Missionary, legs spread wide, maybe one hooked around his hip while the other is tangled in his leg. He crushes your clit with every in-stroke and loves the angle because it allows him to latch onto your neck; kissing, sucking, biting, whatever it takes to leave his mark. Doggy style is also nice but you prefer to see his face. His eyes, his lips, they’re intoxicating to you. Plus the proximity of missionary means he can bite down on your earlobe and whisper how much of a good girl you are, driving you mad with the smugness laced in his perfect British voice.
Ratonhnhaké:ton:
He really doesn’t want to crush you with his weight, so he favours alternative positions. Sure doggy style is a worthy contender, and God does the slapping of his thighs against your ass do wonders for your pleasure, but cowgirl is perfect for you both. You’re in complete control of the depth and angle of his cock driving into you, and let’s just say he has a guilty fascination with your breasts, particularly your nipples. When you’re riding him, your breasts have a particular bounce with your movements and it doesn’t take him long at all to sit up and engulf a nipple in the heat of his mouth, fingers plucking them into an erect state, teeth grazing the delicate flesh if you’ll let him.
Shay:
Any position that places his devilishly delicious mouth by your ear is ideal; you can’t get enough of that Irish brogue, and the bastard knows it. After a fair bit of encouragement, practice and trial and error, he’s become the master of dirty talk in (and out) of the bedroom. You particularly enjoy lazy morning sex with the Captain aboard the other love of his life, the Morrigan. You never know how you’ll wake up; naked with your limbs entangled and his cock twitching against your inner thigh? Flat on your back with a tongue rolling over your clit, fingers gripping and squeezing your thighs as you begin to rouse and writhe under his masterful mouth? Oh and, make sure to tug his hair while he eats you out. You’ll be generously rewarded for it.
Imagine - midnight sex with Shay aboard the Morrigan.
You’re curled up on your side with Shay’s outline pressed firmly against your back, his hand resting on your hip under the covers. You both start to wake around the same time, fully intending to go back to sleep until Shay starts planting lip bites down your neck, peppering kisses on your shoulder blade while his hand ducks under your nightgown, rubbing your silky flesh warm.
Too sleepy to complain but too aroused to fall back asleep, you push your bottom against his lap and are surprised by the warm spear twitching under his garments, clearly as worked up as you are in this position.
After ghosting his fingers over to your underwear and slipping them under the waistband to test your arousal, he slides the garment down your legs and cups your mound, his palm rubbing your clit languidly.
You coo at the exquisite friction, though it’s short-lived as Shay retracts his hand, shuffling behind you to dispose of his own underwear. He lines his cock up, rutting against your sex for a few pleasurable moments, soaking the tip in your juices before pressing against your entrance.
It takes a few tries, a firm grab of your ass as he repositions the angle between the two of you, but when you feel the head breach you and massage your inner walls, shivers run through your sensitive body.
You notice you’re still dressed on your upper half, though Shay eases the straps of your gown down your shoulders, your breasts spilling out of the cups much to his delight. Hooking one leg over yours, he rocks you into his thrusts, his eyes closed and groaning softly at the tightness squeezing his shaft. With his fingers currently unoccupied, he encircles your nipples, plucking the rosy bud into stiffness while pressing his lips by your ear, murmuring phrases in Gaelic knowing the combination will wreak havoc on your senses.
With his hot breath fanning over your ear, his shallow breathing, raspy grunts, words of praise ushering you to come all over his cock, you squeeze your eyes shut and let out a shuddering huff, his name a sensuous whisper on your lips.
Your body now limp in his arms, he rolls the two of you over. You’re laying on your stomach, Shay guides your bottom a little higher, treating it to a light spank before penetrating you again, lowering his body flush against yours.
There’s no other way to describe the movement of his hips: he rolls them, bumping into your ass before withdrawing and beginning the motion again. God, you’ve never felt pleasure like it, his movements undulate at your skin like the tide lapping against sand. Your hands grasp the bedsheets beneath you, your breathing hectic, certain constellations are forming behind your very eyelids.
It’s not long before you orgasm again, wantonly purring and nuzzling your flaming cheek into the pillow beneath you. You swear you hear Shay’s breath hitch at the sudden contraction around his length, which drives into you with an abrupt change of pace. You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears, your cries white noise as you focus on the pleasure of the overwhelming flame engulfing you.
You hear pleads. It’s probably your voice, but you’re too elated to focus. It’s only when you feel the scorching hot splash of his seed inside you that your mind reconnects to your body, your limbs boneless as you burrow yourself into his body, now prone on his back and sporting a softened cock.
Satisfied and spent, you drift away without a thought of protest, vaguely registering your own mumbles of “I love you” to your partner.
Could I possibly ask for NSFW Shay x reader content? If you’re not in the mood for anything smutty then just general Drabble/hc content is more than fine too! Any Shay content is welcome 🖤
𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬
Summary ➳ When Shay remembers your dream to see the Northen lights, it takes the chance to take you there and love you under the stars.
(A/n) ➳ Your wish is my command! If you guys have any Shay requests, I’m open!! This was more fluff than smut, I honsetly got carried away with this.
Word Count ➳ 2.6k
Content warnings ➳ Female reader/Navigator reader, teasing, jealousy, mentions of killing, sexual content, public sex, unprotected sex, fingering, penetration, p-in-v, creampie...
Everyone knew that Shay and Chevalier never got along. At first, Shay could take it, the insults, and the fights, but it became worse when Chevalier overheard Shay’s desire to court you. It was during an argument when it was brought up, teasing Shay, laughing at him, and getting physical with him, laughing at his missed punches. As usual, Liam stepped in, silencing Chevalier, and snatching Shay away.
Shay could still hear his laughter as Liam tried his best to comfort his best friend. But Chevalier became his nightmare when he arrived from a mission to find you and Chevalier sitting on the steps of the manor, a happy expression on your face as Chevalier spoke to you.
He stepped in, questioning why Chevalier was still here when Achilles was looking for him. But Chevalier saw right through his act, knowing how it pissed Shay off to see you with him and so before he left, he gifted you a book, one that you have been looking for.
Shay hated how your eyes gleamed as you took the book from his hands and continuously thanked him. It was a rare book in your eyes. You escaped from your home, just days away from marrying an older nobleman when you turned eighteen.
Shay knew that you knew Chevalier was being kind to you. Another rarity around here and he tried not to take it to heart.
“Is something the matter?” You asked Shay, obviously clueless and knocking Shay out of his mind. “Did the mission not go as planned?”
“Everything is alright.” He replied, giving you his signature smile. “I’ll meet you on the Morrigan?” He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it.
“Oh yes! I have a charted map that I must give.” You nodded. “Chevalier said I was learning rather quickly.”
“Did he now?”
You nodded once again before scurrying off, waving him goodbye. He watched your figure head towards the Morrigan, making sure he saw you entering the cabin of the ship.
And after giving his report to Achilles, you were not in the cabin anymore. You were relaxed, sitting on his ship as you read your book. You just looked so beautiful unbothered and hated to bother you, you were enjoying the moment.
You swiped the strays of hair in your face away, trying to focus on your book. “Chevalier certainly knows what interests you.” He commented. “My men say you refuse to move, that you refused to sing with them. I thought you enjoyed Leave her, Johnny.”
“Chevalier’s taste is quite different than mine, I’d give him quite a scare if he truly read the contents of this book.” You marked the page of your book before closing it carefully. “I did not sing but I loved their voices. We should have them perform.”
“Might I see?” Shay reached for the book, but you pulled it out of his reach. “C’mon, you’ve got nothing to hide from me!”
“No.” You immediately said but your smile did not falter. “I must show you the map, I’ve located numerous military camps with supplies. They will be useful to the Morrigan.”
You both walked to the captain’s cabin, Shay opened the door to let you in first and then closed it behind him. He followed you to the table with the map laid out, a part of North America with marked points.
“It’s quite chilly but Chevalier it would be worth it.” You commented, pointing at one at a time to explain. “When I was using the spyglass, I was able to get some of the contents of the supplies. Here, you get wood and metal. And here, cannons. There is a fort here so you must tread carefully-”
Shay didn’t bother to listen, rather, he took in your features, how your finger tapped in a certain pattern when at a marked location, how you went into detail about certain patterns soldiers take, or how each of the supplies can help the ship or crew in many ways.
Memories of a conversation he had with you weeks earlier came through his mind, your laughter, your casual mention of an ethereal light. It all started when you went to North Atlantic once, the temperatures were freezing, and you remained up on the Crow’s Nest. He went to get you himself and he saw you stare up at the sky, like you were waiting for something.
You explained the stories of his and Chevalier’s crew speaking of green arches that curve across the sky, lights dancing in the sky. You wished to see them yourself instead of hearing them or paintings, you wanted to gaze your eyes upon them.
You were exquisite, magnificent, alluring... He knew the perfect time to take you to see the northern lights, he wanted to be the first to take you, to see your eyes gleam once more.
“Are you listening to me, Shay?”
Shay cleared his throat. “O-Of course!” He answered awkwardly. He tried to play it off, but you did not see him staring again. To see you so focused and helping him, made him all giddy, you are available for him. “You were talking about... Um, that camp.” He gestured vaguely towards the map.
“Really?” You lifted an eyebrow, sneering but in a joking manner that Shay understood. You then pointed at one mark. “What does this camp hold?” You questioned.
He leaned over the table, taking a moment to think. “Ammo! There's ammo.”
You shook your head as you tapped the spot your finger still rested on. “That is not a military camp, Shay. It is a hunting location. I marked it for personal use. Might find some deer or rabbit there.”
He was caught off guard, his cheeks had a tinge of red on them. “Right, of course. I knew that.” He rumbled, trying to recover.
But your demeanor shifted from playful to worried. You have never seen Shay so distracted before. “There must be something on your mind. I have never seen you so distant.” Your tone became soft, folding your arms.
He let his eyes wander, taking everything in the cabin except you. “It’s nothing too worrying.” He assured you but when he looked at you, his resolve softened. “I was thinking what you said once, about the lights, the ones you did not know the name of.”
“The dancing lights in the sky?” Your expression slowly brightened when you realized. “Yes, yes. They say it is like the heavens themselves are celebrating or the spirits were dancing.” You awed with wonder.
“I was thinking... Perhaps we could set a course north. Father than we had planned before. I would like to take you to see the northern lights or as Hope calls them aurora... Borealis?” Struggling to pronounce the name, he cursed at himself for screwing it up.
The surprise and delight he saw on your face was worth more than all the treasures they had plundered. You stepped around the table and came closer to him. “Really? You would do that for me?”
Shay nodded, placing both his hands on your shoulders. “Yes, I believe it’s time we chased something beautiful, not just profitable or killable.”
“I’d like that very much, Shay.” His hands moved to cup your face, your eyes locking with his. “Thank you.”
Nothing is said between you both, your faces just inches apart. The candlelight flickered, adding a touch to the moment. Shay started to lean in first, and you followed his lead. Your lips were about to touch until the doors to the captain’s cabin burst open.
Liam barged in, he looked urgent but froze in place when he saw how close you two were. “Shay, (Y/n), sorry but-” Liam started, his eyes darting between you two. A smirk was briefly on his lips but stopped when Shay glared at him. He composed himself. “Achilles gave us orders. We need to set sail immediately.”
The two of you pulled apart from each other, embarrassed, but you tried masking your disappointment, covering it up with a poor attempt at professionalism.
Shay patted himself down, turning to face Liam. “And?” He motioned Liam to continue.
“We’re goin’ North Atlantic.” Liam handed Shay a scroll. “The French are moving deeper, Achilles believes they have a lead on another Assassin branch, he wants us to intervene.”
You fumbled with your hands, clasped together. “I shall start preparing the crew, check supplies, and repair the Morrigan if necessary.”
As you moved past Liam to exit the cabin, Liam leaned closer to Shay, his voice low but teasing. “Trying to one-up the Chevalier, eh?” He chuckled, but then his tone became serious. “Make sure your head stays in the game Shay.”
“Always, Liam.”
With that, Liam left the cabin, the doors closing with a soft thud. Shay stood there, hands on his hips as he let out a frustrated groan. He was so close! He took a deep breath as he had weeks or months to try again.
Besides, if Hope was correct, it would soon be the perfect moment to see one.
The Morrigan was anchored in the icy waters of the North Atlantic.
Liam left the crew’s sleeping quarters after checking for injuries or casualties. He dismissed those standing on the deck of the ship to get some sleep, he and the captain, along with their navigator were going to keep watch for this night. He needed everyone rested and ready.
He stood at the wheel, arms crossed, and reamined still.
Up on the crow’s nest, the air was crisp, and the stars shined in the sky. Shay climbed the rigging to the nest, where he found you leaning again the wooden frame, gaze fixed on the sky. You twiddled with your fingers. He was able to sense the nervousness raiding off your body.
The deep breaths you took, letting out small clouds of your breath each time you exhaled, and shifting side to side. You wore thick clothing to shield you from the weather and the gloves he gave you when you forgotten yours somehow... He took them.
“Beautiful night.” Shay commented, his voice low as not to startle you. He leaned against the wooden railing next to you.
A smile tugged your lips, though your eyes didn’t exactly show it. “It is.” You agreed, then sighing, lowering your head. “The lights... Will they be as the crew described them to be? The heavens celebrating, the spirits dancing. What if they don’t appear? what if they’re not everything I had hoped for?”
Shay looked out across the sky, which was turning darker by the minute, and then back at you. “They will be.” He said, confident. “They’ll surpass every tale, every painting you have ever seen.”
“I hope you’re right, Shay.” You laid your head on your arms, tired.
It was a comfortable silence, waiting in the cold as the last light of the day vanished. Shay could sense the disappointment coming off you, he was ready to tell you to rest until he saw a faint flow.
It grew brighter, greens with blues, it stretched across the sky like ribbons of lights. It was like its own river.
He nudged her, pointing upward. “Look.” He whispered.
Your confusion turning awe as you saw the gentle wisps growing. The ocean reflected the colors of green and blue, maybe even purple. It was more of what they said, heavens celebrating and the spirits dancing...
“The aurora borealis.” You gasped. Your eyes wide in amazement. You could not describe the beauty of the lights, it would not compare to seeing it yourself. “I...” And you didn’t know what to say. All you could focus on was the colors dancing.
Shay watched your face, it was illuminated by the ethereal grow. It him smile to see your eyes glimmer like before, the slight parting of your lips, your face so focused. His hand reached up to gently turn your face towards him.
“Shay-”
“Even more beautiful.” He couldn’t resist any longer. He leaned in, pressing his lips onto yours in a kiss, the only warmth in the chilly night.
You responded eagerly, your arms wrapping around him as you returned the kiss. “Please Shay.” You groaned in his mouth. “Please.”
You pushed him against the wooden mast, he kept his hands on your hips as he sat down with you right on his lap. Shay pulled out his knife, cutting a hole in your pants. He tossed the knife aside.
Your breath hitched at the air hitting your cunt. Shay stuck two fingers in his mouth then slowly pushed them inside you. He thrusted it in and out of you, he worked his fingers deep inside you, he used his thumb to work on your clit, easing the pain, and making you clench around his fingers.
Shay then stopped and slipped his finger out of you, making you gasp, in shock at the sudden loss. You clicked your tongue, slipping your hands down his chest and to his breeches.
“Impatient, are we?” He smirked, watching you pulling his cock out.
You angled your hips, gripping his shoulders as you rubbed the slit of your cunt against the hard cock.
Shay gave you one last kiss, nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck, his facial hair tickling you. “Careful.” Shay warned you. “Don’t go hurting yourself.”
You trembled as you sank onto his cock, hissing in between your teeth. You choked on your moans as you took his full length then circled your hips.
You began to bounce up and down his cock, he let out a louder moan. You cried out, throwing your head back. “Oh god, Shay!” You sobbed.
Shay managed to push you to change positions, laying you on your back where your legs kept him close and inside of you. Your nails bug into the back of his assassin’s coat and Shay planted kisses on your exposed neck.
He started at a slow pace, making sure you could feel him. Your eyes flickered open, looking up at the northern lights still there.
“More Shay, please.” Feeling your high approaching.
He picked up his pace, lifting his head up, and squeezing his eyes shut as he clenched his jaw. But he too, opened his eyes. He can see the northern lights reflecting in your eyes. You looked out of this world.
That's when you looked him in the eyes, he froze for a moment. Your hand reached to the back of his head, pulling him down to kiss him.
He continued, feeling his orgasms building along with yours. And after a couple of more thrusts, you both let out loud moans, he cursed as he felt you clamp down around him as he comes inside of you.
Shay had no qualms about the cold, he took off his assassin’s coat to wrap it around you. He then tucks himself back into his pants and you sit up, feeling the stickiness in between your legs.
You both sat against the mast. A smile on your face as you laid your head on his shoulder, panting. “Better than the tales and paintings.”
Though the northern lights were gone, he could still envision them. “I’ll always take to see them.”
“That would be impossible Shay. But I would love to see them now and again.”
