin as the coolness of the night hit your damp forehead.

Regaining control over your breathing, you took a deep breath in through your nose to calm your heart and mind.

After that you didn't want to go back to sleep— the nightmare chased away the dream from your eyes  and you didn't want to risk reliving the horrible events anyway- because you were almost certain that if you were to fall asleep again the images would return, starting all over again, like an insurmountable cycle.

Pulling your boots on, you pulled your thick blanket over your shoulders and walked over to your candle holder on your dresser. Darkness prevailed in your hut, only the white light of the silvery moon shone through your window, illuminating your modest abode. It was a small room, but it turned out to be just enough for you, its homely warmth always made your residence soothing. Lighting your candle, you stepped out into the evening sky; the fresh spring breeze came as sweet salvation to your heart, after the tormenting dreams. 

You thought that if you take a walk in the town; exercise your tired limbs, cool down your heated soul and clear your mind, you might be able to sleep a few more hours during the night before a new day begins full of tasks and responsibilities which can only be done properly with a clear head.

Your path led you to the river, watching the moon's eternal glow in the sky, listening to the soft creaking and cracking of the trees as the breeze moved them around you. You almost completely forgot the reason why you're awake, you almost completely forgot about the ghostly images that so gladly flashed before your eyes over and over again, while you roamed the realm of dreams.

Walking up the slope as you got a better view of the shore, you saw a figure among the docks, ships and stone pillars, not far at the end of the pier. The figure sat on the planks- long legs reaching down toward the water, the sluggish waves almost lapping at them. You stopped in fright, squinting your eyes, wondering if you could see him by the light of the moon, if it's a friend or a foe, who lurks alone on the shore in the dead of night. You were already about to turn around and quietly sneak home before it was too late, before the mysterious someone could notice. However, the moon has decided to come to your aid—the drifting cloud in front of it floated away into the distance, enveloping Ravenstorpe in a flood of light.

Your eyes widened, face elongated, and your heart felt as if it had been thrown off a mountain, when - to your greatest fear - you recognized the lonely figure. 

Dark red - almost brown braids glistened in the gloom of the night, the white fur coat fluttered on his shoulders as a particularly stronger wind swept across the water – Sigurd sat alone on the edge of the pier, his shoulders slumped, his back bent.

In that moment, the cause of all bad feelings, anxiety, and fear came flooding back into you, crushing you to the ground.

The images from your dream flashed into your mind—a dark, cold, damp room; a huge, murderous shadow, running from corner to corner so you don't even have a chance to figure out who it is; the knives and tongs are a sharp flash. And then there's always comes that makes your blood freeze, the hair on your back stands, and makes you want to cry convulsively. 

You catch a glimpse of Sigurd, sometimes sitting up, sometimes lying on the floor. Sometimes he's passed out or half dead, but that's the best case — most of the time he's awake, very awake.

You stand motionless in the middle of the room, you watch trembling as the dark figure ignores you and walks closer and closer to him, Sigurd's eyes widen, the paralyzing edge of fear reflected in his gaze. With what little strength he has left, he tries to free himself from the chains, ropes, and sharp claws, yelling, spinning, throwing himself- all the more in a frantic rush of terror. 

You also feel his fear, his helplessness, his vulnerability - like an animal waiting to be slaughtered, who has been tied up and is watching the arrival of his executioner. A cold pain shoots through your heart, your limbs start to go numb, your face and ears burn, your eyes fill with tears, as despite all your efforts you cannot prevent the events or turn away from them. 

A rusty, broken saw appears out of nowhere.

Then only the heart-wrenching yelling and sobbing; which one of you hears it, is unknown. Blood flows, blood everywhere, covers Sigurd, runs down to the floor, pooling, reaching your legs, then up to your ankles.

Blood, blood everywhere, red, warm and unstoppable flowing blood, covering the room, covering your body, flowing into your nose, ears, mouth, eyes, suffocating you.

Blinking, you turned back to face the Raven Clan's Jarl. You moved your trembling legs and wrapped your arms around your chest, to see if it could ease your heart's pounding.

You weren't there when it happened. You weren't there, you don't know how it was. It has already happened and there is nothing any of you can do about it. You know well, not even the weavers of fate can change the past. He was home now. Eivor brought him home; he lives- and is at home among his people.

You walked closer to the shore, but still making sure he didn't hear your footsteps - or at least if he did notice you, don't make it look like you wanted to go to him at all costs. In fact, that was all you wanted. Since Sigurd's return, you have only met a few times, your conversations were short. Until now, you didn't dare to bring up the subject of his arm, thinking that you should leave Sigurd, let him initiate the conversation. But inwardly your heart was rent at the sight of his condition; seeing the ghost of the agony on his face, the sparkle in his eyes has faded, his lips have only a faint memory of his smile.

You wanted to let him heal at his own pace, not rushed, forced just for your own peace.

However, you wanted to show him that you are by his side, that you are there for him at every moment, ready to do anything for him, just so that you can see him whole again. Until Sigurd is his old self, you can't be either.

The wind howled and rose stronger, caught in the blanket wrapped around you which flapped against your side like this. Grabbing the warm material, you pulled it closer as you were about to turn back from the shore, leaving him with his thoughts when a voice broke the silence of the night. 

"You're really awful at sneaking." Sigurd spoke to you, his voice seemed forced.

"I didn't mean to… I didn't want to eavesdrop." You stammered, swallowed thickly from the embarrassment and shame. "I just came out for a walk and..."

"I didn't mean to send you away. Just don't stand there alone like a ghost, come here then.” Sigurd's tall figure turned towards you, patting the wood next to him with his good arm. 

You just blinked at him for a few moments, wondering if you should leave him alone, or if he really wanted you to sit next to him for company, but your heart couldn't overcome your mind - you wanted to be as close to Sigurd as possible.

And now you had a great opportunity.

Taking small steps on the slippery wood, you reached him then carefully sat down on the edge of the dock dangling your legs over the water. You couldn't decide whether to look at him or you would make him uncomfortable with it, so you turned to his direction watching the moonlight reflected in the water.

In the past, the quiet, silent moments in Sigurd's company felt pleasant- a real salvation even - when you were both in your own world, yet next to each other —always in each other's company in an intimate silence.

Now however, this light and secure feeling couldn’t be found. A lump grew in your throat with each moment you spent in silence next to him, gnawing at the inside of your cheeks, wondering what and how to tell him. Do you say anything to him at all?

You noticed that, unfortunately, the man has changed towards you as well. The once open, attentive and interesting conversations turned into half-sentence answers, with his indifferent and tired voice you sometimes felt that he was perhaps outright bored or annoyed with your presence…

Although it had to belsaid; Sigurd held back himself particularly around you- since you saw how he could bark orders at Eivor, how venomously he could hurl accusations and insults at a person's head after a simple comment. You usually caught a glimpse of these while walking by the Long House; when at an unlucky moment you turn a corner and find yourself faced with a fight —  you were only an occasional real eyewitness of its manifestations, and even then, as soon as he noticed you, Sigurd immediately retreated into his gloomy, wordless brooding.

While he lashed out at others with burning anger, when he turned to you there was only cool callousness.

The river tumbled, bubbled and splashed beneath you, a chorus of frogs surrounded you as if they were singing to you. At least they are talking while you sink into deep silence.

There were many things in your heart that you wanted to say, that you wanted to share with him, that you wanted to guarantee him; Sigurd needs to know that he is not alone, that he never will be, and that he should never be afraid that anyone - especially you - will reject him because of what he has been through.

"It's so quiet." Sigurd sighed heavily, the sudden noise alarmed you as you turned your head towards him, straightening up in your seat. His voice sounded strangely harsh - raspy and hoarse, as if it pained him to make a sound.