Shay snorted, standing up and grabbing your hands. You wobbled, falling into his chest. “I’ll go as far as I can to take you to see them.” He placed a kiss on top of your head. “And I’ll take you under them each time.”
( all credits to @bankaizen from this phenomenal gifset ! )
✠ | LIGHT HATH NO TONGUE ; SHAY CORMAC
summ. A lethal injury blurs the line between friend & foe.
pairing. Shay Cormac / Assassin!f!reader
w.count. 12.7k (WHEW.)
tags. no y/n , porn-with-prose , fluff & smut galore , whump, pre-established lovers-to-enemies , & enemies-to- …something? , forbidden lovers trope , religious references , catholic guilt if you squint a lil
a/n. More suitable on AO3! Regardless, I hope you enjoy Shay Cormac doing the nasty by yours truly. Hugs & kisses to the lovely @amariyad for beta-reading!
Light hath no tongue, but is all eye;
If it could speak as well as spy,
This were the worst that it could say -
That being well, I fain would stay,
And that I loved my heart and honour so,
That I would not from her, that had them, go.
— John Donne, “Break of Day”
“SO YOU MEAN to tell me,” Connor says, in the aftermath of a lengthy silence, “That he saved your life, and delivered you back to the Colonies himself?”
“Yes. Gave Faulkner quite the fright seeing his flag flown in the waters,” you add, finding yourself perturbed at how Connor hasn’t yet turned to face you. The Assassin has one ear tuned to you and another to the stag he’s been tracking in the snow. Only his insular, hard-set profile can be seen underneath his beaked hood as he nocks an arrow, and it makes you wonder what it is exactly he’s thinking between the knot of his brows.
Connor inhales. Draws his bow. Relea—
His usual perch creaks in uncharacteristic protest. In a flash, the stag startles, and leaps into the underbrush, vanishing beyond the thicket.
He huffs.
You never thought you’d imagine yourself saying, “Speak your mind, Connor,” to the bluntest, most forthright man alive you’ve ever had the grace of knowing (and, in a way, raising), but alas, here he is answering you with that usual impassive look that rattles you to the core. He always looked so much like his father whenever he pulls that face.
“I’m glad you are well,” he allows, truthfully, once both of you had descended the treetops. Though Achilles had done most of his training, you’d also been enough of a presence in his life to be a second mentor when you came by, and grew to be an even closer friend. “I was beginning to think the worst when you didn’t write back. Come. Let us check the snares.”
You both lead yourselves further out the forest, back towards the border of the Homestead. Connor tells you what he’s done so far while you’d been away; recruitments, marshaling intelligence with Aveline in Louisiana, and restrengthening the foundations of the Colonial Brotherhood again.
Achilles would be proud, you’d told, and after he’d gathered and skinned his game, and quietly made headway back home, finally caved.
“Shay Cormac,” Connor begins curiously. “What is he to you?”
“He’s an--”
“Idiot,” you murmur, in an undertone that buries into the Captain’s very marrows. “…You should’ve left me behind.”
Never, is the instinctive thought. Then, bitterly: Aye, I should’ve left you a long time ago— In the bloody past; as I had done with the Brotherhood.
“That so?” Shay says instead, between the battledrum of alarum in his ears. His words are surely wavering from the crippling panic, but he has to keep you conscious for as long as he can. A buck-shot in the gut is too dangerous to let you fall asleep on. “An’ why’s that?”
You still feel the warmth of his palm around your nape, holding you close and safe and secure to his chest; where you can hear the rampant thundering of his heart. He’d done this before, once upon a time, neath the tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, when you two were everything but—
“Enemies,” you shiver. The bloodloss has you feeling cold. “We’re enemies, Shay.”
And yet.
Here you are. In the arms of a Templar; the sworn enemy.
For weeks during the hunt you’d teased him on the irony; how God must’ve been playing a cruel joke on him to have to chase turncoats of his own Order. You can hardly piece together how or when this truce even came to be. Something about both of you going after Templar-turned-mercenaries, except his intent had been borne out of duty, and yours out of vengeance for a late friend.
“Aye,” he laments. “That we are, dove.” Then, chidingly, “An’ still y’took the bloody shot for me.”
Your laugh is sudden. Weak.
Wet with blood and barely a whisper, really. And if Shay hadn’t known you as intimately, then he might not have heard it at all— but he does, and so he did. “Well, I must surely be dying, then.” Your winsome smile is damningly red, and so, so tired. “I haven’t heard you call me that in…”
Ages, you mean to continue, beginning to slip from him. When we were on the same side.
Shay calls your name. It’s distant. Underwater. Vibrating from the hollow of his high-collared throat you’re tucked firmly against, and travelling like a soothing frisson into your aching bones. You’re drifting, unmoored, somewhere between a sea of blinding pain and of numbness; of the waking world and the dreaming.
“No, no, none’a that, c’mon. Y’can’t go to sleep yet, dove,” he hurries. “Eyes on me, now, aye? Attagirl.”
Had they been closed? You didn’t realise. The world’s tilted and swaying at an angle, and you can’t recall just how long you’ve been fighting to stay awake the moment Shay had whisked you away in his arms after the firefight you’d both encountered. It’d been an ambush. You’d caught the silver glint of a flintlock in the starlit night, and a blink later, you’re lying in a puddle of red where Shay should have been instead.
(Instinct. It’d been instinct to take the hit. You’d have done it ten times over, because you’re a fool like that. Somewhere in the blurry haze, you think you can hear Liam grumbling defiantly over your shoulder like he always used to do when you came to Shay’s defense.)
Y’bloody amadán, Shay had scrambled, looking the most terrified you’d ever seen him. Why’d you fuckin’ do that?!
“Why not?” you answer him now, delirious from the bloodloss. You’ve carefully been deposited onto a cot, it seems. A silhouette shifts quickly about the room. The air clots thick with the disgusting tang of metal and the sharp salt-winds of the sea. It makes you want to heave.
“Because if y’do, then I won’t see those pretty eyes’a yours, dove,” Shay replies, smart as ever. “Come now, keep talkin’ t’me, aye? Y’know I like hearing your beautiful voice.”
Liar, you hiss. At least, you think you do. Every sense in your body is guttering wildly between nothingness and white-hot pain. You want to tell him everything hurts. That your stomach feels flayed and you want the pain to stop. You want to tell him that you’re fucking terrified; that you don’t want to die. You want to tell him everything. Anything. I missed you. I hate you. I’m sorry. I love— I don’t love you. Why did it have to be this way? Why did you go? Please, don’t go. Not again.
“Thought y’wanted me to leave y’behind, dove?” comes his answer. Had you spoken aloud? There’s a thread of dry amusement in the low timbre of his words. You recognise the raw fear in them, regardless. It’s crept to the hazel-brown of his eyes.
“Hey, look at me. Doctor’s gonna keep your body an’ soul together, aye?” He must have pulled a chair to your side sometime earlier, wherever it is you are now, because he’s come to meet your half-lidded gaze in a doting hush. “S’alright, m’not goin’ anywhere. Y’have my word. Just stay awake, dove. Stay with me.”
Stay with me. You try to recall why that sounds so familiar.
“Hey, hey. Eyes open,” he reminds you, voice faint as the Doctor makes quick work with removing every musket ball embedded in your flesh. The shot had been poor; a desperate attempt at a final, killing blow. It’d fortunately only clipped through your side as you shoved Shay from the crossfire.
When you writhe at the surgical digging, let out a whine that’s caught between a pitiful cry and a howl— “I know, I know,” Shay breathes, all teeth and grit and grief as he muscles you back down. He couldn’t flat out say, you’re gonna be alright, you’ll pull through, because he couldn’t lie to save his own life— much less yours.
It’s inadequate, but it’s all he can offer you as he cradles your face and pets your hair, “Lord above, it should’a been me. I’m sorry, dove. I’m so sorry.”
Your eyes go dazed and faraway as your head lulls. You think you hear the Doctor saying something about your strength failing, beneath the gossamer cloud of the void. “Shay?”
“M’right here, dove.”
I’m glad it wasn’t you.
His hands are trembling from adrenaline. When had he removed his gloves? You suppose it doesn’t matter. You like it when he touches you. You like the feel of him swiping at the strands across your forehead, of him thumbing away the tear running down your cheek. There’s something about seeing the tender side of him again that makes you feel safe, underneath all the split knuckles and the rough around his edges. It reminds you of—
“—Home.” You choke back your tears, but they well anyway when you abruptly plead, blindly reaching for him between the marbling spots in your vision, “I want— I want to go home.”
Something splinters in Shay’s heart. You’re reduced to a dizzy, disoriented mess of homesickness, mumbled between sharp, staccato breaths: Nostalgia for the docks. Back in New York. Days of youth, with Liam. When the three of you were young and dumb and free, and neither the Brotherhood nor the Order had stood between you all. When war and bloodshed and being torn asunder sounded like the makings of a bad dream.
“Aye, love, we’ll go. We’ll go, then,” he soothes. There’s a burn licking up the back of his eyes as your grip in his hands begin to loosen. His voice rasps like stone. Liam is long gone. Home is gone. Now it seems you might be taken from him, too. Surely this lie, great as it is, wouldn’t count against him; not when it’s meant to give you a measure of peace?
“We’ll take the Morrigan, an’ we’ll set sail. Might even let you steer ‘er yourself, how about that? We’ll spot a whale or two. Y’ever seen one’a those? You just— Just stay with me, aye? Stay with me, love, please. Just a little longer.”
Stay with me, he’d said, that time you’d first crossed paths with him following his apparent death. You remember now. It’d been like meeting a phantom. Please. We can save the world together.
“I can’t, Shay,” you reply, then; Now. “I can’t.”
The world dips into dark.
Shay doesn’t pray, but it’s a very close thing.
He isn’t exactly the type. He thinks he ought to, though, for someone as warforged and broken as him. But repentance had been more his Ma’s thing, as far as he remembers being told of her Catholicism. The gold cross he inherited is just that. Memorabilia. A vestigial haunt of the past. A slow, tightening noose around his neck—
A lot like you.
“If she breaks the fever, she may just make it,” the Doctor had said. “You’re lucky you got her down to me quick enough.”
I make my own luck, comes the lightning reflex. But he catches himself. Glances at you in the cot. Your pulse is as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, chest rising and falling so minutely he had to keep making sure you’re still breathing to calm himself.
You’ve been balancing the tightrope for days; Threading the needle. This is far from lucky.
He shifts his collar, unclasps the cross from his neck, and closes it gently into your palm. It isn’t him who needs a miracle, after all, and repentance does not fit the likes of Shay Cormac.
Revenge does.
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou are not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
— John Donne, “Death Be Not Proud”
You wake, and sleep, and wake, and sleep.
Between it all, Shay’s voice croons like an interlude. Shifting in the peripherals of your diaphanous, muslin-thin haze somewhat like an angel, incandescent with righteous fury smouldering in his eyes. He promises home. He promises justice. He promises divine retribution. Fallen, you correct yourself. A fallen angel.
You glean the Morrigan’s been anchored at Port La Joye for nearly a week, after you’re able to reconcile your left from right and your dreams from reality.
The crew are good, honest, working men. Fathers who have daughters; brothers who’ve sisters; sons of mothers. Shay runs a tight ship, but he’s made sure to not involve and tie them into Templar-Brotherhood shadow business, you gather, because they rejoice once they see you back on your feet (“Glad to see ye right as rain, lass! So will the Cap’n. Never seen his face lookin’ white as a ghost before.” “More like Hell on earth! Ach, I pity th’ poor souls he’s after, truly.”), and more than willingly help you with filling in the blanks of the timeline from when you’d been shot back in Halifax and untethered from existence.
Then it takes another 3 days before the Captain returns to his ship—
And only a mere second to cross the distance between you two once he sees you, idle in his quarters.
“You’re awake,” Shay breathes, as if he’d just breached a terrible tidal wave; as if seeing you is like daybreak after a seastorm. “You’re—”
“Please tell me that’s not your blood, Cormac.”
He blinks. Takes in the dread reflected in your eyes. Right. He’d hunted down the scents of the remaining Templar turncoats that’d slipped from him back in Yarmouth and, like a starving hound to fresh meat, had slaughtered them as a farmer would a voluntary culling. “Aye,” he agrees, grimly. “None’a it’s mine.”
His face is practically drenched with dark splatters, and his usual calm temperament has gone withdrawn. In the dim, swinging lantern light, he looks like the slow-crawl beginning of a ghost story. “I take it they’ve all been… handled.”
Shay doesn’t skip the bitterness in your tone. “I would’ve saved y’one,” he replies, “For y’to avenge your friend yourself. But it’s not like y’were in any condition.”
A seemingly endless moment passes.
“Thank you, Shay.”
He winces.
“Don’t— thank me, for murder.” Shay knows enough about himself to still find the act of killing repulsive, however much he had an affinity for it, or so Haytham constantly liked to claim. (He hasn’t yet managed to shake out the way the turncoats begged and bayed for mercy; hasn’t yet silenced Adéwalé’s final words those years ago—)
“I mean for saving me,” you correct, pointedly. “I’m not the type to appreciate people killing in my name.”
Shay drops his shoulders at that. Hadn’t realised just how tense he’d been. The long weeks of voyage, fretting over you, and the blind pursuit for reve— justice— suddenly seemed to weigh on him. There are old aches he’s been ignoring that sting now, like angry, insistent contusions.
“I’ve set course back to New York,” he says, stiffly, unsure how else to inhabit the silence. “With the winds an’ a little bit’a luck, we’ll be there before winter.”
A beat.
You finally look at him. Truly look at him. Beyond the blood stains and the prickly defensive walls he’s put up since you’d first dealt the truce with him. Beyond the donned Templar uniform and the Captainship.
He’d been afraid, you realise. Has been. You try to imagine what it might’ve been like from his perspective; that it must have been terrifying to have been in his shoes, watching the last of his childhood friendships die out (and for him, no less); watching a piece of his heart d—
Shay is still. Glacially so.
There’s that post-adrenaline jitter in his eyes that you’re familiar with yourself; caught somewhere between fight-flight-freeze. Paralysed in survival mode. The ugly type that lingers after gruesome violence, and you’re left scorched with little else of your humanity but the animalistic remnants of raw, buzzing energy that leads you spiraling downwind if you don’t steady yourself quick enough.
(Sometimes, it’s so easy to forget Shay Cormac is just a man doing what he believes is right.)
“Christ,” you sigh, before reaching out to grab his lapels. You tug him to you, ignore the confusion in his eyes as you set him on his bed with a stubborn Sit down, Cormac, and draw a chair (the very same, you later note, that he’d sat in to watch over you through the restless nights when you’d been recovering) beside him.
“A little bit of luck?” you parrot, unimpressed. You toe the pail of fresh water prepared by the bedside closer to your feet, and reach in to wring the frayed cloth damp. “Don’t you make your own luck, Cormac?”
“You—” He elects to protest, but when your hand sets on his cheek demandingly, and you begin to clean away the blood splatters and cruor on his face, he finds the words fail to take shape.
Shay should stop this. It’s the right thing to do. Neither of you owe each other anything now. He had saved your life as you did his; the scales are balanced. Scores even. Debts repaid. With this distance, this proximity— knees bumping against knees, face inches apart— all it would take to cut down another crucial pillar of the Brotherhood is a swift blade to the jugular.
He could be done with it. He could be done with you. He—
—wants to kiss your palm.
When had been the last time the both of you had trusted each other enough to be this vulnerable? Unarmed. Armours off. Skin against skin. Nothing but the hope, the blind faith, that the other wouldn’t strike at the open opportunity?
Shay finds himself leaning into your touch near imperceptibly, instead.
You press your palm to his jaw, thumb at the scar below his eye. His gloved hand circles your wrist, relishing in the pulse, the warmth—
“You’re alive,” he finally manages. Chants it in his head, practically, like Church prayer and hymn, along with the rest of his rioting thoughts that’s unspooling like yarn: of doldrums, how still the sea gets, how his Da used to tell him the calm is the most dangerous kind of waters to sail. He thinks of how still you had been, boneless in his arms and slack on the cot with nothing but blood on your face and stomach and hands.
Then he thinks of his Ma, too; (She must’ve been like that after he’d been born. Motionless. Still.) And is reminded of the gospel his Aunt once read to him on a lown Sunday: of the tale of Lazarus, who’d been raised from the dead with nothing but words. Shay thinks of you here, now, resurrected; has half the mind to properly worship God again like you’d been a miracle come to life.
But calling it a miracle would’ve been generous. You fought to live.
“I must sound crazy,” Shay swallows, awkwardly.
Your eyes dart between the bob of his Adam’s apple and the seam of his lips so quickly he could’ve been imagining it.
“No, not really.” You tear your gaze away, soak and wring the cloth from the tinges of dull crimson. “I know a little bit of what it’s like to see a ghost too, remember?”
1756. When Shay had all but abandoned the Brotherhood, and you’d gasped out a plea while you tried to intervene Chevalier from firing right at him— and then, reappearing the year afterwards like an apparition, except this time you had called out for him in a whisper of nervous recognition. You’re alive.
Shay Cormac is your ghost just as much as you’re his.
You move to take his hand, carefully remove his gloves to clean the split knuckles, the old scabs. The dried blood sitting in the cracks and crevices of his palms, his fingernails. (Pontius Pilate, Shay shudders. Are you absolving him, he wonders? Or had he lost your forgiveness the day he decided to turn his back to the Brotherhood?)
“Y’don’t have to do this,” he rasps, and very nearly tags dove at the end of it. “Not for me.”
“You’re right,” you hum. “I don’t.”
You don’t stop. Shay just sits and stares at you. The lantern illuminates above you like a proverbial halo, and Shay takes the opportunity to admire; to carve into memory every divot and slope of your face lest he never gets the chance again.
“You’re—”
“Don’t,” you say, teeth set at the familiar tone.
—Beautiful, he doesn’t get to say. Angelic. “Alive.”
“Yes,” you patiently say. “I am.”
He’s bruised and scratched and sweating from the exertion of his manhunt, now looking at you in that deep, soulful way you’ve always known him for— but his expression, you notice, is open and unbearably, unrepentantly soft.
“Before I forget.” The cloth is returned into the bucket, and you lean back to your seat to reach your collar. His Ma’s gold cross finds its way back to him.
“Y’needed it more than I,” he says.
You huff. It’s a far cry of your trademark smile. Shay hangs onto the rare sight of it regardless. “Well, not anymore. Besides, isn’t it the faithless who need it most?”
Shay isn’t quite sure how to answer.
But he settles on just saying “Aye,” because declaring It’s you who makes me believe in God would’ve been too candid.
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.
— John Donne “A Hymn to God the Father”
“--old friend of mine.”
“He wanted to kill the old man.”
“No,” you scold, in the most motherly way you can summon. “Haytham wanted to kill Achilles. It was Shay who convinced him otherwise.”
“It changes nothing. He is still a Templar, and a traitor.”
You wince at that. Connor notices. “Yes, as so everyone often likes to remind me. But Shay Cormac was my friend first. We grew up together in New York.”
Now that. That he hadn’t known. He hadn’t gathered your relationship with the Captain may have predated even your allegiance with the Brotherhood.
Unbidden, Connor couldn’t help but think of Kanen’tó:kon. Of what and how much he would give to go back to simpler times. “I understand,” he says, at last.
“Yes. It’s hard not to care,” you admit, as the Homestead came into view. Your hand settles on your stomach, where the healing pockmark wound of the killshot still marrs your flesh in taut, pale scar-tissue. Connor eyes the movement. “Quit looking at me like that,” you say, put out by his scrutiny.
“Like what?”
Like Haytham; like Achilles. Like I’m a turncoat. “Like I’m pregnant,” you blurt, offended. “I was shot in the stomach, Connor. Are you touched in the head?”
“I’m not,” he retorts childishly, wrinkling his nose. (It makes you wonder if it’s a trait of one, or an elision of both his parents.) “If we cross paths with Shay Cormac again—” he begins to deflect, and oh, now he truly is sounding like the Haytham Kenway and Achilles Davenport you knew—
“I came to that realisation long before you have, Connor,” you cut, in a manner which meant for him to tread lightly. But he’s a Kenway through and through, and states, boldly: “Yet here you stand, by his mercy.”
You frown. Land softly from off a bough and into the glittering snowbank beside him. In hindsight, it isn’t unfair for Connor to question your loyalty. You hadn’t yet confessed to him you’d been the first one to act out of turn and warrant Shay’s indebtedness, after all.
“Speak plainly, Kenway.” You needn’t tell him twice. Connor is not one to skirt the edge or beat around the bush.
“I think--”
“Any closer, an’ you’ll fall overboard,” warns Shay. “Won’t save y’a next time around.”
But he figures you might not care at all, and he couldn’t blame you: Beyond the stern a lovely gam of whales have been breaching the white-capped waves, playfully trailing after the Morrigan’s wake in delightful song, where you listen, enthralled; captivated.
“I might just,” he hears you lament to yourself. “Oh, I wish I could take one home.”
There’s a small, sincere smile on your face that you’re not completely letting him see, but—
Jesus, Mary an’ all the Saints, Shay admires. You’re heaven-sent.
All of the Morrigan thinks so too. Not even a week into the voyage, the crew had taken to their new lady-guest with welcoming arms, and Shay’s never had the pleasure of witnessing his merry band of seamen trip over their own heels trying to make your sail back home as comfortable and hospitable as can be until now. You recover, and acclimate well and swiftly, so it’s no surprise they like you;
The easygoing angel-face who could not only take a joke but could also give one, who isn’t soft to fierce thunderstorms nor spoiled rotten to turn your nose up at hardtack; who offers sage advice on their womanly woes and whispers embarrassing tales of their rough-around-the-edges Captain every now and then when the sun beat too hard.
Shay allows the tongue-in-cheek jabs, ofcourse. He claims so on the pretense of boosting good morale— really, he just likes listening to your voice; especially when it meant you spoke of him in that wistful manner he hadn’t heard in years: fond, and so charged with… something.
“Childhood friends with Cap’n, eh?” Someone had mused, one sluggish, warm sunrise. “Nothin’ else beyond that, m’lady? What? Oh, come off it, Hoskins— I may not be her type, but she’d surely never give your sorry face a chance!”
“We’re—” you’d caught Shay’s wandering eye from the helm. “—friends,” you allowed, between the crew’s jostling. “Until New York, that is.”
Shay had held your gaze until you turned away.
It isn’t as if the atmosphere between you two is cold, though neither is it exactly pleasant. It’s been cordial, and amicable, and perfectly courteous, yes— but there’s something high-strung in the air even the salt-winds couldn’t cut through, and any man aboard with sense and a working pair of eyes could see it.
(“Ach, friends?!” Came a whisper that late night. It was the Morrigan’s Navigator, their most keen-eyed; it seems, even in people. “I been tellin’ yous since we left port, mates: No man comes back bleedin’ like the Devil ‘imself and suffers like the Cap’n did for their own glory. To him, she’s worth the pain, and twice more.”)
Howbeit, he’ll take what he can get, Shay supposes. An unspoken agreement seemed to have solidified that the usual back-and-forth arguing from when you’d both first started the truce would be pointless now, and most of all useless on your trip back. That means conversations are brief and civil, but it’s far better than animosity or being completely ignored.
“Fancy havin’ a go of the Morrigan?” Shay offers out of the blue, amid an uneventful afternoon. It’s more a measured, wary gesture of banter. Then, before you can decline; “C’mere,” he reaches for your hand, guides you to stand between him and the steer. “Go on, she doesn’t bite.”
“Shay, this is a terrible idea.”
“Y’survived a gunshot, lass,” he snorts as he settles you at the helm. “You’ll be alright. I’m here.”
(A flash of memory. Hands caressing your cheek. M’right here, dove.)
It takes little to notice his nebulous presence step up close behind you. “Heavier than it looks, aye?” Shay hums, gently ghosting the edge of your wrists. The heat of him stirs something deep in your chest. “But be easy, still. She isn’t a horse y’can yank. Go with the currents; there shouldn’t be too much give.”
A tentative, studious moment passes. When he’s satisfied—
“Attagirl.”
—he pulls away. Shifts to lean casually against the guardrail facing you. All that fills the sea air now is the creak of the Morrigan, the flap of canvas, and the echo of his saccharine praise in your ears, drowned out by the droll of the crew singing Leave Her Johnny.
You try not to feel the way his eyes unabashedly linger on your face.
“I always wondered how you ever knew which direction you’re going. It’s just a horizon to me.”
He cocks his head to the sun. “Rises east to west. See where it’s setting? That means west is dead ahead. Y’keep the sun just off your left shoulder— or portside— an’ you’ll stay on course.”
“And when night falls?”
“Compass. Constellations guide our way too. I’d show y’tonight, but,” he turns over his shoulder, where a smatter of clouds in the distance have begun to look like trouble. “Storm might be brewin’.”
You’ve seen the celestial maps that Faulker had gifted Connor once upon a time, when he’d gotten the Aquila repaired. “Polaris? The North Star.”
He raises his brows, impressed. “That’s one of ‘em, aye.”
“Aye, Captain,” you narrow.
“Oh, you’re learnin’, y’are,” he twits, unruffled. He strides over to set his tricorn on your head, and you roll your eyes when he crosses his arms with a satisfied look. “There. Don’t y’look a right gentle-woman, Captain?”
“It’s loose. Your head must be abnormally huge, Cormac.”
“I fancy that’s just ‘cause I’m smarter than you, Captain.”
You turn your nose up playfully. “Fishes live in the sea,” you begin to recite in challenge. “As men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.”
And had Shay been in a sour mood he might’ve taken the passing jab at the Order more personally— but how could he? The dusk light has broken through, painting you saffron and ethereal, limning you in saint-like radiance.
For a treacherous moment, he allows himself to imagine he isn’t harboring an Assassin of the Brotherhood; that Shay Cormac is just a Captain, and you are just his— friend? His lady? His passenger? (Whatever it is; anything but an enemy.)
“Let me guess,” he says instead. “John Donne? No? Plato, then.”
“William Shakespeare, actually,” you smile, triumphant, and it’s a sun-bright sight: warm and beautiful and soft. “Though, I must say, I’m impressed.”
“Impressed?” he exclaims, although he couldn’t hold heat to it— you’re happy, after all, and he can’t help but smile too. “An’ what’s that supposed to mean, then?”
You shrug in faux-nonchalance. “Didn’t take Shay Cormac to be such a learned poet, is all.”
“Aye? You’re the one who’s all high-society—”
“Oh? Enlighten me, please, when have I ev—?”
Your musical laugh is cut short.
You yelp.
The Morrigan had lurched, sails having caught rogue wind, and before you register it—
A hand over yours on the helm; chest firmly behind your back.
(Heart against heart.)
Shay has steadied you.
(…That lightning reflex has always been such a frustratingly attractive feat of his.)
“S’alright,” he soothes, voice going a low, fetching timbre. His words ghost above your shoulder, eagle eyes trained on the luffing sails. “Rogue wind, is all.”
Shay stays, this time. Steadfast as a plinth. Rooted behind you like a Cypress tree. His other hand tentatively slides a lick of fire from your elbow and up your forearm, until it finds its rest on yours. It’s rough, firm. As expansive as the broad of his solid chest fitting like a perfect puzzle against your spine, where he’s dipped his head just a little to accommodate the height difference as he speaks:
“Easy, now… Jus’ a few degrees.”
He’s a looming tower. A formidable force. Shay Cormac has always been able to inhabit and command an entire room with nothing but his sheer presence, and here you are—
Caged, yet again, between the space of his unyielding arms.
A pleased hum— mmh— rumbles from the hollow of his throat and travels through you. It’s dizzying. Fogs all rational thought in your mind. Makes it wander, elsewhere, to a distant time you heard him groan it when you’d touched his bare flesh—
“Attagirl,” he praises.
Something zips through your nerves.
Christ. He must be doing that deliberately, you think (or hope?), because it’d be far more eliciting otherwise. That gravel-deep undertone that seeps into your skin and makes your blood run rampant. Surely— surely, he could feel the thunderdrum of your heart beating into his own ribcage too, from how he’s sidled— pressed— stood— his weight securely against you.
“You talking to me, or your Morrigan?” you try to deflect, and you hope to God he hadn’t heard the tremble of your voice. The yen.
“You, dove. Ofcourse.”
Later, amid a friendly round of Liar’s Dice with the crew, you think (or rather, come to a conclusion) that that may have been the tipping point. In him calling you dove; that sanguine lilt in his tone, blanketed by the air of casual off-handedness: Shay hadn’t noticed at all that the petname had even slipped out his tongue— it was second nature.
Who is so safe as we? where none can do
Treason to us, except one of us two.
- John Donne, "The Anniversary"
The thunderstorm had passed without too-destructing an effect. The crew escapes waterlogged, but it’s hardly the worst; they’ve faced fiercer weathers and conditions than a bad lashing. You’d gone out of your way yourself, much to Shay’s disproval, disappearing below deck to help with the wounded and with fastening any loose cargo from tipping over. In the aftermath, the crew had managed to cajole their Captain into allowing them reprieve in rum stored from the hold.
“Go on, lass, sing a song for us!” someone suggests to you, when the last of the pour had passed, and the sky cleared into a cloudy, starlit night. There’s a chorus of excited agreement: “A lullaby, perhaps?” ; “Bet you’ve a lovely voice, m’lady!” ; “Aye! Don’t shirk repayment, miss.”
“Boys,” Shay says, by way of warning.
They shrink quickly.
And you couldn’t stop but colour warmly at that; the hair-trigger instinct of his when it comes to— well, you. He hadn’t said a word until now. Shay meets your gaze then; knows you aren’t the performative type, not even when you were children.
But you let him see your quiet smile. It’s sincere.
“I suppose I do owe you good folks a song or two for your labours,” you say, peaceably, and make way to the mainmast to bow theatrically as they rejoice. “And to the Captain, for doing good on his promises to me throughout the voyage so far, despite my… being trouble.”
Shay laughs. It’s a small sound of assent as he nods his head to you from where he’s leant starboard.
You’re not in your usual mufti of assassin robes in favor of the wet weather: you’d forsook your leather boots after they’d overflowed with rain, and you’d turned to layering the cotton raiments of a usual sailors outfit so you wouldn’t be weighed down too heavily as you busied in the belly of the Morrigan.
Regardless, the crew take to you as they always do, hanging onto every word you sing like dazzled sailors to a siren song— rapt with attention as they clap and stamp and cheer along to your coltish, barefeet song and dance: To Téir abhaile ‘riú, to The Jolly Beggars, to Spanish Ladies, and a number of other unheard shanties or cantatas you’ve picked up from your worldly travels.
Then, when you’d grown tired—
“Very well, then,” you yield, “But the Captain shall pick the last song. So, what shall it be; happy or sad?”
A beat.
“Sad,” Shay decides.
You hum. “Alright. But I’ll warn you; it’ll break your heart.”
And perhaps it’s the alcohol rendering him loose-lipped— but Shay had huffed out a weak laugh, and with a defeated shake of his head, muttered: “Already broken.”
You don’t know what to say. You never have— not when faced with Shay and his frustrating habit to wear nothing but naked truth upon that weary, scarred face of his.
You don’t know what to say; so you stand on the crate leant against the spar instead, and begin the slow croon of The Parting Glass as a drizzle begins to fall. A lament; a bid farewell to sailors and friends and comrades and enemies.
Shay watches you throughout it all. Basks in you, practically. Of too-old times and bygones and things he can’t take back.
God must be cruel, he reflects, To punish me with a woman so beautiful upon my ship, an’ have her want nothing to do with me.
“Should be 2 days before we port to New York, with the winds carryin’ us,” he informs you, after applauding your stellar performance. He had moved towards the eddying crowd sometime during your song. “Get some rest, aye?”
He offers a hand to help you down your stand.
(Ever the gentleman.)
It’s an excuse to touch you; And a greedy part of him wants to hold on forever— but he watches you go in the end. It feels like wherever you touch him glows.
(Shay can’t help but flex and unflex his hand.)
In Gist’s absence, his Quartermaster claps him on the back instead. “Looks to me another lashin’ll be comin’ down. Lay your head to rest, Cap’n, why don’t you? We got it from ‘ere,” he says, “An’ spare yourself the grief, brother. Go talk to her.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about,” Shay brushes off.
“Well then, don’t talk.”
“What?”
“Y’heard me.”
“Shut your gob,” Shay says flatly, in the way he’s learned from Haytham how not to allow anyone to get a rise out of him. But he finds himself trailing after you, anyway.
“Hello, Captain,” you greet, when he’d stepped into his cabin he’d given up to you for privacy. “Or shall I say broken-hearted man?”
“I prefer Shay,” he says, only barely managing to reign in: When it comes to you.
You hum. Run your fingers through your half-damp hair to untangle the snarls. Shay idles by the Mercator globe, lit under sull moonlight shining through the sea-weathered bay windows. For all his repertoire of being a ruthless hunter, and for all the way he seems to be able to cut a mean, menacing figure under that damning scar of his and his Captain’s gear—
He looks out of place in his own cabin. Perhaps because you haven’t exactly seen him inside of it since he’d lent it to you, but even then, he looks almost slightly… out of place. The quarters is a charming, comfortable nook under the helm; sparse yet graciously spacious in a way all Sloop-of-Wars tended to be. Pieces of Shay catch and cling in its corners:
Anthologies, novels and an old hardback bible collecting dust on a bookshelf by the red chaise; A navigation desk with tools and notes in his handwritten-scrawl of bearings, strewn over fading nautical charts— all carefully arranged in a way it didn’t scatter over to the simple bed by its side.
(Not that it matters, you’d thought, the first time he let you in here. The bed had kept its firmness because it’s hardly been slept on. Shay must have preferred the canvas hammock he’d strung up in the other corner of the room, the true seaman he is.)
All this to say: Sleeping in here alone throughout your voyage these countless nights, with nothing but the lap of ocean waves and the droll of the Morrigan— it feels alot like a glimpse into the barebones of Shay Cormac’s soul.