"It's best to contemplate at times like this." You answered, in the hope that a conversation might finally come to fruition. "In peace and quiet."

Sigurd's nose crinkled as he grimaced sourly; his Adam's apple bobbed rapidly while he swallowed. You noticed this;  biting in the insides of your cheeks you thought again, could you have said something wrong to him. 

“Is…something wrong? Did I say something wrong?" You sputtered softly, having enough of the silence, having enough of the speechlessness, having enough that you don't know what is happening between you, what is happening with Sigurd, why he behaves like this towards you. “If you wanted to be left alone you should have just said-” You suddenly bit off the end of your words as Sigurd leaned over to you, wrapping his arm around your collarbone and pulling you close to his side.

A sharp, ragged sigh escaped your lungs, shoulders and torso rigid from the quick and unexpected action.

Moments later, however, you finally felt yourself melting into his chest, the pent-up doubts and tension of the days had melted away to almost nonexistent as he held you close - even if only for a few moments.

"No, not at all. I didn't want to - you never -" You didn't say a word, you let Sigurd say what he wanted, stuttering, not finding the words. He needed time to express everything he wanted; you also needed time to understand him. "I didn't want you to think... I just... I don't know what's happening to me, what's happening around me. Why is all this happening… Nothing is the same.”

"Hey," you placed your palm on his shoulder blade, trying to calm him by drawing small circles into his clothes. "it's okay. I do not demand anything from you Sigurd, quite the opposite. I want everything to go the way it suits you. I understand why you're upset... I'd be the same if I were you — I am; seeing what happened to you... I just want you to know that I'm here by your side." You spoke as quietly and softly as if you were talking to a feather, making sure your breath didn't blow it away from your palm.

"No—I'm not being fair to you." Sigurd's voice broke, swallowing thickly as he shook his head.

For a moment you blinked in silence gazing ahead into the river, your mind trying to comprehend everything that had happened so quickly until now; how you should respond to reassure your beloved and assure him that it is only his mind that creates these dark shadows. 

"How's your…arm?" You asked suddenly, the topic being so different from the previous ones that Sigurd snorted in astonishment.

"My arm?" A growl broke out of his throat as he forced himself to straighten up, leaving your side, his arm unconsciously touching the wound. "According to Valka, the skin is slowly starting to close... Sometimes it hurts, sometimes itches... most of the time it's like I still feel the -"

From the side you saw him biting his lip through his red beard, distant eyes wandering over the shimmering surface of the water. You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers together, pulling your body closer to his.

“It’s healing. Slowly, with a lot of care and time it will heal completly. Just the same, you will feel better over time. You can trust the clan, you can trust me— we will stand by you every step of the way.”

You turned to each other; pulling your legs up, you knelt on the pier so you could finally be at head level with Sigurd. Even in the darkness of the night, you could make out his sparkling, soft gaze, as his eyes scanned your features, mapping out what kind of meaning you wanted to give to your words.

Tingling waves ran over your skin as you finally felt Sigurd's warmth and the solidity of his body again; the fact that you could finally hold him in your arms made your heart skip a beat. 

Without a moment's hesitation, your Jarl wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his cold nose into the crook of your neck, resting his forehead on your shoulder.

You have been missing this feeling for a very long time. You missed him. Now, it's as if a little piece of your heart has returned to you again, as your body has absorbed the love and care of the moment.

Sigurd didn't answer, but he didn't need to-  you already knew what he wanted to express, what he wanted to show you, even though his wounds crippled his voice for now.

"We'll get through this." You sighed, fingers coming to comb through his long braid. "We'll get through this together."

[stealingpotatoes]

Young Gods and Broken Ghosts chapter 6!

Summary: Three years ago, at the end of the world, Desmond Miles was saved from his fate by an immortal with a distaste for gods. And he thought that was going to be the weirdest thing to happen in his life -- but an Abstergo file on a boy with a DNA match to ‘Subject 17’ sends Desmond’s world tumbling into unknown territory once more.

chapter 6 is up!!! most elijah heavy chapter yet (: (:

>> read ch6 on ao3! <<

[boredwritergirl]

Day 7 - Escape

Hey everybody, loving the challenge so far. I wasn't that happy with the quality of day 4's entry, so I decided to intentionally try to make a fanfic this time and I like these results a lot better as I crossed over fallout and Assassin's Creed. I hope you enjoy.

Escape

Becky's bloody body limped across the wasteland.Her torn pre-war clothes stained in blood. Her once pretty pink dress now being glorified rags just barely covering half of her body.

Her left leg was in bad shape, her ankle dislocated, making her bare foot glide across the desert sand as she slowly made her escape.

The Great Khans had made their way to her town, killing and looting and so much worse. Everyone she knew was dead, leaving Becky as just another victim of the Mojave, lost aimlessly in the desert without anything to see for miles.

I… I… fuck, why's it so hot? This isn't fair, we did everything right. We lived by the values of our order. We were destined to bring peace to the world as we had for thousands of years. I did everything right, and now I'm just going to die in the desert because a bunch of junkies just “felt like it?” This isn't fair… Becky thought as she continued to limp her way through the Mojave Wasteland in the desperate search for food, water and civilization.

As the desert sun beat down on her head, Becky could have sworn she saw a robed figure running away in the distance. But, as she wiped the sweat off her head, the figure disappeared.

Oh no, I'm hallucinating.

There's no way an Assassin could be all the way out here, even if their creed had managed to survive.

As the day went on, the sun only got stronger and Becky only got slower. Her body started to slowly deteriorate, her stomach growling as she couldn't find anything to eat all day.

There wasn't much For her to find in this desolate part of the desert, just the occasional corpse of those who came before, maybe a weapon and some caps but no food, and certainly no water. As the once wealthy woman struggled to go on, she collapsed onto the ground, the hot desert sand breaking her fall.

Becky desperately clawed, digging her fingers into the sand so she can pull herself forward.

Becky thought, No, I must not die. I must not quit. I must survive to bring order to humanity and restore the world to pre-war values!

Becky would not stop, her determination keeping her slowly crawling forward.But then she heard something from behind the desert rocks, the hooded figure had emerged from their hiding spot and started walking over to the Templar.

Becky screamed, her eyes filled with desperation and disbelief. “No! You're all dead, you hear me, dead! You're a hallucination! The assassin's are no more!”

The beige robes blended well into the desert, and kept the assassin in the shade, keeping her from getting heat stroke in the desert sun.The assassin crouched beside Becky, looking down at her. “My name is Montoya” she said. “You're right, there's not many of us left… and there's not many of you left either… it's hard to believe that there were so many of us before the bombs dropped, how truly different the world used to be.”

Becky tried and failed to spit at Montoya, her saliva landing right in front of her as she kept clawing forward.

Montoya sighed, “Do you even remember why we're fighting?”

Becky stopped, and looked at the assassin. Her voice softly said, “No”

Montoya coldly looked at Becky, and took off the hood of her robe, revealing her sharp features, tanned skin and braided black hair riding down her back. “Yeah, me neither… something about order and freedom. But in all honesty, I'm not sure we can cling onto these old ideas anymore.”

Becky barked once more, “The fuck did you just say?”

Montoya calmly said, “Look at what we've done. The Templar Order and the Assassin's were at war for millennia. We built the world and then we destroyed it. I'm starting to think the world would be a better place if we left these old ideologies behind. Who's to say it won't just happen again if we keep this petty war going forward?”

Becky growls, “Have you no shame! No pride in your own people! What a joke!?”

Montoya shook her head and sighed, standing up in front of her.

Becky looked up at her with rabid eyes. She clearly would have been holding a gun to Montoya’s head had she had the energy or the gun. “So what now, assassin?! Is this when you kill me?”

Montoya coldly stared at her, “No… you're already dead. The sun will take care of you… who am I kidding, between abstergo, vault tec, the various governments we controlled and doomed the world with... We're all already dead.”

Montoya put her hood back up and began to walk away.

Becky yelled, “Hey! You can't just leave me to die like this! Why the fuck did you come out from your rock anyways?! Just to gloat!?”

Montoya briefly turned back to her and said, “Sorry, I'm not really sure what I expected to gain from this, myself.” Before finally walking back into the desert, her beige robes blending into the sand.

[tendebill]

So uh,, I posted the first 5 chapters of the ezioleo fic. Lmk if u read it i wanna know what u think ^^

[gococogo]

"I've missed your touch" Haytham x Reader? 👉👈

Prompt 3 | Haytham Kenway x Male Reader

Synopsis: You've been away for far too long and you come back realizing that Haytham wants you more than you realize.

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Le smut. Blowjob. Hand job. Slight manhandling. Marking.

Notes: Thank you for the request!! I hope you don't mind that i chose to go with a male reader, was just easier to write with. Please enjoy!!

Thomas Hickey’s bark of a laugh makes you visibly wince. Even though you try your best not to, the sound is horrific. It’s more on the lines of a hack with mucus stuck in the back of his throat than anything else and you find it revolting. You can’t help it but your lip curls up ever so slightly as your eyes drift over to him. He swings back on his chair before coming back with the legs coming down with a loud clash. It’s as if the Green Dragon goes silent for a moment before the choir of voices arise up again.

Hickey points at you with a finger while still holding his ale in hand, “You got chased by dogs!?” He shouts out a little too loudly.

“Singular,” you correct. “It was one dog.”

“Mate,” Hickey grins wickedly, “I don’t think that makes it any better.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help but catch the Grandmaster’s dark blue gaze appointed to you. He has his hands clasped together in front of his mouth and his tricorn sits low over his face. But you can still see his gaze fixed upon you.

Lazy like, he looks away and gestures a hand out to Hickey, “And what have you done in the month while my tracker has been on his trek these past six months?”

That cuts Hickey short. He’s the only one at this table with you and Haytham and you don’t understand why? Well, you do to some degree. He’s here for the women and the ale fifty percent of the time. The other fifty? You have no clue what he does for Haytham’s cause or how he keeps his worth but he obviously does something right.

You’ve met Gist once and as much as you wouldn’t put them in the same category, that man is a drinker himself. Yet, he’s still able to keep his worth clearly to any passerby. Goes about travelling with that Irishman most of his days now. Haven’t seen him in a good few years.

Hickey tries to defend him, “I’ve been-“

“I know what you’ve done,” Haytham says with a raised hand. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Hickey looks to you up and down with a scowl and sets his ale aside. He stands from his chair, making it scratch against the floorboards loudly before dismissing himself to the Grandmaster. You’re quite surprised that no one else has showed up yet for your arrival back. Maybe most have forgotten about you. Or they’re away.

You can’t truly blame them though. You’re not a true part of the Templar cause. You’re a messenger, an information collector that gets paid by how important the job is. You wouldn’t compare yourself to that voyager Captain Cormac but the others have. But only by the way that both of you skip and hop around the place like a rabid dog. Unable to stick to one place for too long.

But it’s what you get paid for. Heading all the way out west and south to retrieve information for Haytham. It can be tiresome some months but most days it’s worth it. Seeing all the sights that America has to give.

But all of Haytham’s attention is on you now. He stands up slowly before looking you over. Something he’s been doing all day ever since you jumped off your horse coming back into Boston. You had to come all the way from Lower Louisiana with important French intel. Something Cormac wasn’t able to do since he’s up north. Probably still is since he’s not currently present.

You don’t want to hold a grudge against the poor man but it’s very hard when you’ve barely seen Haytham. The urge to reach out and touch is an itch that won’t go away. But, for the sake of Haytham’s reputation, you keep to yourself. The last thing Haytham wants is someone to see him with a man. You adjust your specks, pushing them up your nose. Maybe one day things will change.

The Grandmaster holds out a hand, gesturing towards the stairs. “Walk with me?” He asks with a small hint of amusement.

You nod your head gently, “Of course.”

Leading the way down the stairs and out the door, you can’t help but let your shoulders ease with relief. A brief touch on your upper arm has you looking to Haytham with a solum expression, even though you feel your chest constrict within you. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him. He hasn’t changed a bit but you may say the lines around his eyes have gotten a bit more prominent. But it suits him.  

“Come,” is all Haytham says before making his way down the street.

Blunt as always. That’s something you haven’t missed. With your hands behind your back, you walk after him. You keep your tongue still, not wanting to overstep or speak out of turn. Despite him telling you that he’s a high society man in the past, you’ve seen him break into too many places to count, kill without remorse and cause chaos in the middle of the street. Something that has you rolling your eyes every time.

But something you did not expect is for Haytham to step down the way of his own estate. You’ve only been here once and that was a good few years ago now. All your other little inquiries with Haytham have been held… elsewhere. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth but with each passing travel, you find yourself yearning for the man more. Even though sometimes he feels so far away when he’s right beside you.

Haytham Kenway’s estate is a two storey building on the outskirts of Boston. You can only guess to keep away from everyone else. But with the rate this place is growing he soon might be surrounded by other houses and properties. Most likely outshining Haytham’s in every way possible. But that’s the future.

You bring your eyes down to Haytham opening the door for you. His tricorn is off his head and he gesture inwards with it for you to enter first. You hum softly as you enter into Haytham’s home. And instantly, the smell of foxing books and tea leaves invades your nose. It’s almost overpowering but it’s almost familiar. The door clicks behind you softly.

“So, what matters did you want to discuss, sir?” You ask as you loosen your cravat from your neck.

A hand presses into the small of your back and you can’t help but stiffen up. You look to Haytham as he comes to your front, feeling around your waist until he stops on your stomach.

“There are no, important matters,” Haytham slurs out. “Only you.”

You can’t help but stifle out a laugh as you place a hand over his. He raises a brow to you, that concerned look coming over his features. This is not the man that you met earlier today. His eyes are too soft now, not the hard dark blue that could stop anyone in their tracks.

“You haven’t missed me that much have you?” You asks with a lilt of cockiness in your voice. It’s hard not to have it there, not with the way that Haytham looks to you now.

“Hmm, I would say as much,” Haytham hums out.

With nimble fingers, the hand on your stomach comes up and plucks your specs off your nose. You watch intensely as he folds them up in one hand before putting them off aside. You truly hate it when he does that because everything becomes a little fuzzy around the edges. But the way he looks at you is something that’s worth the minor inconvenience.

You finally reach out and unclasp the clip to his coat. It falls heavily to the ground with a heavy thud. Your hand touches his neck before caressing up his cheek. He grips your hand and pulls it away to kiss your palm. What a sweet man.

“Do you wish to-“ before you can even finish your sentence, Haytham brings you closer for a desperate kiss. One fill with teeth and tongue. But, you return it all the same with a hand gripping into his dark hair undoing that red bow he always has tied in it. He groans into the touch, a sound you savour all the same.

He pushes you backwards into the wall, almost knocking a painting off its hook. Haytham never parts from you though as his hands waver and venture down your chest, undoing every button on your vest in his path. The vest is discarded with your shirt coming next. You suddenly feel very exposed as his dark eyes look over you.

“This ain’t fair, Haytham,” you push him backwards with a hand on his chest. He complies, taking small steps backwards into the living room. Inches away from the fancy lounge he has, he grabs your hand and takes it from his chest.

“Many things aren’t fair, dear,” Haytham says.

You can’t help but scowl as he turns you around and pushes you backwards onto the lounge instead. You land with an oof onto the soft couches. You should be upset but the way that Haytham grips onto the back of the lounge as he leans over you with that look, it’s very hard to feel that way. Especially when everything you’re feeling is travelling down below, filling out in your pants.