A manifestation of his sea-pelagic loneliness.
“Hope you’re not looking for a private song,” you say, carefully, unravelling the long sleeves of your sailor’s shirt-turned-chemise. The size is comically large on you, but it’s comfortable.
Shay starts. Blinks. He hadn’t calculated trailing in after you would’ve immediately been taken as a come-on, but he wasn’t about to risk stumbling through an awful explanation over himself. “I… wanted to talk.”
“Well,” you uncross your hands, lean back at his desk. “I owe you as much.”
“Y’don’t owe me anything,” he replies, quickly. It’s honest. “We evened the scales back in Halifax. I…”
“Yes?” you say, after the silence had stretched a moment.
“I think I just wanted to see you,” Shay admits, on an exhale. “Before y’go.”
Go. How final it sounds, in spite of the 2 days that remain. “Funny,” you say, tracing the gridlines of a discarded map to distract yourself from just how… raw this conversation is; where it seems to be heading. “I imagined you had your fill of me long before I even ended up— broken on your ship.”
“We were allies, once,” Shay says dutifully, as measured as he could. He hadn’t said friends, nor lovers, but you find, for some reason, that it stings more that way.
“Once,” you repeat, keenly, blinking long enough to picture the Homestead in its prime: of Liam, Hope, Kesegowaase, Chevalier, Achilles, Adéwalé. “And then again, at Halifax, in a way.” He watches you hesitate before continuing. “What does that make us now?”
You don’t ask Or in two days? Because you don’t think you’re ready to hear an answer for that yet. (Shay is glad you hadn’t. He wouldn’t have been ready either.)
“A Captain, an’ a passenger,” he says, pragmatically. But there’s nothing rational about the rattle in his bones from the sight of the cotton blouse you still haven’t had the chance to change out of, damp still from the rain, and sticking to your dimly-lit silhouette at the seams.
He tramples the thought. It’s natural to confuse nerves for— yen. “And to you?” he asks.
“A broken woman,” you begin, light and humorous when you lift your shirt to show the bandages around your abdomen. He wonders, privately, if you’d caught him staring earlier. “On the ship that belongs to a broken-hearted man, apparently.”
“We were both broken a long time ago,” Shay says, resolute.
“Is that what you think?” you ask, something genuinely surprised and pensive in your eyes. “Is that why we… never actually happened?”
Something in his chest lurches.
(Happened, by way of meaning: Something that could’ve been serious; could’ve been true. Something that went beyond clandestine trysts and touchy dalliances under everyone’s nose in the Brotherhood before—)
“I…” Shay inhales. It’s strained. “…How much have y’had to drink, dove?
Dove. You purse your lips, a dry laugh bubbling from you. “What a darling you are,” you say, bemused. (You're glad the lantern light is dim enough to hide your shy fiddling.) “Making sure I’m not going to say anything I regret, hm?”
“Or do. Aye.”
“I had one bottle, Shay. And I’ve had plenty of time recently to realise that rarely do I ever regret alot of things when it involves you.”
“Liar,” he snipes, if only to curb that tide of dangerous affection in his stomach, and the unbidden memories where both of you would fold against each others arms in countless, restless nights from before.
“Which part?” You raise your brows, and when he’d tilted your head to give you a look that roughly translated to All of it, obviously, you snort critically. “I don’t regret you ever coming into my life since we were children. Nor taking this bullet—”
He seems to bite his tongue in a flinch.
“—But I do regret not being drunk enough now to forget my own terrible performance just then.”
“I told y’the first time y’were here,” he reminds: “Y’have a beautiful voice.”
Reflexive, again. As if he always teeters the water’s edge; Could never hold back from the truth— could never hold back from you. It makes something hot stick in your throat. “And how much have you had to drink, Captain?”
“Not nearly enough.”
Something charged passes in the air.
Shay shifts to move towards you. It’s hesitant. Tentative. The Morrigan creaks underneath his slow stride, until he stands a foot from you. His eyes are trained on the bindings beneath your threadbare blouse, hand hovering where the old blood had blotted through like a bastardised version of the Ursa Major constellation. “Y’put the heart crossways in me, y’know?”
You don’t say anything. (There’s nothing you can answer to that other than an apology, after all, and you aren’t in the habit of apologising for something you don’t regret.)
“Y’were so still,” Shay describes, going somewhere far away in his mind. It’s the softest you’ve ever heard him speak. An’ the waters were still, an’ so were the winds, an’ the world, an’ my heart. All of it. All but my mind. “I thought, for sure…”
He finds himself brushing his fingers against yours.
For a terrifying minute, the idea makes itself known.
“…We shouldn’t,” you say.
But you interlock your hands with his. Meet his gaze.
“We shouldn’t,” he agrees.
It would be a terrible, terrible thing. A betrayal to the Brotherhood and the Order each. It’d be a fork in the road; a turning point; a watershed moment. The same way his eyes opened to the truth after Lisbon: Tectonic plates coming together to herald nothing but destruction, when the world gave way beneath his feet into a— a divide. Between you and him. The Assassin-Templar shadow war, this gaping maw; the uncrossable—
“Dove,” Shay wavers, thumb smoothing behind your palm by way of quiet permission. “Are you… cold?”
Goosebumps line your skin. “Yes.”
—Crossed.
Kissing Shay Cormac feels like coming home.
Nostalgia comes in the slow, satisfied hum that carves out of his throat and into your parting lips; Homesickness in the way your nose fits like a slot perfectly against his, in the familiar sea-brine and bitter-rum taste of his tongue.
It’s deep and delicate and perfect. Akin to anchoring at your true port of call; your true North.
His free hand slips to cover the thin of your cheek curtained under your hair, honey-slow and shaking, as if he’s afraid you— he— would shatter at any moment.
“Tell me to go,” he shudders, between another breathless kiss that threatens what remains of his resolve. “Please, dove,” he rasps, voice as rough as stone from sheer restraint. “If y’don’t, if y’don’t want this—”
“Christ, no. I want you,” you pant, and press your face closer into his open hand. “Please.” Shay watches your long lashes flutter shut, watches you turn to kiss his palm with the kind of pious reverence you’d only see between candle-lit pews at Sunday Mass. “I’ve always wanted you, Shay.”
You’re looking up at him now with radiant hope: Doe-eyed, like a wicked siren calling him to a watery grave— to damnation.
Fuck.
He yields. (His emotions are never far from the surface these days— and when it comes to you? Always. Always.)
His lungs deflate. Shay dips his head back down to kiss you, purely fervid with the only longing to hold you. To shelter you. To protect you. “You’ll be the death of me, d’y’know?” he says. Confesses. Mouths the words against your jaw as he breathes in the rainy scent of you like it’s something sacrilegious.
“And the cold will be the death of me,” you jest, when he slides his hands up to peel the shirt off your wet skin, rivulets running from your hair down your navel, to where you’ve tugged your breeches off.
Shay loops a single, steady arm around you and lifts you onto the desk edge, all solid muscle and terrifying ease— it’s paralysingly attractive. A reminder of just how much that pristine, lean build of him belies the pure strength and utter brawn he possesses.
It’s that which does it for you. Zips arousal down your spine and kindles something primal in you.
(The Assassin Hunter, they call him. The Brotherhood’s Bane. No wonder.)
It shouldn’t have been a thrill to feel so subdued, pinned beneath him and his tenebrous gaze like a helpless animal waiting for a slaughter, and yet—
And yet.
(Ever the gentleman:)
“Let me, then,” Shay asks, ghosting his lips gently to your brow. So how could you not let him? When a Man of God sins for you? When a Templar Knight bends his creed just to kiss you; who cradles and covets you like you’re a very piece of Eden itself?
“Lemme take care’a you,” he repeats, brogue accent gone deliciously, sinfully thick from fervor. “Aye. I’ll warm y’up, dove, hm?”
Please do, you’d meant to answer, but you surged forward instead to meet him halfway. He is warm. Infernally so. Shay Cormac has always run hot as a blaze since you’d first met. A pillar of effervescent sunlight that had drawn you to him; the burn of his noble righteousness pouring out the cracks of his soul and through his skin, lighting him aflame and scalding those who never understood him the way you have.
(It makes you all the more desperate to disrobe him and cling onto him; to tuck yourself impossibly at the spaces between his ribs, burrow yourself into his beating heart. You want every iota and inch of him. You want him in a way that no word can possibly describe.)
“Shay,” you keen, seeking his mouth again. And to hear his name whispered like this— like a prayer coming from you; like saying my beloved, my heart, my God— Shay thinks he might just truly offer pieces of himself up to you on a silver platter. “Touch me.”
The plea is a strike of a match.
The tenderness melts away into something more ardent.
God, he shouldn’t be doing this. He truly shouldn’t—
You can feel the molten heat of him sinking into your very marrows when he presses against you, hard and eager; all while laving his tongue over your naked body, skin still wet and cooling from the storm’s wake. Shay’s ungloved hands are broad, smouldering— calloused from years spent climbing ashlar and knotting sails— abrasive enough to roughen you up, to curl at the base of your throat and to knead the flesh of your breasts.
Then they wander. Lower and lower; deliberately careful. While his mouth canvasses every dip and divot of your neck, his fingertips trace the margins of your tremulous body in tandem, skating over your hips and tugging off your thin underlinen, where he can feel, finally, the warmth of you— the soft, wet, seam of you.
“Jesus, fuck.” His voice is coarse. Laden with desire. Your noses bump when he leans his forehead to yours. All it takes to have you slick and needy is nothing but his blistering touches and open-mouthed kisses, it seems. “Already, dove?”
“I missed you,” you whine, tinny and saccharine. The concession has him groaning. Your left hand rakes up his nape and cards through his hair in anticipation; right hand a plinth to support your weight from the inevitable bliss he’s going to bring you to. “Please, Shay, please—”
He sinks one, gingerly, to the knuckle.
The gasp that escapes you is choked. Shay swallows it with a heady kiss. “Easy, now,” he grunts, ragged and humid, when you sidle your hips closer to the edge. “S’alright, dove. M’not goin’ anywhere. We got all night.”
We’ve got 2 days, you want to retort, but a pinched moan wrenches out of you instead. He’s pushed in another thick finger. The stretch makes your toes curl when he moves; makes him curse at the way he can feel you pulsing and pulling him in. If you’re this plush, this tight from his fingers alone—?
Shay feeds a third not long after. Works it in with effort. Mutters praises at your ear as he does so, teasing and rubbing your sensitive clit with his palm. Attagirl. Aye, y’doin’ so good for me, dove.
He watches, transfixed, at the glisten of his fingers as they noisily glide in and out of you, mouth watering at the lewd sight and sound he can draw out your body; mewling and writhing right infront of him, barely able to keep your eyes open or string your words coherently from sheer dizzying pleasure. Yes, Shay— Hah, yes— s’good. So good, please—
Ofcourse, it’s good. Shay’s touched you like this before. Hurried or unhurried; he’s memorised, intimately, how to pet and play and punish you. He knows where you’re weak: that lovely spot deep in your cunt he brushes with a perfect hook of his fingers— “Ah— fuck. Shay. Right there, yesyesyes—”, or the bare spot right below your jaw he enjoys marking up with a biting bruise— “You’re mine, dove. Mine alone. Y’hear?”
The hoarse sound of him makes you shiver. It’s brassy. Matches the malevolence he carries in presence even when he looks wrecked just from watching you be taken apart by his hands: broad chest rising and falling in deep breaths of your scent in the stifling air, underneath all the uniform layers of dark leather and glinting buckles.
(He looks like a hawk, a villain; raking his scarred eyes over fresh kill. The thought makes you stir. Sparks an old memory in your head from when he’d gone territorial over you in an old mission long ago, and he fucked you so hard you swore you’d be branded by every inch of him on the inside for the rest of your life.)
“You’re close,” Shay says. States. He knows. He always does. Recognises it in the feather-tremble of your body and the way you arch your back, clutching at his wrist (your hand is so small compared to his. Drives him fucking crazy—) as if you couldn’t tell whether you wanted him to stop or continue fingering you. “Aye, y’are, aren’t you?”
You nod mutely. Vision crossing. There’s nowhere for you to go, so you burrow your face against his throat like you want to hide from the world as you come undone.
Shay lets you. It’s an endearing moment, and he’s sweet like that. Even if he wants to study your face as you get off on grinding against his palm, even if he wants to swallow your tongue and every susurrus moan that he ekes out of you. He slides his hand up your spine and settles it there instead, holds you up when your own arm fails you and curls over his neck for support.
“So good, dove. So beautiful,” he whispers, at the scant space below your ear. Shay damn near smiles at the way the words involuntarily opens you further, allows his fingers to smooth and stroke and scissor— until your legs abruptly snap shut around his wrist like a vice, astrolade clattering to the floor from your blinding, seizing orgasm.
You’re gasping. Moaning. Twitching like a fragile fawn in his arms. “Shay— I— ah, ah—”
“Easy now, love,” he soothes, nuzzling at your temple.
The sight of you melting from your hot, silken climax prompts something primal— something instinctive in him. (Wolves, he imagines. Perhaps hounds. One’s already been satiated with having you fall apart because of him, the other still longs to shield you; to fold you into his arms and shelter you with whatever goodness is still left in his damned soul.)
He slides his soaking fingers out. A puff of a sigh escapes you. Relieved. Sated. “C’mere,” you mumble, blearily nosing forward for another kiss—
“S’alright,” he says, dodging you by resting his thumb on the dent beneath your lip. “Tell me to go, dove, an’ I will. I will. We don’t… we don’t have to.”
(There it is again. Taking care of you and leaving himself out to dry. Ever the gentleman. It makes your heart jump.)
“I want to,” you promise. Your voice dips into something dulcet; dangerous. “I’ve been wanting to.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
He swallows so hard you can hear the click in his throat.
“I’ve been wanting…” You trail off, grasp his hand holding your chin. He watches, rapt, as you splay his fingers apart, your slick still sticky between them, and then—
Press them into your mouth.
His ring finger. His middle.
It breaches past your bitten-red lips, slow and sinful, smarting against the wet glide of your curling tongue, coated in saliva as you suckle at the ichorous taste of them.
“Fuck, dove,” he says, and more inwardly: You’re a minx. Shay knows you. Knows you’re teasing him with his guilty pleasures; his oral fixations. The perverse texture and sound and feel of you: your tongue laving hungrily and sucking at your own slick, choking from his fingertips catching and going beyond your molars because of how far you insist on taking him.
It makes his cock twitch from the depravity; makes his skin simmer like a low-grade fever under his clothes. He wants to slip something else into that glorious, tight mouth of yours—
“Still cold, aye?” he rasps. Slides his fingers out the tight seal of your lips with an obscene pop. “Need somethin’ else to warm y’up, hm?”
He kisses you before you can reply. Brain-melting. Desperate. A low, amorous groan into you that roils your insides. Then you’re picked up— once more, by those delicious sailor arms of his— and deposited onto his bed like you weigh nothing.
Good God. “Christ, Shay, you’re…”
You falter, suddenly shy of all things. Here you are, naked and exposed with nothing save bandages around your stomach, supine and heaving on the untidy linen of his sheets— and you’re curiously, girlishly, timid over complimenting him.
It makes him laugh. Quiet. Airy. “Use your words, dove.”
But you’re too busy staring— ogling him where he stands at the foot of the bed. Shay’s undressing himself, patient and meticulous, and enjoying is an understatement for how you feel watching him divest and strip himself for you. (There’s something incredibly intimate about being allowed this, to witness him dismantle the precious armour— the defenses and image— he presents to the world.)
“Go on, then,” he croons, “What did y’want to tell me?”
Shay tugs his shirt over his head from the neckline. Swift. Smooth. When he crawls over you, unclothed, you think you finally understand the true, biblical epitome of temptation.
The sturdy contours of him, lean muscle cording across his torso and his vast arms; body smattered with forgotten scars and wounds both old and new that make him all the more roguishly handsome; the happy trail from his navel leading down to the heavy, leaking, length of him—
“Strong,” you concede, breath skittering when his shadow descends over you like doom itself, and he slowly settles some of his weight on your body. Your hands have wasted no time in pawing eagerly against his chest, gripping at his firm biceps when he smothers you with an indulgent kiss. “You’re so strong. I’ve always— mh— admired that about you.”
“Admired, aye?” It’s a teasing sound. A huff of sincere laughter ducked into your shoulder. He’s preening at the rare stroke of his ego, the bastard. “S’my hands all it takes to have y’this sweet on me?”
“Shut up,” you bite your grin, feel the blood rush to your cheeks again. “You’re insufferable.”
“You’re perfect.”
Your heart stutters. Skips. Stumbles. Then Shay kisses you, sweet and brimming with loving affection— and kisses and kisses and kisses. Hand cupping your cheek, and the other stroking at your nape. The type that’s full of utter devotion: like you’re salvation; the only person capable of ever delivering him utter Absolution.
Shay digs his fingers into the meat of your thighs, sangfroid, and begins to pry them apart.