Haytham comes down onto the couch, a leg coming between your own and pressing against your crouch. You can’t help the hiss that escapes from mouth. It’s been a while since you’ve let anyone touch you. And when a large hand kneads you through your pants, the groan that comes from your throat is savoury.

“What have your thoughts have me been? Since I’ve been away all this time?” You ask with a grin.

Haytham looks to you and you can see so many thoughts run behind his eyes. He leans down and kisses your neck, your jaw and then your lips.

“Many things,” he whispers deeply.

You lightly grab his face, making him look at you. “Show me,” you whisper back before kissing him deeply.

Clothes are striped off at an alarming rate and Haytham’s actions become desperate. His calloused hands run over your frame as soon as you’re free of your clothing. And the shivers that run down your spine has goosebumps littering your skin. He kisses you again deeply, biting at your bottom lip and sucking. His bites and kisses venture to your neck where it almost feels like as if he’s tasting you.

You grab onto the back of his neck and drag him down further onto the couch. He has to hold onto the back of the lounge to stop himself from falling over you. You bid yourself to think and open your eyes to take in the view in front of you. The muscles on his back twitch and move as his hands feel every inch of you. You take him in the best you can as he sucks and latches himself onto your neck. A hand wraps itself around your aching cock and your eyes roll up to the ceiling.

“Haytham,” you breathe out. “Please.”

He comes up and latches onto your lips again, deep and wet. His mind is probably a blur right now because yours is too. You get lost in the pure pleasure swirling in your gut and fogging your head. You grip onto his sides, your nails digging in as the hand that’s on your cock quickens it’s pace. Your back arches slightly off the couch as he squeezes at the base before stroking back up and flicking the bead of precum that’s leaking from you. It has you panting and holding onto him as if your life depended on it.

Haytham breaks off, breathing heavily into your cheek. He grinds down onto you and you can feel his own excitement rub up against your own.

“I’ve missed you,” you breathe out into his skin. “I’ve missed your touch, Haytham.”

Haytham returns that with another kiss as if he can’t get enough of you. You grip onto his hair, tugging at his locks that earn you a deep growl. Being like this, you miss it so damn much it hurts. You earn for him too much when you’re off on your little expeditions that it’s becoming a problem. You just hope that Haytham doesn’t send you away again on another six month journey. Because you don’t think you’ll survive this one with the way he makes you feel.

And seeing him like this, desperate to touch you. Desperate to taste you. Oh, it does so many things to you. And with him moving off the couch and guiding your hips with him, your heart does a flip. He sits on his knees in front of you, the Grandmaster of the Templar Order with your cock a breath away from his kiss swollen lips. The sight is something that no one will ever get to see but you.

“This is what I’ve wanted, dear,” Haytham almost whispers. “I’ve missed this too much for my own good.”

Only you.

You grip a hand into his hair again and guide him down onto your cock. He takes you beautifully and you grind your teeth, hoping to hold out for a few minutes more. But the way that Haytham sucks and bobs his head at your bidding is almost too much. His hands grip into your thighs painfully and you know there will be bruises there later. But it’ll be a reminder to today. Something you love to see in the mirror.

All for you. And only you.

-

;)

[thou-babbling-brook]

Temptations of Eden

AO3

Rating: G

Word Count: 1382

Tags: Apple of Eden, Canon Compliant, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, AC1 Week

Summary: Altaïr, old and tired and wise, reflects on the Apple of Eden still whispering in his mind. This is my first time posting a fanfiction of mine on here, so I hope you guys enjoy!

Admittedly, Altaïr found most of his Assassin lessons as a child boring. It was a curious thing for the wise, old Assassin to reflect on given his love for knowledge, but it was true. He loathed cloudy mornings inside of Al Mualim’s study, eyelids fluttering shut while Al Mualim spoke of strategy, philosophy, language, history, and mathematics. What eleven-year-old boy would not? No, Altaïr much preferred to flick pieces of parchment from his notes at Abbas, giggling until scolded by the practically ancient Master of the Assassins. Altaïr chuckled in his seat. Ancient, he repeated with a sly smile. Al Mualim had been 56 years old when Altaïr became the Master (or Mentor, as he preferred) of the Assassins. Sitting in his chair in the room he once listened to these lectures in, Altaïr was 36 years Al Mualim’s senior. What a cruel twist of fate, he chuckled.

There was one lesson that always captivated him, however: religion. Religion both confused and fascinated the boyish Altaïr. Of course, it made perfect sense why he was so intrigued by it - religion felt relevant to the young boy. Two crusades had already ravaged the Holy Land in a gruesome battle over Christianity and Islam. It was the defining aspect of life in the Levant. Yet, Altaïr always felt confused by both wars.

“I don’t understand!” He had told Al Mualim one bright and sunny morning as snow melted away in Masyaf. The lesson was already finished, Abbas skipping down the steps to the courtyard to watch the older Assassins spar. “Why do they keep fighting? Don’t they worship the same god?”

Al Mualim had stood in front of the ornate window and stared into the courtyard. ”Perhaps,” he had answered. ”But do you get along with every boy you train with, simply because you fight for a common purpose?” It was a gross oversimplification, ignoring the complexities that made each religion separate and the geopolitical contexts of each crusade, but it was enough to stir Altaïr’s young mind.

“No,” he had answered.

“Why? Do you not serve the same order? Fight for the same cause?”

“Some of them are dumb,” Altaïr muttered, crossing his arms and staring out beside Al Mualim into the courtyard. 

“Not dumb, Altaïr. They simply think differently from you. They have different ideas, different thoughts, different dreams. They could easily say the same of you, child. That you are the foolish one.”

“But I’m not!”

Al Mualim had laughed and clasped Altaïr’s shoulder. “You have discovered, then, the reason behind these crusades - differences of thoughts, of values, of ideas, and of perspectives. When you are old enough to fight for our cause, you must remember these things. Every man believes what he is doing is right. Every man believes he is not the ‘dumb’ one. Every man believes his religion, his thoughts, and his ideas are correct. You must look onward and know the truth.”

“Nothing is true,” Altaïr had remembered.

“Everything is permitted,” Al Mualim had finished.

When Altaïr became an Assassin, Al Mualim’s lessons grew few and far between, usually arising as punishment for misdeeds or lessons following an assassination. Each one grew more cryptic with every year. Illusions, temptations, and hypocrisy became common themes for every lesson, no matter the subject. These themes all came to fruition with the Templar treasure. A treasure, Altaïr reflected, that he still held in his hand after nearly six decades. 

“It is temptation,” Al Mualim had described the Templar treasure. Warned? Threatened?

“It’s just a piece of silver,” Altaïr had replied. The old man nearly barked a laugh at the memory. If only.

“Get rid of that thing!” Maria had screamed. Altaïr blinked. No. No she had not. He had not met the fierce former Templar yet. Or had he? Was she still in England at the time? No, wasn’t she at Masyaf by then?

The aged Assassin glanced down at the Apple of Eden within his hand, fingers rubbing his temple. It grew harder each day to separate the past, present, and future as the Apple whispered its secrets like hushed prayers in his mind.

Maria. He missed her. How long had it been since he had stepped away from the Apple to see her? Hours? Days?

Years, Altaïr’s vicious mind reminded him. She was dead. She had been dead for almost thirty years. So were Malik and Sef. Then why did he hear their voices so clearly? Why could he feel a tender touch against his shoulder that only Maria or Malik could offer?

The old man shivered and blinked hard. There was no one with him. The castle was all but abandoned. Frigid winds from the snowstorm outside the castle’s walls slipped through broken cracks in the windows. He was alone, the last man standing. 

“He who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.” How right those words had been. And Altaïr had known they were. One only needed to look at the book of Genesis. Adam and Eve had taken a bite of the famed apple, gaining knowledge at the expense of paradise in the Garden of Eden. The very Apple of Eden he held. The very orb in his hand that glowed with golden rays of light and whispered secrets of the past and present and future in his mind.

They had begged him to stop, Maria and Malik and Al Mualim. Sometimes, he heard their whispers radiating from the Apple, taunting and begging and pleading with him.

“Destroy it! Destroy it, as you said you would!” Al Mualim taunted.

“You are addicted to it, Altaïr. Leave it!” Malik begged.

“What happens to us, Altaïr? To our family? What does the Apple say?!” Maria pleaded. 

“Listen, and learn what we could not,” another voice chimed. Juno, Altaïr recalled.

Perhaps the Apple should have stayed in Eden. Man would not be forced to labor and wallow in his own grief and pain. Man’s existence would be confined to the walls of the Garden of Eden, lounging about in fruitful lands. But like Eve, Altaïr was tempted by its whispers and promises in the slithering shadows.

Maria once asked him why he kept the Apple. Altaïr often pondered the question himself. It had cost him everything in his life. His wife, his friends, his son, his family, his Brotherhood… yet, even in the darkest pits of his depression, when his hidden blade seemed so enticing against his throat, Altaïr grabbed the golden orb and opened his ears to its soft whispers.

“Curiosity,” he answered. Maria had scoffed at that, muttering something about reading a book or scroll instead if he was so curious. But it was the truth. Each whisper and tidbit of knowledge left him more intrigued than before, reeling him closer to the Apple and tempting him with more. To learn more from these goddesses - no, beings, mortals like him. He wanted to know what they knew, hear what they heard, see what they saw. But even when he drew away, content with the knowledge he had learned, both beings whispered secrets he could not resist, whispering of prophecies to foretell and men to play God with. 

Perhaps that was man’s fate - to be tempted with whispers of what they desired most, even if it meant their ruin, and be used as pawns in a greater game beyond their measly understanding. For Altaïr, it was knowledge. But in his quest for knowledge, he had seen visions of men - no, Assassins - who would take his place as toys for these jaded beings. Young Assassins, just as young as he had once been, seeking vengeance, love, hope, and peace. Young Assassins who would fight through Heaven and Hell and gain nothing from their plights. It ached Altaïr’s heart to see, but it was not his place to argue. He was a prophet, nothing more and nothing less. 

Altaïr chuckled to himself. Only his mind could wander so far from remembering boring childhood lectures to contemplating man’s existence and place in this world. Then again, what else did he have to do? He was a tired, lonely old man in an abandoned castle with nothing but a golden orb in his hand buzzing with knowledge.

Perhaps, then, if he had nothing else to do, one last look into Eden would not hurt. 

[thefangirlthatwaited]

Eden (Chapter 1) - Assassin's Creed Syndicate Story

Jacob Frye x Original Female Character

Summary:

What happens when you fall in love with the man you were only supposed to be stringing along? That's what happened to Eden. She was only supposed to toy around with Jacob Frye, Master Assassin and leader of the Rooks. She only needed the Shroud of Eden, and then she would never see Jacob or the city of London ever again. But she forgot one key thing she couldn't control—her heart. Now Eden must fight against what her heart is telling her and her task since her accident. To love or to live. That was what was at stake.

I woke hours later in a cold sweat from a dream that turned into a nightmare. I washed up, changed into some regular clothes and headed out to the nearest restaurant for food. I tried my best not to draw attention to myself, but it was impossible. The looks I got as a young lady walking around London without a chaperone and eating alone in a pub. Society and its rules were so odd and outdated. I could defend myself better than any man gawking at me right now.

On my way out, a child brushed against me and apologized. I waved him off, then went back into my pocket and saw my pocket watch was gone—little vermin. I turned and took off after him. He was small and fast and could sneak through the crowd, and since I was in a dress and not my gear, I couldn’t climb the buildings and use that to bypass the crowd. I saw the boy turn into an alleyway, and I started to catch up to him. As I was about to catch the little bugger, a figure flew down from the rooftop. The man landed before me, and I stumbled back as he grabbed hold of the boy. 

“What did I say about stealing?” He said as he ripped my pocket watch from the child’s hand. 

“We needed the money, boss.” 

The man shook his head. “Then ask one of us for some, and don’t go and nick things from strangers. Now get!” The boy grumbled, but the man tossed him a bag full of coins, ending his protest. 

“Thanks!” The boy turned to me. “Sorry about that. Bye!” The boy took off before I could snap back at him. The man turned to me, and I was left speechless. 

When they said there were Assassins in London, Master Assassins at that, I didn’t think they would be so young. In front of me was a man who looked to be in his early twenties. He was taller than me. I am five feet four inches, and he towers above me. He pulled his hood back and then pulled a top hat from inside his coat. Now I could see his whole face. He had beautiful brown hair, a scar on his right eye and left cheek, and a little bit of stubble. I was still studying him when I saw him wave his hand in front of me. 

“Sorry, what?” I said, shaking my head, trying to clear my mind. 

He chuckled. “I said, is this watch your Miss?” I looked at his hand, holding my pocket watch. 

“Claudia, my name is Claudia and thank you,” I said, grabbing and putting it back in my pocket. Claudia was the fake name I used. I took it in honour of my aunt. 

“Well, Claudia, my name is Jacob Frye,” He said, taking his hat and bowing. I smiled at the way this played out. I spent the last day looking for information on this man, and he quite literally fell in front of me. “Well, it is very nice to meet you, Jacob, and thank you again for getting my watch back.” I used my hair to cover some of my face and act coy, hoping Jacob would take the bait. I started to walk away when I heard footsteps following behind me. 

“So what is a lady such as yourself doing in a back alley in Whitechapel?” He said as he caught up to me. I smiled; he did take the bait. 

“I didn’t even realize I made it to Whitechapel. I was eating at a restaurant in Central London and on my way back home when I got my pocket watch stolen.” Jacob chuckled again, throwing me off. “What is so funny?” 

“I can’t picture a lady like you chasing a child from Central London to here. Most ladies I know do not want to get mud on their skirts.” 

I scoffed playfully and crossed my arms in defiance. “I will take that as a compliment.” 

“I meant it as a compliment.” My cheeks darkened, and I used my hair again to hide it. Dammit, I couldn’t fall for his charm. It was supposed to be the other way around. “Do you mind if I walk you back home? The streets are not as safe as they seem.” 

Full Chapter on Ao3

[aiza-luna]

Assassin's Creed Syndicate: Character Chart.

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Character’s full name: Solange Teresa Vivianne Cotoner-Artois.

Reason or meaning of name: "Solange" means both "Solemn" and "Sun Angel", in reference to her sun coding.

Character’s nickname: Sol, Solecito (by her family), Sunshine, Little Hoopoe (by Jacob).

Reason for nickname: Sun Symbolisms, is her personal thing. As for Hoopoe, is her theme bird. 🐦💛

Birth date: June 21st, 1848.

Physical appearance

Age: 20 years old (Syndicate) / 40 years old (JTR)

How old does he/she appear: She appears to be around her age, between 18-22.

Weight: 55 Kg / 121 lb

Height: 1.63 cm / 5 ft 4.2 inches.

Body build: Slim and athletic/fit, with noticable muscles compared to the average victorian lady.

Shape of face: Diamond Shape.

Eye color: Honey-Brown.

Glasses or contacts: None.

Skin tone: Warm Olive Complexion.

Distinguishing marks: Her Vitiligo Sploches spread across her face and body that she hides with make-up.

Predominant features: Her nose, lips and face generally resemble Arabian-Moorish people, her features were inhereted by her ancestor that was a Moorish Knight.