You can feel the hard length of him throb, tip spitting prespend against your navel.
“Shay,” you call out, tugging at his hair when he tongues the swell of your breast and latches to your nipple, gropes at the other with a rumbling groan he couldn’t seem to bite back.
“Aye?” he says, before pulling away entirely in a worried blink, “Your stitches. Did I—?”
“No, it’s not that,” you say, meeting his concerned gaze and his touch running over your bandages. “I just, I’m not— It’s been awhile since—”
Oh. Oh. “S’alright,” he reassures, taken aback by the way his own lungs unwillingly expand from the new knowledge; the sudden rush of appetite flooding him. “Been some time for me too, dove.” He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, and gives you the thousandth kiss of the night. “Jus’ tell me if I’m hurtin’ you, aye?”
(Ever the—)
“Gentleman,” you smile, petal-soft. You press a chaste, delicate kiss on his cheek, at the crooked scar splitting it.
Something basal rattles in him at the tenderness. Startles a flutter of sparrows in his chest.
And then—
You curl your fingers around the base of him.
Shay jerks with a start. Hisses something guttural in Gaelic. “Fuck, dove—” He ruts forward, face digging to the crown of your head, where you’ve taken to licking at his jugular: tasting the masculine, heady sweat of him as you squeeze his cock.
Shay can feel the molten heat of your folds splitting at the nudge of his weeping head.
He might ruin you.
(He wants to. Greedily. To fuck you until you see the stars of Cassiopeia beneath your eyelids; until everytime you swore loyalty to that damned, wretched Creed of yours, all you would ever remember— ever feel— is how full you were when you were taking Templar cock.)
But he’s a restrained, merciful man for all his notoriety of pitiless bloodshed. A distinct dissonance; a paragon of irony. It’s hardly a surprise, really, if you think about it.
Shay Cormac is a Man of God, and men of God are raised to deliver only two extremes: grace and retribution.
So he’ll be gracious. Generous.
His hand falls to your right knee, thumbing the flesh beneath it; And pushes once more to spread yourself to him, to accommodate the thick of him as you guide him up into your soaking, eager cunt—
You whine at the fit.
The wrecked, immodest sound alone unmoors him.
Makes him all the more desperate to take you apart. “I know, dove,” he coos, emblazoning into memory the way your face twists in half-pleasure, half-pain; eyes misty at the edges and brows furrowed into a pinch. “Missed y’too.”
When Shay buries to the root, he distracts you from the scathing ache with another nip at your jaw and lip; gropes and moulds his hands over your thrumming skin and flesh. The pull of you inside— the nigh-virginal tightness of you (how long has it been again?)— has his vision swimming from the scorching decadence.
Then you’re pleading his name. For him to move. To satisfy. A murmuration of Shay, m’so full. S’good. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—
It tears a depraved moan out of him once he shifts to ease in, and out. Yeah? Feel good, dove?
From where you’re eclipsed, pinned underneath him, his gold Cross swings above you with every bated breath and every forceful thrust; A twisted reminder of your heresies. (The both of you will reason this truce out, someway, somehow. Chalk it off as filling the boredom of your recovery and voyage— but either of you know better. Know the truth.)
A sacrilege of the Penitential Act: For what I have done (“I love you.”), and have failed to do (“You shouldn’t.”); Forgive me.
(…But forgiveness is in neither of yours’ hands.)
Clawing down his back, legs greedily bracketed around his hips to siphon every inch of him in, the ferric sheath of him in you has liquid pleasure crackling through his veins. Between all your wanton purrs and his crude growls the room drowns in impurity under the pelting rain outside;
It’s breath mingling with breath, heart thundering to heart, skin sliding against skin. He white-knuckles your hip when he hikes you up harder into the bed, each urgent rut of him reaching further inside your pulsing cunt as you grip into the sheets.
“Oh, hah— fuck—” you choke. “Yes, Shay. God—”
“No Gods here, dove,” he grunts, devilish, and you swear you can hear him smirking that canine-sharp smile of his. “Jus’ you an’ me.”
You shiver. Whimper into his devouring mouth when he seals you into another kiss, and he grinds into you so hard you’re sure the curve of him would poke at your navel. The thought alone— of being full of him, of him breeding you with every drop of his seed that it might just take— has Shay shuddering against you.
He shouldn’t. Heavens above, he shouldn’t.
Even here, right now, he shouldn’t even be this demanding with how he’s fucking you. Gorging at the searing feel of your sex giving in and stretching to his girth— he ought to be a little more gentle, given your quivering state.
(He likes brutal. He wouldn’t have made a brilliant soldier for either the Brotherhood or the Order at all if he couldn’t handle being a brute; If he hadn’t indulged— or at the very least, been a little bit familiar with that dark skeleton in his closet.)
Shay’s trying to be gentle, ofcourse, which is already everything to you. He’s restraining every fibre of himself, and you know this. Can feel it in the deliberate brace of his hard cock inside you; in the way he stifles his animalistic noises to your ear, outmatched only by the noise of your flush cunt. Can see it in the pretty furrow of his brows, as if laid with proverbial thorn; the hitch of his lungs at each inhale of you.
He sets a perfect pace. Keeps to it until you can feel your nerves fraying at its edges. The knot formed where his hips are meeting yours in circadian rhythm tightens, has you gasping his name in anticipation when he palms down your arched spine and cants you closer to the fierce nudge of him.
Aye, doin’ so good, Shay hums, knowingly. He sneaks his hand to your slit, petting and teasing at your swollen clit until you’re clamping around him. Y’gonna give me what I want, love? Y’close?
The answer is stolen from you.
It’s an engulfing crescendo of all-too-much. Your orgasm splits you from the lower belly up, synapses firing wildly from the all-encompassing feel of him still battering into you, overwhelming every single sense you possess. Your eyes roll. Your mind whites out into pure pleasure. Aching muscles aren’t your own, inner walls and legs spasming and quivering around his throbbing length; And throughout it all: Attagirl. Attagirl, love. A chuisle mo chroí. Mo ghrá.
His release stutters close after.
It takes more coaxing, grinding; More time before the growing tension in his groin snaps like a wire. He’d fucked you through your climax, but now you’re egging him on, velvet-voiced and seductive, despite the sweltering edge of overstimulation creeping on you. “I wanna— ah— feel you. Please, Shay. Harder. I wanna feel you inside me— mh— for weeks—”
It sparks him closer to his edge. Inside? he’d ground out, sparing a glance between your sticky thighs, where his cock slots into you like you belonged here. Fuck. Y’know I can’t do that, dove.
But he entertains the thought anyway. Chases the thrill. Tells you how good you feel around him and spreads you just a little bit more. Imagines notching and seating so deep into your aching cunt until you couldn’t possibly spill a single drop of him; until you’d taste him from the inside out.
Shay rucks you up higher into the bed, allows a sliver of his viciousness to slip through in the unbridled way he carves himself into you with every thrust. (“Please, I can take it. Harder, Shay— hah, C—Captain—!”) The feeling of you leaving crescent-indents on his biceps and shoulders as you clumsily clutch onto him, surging helplessly as he groans and grunts into your balmy skin, and takes and takes and takes what he selfishly wants—
“F–Fuckin’ hell—” It’s a jagged rasp. Your name tumbles from his wet lips, husky and corrosive and dangerous. The growling sound alone makes you keen, reminds you of who exactly it is that’s just fucked you raw and is now painting your body with his cum:
Shay Patrick Cormac. The Templar’s very own Assassin Hunter.
Your natural predator.
Sex and sweat and Shay’s scent clots the very air. Ropes of his molten hot spend spurts over your torso as he pulls out to fist his jerking, fluttering cock into satisfying completion (“Been so long, dove. S’all for you. Saved it all— Fuck, ah— Just for you—”); the white, pearlescent threads of him shooting even up to your chin and bottom lip, still glossy and shiny from drool after your sloppy kisses.
Not even a moment later, Shay watches your red tongue dart out to lick it up.
Bloody hell—
“Oh,” you purr, breathless. (He tastes salty. Masculine. It’s intoxicating.) “So you do prefer being called Captain, hm?”
“Don’t,” he pants, half-laughing as he drops his head on your shoulder, trying to navigate through the cloying fog of his mind-melting orgasm.
There’s something grimly satisfying about seeing and having you— a Grandmaster Assassin of the Brotherhood— like this. Ravaged. Conquered and sprawled beneath him like a puppet with its strings cut. An unfurled flower. Bruises mottling your flesh like blossoms. Activates something carnally possessive in his hindbrain.
(And to think he’d been holding back all this time—?)
Eyes flitting shut, Shay presses another series of delicate butterfly-kisses: shoulder, cheek, nose, forehead. Non-sexual spots. It’s, ironically enough, infinitely more intimate than the fact you just coupled exhaustively on his own bed.
Then, after he’d gone to clear the debris and remnants of him off you: “Still cold?” he humors, melting into rest underneath the scratchy covers beside you.
You huff a soft, tired laugh. Tangle your sore legs with his and scoot closer to his bonfire warmth after he lets you doze in his embrace. The vestigial high has both of you drifting back to earth slowly. “Mh. Warmest I’ll ever be for a long while,” comes your content, nuzzled reply, feeling him comb through your hair as you intertwine your fingers with his again.
It feels like old times, tucked into him. It feels like the day you’d taken the shot and he scooped you up into his arms— like everything has changed, and nothing at all.
Still, we’ve changed, you think, thoughts piecing back from the sex in a way you hadn’t noticed before. There’s a new scar slicing across the hairs of his chest, and another unfamiliar pockmark wound on his collar that looks to have come from a ricocheting bullet. Testaments of time and battles that’s passed between you both.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he ensures.
A beat.
“You could never hurt me.”
Yes, he very nearly agrees. I could never.
“Shay,” you whisper, before the bravery escapes you.
“Dove,” he acknowledges.
His voice rumbles from his sternum and into your ears. It’s a painstakingly mellow sound. It’s home.
“What did we just do?”
His hand stills. You can only hear the hum-drum of his heartbeat echoing in his chest.
“I think,” he says, faintly, “We’ve just said our goodbyes.”
Against all odds, however—
You laugh. It’s sudden. As bright as tide breaking on shore. “What?” Shay says, unable to stop his smile against the crown of your head.
“Told you you were a learned poet.”
“Lord, I ought to throw y’overboard, woman,” he sighs.
Another laugh. The banter is a glimpse into the domesticity you’d once shared so often, and he couldn’t help it. He’d nudged a kiss to your forehead and went, “I’ve missed you,” and met your lips before he could confess: I miss you already.
“We’ve voyaged weeks,” you point out.
“You know what I mean, dove.”
“Ah, the sex, then?”
“Being close to you,” he corrects, unimpressed yet amused. “Having you in my arms.”
You do know what he’s trying to say. The loving; the freedom of being just you and just him. Of loving with neither guilt nor shame from the fact you both construe the world in different light.
“Have I told you how much I hate it?” you say craning to meet his half-lidded gaze.
“The sex?” he volleys easily, smiling like a serpent as he sneaks his hand between your thighs again. “I think I remember y’enjoyin’ yourself plenty, dove.”
“Bastard,” you swat playfully, pinching at his forearm as he laughs out. “I was going to say how safe you make me feel.”
Shay doesn’t say a word, but his expression rings louder than any reply: he’s glowing; a spark of sincere and profound fondness in his eyes, that has to be the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He hadn’t even seemed to mind at all that you’d mentioned you hated it.
“What an inconvenience that must be,” he finally says, and as much as he’s tempted to tease you further for it, settles on giving it a rest for now. “We’re all guilty of something, whether we admit it or not.”
“Original sin,” you hum. “I forget you’re a Man of God, Shay Cormac.”
A beat. For a moment, you wonder if you’d said something you shouldn’t have.
“Well… You make me believe,” he says, softly. The quiet concession matches the tentative unfurling of affection in you.
“In what?”
Everything. “In God. In goodness. In love.”
Shay tugs you into a doting kiss. The deep and fiercely kind that translates everything he can’t put into words; the kind that rattles the very foundations of your soul and every mighty defense you’ve ever built around your heart.
“I love you,” he exhales; like he’d been holding it back for centuries. “Please remember that. Please remember that’s never changed.”
“Oh, Shay,” you begin, and kiss him once more for good measure, instead of telling him:
I--
“--think you do not have it in you to kill Shay Cormac, when it comes down to it.”
A narrow look. You don’t even bother starting with the surety of Connor’s choice of words: when, over if.
“Just because I trust him onc—”
“No,” he overrides, suddenly, inexplicably fierce. “You love him. There is a difference.”
He’s learned this dilemma for himself the hard way. He had faced a ghost of his past, forged a truce, and naïvely dreamt of an impossible unity. In the end, all he received was the black blood of his own father on his hands, and a terrible guilt that would last his entire lifetime and the next.
But, he had, by the grace of whatever watches over him, not learned what it is to be at the very brink of death in the same way you had been after you were shot— To walk the precipice and return home with only a scar to show for it; and he prays he will never understand what that’s like for a long time. Perhaps it’s because he is his mother’s son (and yours by charge), too, that makes him lower his hackles.
“Se:nikónrarak,” Connor re-attempts, determined, though less hostile this time. “If you are not careful with your heart, it may prove to be your demise, again.”
You stop short. “Again?”
“I am no fool,” Connor says knowingly over his shoulder, where you’ve rooted yourself at the frost-pathed foothills leading up the Homestead. “You are the quickest Assassin I know. You would not have been shot, unless you wanted to be in the crossfire.”
“I don’t—” you hesitate, dismayed. “I don’t love him.”
Connor disappears from your view.
In the far distance, a lone rooster crows.
What sea soever swallow me, that flood
Shall be to me an emblem of thy blood;
Though thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes,
Which, though they turn away sometimes,
They never will despise.
angry exhausted furious covered in blood wet and dirty connor after killing some pain in the ass templar returns to the davenport and someone's bed is about to be broken in half WHO SAID THAT (I don't believe he'd be like cruel or rough, just very passionate iykwim..))
── .✦ 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚢/𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚔é:𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛.
Once again too lazy to look for spelling mistakes so if you see them, kindly ignore them.
If Connor seems out of character, then please know that this is the third time writing for him. Sorry in advance!
I want to preface this by saying I haven't written smut in a hot minute, my writing style may seem inconsistent or sloppy!
I accidentally made this a little angsty, my bad.
WC ⊱ 4.4k.
Warning(s) ⊱ 18+, unsafe sex, explicit acts, penetration, sex, orgasm, female orgasm, male orgasm, sexual content, vaginal, blood play, mentions of death, doggy style, mentions of pstd, nightmares, mentions of death, mentions of guilt and regret.
Darkness enveloped the Homestead, the forest quiet aside from the occasional hoot of an owl, the gentle pitter-patter of rain against the windowpane. The Homestead always carried a calming aura, one that brought peace and comfort amongst each settler or passing traveller. A serenity of peace that was a warm welcome to your oddly chaotic life.
You say chaotic, you hated saying it, because a part of the chaos was the one that Ratonhnhaké:ton brought with him. He was a man of little words but many issues; unresolved trauma and pain that he carried each day. It didn't make you love him any less, no - of course not - but it hurt to know that there wasn't much you do could to ease his pain.
The nightmares weren't easier, his frantic tossing and turning, thrashing against the sheets as you tried to wake him from the clutches of his past. A man so full of muscles and carefully built up walls, crying helplessly into your chest as you attempted to soothe his worries with a gentle rub on his back. It wasn't just the nightmares, it was the way he would lose himself as he stared into the flames of the fireplace - lost in the past, in thought. Daydreaming, wishing, hoping that perhaps one day he would wake up and things would be different. Ratonhnhaké:ton was a ghost sometimes, a man that lived but some days found himself wondering why.
Achilles mentioned that his night terrors were worse when he was training - as if that should put your mind to ease. Ratonhnhaké:ton spoke little of his past, which didn't help with your understanding.
The sound of hooves stirred you from your thoughts as you turned your head back out the window, noticing the robed man jumping down from the saddle and tugging on the reins; escorting the stallion into the stables to take shelter from the rain. His robes which were white now adorned a more greyish hue, he must've been riding for awhile given how soaked through and wet he looked. There was something in his step that unsettled you as he slugged through the mud the stables and stormed up the steps toward the manor house itself. It wasn't often you saw Ratonhnhaké:ton angry; for he was a private man that dealt with his emotions in the comfort of privacy but this? He looked unmistakably angry, just by the way he strode up the stairs and inside.
The door was pushed open with a force that would've made you flinch if you hadn't known it were him. Usually, if he arrived late, he was more mindful of Achilles room which was on the same floor. He'd creep around, not wanting to wake the old man and deal with his complaints in the morning. Tonight was different, you heard the harsh slam of the door and his heavy boots moving upstairs. In all honesty, you expected another man to grace you at the doorway of your shared bedroom - another man that wasn't Ratonhnhaké:ton.
He crossed the hallway in what felt like four powerful strides before he pushed open the door with a rough jerk of his shoulder. It seemed your figure in the dark startled him because in one sharp, flick of his wrist, the blade that usually remained hidden sat in the palm of his hand. Ratonhnhaké:ton had never drawn a weapon upon you and you, had never feared him as much as you did in this moment.
Most times, when he came home late after spending weeks at a time away, he'd find you nestled under the blankets of the bed. He'd approach you with caution, with a gentle look in his eye as he slowly stripped off to join you by your side. His arms would envelope you, gently pulling you close as he wrapped his entire frame around you; you'd always been a perfect small spoon. Only this time, Ratonhnhaké:ton felt different, his whole energy and even down to the tension in the air, made you feel uncomfortable.
The sight of the blade made you bristle and upon pure instinct, you stepped back, assessing him cautiously. Within seconds, his blade retracted and despite his face being hidden by the shadow of his hood - you felt his regret. Not even an apology was uttered from him - which was unusual in itself - as he quickly stuffed the blade back into his wrist. He turned away from you, as if the idea of even looking upon you felt sinful.
"Raton?" you asked gently, voice nothing but a whisper as he closed the door behind him. You stepped forward but paused as you found yourself taking a quick glance down at his hands. They were trembling and from what you could see; were stained in blood - as were the rest of his robes. Immediately, you couldn't help the concern that suddenly pulsed inside you. Was he hurt? Was he concealing a wound from you in order to not make you panic? "There's blood-"
"It is not mine," his once gentle voice was hard as he kept his back turned to you, hands moving to unbuckle the odds of buttons on his robes before his hands moved deftly to the blades that were strapped around the expanse of his wrists. There was a large part within you that screamed that something was wrong, you wanted to step forward and see his eyes; his face. Ratonhnhaké:ton's absence these past weeks had not gone unnoticed, his feet carrying him toward something that felt was blinding him of his common sense.
Despite the small flicker of fear that made your stomach turn, you approached hesitantly to help peel off his robes. Your fingers wrapped around the fabric, peeling the item slowly off his shoulder. The touch alone made his skin prickle and for a fleeting moment, he froze - the past weeks of being alone and hunting men made him forget how kind and gentle you were. The hood over his head fell and for once in that moment, you could see his face; albeit half of his sculptured face hidden behind a shadow. His features were hard, jaw tight as he point blank refused to meet your gaze.
As soon as your hands moved to the other side of his shoulder, his hands shot out to grip your wrists and before you knew it - you were stumbling backwards until your back connected the wall behind you with a thud. The suddenness made you lose your breath, searching his gaze for the first time tonight to silently ask him what was wrong. His hair had fallen down, some strands still sticking to his face and forehead as you allowed yourself to glance over his features. His hands weren't the only thing that was trembling, so was his breath as he took in every part of your own features; as if one day the idea of losing you may come true. It wasn't often he adorned war paint, but it seemed today was different - the striking black and red markings trailing down under his eyes and toward his jawline.
"What happen-" but his lips cut you off, smashing into yours that was unforgiving. His hand that held your wrist released it to capture your jaw, tilting your head to allow the kiss to go deeper; his tongue flicking out and over yours. Ratonhnhaké:ton had a distinct taste you couldn't decipher, something in the mix of liquorice and leather; not that you knew what leather tasted like. Just as the ache in your jaw began to make itself known, his hands moved to hook under your thighs and without much struggle, he lifted you up and kept you pinned against the wall with his own hips.
A part of you was unsure if it were his belt, but you could feel the hard lump emerge from beneath his pants, insistently poking and prodding you in ways that left you breathless. You took the opportunity to tangle your hands within his hair, hoping to use that to angle his lips and kisses to your jaw; but he was instant with keeping his lips on yours - causing muffled whines to emerge from you. It wasn't often Ratonhnhaké:ton was rough like this, he was a man who liked to take his time, to prioritise your pleasure and comfort before his - though tonight this seemed different and now you were playing by his book.
Without much warning, his lips disconnected from yours - leaving a string of saliva to connect from your bottom lip to his own. He took one fleeting moment to look at you, to admire the state at which he's put you in before his head dipped down to connect his lips with your neck. It was at this moment you had to remind yourself to be mindful of Achilles downstairs, chewing at the bottom of your lip to silence your whines. Ratonhnhaké:ton knew his way with you, knew which spot on your neck left you reeling, knew how to dampen your underwear with a sidelong gaze. You couldn't help it and he knew that and the whole idea was equally frustrating and embarrassing. Perhaps because in all honesty, you were down bad for this man. As soon as you found yourself tugging on his hair, his teeth connected with your neck which earnt a sharp hiss in response. You knew that Ratonhnhaké:ton was a possessive man, but it wasn't often he found the desire to actually mark you - to claim you like this.
"Shh," he whispered against the skin of your neck, using his tongue to dampen the pain before his hand came up to your face. His thumb trailed the softness of your bottom lip before his index and middle finger pushed into your mouth, prompting you to suckle the blood off his fingers. The blood wasn't fresh, but still sat on the indents of his fingers and under his nails - leaving a rich and coppery taste on your tongue. You must've suckled for less than a second before he retrieved his hand and suddenly began to unfasten the lacing on your bodice, growing impatient with colonial clothing before suddenly ripping it off your chest with a sharp tug. Given how late it was, he was surprised - even though he didn't show it - that you were still dressed and not in your nightgown.
As soon as the fabric was ripped off, his fingers hooked over the thin fabric of your shirt beneath to expose the expanse of your breasts. They spilled out into his hand, his lips moving to capture your nipple. The angle was awkward though and with a sharp inhale, he released your thigh and let your feet hit the ground. There was a sharp jerk of his head in the direction of his bed.
"Undress yourself and get on it." It wasn't often Ratonhnhaké:ton ordered you around and you weren't opposed to it.
His command took you by surprise, blinking as you tried to absorb his words before moving to push yourself off the wall and approach the bed. Your mind was racing, filling with questions that left you in a haze of arousal. Of course, the first question - was he okay? What had happened that transpired to this? You understood that the last time you had fucked Ratonhnhaké:ton was little over a month ago and most times, you'd spend the first night together interwined in the sheets but something about this felt different. As your hands found the fastening of your bodice, you pulled at the rest of the strings before slowly adverting your gaze back to him over your shoulder. His back remained to you, his arm holding the wall for support with his head dipped low. His muscles flexed as he removed the rest of his robes, a tension creeping between the two of you. Perhaps he was just pent up? It wasn't often Ratonhnhaké:ton told you that he missed you - perhaps only during his time of vulnerability and once when you were both between the sheets, had he admitted that he often found times where he thought about you. He'd confided in you, that most times before missions where he thought he wouldn't come out alive - he would try to forget about you, your face and smile because if he couldn't disconnect from you - he'd be carrying that smile with him anywhere.
Ratonhnhaké:ton was good at leaving connections behind when the hood went up, he was equally as good pretending you didn't exist if you had so happened to bump into each other on the streets of Boston. The last thing he wanted was any of this Brotherhood and Templar business to meddle with your life as much as it had done with his. Perhaps it was the exact reason why he was so pent up, why he currently had his back to you as he palmed himself through the layers of his pants.
Turning your gaze away, you continued to undress - revealing more of your skin and discarding the layers on the floor; an issue for tomorrow morning. As soon as you were naked and bare, Ratonhnhaké:ton turned. His back was pressed against the wall, using it as a restraint to hold himself back as his hand was shoved down his pants to promptly jerk at the shaft of his cock. His muscular, tanned chest heaved up and down gently as his eyes roamed over your breasts, your cunt, hips and thighs. This man before you wasn't the Ratonhnhaké:ton you knew.
Giving his cock the pleasure it ached, he pumped his shaft for a couple more moments before pulling his hand out and moving toward you. The same hand that had gripped his cock was now pressed against your chest, pushing you back until the back of your knees hit the frame of the bed and you buckled backward. You hit the mattress with a soft gasp, looking up at him as his gaze lingered over you for a moment. His large hand swallowed your thigh and spread your legs apart, taking in the way your folds glistened in the fire light. The way he looked upon you like so made you glance away, almost ashamed to be so wet already.
"No," he spoke out, moving his hand to clasp your chin and turn your head back toward him. "Don't." His thumb traced your bottom lip again, memorising every line on your face and how soft your lip felt against his thumb. There was a gentle moment of silence where he just admired your face, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was the first time you'd seen him smile in what felt like months.
Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand then moved to grip your thigh as he hauled your leg up and over his shoulder. He lifted your leg like it weighed nothing, then again - he had lifted you up countless times as if you were nothing like feather. His other hand fisted down his pants, allowing his cock to spring free and hit him on his lower abdomen with a soft slap. Despite how dark it was in the room, you felt your shoulders shudder and skin prickle at the idea of him taking you. You knew how big his cock was, how hung this guy was; you'd had that inkling on the first day you'd met him.
Crawling over you, Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled the head of his cock up to gently press against your cunt - a soft shudder passing his lips which were hung agape. You felt so warm, so wet and he hadn't even pushed his cock in all the way yet. As he finally sunk his cock into your cunt, he leant over you, nuzzling his cheek into your own as he filled you in all the right ways. The lack of sex this past month was apparent, with the gentle sting that followed. It wasn't comfortable - it was a delightful welcome.
"I missed you," he mumbled against your ear, his breath hot as he dragged his tongue against the shell of your ear. Your hands gripped at everything, his bicep, his shoulders, even his wrist as you hooked your other leg around his waist. Ratonhnhaké:ton had a way of taking you, ensuring that he kept you satisfied in a way that would make you not question why he sometimes would come home dressed in the blood of others.
His confession only heard a whimper in response as you writhed your hips up against him, desperate for some movement, for some friction on your clit that felt as if it were tingling in desire.
His hand found the back of your neck, using that as an anchor to pull you down with each thrust he made up into you. His head that was buried into the crook of your neck moved so that his forehead could press against your own. You could feel his warm breath hit against your lips with each thrust, his hips grinding so hard into your own that it was borderline painful. Everything about Ratonhnhaké:ton was intoxicating, from the way he fucked you, to the subtle touches whenever he crossed paths with you out in town. He noticed the desperate attempt at keeping your lips pressed together, trying to mute the muffles and moans that dared to slip. The last thing you wanted was to wake Achilles up.
With your leg up on his shoulder, he angled his cock in a way that made you gasp and suddenly his large hand clamped tight over your mouth. You could feel his head shaking against your own, gently scolding you for the mishap.
"Quiet," he whispered gently, pressing a soft and tender kiss on your cheekbone. In spite of his earlier scolding, Ratonhnhaké:ton was pounding into you with a lack of compassion for any other residents inside the manor.
Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that he wouldn't last long, not with how long it had been since he was last inside you. So, with a great amount of reluctance, his hips stopped; which left you in a haze of confusion. His hand released the confides of your mouth and leg as he pulled his cock away from your cunt, leaving you empty and full of want.
He stepped back, moving to give your behind a gentle tap.
"On your knees," he murmured, motioning with his head as his hands moved to help flip you around.
With no delay in your motions, you moved onto your forearms and knees - finding that position usually helped angle him a lot better. His hand moved along your back and spine, around your waist before settling onto your hips; relishing in the way you writhed beneath him.
"You're beautiful," he reminded, a subtle part of him feeling back for turning you away from him. His hand found his cock again as you took a moment to shoot him a fleeting glance over his shoulder, enjoying the sight of him pumping his cock slightly with the light of the fire pronouncing his toned chest and abs. It was there he looked up, catching your eyes with his own before leaning over your frame to press a soft, tender kiss in-between your shoulder blades. A part of you wanted to open your mouth and say something but frankly, you were unsure what.
"I love you," was the first immediate thing you could think of, your cheeks dusting a haze of pink at the confession. It wasn't that you didn't say that to him often, you did - it's just Ratonhnhaké:ton had a habit of never saying it back. Any other would've taken offense to his silence, but it was his silence that you found comfort in. It wasn't that Ratonhnhaké:ton was afraid of love, it was that he was afraid of losing what he did love - so he usually kept silence, hoping it broke some curse he felt was bestowed upon him.
"I know," he replied, your eyes fluttering shut as he pressed another tender kiss between your shoulder blades. The head of his cock pushed back between your folds as he bottomed out into you, his torso moving over yours as he bit back a soft groan of his own. A part of him had hoped that this change of position would help deter his own orgasm but having you bent over like this? It was only more enticing to spread his seed in you.
In response, your back arched against him, pushing your hips up in a greedy attempt to feel him stretch you out more. You could feel his forehead press against where he once kissed you, your shoulder blades and you could hear his thoughts just by the sweat on his forehead alone. You could feel how badly he wanted to just thrust into you until he cum, decorating your walls in a white sticky mess of his. A part of you wondered why he hesitated, it wasn't like you wouldn't mind.
"Why the delay?" you asked, pressing your head against the pillow before inhaling. His scent always lingered on his pillow, a scent of a green woodland and sweat. You wouldn't dare admit, but you found yourself at nights just touching yourself at his scent alone. Your comment seemed to have riled him up further, his hands taking a hold of your hips as he began to bounce you back and forth relentlessly onto his cock. It was in that moment you were thankful for the pillow, burying your face into it to mute and dampen the impact of your moans. With each thrust, your behind rippled, creating aftershocks on your skin that Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself relishing in. He'd spent so many nights alone, hunting men, gathering information that he'd forgotten how fucking heavenly your cunt felt gripped around his shaft like that.
He wouldn't admit it to you, but he'd jerked off to the idea of fucking you at least once or twice while away; he would've done it more often if it wasn't for the post nut clarity that hit him like a carriage. Most times it just left him feeling empty and depressed.
While your fingers dug into the pillow for support, his own did the same with your hips, guiding you back onto his cock with a contained grunt between clenched teeth. He took a moment to glance down, admiring how your cunt took every part of him perfectly. The veins that protruded on his shaft caressed your walls with each thrust, egging you on further to reach your orgasm.
"Raton-" you uttered his name as a mere warning, though he didn't need one upon feeling how tight you were clenching around him right now. His thrusts sped up, making you almost see stars as you arched your back into him, desperate to feel more.
Quickly, you buried your head into the pillow as your orgasm washed over you; leaving you in a complete daze. The orgasm came quick, leaving your muscles to spam as you threatened to fall and drop onto the bed. Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand quickly shot out to hold your stomach, ensuring you didn't drop as he watched the intensity of your orgasm flood you entire being. The orgasm rolled and lingered, causing a hot flush to settle across your body and skin.
The sight before him made him thrust into you harder, his stomach coiling up hard as the intensity of his own orgasm washed over him like a dream. You could feel his cock twitch and stir inside you as the hot, thick strands of his cum decorated the inside of your walls. His orgasm was faster, over quicker than he wanted, the tidal waves turning more into ripples as his thrusts became sloppy. The hand that held onto your hip tightened and you were certain that it would bruise in the next coming days; he had a habit of doing that accidentally. Each roll of his hips slowed until he stopped, leaning over you to press his forehead against yours and gasp for breath. Your bodies were sticky with sweat, the fire crackling in the fireplace not helping ease the temperature in the room.
Ratonhnhaké:ton was a big man of aftercare, pulling out of you to slowly help lower you down onto the bed. He collapsed beside you, staring up at the ceiling for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. Your own throat felt dry and rough as you slowly turned to glance at him. The warpaint on his cheeks had grown messy with the mix of sweat, some of it you knew had been smudged onto your neck and back. His eyelids were fluttering, either the lull of sleep or the ache of his orgasm settling over his frame. There was something across his features that bothered you, a flash of pain - hurt and you found yourself sitting up to shuffle closer to him.
"Something troubles you," you whispered, fingers gentle patterns across his chest. You could see the visible cringe across his features, forgetting how quickly he had become vulnerable. The last thing he wanted was to worry you. Ratonhnhaké:ton avoided your eyes, keeping his own up to the ceiling.
"He is dead," he mumbled finally after a beat of silence and the confession alone made your brows furrow in concern. It was hard to tell whether this were a good thing or not; and who? Sensing your unease and lingering question, he turned finally to look at you. Really look at you. You always had looked so beautiful after being fucked, hair dishevelled and cheeks flushed beyond recognition. Ratonhnhaké:ton was thankful he was the only person who saw you in this state. "The man called 'Charles Lee'." Though, he didn't seem too pleased with that. You heard that name, occasionally; for Ratonhnhaké:ton, when the robes were off - so was everything that stained them.
"But you aren't pleased," you observed tenderly, moving a hand to gently turn his head to yours. His jaw tensed and his eyes were glazed over, you could see every part of him fighting back the overcoming urge to sob.
"I don't know what I feel," he choked out, gently easing your hand away as he turned to sat up and sit on the edge of the bed.
Imagine getting a little freaky with Connor and riding his face, then deciding to give him a blow job for the first time in your relationship. Connor is just whimpering because his mouth is busy with your pussy and he can’t make even a full sentence~ 😋🥴
── .✦ 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚠𝚊𝚢/𝚁𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚔é:𝚝𝚘𝚗 𝚡 𝙵𝚎𝚖!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛.
I have a bad habit of writing things a little off script, so instead of 'little freaky' I just made you guys have a lil argument thing with Connor instead because let's be real nothing fixes that better than sex!