Hair color: Dark Copper Brown.

Type of hair: 2B Wavy Hair.

Hairstyle: Traditional Victorian Bun (in the day), A side braid falling over her shoulder (as an Assassin).

Voice: Mezzo soprano, always soft spoken and eloquent.

Usual fashion of dress: ... Victorian Fashion? That's her era's fashion lol.

Favorite outfit: Her "Foreigner Visitor" Outfit! Is the dress she introduced herself with to the British Brotherhood. 🥹

Jewelry or accessories: Always a sun-themed jewelry, be a necklace, earrings or ring! After she got with Jacob, he gave her a jewelry with his hair, that she uses on her necklace.

Personality

Good personality traits: Caring, Loyal, Empathetic, Collected, Polite and Well-versed in many topics.

Bad personality traits: Proud, Strong-Tempered, Overly Brutal, Secretive, Gets Defensive Easily.

Mood character is most often in: Calm and keeping her posture.

Sense of humor: She doesn't joke easily, only opening up as she bonds with people. She can be quite cheeky and witty, and she tends to hide her laughs anytime she hears a dirty joke.

Character’s greatest joy in life: Help her country and her people, honor her family.

Character’s greatest fear: Watch the Templars win and control the people/ the masses,disappoint her family.

Character is most at ease when: Surround by nature, walking in the beach back at Tarragona, at the sunset, feeling the cool sand on her feet.

Most ill at ease when: Surrounded by a crowd, feeling their gaze judging her and her skin, her condition.

Enraged when: People don't listen to her concerns or thoughts.

Depressed or sad when: There are more damage/ deaths than there was suppost to be on the mission, when she sees the condition of the lower class in London... All that misery and pain breaks her heart.

Priorities: Eliminate the Templars in the British Court and their influences. Ensure the Piece of Eden's safety.

Life philosophy: "As nobles, is our duty to serve others, and not the other way around. We will fight, for their safety and their choice of free will."

Character’s soft spot: Animals. Literally all animals. (aside the ones that transmit diseases, looking at the rats-)

Is this soft spot obvious to others? Yes! She becamed Desmond's Dogsitter after she met him.😭 (She begged Mrs. Disraeli to let her take care of him once in a while-)

Greatest strength: Her Persistance and Sense of Duty.

Greatest vulnerability or weakness: Her Self-Image and her Skin Condition.

Past failures he/she would be embarrassed to have people know about: The amount of suitor refusals she got. For a noblewoman, that is quite the failure. 🥲

Character’s darkest secret: Her Family Tree is generally composed of Templars, aside her Family Branch.

Does anyone else know? Well, yes. The Cotoners of the Spanish Rite are quite infamous, specially with the other Templar Rites... However, she tries to avoid telling about her Templar-Relatives to the other divisions of the Brotherhood.

Goals

Drives and motivations: Fullfil her mission as an Assassin and honor her bloodline, following the Footsteps of her Greatgreatgreatgreat-Grandfather who becamed the Mentor of the Spanish Brotherhood.

Immediate goals: Aid the British Brotherhood in reclaiming London. Assure the Pieces of Eden in Britain stay out of Templar's hands.

Long term goals: Find a husband, work on improving/financing the development of medicine, science and arts, giving more access to those things to the lower classes.

How the character plans to accomplish these goals: Using the Assistance of her fellow Assassins and her connections in Queen Victoria's Court with her aunt and uncle.

How other characters will be affected: Generally this will have a good impact on both the Brotherhood and the London Society. (Can't really see this going wrong?)

Past

Hometown: Tortosa, in the Province of Tarragona, Catalonia - Spain.

Type of childhood: Shelted. She was kept mostly inside because of her Vitiligo (that was still being studies at the time), was constantly visited by doctors. Tutored at home with the best education money could by, she would only go out in cloudly days or at night... It was a bit lonely, but not different from other upper-class children her age.

First memory: Her and her mother Aimée on her Estate's Garden, she was only two years old, in her mother's arms and she watched a bird singing on top of a tree.

Most important childhood memory: The day she discovered about the existance of the Order and the Brotherhood, and how they shaped history across the centuries, also the trigger of her decision to join the fight as an Assassin.

Childhood hero: Her father, Carlos Rafael Cotoner, her Greatgreatgreatgreat-Grandfather Renato Valentino Cotoner, and, as an Assassin Novice, Ezio Auditore da Firenze.

Education: High-Level Education, as it was expected of a noblewoman. She studies languages, arts, sciences, astronomy, physics, politics and militarism.

Religion: Catholicism.

Finances: Loaded, she's a noblewoman of an old family, and her family runs many businesses (From Maritime Trade in Catalonia, to fields of agriculture in Andalusia and a brand of weaponery in Castille).

Present

Current location: London, Capital of England.

Currently living with: Her aunt Desirée Charlotte Madeleine Pleydell-Bouverie (Neé Artois) and her uncle Hon. Thomas Pleydell-Bouverie, in the Stanford Manor in ST Albans, Hertfordshire.

Pets: She has a mini-zoo back in her family's estate in Tortosa! She loves studying and caring for "weird" animals, her three favorites are: A Platypus named "Tortita", a Kiwi Bird named "Coco" and an Echidna named "Cojín"! 🩵

Religion: Catholicism.

Occupation: Master Assassin of the Spanish Brotherhood.

Finances: Still loaded-

Family

Mother: Aimée Isabelle Henriette Artois-Cotoner.

Relationship with her: Pretty good! They clash sometimes but love each other, despite all of Aimée's concerns for the safety of her daughter in the Assassin-Templars war. 🥹

Father: Carlos Rafael Cotoner y Moncada, Conde de Tortosa.

Relationship with him: They adore each other! Carlos see Sol as his little girl, and Sol looks up to her father as an Assassin and as a noble! 🤲🏽

Siblings: Serena Hélène Josefina Cotoner-Artois (Younger Sister)

Relationship with her: Incredibly good, all things considered. They annoy each other, tease each and everything, but they got each other's back at anytime and wouldn't hesitate to kill to protect one another. In the end, they're sisters and love each other deeply. 🤲🏽🩵

Other important family members: Leopoldo di Sanseverino, Signore di Monterforte Irpino (Serena's Fiancé). They also get along well, despite Sol not approving their decision to delay their courtship more than the usual to "keep getting to know each other before marrying". xD

Favorites

Color: Orange, Yellow, Turquoise and Aquamarine. 🩵

Least favorite color: Gray and monocromatic palettes, and "dirty" shades of color (specially brown and yellow).

Music: Jazz Music and Traditional Spanish Music.

Food: Sea Food (Specially shrimp, octopus and caviar) and sweets. (Specially with cherries).

Literature: She likes books with supernatural elements, but she also likes books of philosophy and SPECIALLY about Dinossaurs/Fossil. She's also a big sucker for romance books.

Form of entertainment: Read books on her underwear while eating a tart in her guest room, horse ride, stroll in the nature, observe the birds, collect fossils and gemstones.

Mode of transportation: Her Andalusian Horse called "Coronilla", she loves riding her across the streets. In London, she also preffers to horse ride than use a carriege.

(tho she drives much better than the twins-)

Most prized possession: The lower jaw of a Spinosaurid Dinosaur she found once in her family's terrain while she digged the garden. It was her first fossil and she found when she was around 8 years old... She keeps it in her collection and would literally kill if someone touch it. xD

Habits

Hobbies: Collect Fossils and Gemstones, Dance, Write Poems/ Thoughts in her notebook, Scrapbooking, Horse Ride, Aim Train, Physical/ Combat Training, Read, Embrodery, Study/Note about weird species/phenomena.

Plays a musical instrument? Piano! She's very skilled on the Piano and on Cello.