Once again, I never proof read anything because I live life on the edge. If you see a mistake, pretend it's never there.
This is a little shorter than my other works, sorry!
WC ⊱ 4.3k.
Warning(s) ⊱ 18+, MDNI, oral sex, partial sexual inexperience, orgasms, female orgasms, male orgasms, mentions of violence, 69-ing.
Sex with Connor was great. No, better than great; incredible, amazing, mouth-watering, toe-curling, etc. The list was endless, only, Connor had one issue. The man was vanilla, extremely vanilla. Now, you gave him the benefit of the doubt, you were his first serious relationship, he'd lost his virginity to you and he'd be more than willing to pick you up and take you anywhere - literally. Which, realistically, didn't feel that vanilla, did it? It's just the man wasn't really open to experimenting, he was fine with one position and that satisfied him and while it did to you too, things became boring fast. Of course, he'd still give you head spinning orgasms, but what was the cost to that? Boring ass sex?
Having sex with Connor felt scarce, most times he was busy with his duties while you remained at home helping him handle the Homestead. His Assassin duties led him away from home longer than you liked, weeks - months at worst and it was hard to keep your patience; often finding your head reeling at the idea of him coming home to let all his frustrations out on you. Since he had returned however, Connor had been a little distant and admittedly, you were unsure as to why. Was it something you had done? Had something occurred between the two of you? Did he no longer find you attractive?
"Ellen, I must admit something to you," you chewed the words out carefully as Ellen glanced up at you from her work, where she had been kneeling on the floor to help mend a hole you had ripped from your skirts. Her eyes read your expression carefully, coming to the conclusion that whatever it was that had been troubling you, had been for some time. So, carefully, she finished the last stitch before leaning back.
"Oh dear, I do not like this look.." she sighed, placing her instruments away. "Speak, what is it," she reached out for your hand, giving it a soft squeeze before standing to continue clearing the rest of her porch. The weather had soured a little since you arrived.
"I.. have some troubles.." you admitted, glancing down at your skirts before she ushered you to sit. "What does it mean.. when a man no longer wishes to.. pleasure you?" You cringed eternally at the choice of words, glancing at her to gauge her reaction. You had figured Ellen would be the best for this kind of thing, she was older, had more experience and often gave good advice regardless.
"Is something the matter with you and Connor?" Ellen asked, taking a small measuring tape to begin measuring your bust.
"Well, I must be honest," you began, "it feels like something is the matter. He does not speak, does not.. wish to touch me."
At that, a silence fell between the two of you and Ellen paused. You already felt her eyes on you but daren't look up, not wanting to risk the threat of tears that stung at the corner of your eyes.
"Now," she sighed gently, already sensing your heartbreak, already feeling your worry linger in the air and she moved to drape the measuring paper around her neck. Her fingers caught your chin, tilting your head up just a little. "That doesn't mean he does not love you," then she scoffed, which frankly made you flinch. "Have you heard the man? You aren't the only one who comes here for advice whenever there is something that needs mending." Her words made you want to smile, but it was hard not to; Connor came to her too?
"He comes here too?" you asked with a sniffle, pulling your chin away from her grip while she placed her hands on her hips with a sigh. You were just as stubborn as he were, it was no surprise you hadn't spoke to him before coming here.
"Of course he does, do you know how many holes I have to repair in those robes of his?" Now that remark made you smile a little, yet the anxiety continued to fester in the pits of your stomach.
"Does he talk about me?" You couldn't help the question, you just couldn't. Ellen's steps could be heard from behind you as she began measuring again, acting on a rather nonchalant look.
"Most times," she spoon fed you little bits of information, but it wasn't enough. You wanted to know specifically what he said, so you shot her a little look from over your shoulder until she sighed. "You are both adults, you are capable of speaking to one another, no?"
And Ellen was right and it frustrated you to know that she was right. You could speak to Connor, ask what was wrong, but you were stubborn. You wanted this man to notice, to sense that you were upset with him, to get on his knees and beg for your attention. At this point, it felt the other way round.
"Yes, I can speak to him, but it's a little difficult. You know what he's like, it's like.. like speaking to a boulder sometimes-!"
Ellen was patting your shoulder, hushing whispers in your direction but now you were so boiled up in frustration that these words continued to flow.
"And he never takes his time and I know that he is busy and I love everything he does, that he works for. Now I feel awful, oh dear, Ellen, am I awful?" Just as you went to drop your head into your hands, Ellen quickly hissed your name from between her teeth and you peeked up at her with a confused look before following her gaze.
Connor stood just before the two of you, hands clasped together and upon seeing him, your heart dropped. Why was he here? What had he come here for? And how much of that did he hear?
"Connor, it's a pleasure," Ellen filled the silence as his gaze fell upon you, a soft look of hurt knitting up between his brows and now that feeling of awfulness that consumed you previously only worsened at that look alone. "I just finished up." Her hands found your shoulders, giving them a squeeze - almost as if she were begging you to leave and speak to him - before helping you up from the chair; which admittedly felt more like a soft push.
Reluctantly, you stepped down the porch to approach him and glanced over your shoulder, only for her to wave a hand.
"No need to thank me, was only a small hole. Perhaps bring those little tarts next time you come?" Ellen was always good at this, filling in awkward silences and slowly, you returned your look back up at Connor. He didn't seem angry, then again, he never did with you as he outstretched an arm for you to take before the both of you stepped down the path and back up toward the manor. The tension was there as you thought over words to try to say to him, your hand squeezing his bicep in some attempt to fill the void.
"You are unhappy?" he asked finally, avoiding your gaze as he kept his head straight. His words made your heart break.
"No, no, of course not, Connor," you reassured him quickly, chewing on your bottom lip to find the right words. "I must be honest with you, there has been a space between the two of us. A space that is becoming harder to ignore."
Your words alone made a guilty look flash across his face as he glanced at you. There was so much he wanted to say and you knew it, you could see the twitch on his lips. Something to share with you. It wasn't often he spoke about his line of work and yet, you knew the amount of bodies that piled up on his conscious, saw the blood that stained his robes as he quickly ushered away from you before you looked upon the sincere damage.
"I am responsible for that," he admitted slowly. "I do not wish to make you upset." Yet, he still held back. At this point, it wasn't even about the sex, it was more just about the distance.
It had always been difficult to stay mad at Connor, so, you nuzzled your head silently against his arm while the both of you continued back up toward the manor. It had been quiet ever since Achilles had passed away, so being here on your lonesome wasn't something you particularly favoured. The chores at the manor felt endless, first the stables to feed the animals, groom the horses, clean the stables, fresh water, then you continued inside the house. You washed dishes, cleaned and dusted furniture, you washed clothes and then occasionally - if you had the time - would ponder at the top of the basement stairs, the curiosity was endless. It wasn't that Connor restricted you from ever going down there, but you did not wish to tamper with any work and admittedly, the basement gave you the creeps anyway.
Slowly, the both of you stepped inside and with a soft sigh, you continued back to schedule. With Connor home, it was nicer to cook meals for two rather than one and he always ensured you had plenty of meats before he was tasked with heading out again. Though, just as you moved toward the kitchen, his hand caught your own and you paused.
"No," he shook his head softly. "Let us discuss the issue." Just those words alone shot a spike of anxiety up your spine and slowly, you found yourself nodding. Though despite his suggestion, he lead you up the stairs which frankly confused you more than anything. Despite the confusion, your heart and stomach fluttered with excitement as you joined him in the bedroom that the both of you shared. Connor released your hand, took a step back before resting on the table behind him. Standing in front of him like this, it made you feel like a prized possession.
"Connor?" you questioned, unable to hide the soft smile that twitched at the corner of your mouth. He was plotting something, his hands moving to rest on the table that - surprisingly - supported his weight.
"I haven't been here for you," he began, avoiding your gaze. "I should be. I can see that you are unhappy." Who blessed you with such a man? "So, tell me, what can I do to make you happy?" It felt like a trick question, more-so because he already ticked everything off the box for the best partner. He was kind, loving, strong, mature, the list felt endless.
"Well," you spluttered for a moment, feeling a soft blush creep up behind the flesh of your cheeks. How could you word this? Slowly, you stepped forward and took his hand again. "I would like it if you are.. home more," you admitted sheepishly and Connor tilted his head just a fraction at you. Even he knew that right now, that just wasn't possible. "I know," you understood quickly, letting out a scoff at yourself for even thinking it. "I know that's.. you are busy and the cause you are working for is great, I know that. It's just.." your hand fiddled with his, your index finger trailing over the veins that protruded itself on the back of his hand. His hands were so rough, worn from battle and yet he still held you like you were nothing but fine china. "I just find myself missing you, find myself wanting things," and here came the rambling. "I'm sorry, I ask for too much and in return you ask for nothing, I just-"
Connor cut you off, leaning forward to press his lips against you instead. That was one way to shut you up and within moment, your whole body sank in relief. It had been too long since you felt his lips, been too long since you tasted him and just kissing him alone already made you embarrassingly damp. His other hand captured the back of your head, his fingers parting strands of your hair as the kiss turned more eager between the two of you.
The two of you moved your heads in synch with one another, Connor angling his head to allow him to deepen the kiss, while your hands found his chest and already began unbuckling and buttoning things that stood in the way of you and his delicious muscles. This was better than words, you should've have known this as soon as he lead you up toward his bedroom. Just as you moved your head back to capture some air, he only chased his lips after you, which only did more to stir the want inside of you. Finally, you tugged off the upper half of his robes and he helped aid them off, revealing the dark skinned flesh that remained hidden beneath them. With your lips preoccupied, your hands did the looking for you, feeling over his chest, down his abs, back up and over his shoulders. He was so ripped that no matter which man he stood beside, he swallowed them whole. It felt scandalous to have such a man this size alone.
Connor's hands worked to rid you of your clothes, wasting no time to lift the dress up and over your head. His hands clamped around your hips, tugged you toward him before he pushed himself off the table to suddenly lift you up. A surprised gasp escaped your lips, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and appreciating how every muscle flexed perfectly beneath your hands.
"So, this was your idea of 'talking'?" you questioned with a huff against his lips, your hands already moving up the nape of his neck to fiddle with the strands of long hair that hung there. Connor gave you a half smirk, not bothering to respond but opted to just toss you onto the bed as he moved to shove off the rest of his clothing.
"This is easier," he replied eventually, having now rid himself of his pants to climb over you. "Actions are better than words, do you not think?" he asked, his lips attaching themselves to your neck. Only, the feeling of excitement that once bubbled in your lower abdomen suddenly dissipated upon feeling him take the usual position between your legs.
"No," you spoke quickly and Connor froze mid-kiss before pulling his head back to look at you. "I'm sorry, it's just.." you stumbled over your words, unable to find how to say what you deeply wanted without sounding like a fool - or worse a pervert.
"I apologise," Connor began, already moving to push himself off of you. "I assumed that-"
Quickly, you caught his arm and stopped him.
"I do! Yes, I do, I want this.. it's just, Connor a woman.. she has more needs than just.. simply spreading her legs." His face contorted between multiple different expressions. Confusion, sadness, worry, anger - which was directed at himself.
"I do not understand," he admitted before pressing his hand up against your cheek. "But I want to. Tell me what it is you want."
Those words alone sparked that arousal back and you gave out a soft shiver, your breath trembling as you now tried to think of what it was you really wanted. Naturally, your body ached for an orgasm, but now the possibilities felt endless.
"Okay," you sucked in a breath and jerked toward the open space beside you with your chin. "Lay down."
There was no hesitation as he sat down beside you, now totally feeling out of place. You took the lead, wanting to ease the awkwardness by moving to cradle his hips before pushing him down onto the bed. You could feel his cock twitch eagerly beside your thigh and everything in you screamed to just ride this man into oblivion until the both of you were nothing but a sweaty mess of tangled limbs.
"I would.. would like to sit on you," you started, admitting something so boldly like this made your cheeks flush and Connor cocked a brow in interest before his hands met with your hips again.
"You already are," he stated and in response, you scoffed gently.
"Not like that."
"Like what?" he intrigued, resisting the urge to roll his hips up into you.
"I want to sit on your face," you were blunt, partly due to impatience, partly because you couldn't tip-toe around this anymore than you already had. Connor was quiet for a moment.
"Oh," was all he said before he found himself nodding, which looked more like a jerk of his chin. "Then do that." Honestly, you would have expected more hesitance; would have expected him to fumble like he did when he first tried to express his feelings toward you. But there was none of that, he was open. So, slowly, you began to move, shuffling your hips up until your thighs were cradling his face. You didn't sit completely - not yet - a flush of embarrassment coursing through you as you glanced down at him. His hands captured your thighs before he turned his head to press a soft, reassuring kiss to your inner thigh.
"And then you just-" you began, wanting to explain how this went and before you could even finish your sentence, his hands moved to your hips and he tucked you down suddenly on his lips. His mouth opened and enveloped the entirety of your cunt, earning a sudden gasp to pass your lips at how warm his mouth and tongue were.
Connor began to eat slowly at first, testing his limits all while keeping that eye contact up at you. His tongue moved in ways you had never expected, up between your slit, capturing every essence of your taste before he gave a soft kiss and suckle on your clit. The touch on your clit felt heavenly and as he moved his tongue back down, you found yourself guiding your hips slightly.
"Please," you begged, breathless already. "In that spot you just.. just had," his lips captured your clit again before you could even finish your sentence and a shot of pleasure ran up the entire length of your spine. It was a feeling you had never felt before, Connor only focusing on fucking you rather than your clit and how could you blame him? You were partly at fault for not expressing your needs more and Ellen's words reflected to you in the back of your mind. You were both adults after all, communication was important and right now, it seemed worthwhile.
His lips suckled gently on your sensitive bud, watching each reaction from below as your hands shot down to hold his head and proceed the merciless rocking on his tongue and face alone.
"Is this good?" he muffled into your cunt and a soft whimper was all you could bribe out from between your lips. That was the response he needed, continuing to focus on your clit as his tongue drew tortuous circles around it. It wasn't long before your vision began to star and quickly, you had to pry your hips away from his face; leaving him open-mouthed, panting, red-cheeked and a string of saliva that connected from his bottom lip to your clit.
"I want to.. I can't.." it was hard to form a sentence as you gasped for breath, calming down from the potential orgasm Connor almost pulled out from you. Connor moved to begin pushing himself up on his elbows, but quickly your hands caught his shoulder to push him back down. "No, no, I just want.. I need to taste you."
Connor's brows furrowed gently though he made no protest as you moved to switch positions, this time turning so you could remain seated on his face but this time, stuff your mouth of his cock.
Connor was a perfect seven inches when hard, so using only one hand to grip his shaft felt difficult at first as you pushed his tip into the opening of your mouth. There was a salty taste, but it wasn't bad, it only lured you in for more as you licked the pre-cum clean from his tip. His mouth faltered on your cunt, unable to focus with the sensation on his cock below and quickly he reconnected his lips with yours.
The both of you took turns sucking and eating one another. Your tongue swirling around his tip while his continued to lap and swirl around your clit. Your hand that held the base of his cock began to pump at his shaft as your head bobbed, pushing his cock up toward your throat until you gave a soft gag - yet continued. His cock was warm to touch and it twitched in your mouth and hand, which only helped motivate you more. Meanwhile, Connor's mouth worked at your cunt, his hands gripping the underside of your cheeks as you continued to suck at him.
Sex had never been like this between the two of you and boy, was he thankful that you suggested this mere idea to him. His head was reeling, his cock twitching and mouth blessed with the best juices that have ever touched his tongue. It was hard to not rock his hips up slowly, to take delight in each muffled moan that sent little aftershocks of pleasure down to the coil in his stomach. Your mouth worked wonders in which your cunt almost couldn't, making him feel things that he was in favour to feeling time and time again. So, while he tongue traced and circled around your clit, your own tongue continued to run up the expanse of his shaft. Due to his size, you only could take half of him, but he didn't care, especially when your tongue would graze over that one prominent vein that travelled up his shaft and protruded from under the skin.
His nails began to sink flesh, his head becoming a whoozy daze of sex as you felt his mouth become sloppier - his eyes squeezing shut in some desperate attempt to will his own orgasm away.
"Sl-" he was muffled by your cunt, the sounds of his whines and whimpers sending delicious tingles down onto your clit. It was hard to make out his words and frankly, you couldn't care as you continued to suck helplessly at his cock. Before you could even savour the moment, before you could even reach your own orgasm, Connor's cock suddenly vibrated as he decorated your mouth and throat with his hot seed. It was warm, causing you to instantly gag, yet swallowed it up as best as you could. The whole ordeal made tears sting at the corner of your eyes, your jaw becoming slack around him as you felt your thighs shake and tremble.
With a soft 'pop!' you retracted your mouth away from him, gasping for breath as you rocked yourself helplessly against him.
"Connor," his name was praise on your tongue as the overwhelming feeling of your own orgasm washed over you, making you almost drop down onto him entirely. Sex with Connor had always been intense, but his tongue working you into overstimulation felt better than his cock - by a mile it felt. "Connor-" you whined now, desperate to peel your pussy away from his mouth but he only held you there, leaving you a whining mess, with mouth coated in cum and saliva.