Plays a sport? Hm... She swims and runs, along with Parkour, guess this counts? 🥲

Drinks: Mostly Wine (Red and Rosy Wines) and Rum. (Specially Porto Rican Rum, that is more refined in taste.)

What does she do too much of? Spend time putting on make-up to hide her Sploches.

What does she do too little of? Dancing. She loves to dance, but gets self-conscious about a partner potentially judging her. 🥲

Extremely skilled at: Analysing Situations and Combat.

Extremely unskilled at: Cleaning. She has no idea how to clean a place. 😭

Nervous tics: Tends to shift her eyes whenever she feels nervous towards the wall by her side, also drums her fingers on her fan while holding it.

Usual body posture: Straight, tall and well-postured, with her hands on her sides or on front of her skirt, held one over the other.

Mannerisms: Tends to sit down with both legs together and her hands on her knees, tilts her head slightly when confused, like a bird. Will whistle while concentrated and hum a song sometimes. Will nuzze against Jacob's neck, brushing her nose against him like a bird. khkhjjkk

Peculiarities: Her nails grow surpriseling fast, so she always has to trim them. Will switch between Spanish and English when too excited, will curse while dressed as an Assasin bc Assassin Sol is very different than noble/common Sol. Lol

Traits

Optimist or pessimist? Optimist, although tries to keep a realistic view on things.

Introvert or extrovert? Introverted going to ambivert. (Jacob is slowly getting her to loose a bit)😭

Daredevil or cautious? Cautious, 100%, as many Assassins.

Logical or emotional? A mixture of both, she can be very logical but also very emotional, it depends on the situation... But generally, she tried to be as logical as possible. 🥲

Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? Methodical and neat, she doesn't STAND a messy place. XD

Prefers working or relaxing? Working first, relaxing later. She's of the philosophy that the job must be well-done so the relaxation can be worth it. 🫶🏽☀️

Confident or unsure of herself? As an Assassin? Confident AF she knows she can deliver. As a noblewoman? Not so much... 🥲

Self-perception

How he/she feels about himself/herself: Mixted feelings, many mixted feelings... Overall, she pushes herself to be the best Assassin she can be, so at least she can feel proud about one of her aspects.

One word the character would use to describe self: "Defective".

One paragraph description of how the character would describe self: "A sick woman... An Assassin that will fight until my very last breath."

What does the character consider her best personality trait? "My loyalty to the Creed."

What does the character consider her worst personality trait? "My insecurities about my skin."

What does the character consider her best physical characteristic? Her eyes, everyone compliments them and their light yellow hue under the sunlight.

What does the character consider her worst physical characteristic? Her white sploches, they just "look so wrong and ugly..."

How does the character think others perceive him/her: As a sick woman unfit to give healthy heirs to a household without the "thing" on her skin. As an Assassin and as the Greatgreatgreatgreat-Granddaughter of Renato Valentino Cotoner, they expect her to be as expectional as her ancestor.

What would the character most like to change about himself/herself: Definetly get rid of her condition to look "normal", she sometimes wished she could be "frail" and "fair-skinned" like the other noblegirls that were the beauty standarts of the era... Because her more athletic build, darker complexion and skin condition, she feels ugly compared to the beauty standarts. 🥲

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A bit of an info dump about my dear Solange asked by my friend @navis18 , thank you so much, girl! 🥹🤲🏽💛

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I'm working on a more complete ref sheet for her, but so far, this is the more detail I get can get with my dear Spanish Assassin. ☀️💛

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(Also gonna tag @corvus-the-trickster here bc if they ever want to draw Sol, is always good to have info dump of her. You tag me on Amelia stuff, I tag you on Sol's lol 🫶🏽💛)

[aralezinspace]

Sweet Nightmares (The Tale of the Blade in the Dark) Part II

A single Hidden One goes against Dream of the Endless, and gets way more than they bargained for. One does not emerge from a nightmare unscathed. Previous ~~~ Next

A/N: (crossover with Assassin's Creed) My contribution to @roguelov's Sweet Nightmares challenge! Parts 3 and 4 coming later this week. Enjoy! gif by @honeybeezgobzzzzz Tagging @fangirlmary (sorry I forgot to tag you in part 1!) also tagging @alteon77 cuz omg another appreciator of this super niche but awesome crossover concept!

Warnings: AFAB, named, they/them reader, blood, nightmare!Morpheus, some Endless style torture, copious use of petnames

The Hidden One was surprised when they regained consciousness, having accepted their end at the hands of their target. Anger bubbled inside them: the Mentor and Council had sent them after Dream of the Endless out of fear and arrogance, but they wouldn’t pay for their foolishness- their blade would.

They had to get back to the bureau, rest and recover, and get some answers from their Mentor. Trying to take any action before that would be futile. They started with small movements- twitches of their fingers, bending their knees and elbows, assessing their body’s range of motion. Nothing seemed to be broken or out of place; that was good. They turned their head slowly side to side, grimacing as it ached with the motion. They let their eyes open and continued to move their head.  

Once fully conscious, they took stock of their surroundings: the walls were dark gray stone with lanterns hanging from iron hooks every few feet. The floor was also gray, at least where it wasn’t covered with various ornate rugs in every shade of blue imaginable. A large potted plant was tucked into a corner, the leaves the most intense shade of emerald they had ever seen.

They were laying on a mattress stuffed with what felt like straw, held up by a dark wooden four-post bed frame, a larger version of the rooftop garden they had sheltered in. Across the room were two intricately carved doors of the same dark wood, softly glowing in the lamp light. From across the room, the designs appeared to be vines, dotted with flowers they couldn’t name. The room was cool, the air slightly damp- it had settled like a film over their skin for however long they had been unconscious. 

They slowly sat up, the wound in their side twinging unpleasantly. It had been cleaned and covered with fresh linen bandages, the scent of an herbal salve tingling their nose. They noticed with a jolt of panic that their robes, armor, boots, and weapons were missing, leaving them in their still soaked and blood-stained shirt and breeches. A faint smear of red stained the sheet where they had been laying.

Moving slowly, carefully, they swung their legs over the side of the bed and stood up, leaning on the nearest post as their body lodged its complaints about being upright. The stone was cold on the soles of their feet, the fibers of the rug warmer but scratchy. They took one shaky step towards the door, then another. They leaned heavily against the dark wood when they reached it and grasped at the bronze knob- locked, as expected. 

“You really should be resting.” 

The phrase would have been a gentle admonishment if not for the hard undercurrent of a threat that wove between the words. The Assassin jumped into a fighting stance, grimacing as their wound protested the sudden movement. Once again they were facing Dream of the Endless, and at a distinct disadvantage. How the hell had he gotten in here, and without them noticing? 

Morpheus prowled slowly towards them, almost gliding over the floor. His obsidian robes trailed gracefully behind him, the flames at the bottom of his cloak flickering gently. The light they gave off would have been comforting if the whole purpose of the display wasn’t intimidation. He was somewhat impressed that they unflinchingly held their ground rather than retreat. Whether it was bravery or stupidity, they certainly had some nerve. He leaned over them, forcing them to look up. 

“Come now, little blade,” he rumbled, “We don’t want you to break just yet.” He lifted a hand, and at that, the Hidden One did flinch. A gentle vortex of sand swirled up from their feet, lifting them off the floor and depositing them back onto the bed. 

They sat for all of two breaths before standing again, their heart racing in their chest. They stared down the Dreamlord, trying to appear braver than they felt. Morpheus frowned; their tenacity had quickly become irritating. “Do not test me,” he warned in a low growl, the room darkening as he took a step closer. The flames of the lanterns shrank in on themselves, the flames of his cloak creeping higher up the fabric, burning brighter. “Your Mentor dared make an attempt on my life, and for that alone I could have killed you many times over by now. Do not. Test me, little blade.” 

The Hidden One shivered again, their eyes falling to the floor, their tongue forcing a whimper to the back of their mouth. Better to back down and live. Rather than sit again, they took a few steps back until their back thumped softly against the stone wall. Dream frowned: not quite obedience, but better than obstinance. 

“Better…” he drew out, lifting his hand again. “But not quite.” Ribbons of sand streamed from his fingertips to circle the Assassin’s wrists. With subtle twitches of his fingers, Morpheus directed the sand to raise the Assassin’s hands over their head. They shouted in pain, the movement stretching their fresh wound back open. When their hands were firmly pressed against the wall, the sand hardened into iron cuffs, keeping them locked firmly in place.

The Hidden One struggled and squirmed, panicked breaths sticking in their throat. Their blouse had ridden up, exposing the slowly growing patch of red in the crisp white bandages. Morpheus loomed over them, tendrils of darkness weaving and writhing around him. “Now then…” he purred as he grabbed a fistful of thick hair and yanked their head back to better see their face. 

He had already seen their features, of course, when he brought them back to the Dreaming. The Nightmare King began to stir and rumble awake at the sight of the blood still staining their skin, their eyes sparkling with fire and vulnerable tears. Beneath that however, was a deep, churning well of fear. Good, they should be afraid. He had such plans for his would-be assassin, for them and their brotherhood. 

He trailed a sharp talon down their cheek, leaving a raised line of pink in its wake. “I could easily break your mind to find what I desire. However, I cannot deny that you have intrigued me. Therefore, I will allow you to attempt to earn back your life. But, for the moment, it is mine, little blade.” He paused, a sadistic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s start with a name. Who are you?”

“No one,” they spat quickly with far more bravado than was probably wise, even if their voice did tremble a little, “I am but a blade in the crowd.” 

He moved without thinking, too fast for them to track. His palm cracked loud and sharp against their cheek, turning their head with the force of the blow. Their skin smarted and immediately began turning red. He didn’t say anything, merely quirked his brow expectantly. Black eyes glowed with silver fire as what looked to be black flames seeped out of his skin. 

The Assassin swallowed hard. “Yeraz,” they choked in resignation. “My name is Yeraz.”

“Yeraz…” Morpheus drawled out the name, let it linger in the air for a moment before disappearing. Yeraz shivered as it vibrated with power. No one had ever said their name like that, like it was the key to unlocking every desire known to man. Like they could see into the deepest parts of their being, just by saying the name. Like a caress, like the ghost touch of a knife. Morpheus continued, “And you are a Hidden One, yes?”

Yeraz debated what to tell him for a brief moment. He had probably seen enough to deduce the truth and was just drawing this out for his own amusement. And they didn’t want to consider the consequences of lying. Rather than speak, they gave him a quick nod. 

“I figured as much,” he whispered. Dream leaned in closer, deeply inhaling the scent of blood, sweat, and spice from the spot behind their ear. “Little Yeraz, fragile blade…” his tongue flicked out to a lap at a speck of dried blood on their neck. The noise he let out was somewhere between a growl and a hiss, clearly pleased, clearly loosening the leash around his self control. “It would be so very easy to snuff out your life, like one of these lanterns. And while I have not discarded that possibility, I am offering you a choice.” 

He pulled away just enough to meet their gaze. Yeraz got lost in his eyes, falling into the infinite black abyss. The entire night sky was staring back at them, peering deep into the center of their being. The breath caught in their chest- the skills and mantle of Master Assassin fell away, lost in the darkness, leaving behind a scared, vulnerable human with a knack for survival who had finally met their match, and was extremely out of their depth. 

The black abyss had opened around them, and there was no swimming with or against the current, no outwitting its nature. They could only drown. 

“I am prepared to send you back to your Brotherhood and arrogant Mentor, alive and intact, but undoubtedly mine. My blade in the crowd. Remain in the service of your Brotherhood if you like, if you can, but your first allegiance is to me and mine. To the Dreaming.” He smiled, revealing pearlescent, angrily sharp teeth. A tongue too long and pointed to be human slithered out of its toothy cage to flick over another smear of blood, this one at the corner of their mouth. Yeraz inhaled sharply and flinched away, drawing a haughty, rumbling laugh from the nightmare before them. 

“Simply,” he purred, “Your life is mine, or it is forfeit. Which shall it be, little blade?” 

~~

Yeraz shivered. No doubt remained in their mind what the Nightmare King intended to do: claim them, or kill them. If he couldn’t have them, no one could. “I…” Dream raised an elegant, expectant brow, not amused to be kept waiting. “I accept your terms, Nightmare King.” 

“A wise decision,” he murmured against their mouth with a smug grin. 

As if there had been any other choice. 

His scent of stardust and sand after a rain overwhelmed Yeraz’s senses, their mind going slightly fuzzy. A frigid hand ghosted softly down their wounded side, his fingers coming back stained red, rubies on snow. The bandages floated to the floor, once again exposing the hideous tear in their flesh. “Oh dear,” he cooed, sounding more excited than concerned, “You’re bleeding again.” He moved slowly until he could feel the warmth of Yeraz’s skin in the air against his palm. Then, like a striking cobra, his fingers clawed into the wound and flesh around it, squeezing ever so slightly. 

Yeraz screamed and threw their head back, the ache from their skull colliding with the stone lost under the lightning bolts of agony from their side. Morpheus let out a short growl of pleasure and dug his fingers in even deeper. Their shrieks bounced and echoed off the walls.

After a moment, he removed his blood-smeared fingers and observed them under the flickering lantern light. Yeraz’s eyes were hooded and they panted for breath, their wound throbbing in time with their pulse. They watched in detached horror as that tongue slid out of his mouth to twine around each finger in turn, licking away the fresh blood that stained them. It was hot and thick, still sharp and sweet. A growl rumbled low in his chest, a predator getting the first glimpse of their prey, relishing in the chase to come. 

He had already laid claim to their life- their mind, their heart- now it was time to lay equal claim to their admittedly lovely physical form. Break them apart into the ores and metals that originally made them, then reforge them into a weapon of his own design. Stamp his crest into his blade in the dark. 

“You will be my finest weapon,” he purred, lifting a gently closed fist to his mouth,  “But first… I must break you.” 

Terror lit up Yeraz’s nerve endings. They were no stranger to pain, to being pushed to their limit and then further still, but this was beyond them. Dream of the Endless was a being of his word- he would send them back to the Brotherhood alive and intact, but Yeraz would forever wish he had killed them.

Long, bony fingers slowly uncurled like a flower revealing its petals. Black eyes flickered with silver sparks of excitement. He pursed his lips, almost like he was about to bestow a kiss, and blew softly into the palm of his hand.  

Yeraz turned their head away, but couldn’t escape the hundreds of fine grains of sand that floated on that whisper of wind. They closed their eyes, tried and failed to avoid breathing it in. They felt their mind go fuzzy, frayed and disintegrating around the edges. The pain from their wound gradually faded, their entire body floating sluggishly a sea of honey.

When they opened their eyes, they were no longer surrounded by walls of gray stone. They were no longer even in a building. 

They were surrounded on all sides by millions of stars, the sky behind the points of light fading from the lightest blue to yellow and green and red, to the darkest black and back through every hue again, every iteration of the night sky existing in the same moment. Silver, glittering space dust floated and twirled between the stars.

Yeraz would have found it breathtakingly beautiful if their breath had not already been stolen by fear. 

They hovered in the middle of the star-filled void, feet dangling over nothing, their hands still lifted and bound above their head. They panted frantically for breath, trying to keep their panic at bay. Every fiber of their being screamed at them to get away, that they would not live through whatever the Nightmare King had planned.