It was like a part of him couldn't stop, licking and slurping up drop of liquid that spilled from you until he finally released himself to gasp for some air. The cold air hit your sensitive cunt, a wash of relief waving over you until his lips only reconnected. It didn't take an genius to know what he was doing, ignoring the own ache in his jaw to rile you up to another orgasm. And the worst part? Is that it was working.
"Connor, please-" you choked out between babbles and moans, fisting the covers and trying to muster up some strength to peel yourself away from him before he drowned himself in your cunt alone. But the overstimulation on your pussy and clit only served to edge you on, further, further..
Until another orgasm washed over you, earning a sharp gasp as he continued to lick at the juices that spilled from you; a prize almost.
Honestly, you were on the brink of tears as you rolled out the waves of your orgasm onto his tongue, trying to collect some thoughts and sense in what just happened. Your legs coiled, as did your stomach, everything aching up as you finally managed to release yourself from the confides of his hands and flop down onto the bedding beside him. The two of you took turns to gasp for breath, though you more so as you tried to overcome not one, but two orgasms in one sitting. This man, what were you worrying about? You couldn't remember and you knew well enough that were his intention from the beginning. Why else would he be at Ellens so uncalled? Unless it were to find you.
After a moment of silence, he pushed himself up on his elbow to wipe your chin clean of his mess. His own was messy, glistening under the light of the candlelight yet you made no move to return the favour. Everything in you aching and burning - in fact - you would be rather content to call it a night here already and sleep. It wasn't even dark outside yet.
"I wish to ask you the same question," his voice was hoarse as he took a moment to clear it, "are you unhappy?"
All you could do was smile, let out a laugh and move to give him a soft smack on his bicep; which he took with no reaction.
hii this is the anon who asked for connor smut the other day lol i meant to say smut prompt list #3!! ty!!
🪶 — petal-bruised ; connor kenway
a/n. Alas! We finally get a small Connor smut piece. Thank you for clarifying the list & for requesting, dear anon!
CONNOR GETS A little rough, sometimes.
Miscalculates, if you will. Forgets his strength.
His grip can easily turn to bruising gropes and the push of his kisses can shift quickly to pinning you under his weight. It’s not a complaint, ofcourse; To know that you could have him struggle to pull back—? It’s admittedly addicting.
Connor is a man of lethal discipline; yet all it takes is a touch and a skittering plea from you against his ear and he’s gone.
(Hardly a surprise, though. He’s a man, for all his efforts to be as honourable as one can be, and men are often— for lack of better words— simple to excite.)
“G’morning,” you hum, in the haze of the morning after. He’s been ghosting his lips on your back: apologetic kisses at the curve of your spine, right between your shoulder blades, the thin slope of your nape. When you turn in his embrace to face him, bleary-eyed and impossibly soft, he’s quick to meet your mouth in a warm kiss that kindles that feverish thrum back in you—
And him, it seems. You can feel the length of him pressing against your thigh; hot and heavy. “Good morning to you, too,” you notice, brows raised.
“Sorry,” Connor says, half-sheepish and half-amused. He thumbs at your cheek gingerly before letting his fingers drift to the petal-shaped bruises across your skin, blooming colourfully over your throat, your clavicles, your breasts. He remembers the way your hands had snarled at his hair when he’d been marking you down, moaning his name like a prayer at the bites he couldn’t help but leave behind. “…And sorry for these, too.”
You nose a giggly kiss at his jaw. Let your hand wander down to sneakily grab the base of him. “I think you like it, though,” you whisper, relishing the way he goes breathless at your teasing squeeze, the way his dilated eyes flutter shut in anticipation. “It’s like a brand, isn’t it? That I’m yours, Connor?”
His cock twitches at the thought. Your slow, deliberate strokes have picked up, but still not enough to satisfy him. “I love you,” he begins, because he always has to argue, and pulls you into a needy kiss that’s heavy with sleep: a mess of teeth and tongue and nipping, “not own you.”
You wiggle your hips enough that the head of him sits at the already wet seam of your legs. Connor groans at the heat of it— you’re not as ready as he’d want you to be, but the precum leaking out of him is more than enough as you tease your core daringly at his weeping cock.
“Maybe I want you to. Maybe I want you to make me entirely yours,” you urge, voice laden with something alluringly coy. “Maybe I want to be reminded.”
“You,” he says, shuddering, but the thought derails quickly.
Connor is rolling over to prop himself above you now, mouth suckling another love-bite below your jaw as his cock slowly sinks into your aching cunt. He has another hand palming up, up, up; past your navel, across your breasts, before resting at the base of your throat with the slightest pressure of a squeeze.
But then you’re whining at the fit— hands automatically flying to grip his caging arms and broad back, the delicious flex of them that’ll surely be left with angry scratches and indents when he finally fucks you into completion once more— and you hear him rasp out, “You are going to be the death of me.”
𝒞𝒪𝒩𝒯𝒜𝐼𝒩𝒮 ⨾ ( 900+ words of . . . ) nsfw, husband!zuko x watertribe!wife!reader, canon-divergent universe, established relationship, teasing, size difference, zuko has an edging kink, missionary, finger sucking, belly bulge, slight use of firebending, use of pet names, explicit language, lowercase intended, minors shoo!
𝓂𝓎 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ 𝓁ℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇.ᐟ ۶ৎ here i present, my first tribute to the fire lord! one look at the new-and-improved zuzu and i lost ittt >.< omg he’s never looked better . i just had to put out somethin’ spicy for this delicious man in the meantime, until the real firecracker bun finishes baking! art credits here! thank you for reading, and please enjoy! ❤︎
𝐼𝒩𝒮𝑃𝒪 𝑇𝑅𝒜𝒞𝒦.ᐟ ( ♫ ) lovely thang, kut klose ⨾ earned it, the weeknd ⨾ body smile, dvsn ⨾ hold on, the internet
zuko fucks you so, so slow. takes his sweet time, moves with a maddeningly balmy heat; much like the kind that smolders beneath the callous of his palms. it's a slow-burning ember that simply refuses to catch fire, no matter how much you ache for even the littlest flame — ache for him.
his long, dark hair spills over his broad shoulders, like ink bleeding into tainted water, and he peers at you through that swaying, silken curtain, eyes ambered with pure lust. he uses the muscled brawn of his frame to keep you pressed into imported satin mahogany sheets, as if he could live forever in the saccharine pulse of your dripping cunt.
or, perhaps not. maybe, he simply finds there to be more pleasure in the hunger of a good tease. it’s sudden when he pulls out, drenched to the very base of his dark, downy hair, wettened in the sweet overflow of your juices. the silence that follows the ‘shlick!’ is heavy and warm, filled only with the sound of synchronized breathing. in the stillness, every small sensation feels magnified. cool air against buzzing skin, the steady rhythm of your heartbeats, the gaping emptiness within you that zuko left in his wake.
there he lingers at the precipice for what you consider to be a torturous eternity — glides his heavy, pulsing length along the weeping seam of your slit, drags the throbbing underside along your slickest folds in a way that teases your entrance; he enters just a fraction, his shallow promise of depth before he withdraws entirely. you’re left terribly hollow.
“you want it, huh?” he taps along the hypersensitive bud of your sticky clit with his swollen, mauve tip, gaze narrowing whenever you whine. “need to be fucked so badly, don’t you? aw, my poor baby . . .”
through the gaze of his golden, unmarred eye, you’re a vision of beautiful undoing beneath him; all breathless and pleading for the friction he so carefully withholds. crystalline tears trace the flushed curves of your warm cheeks, salt meeting skin. zuko’s large hand moves to find purchase, his pale fingers contrasting sharply as they bloom against the rich, warm brown of your hip, gripping you with possession.
you begin to press onto him, wiggling your round, pretty ass against his bobbing cock until he’s forced to rock back and meet your rhythm.
it’s then that the tether snaps, leaving him helpless against the both the gravitational pull of your plush, pouted lips, and the siren call of your sweet pussy; he catches your hips in two sweltering palms, unable to endure another second of the space between you.
finally, finally, he sets away his restraint. he’s toyed with you long enough . . . who is he to deny you now?
when zuko eventually flips you onto your tautly-arched back and sinks home — tilting his strong hips at that precise, devastating angle — he presses in past smooth, squeezing walls and fills you to the very brim; a thick, sated pressure with a weight leaves you impossibly stretched around the girth of his hard cock.
he devours your pitched sounds in a deep, swollen kiss, his tongue sliding into the cavern of your mouth to suckle on your own with a heavy, shameless wetness. the low, messy sound of him drinking you in is syrupy and loud, a slick noise that echoes in the quietness of him swallowing up your gasps.
you pull away for air and reach up, desperate to claw at him, your soft palm sliding over the firm ridges of his toned stomach until your fingers trace the jagged, fleshy bloom of the lightning scar centered at his solar plexus. it’s a map of his old pain, vibrating against your skin as he lets out a long, shuddering exhale that tells you he’s wholly, devoutly, surrendered his fire and found his personal heaven inside of you.
“mmgh, zuko — finally . . .”
he only chuckles, a low vibration that resonates through the saffron-spiced air of his bedchamber, his head dipping low. the raised crimson dermis of the burn mark around his eye brushes against your temple; a rough, familiar texture that only adds to the delicious friction when his forehead brushes yours.
he rocks into you with such a torturous slowness that it feels as though he isn’t fucking you at all. you’re practically sobbing for him to just move.
your spirited husband, an ever so patient man, only chuckles, shushing your dulcet whines with the prod of two thick, pale fingers. they settle onto the pink of your tongue and sink further into the velvet of your mouth, claiming it as his own. he watches intently, with beautifully sharp molten eyes as your spit pools and gathers, slicking the width of his middle and index until they glisten.
“don’t worry, my love,” he coos, feeding you a deep, heavy thrust that distends the soft curve of your belly from within. his free hand descends, palm blooming with the slightest flicker of ignited heat as he presses that simmering touch over your pelvis, marking the bulge where he passes in and out of you.
he fights the spread of a grin as you moan and gag around his fingers simultaneously, your breath hot and frantic against his palm. “i’ll make you feel so fucking good, i promise . . . you’ll forget you ever had to wait.”
I keep thinking about aang getting all shy when you reveal yourself to each other for the first time ... like he'd walk in the room, you'd take off your shirt, and he'd freeze in place. and then he'd immediately get down on his knees without hesitation. he wouldn't touch you yet, but he'd be shaking as his big hands coming to cup your hips and waist, and like a natural puppy he'd just lean against you with a whine and a simple: "please." he's pleading to the SPIRITS to give him the STRENGTH. but when YOU SEE HOW LARGE HE IS FOR THE FIRST TIME??? HE IMMEDIATELY STARTS WITH THE REASSURANCE BECAUSE HE JUST KNOWSSS it'd hurt, but he's also shy because what if he's not your type even though he is like oogh. 😭😭😭😭
CALLING THE SPIRITS TO GIVE HIM STRENGTH!!!! Calling to his spiritual guides for will power to not plow you into the mattress what the fuck is his problem oh my goddddddd. The ache in your hips when he finally settles between your thighs, spreading you open to accommodate the sheer mass of him while he fists his cock under your expectant gaze. Shying away at the wide fix of your stare on his thick cock, swallowing thick as his big hand strokes himself up and down, skin blushing to match the reddened tip of his dick, spreading the beading precum that leaks at the sight of you. “Just gotta ease into it,” he’d promise, “You’re not scared, are you? Still want me to?” the quick nod you give him nearly makes him choke, pushing the tip into your hole painfully slowly, breathing hard at the sensation of your tight walls already squeezing around him, a sharp gasp clawing up your throat, eyes clenched tight. Tears well in your eyes, the stretch burning through you, pussy desperate to push him out as he sinks deeper, unaccustomed to taking the size of someone like Aang, “I know, I know—just a little more. Taking so much,” he’d murmur, almost impressed as he presses his cock another notch deeper, groaning at the subconscious clench of your spongy walls constricting around him, “Such a natural, hm? Just wanna show off.”
sum. an argument with the most irritating assassin in london leads to far more than you expect... 18+ FIC; MDNI
pairing jacob frye x secretary!reader
w.c. 2.4k
content warnings. 18+ mdni, fem!reader, porn with the barest whiff of plot, pre-established working relationship, boss/employee dynamic, dirty talk but make it 1800s, oral f. receiving, fingering, allusions to penetrative sex, pain kink m. receiving, Jacob Frye is a mouthy bitch, inappropriate use of desks, sex as a substitute for arguing, weird ass pov that's a mix of two povs, i wrote all of this shit and didn't actually have him put it in-
author's notes. soooooooo. after sitting on this for like. what 4 months? i finally decided to post this. i hereby christen this blog as Fucking Horny. the most love and adoration to @sun-snatcher for putting up with this entire au, proof reading this and being the reason i have spent 4 months in AC hell <3 ty wishie have fun with val kilmer <3
In the reel and sting from being slapped, Jacob Frye realises two things in quick succession. First, that your anger extended to his sister too, as you’d taken off the welcome-to-the-Rooks ring Evie had gifted you all that time ago.
Second, he was hard.
The third realisation, more delayed than the other two, was that you were so angry you had started shaking, and that he found you even more attractive than twenty minutes ago when you had first started yelling at him. The what and why of the scenario had slipped his mind. Because of you.
Firstly, again, you slapped him, and secondly because you, pretty little secretary slash accountant you, were standing before him frazzled, shaking, panting in anger. He, for all his bowing and kowtowing and calling himself a gentleman, could not pull his mind from the gutter. Thus, the problem in his trousers. Definitely not from the sensation of you hitting him. Of course not.
It's been silent for too long. He’s staring, cupping the side of his face you attacked with the opposite hand. Anger slowly cools into anxiety because good Lord above, you just slapped your employer - though Jacob certainly deserved a good beating for every single point that you’ve argued against him.
The over recruiting, the betting and boozing, not to mention how expensive it's becoming to outfit all his damn Rooks to fight. Knives and guns and does he know how much they're spending on green dye for those stupid coats per month?
He’s silent, still staring, and then.
“God, you’re irritating, aren’t you?”
He watches your hackles rise back up in disbelief, anger igniting across your face, about to let loose a what does that even mean; then surges forward to grab your face in both hands and kiss you.
You freeze, but Jacob doesn’t even have time to wonder if he’s misstepped before you’re clawing at him. Hands grab at hips and napes, your hand cards through his hair and knocks his cap to the floor, while he gets to revel in the fact that he’s finally scored a point in one of your many bouts.
But this is not a lovers kiss, and he does not kid himself into thinking it is.
The tangle of the two of you is not passionless, far from it. There are the telltale sighs of you losing yourself, instances in the infinity you seem to kiss him where a touch seems soft, a moan seems loving, but in the moments you part, you transform.
You snarl, you bite his lip. Soft touch becomes bruising, a tender hand becomes a yank to his hair. You kiss him like you want to rip the tongue from his mouth.
He’s kind of in love with it.
You don’t let him get more than an inch ahead of you in this great (perceived) race to put the other in their place. Giving as good as you get, you think, especially with how warm the room’s become, both your neck and his starting to heat with sweat.
He’s pressed against the far wall and your hand just barely brushes his crotch as it roams down his abdomen. To be honest, you were mostly trying to reach behind him to pay him back for swatting at your backside earlier in the bout, but a win is a win. Especially when that win is Jacob Frye moaning, hard and hot in your hand through his trousers.
He breaks the kiss; his head tilts back, jugular exposed, panting hard as you grope him brazenly. You lean up to capture the pulse point in your mouth, but your prey is barely between your jaws for a second before you feel the vibration of his laugh in your teeth.
Your head snaps up to see something in his eyes you don’t expect. You daren’t name it.
“What?” It comes out as a snarl.
He laughs through his nose.
“Never knew you were this much of a fighter ‘s’all.”
Jacob’s voice is something much worse than lustful, even though you’re palming him, and he’s been skillfully undoing the buttons on your blouse without your notice. Similarly, he takes advantage of your slowed state, slowly tipping the scales back in his favour through walking you both backwards until you’re forced to perch on the edge of your desk.
Ever the distractor, he dips to the junction of your neck, breath hot on your pulse before you can even retort.
“You’d be a wonder in the ring darling.”
He kisses upwards to your cheek, tilting you slowly backwards, closer and closer to his goal.
“What do you say, eh? Get a few rounds in?”
Oh, he’s proud of himself for that one. You can see it in his smirk, the way it lifts to show teeth. The taunt, unfortunately, is your undoing. Definitely not his smile. But in the back of your mind, you don’t truly care about losing, not now. Not while Jacob is warm and alive above you, lips bitten and swollen, pupils blown wide, more dishevelled than you’ve ever seen. You’ve become prey now, and it's exhilarating.
You pull him to you by his shirt collar and Jacob can do nothing but laugh. You’re lifted into his arms easily, deposited on the desk, and for a moment his grip around your waist loosens.
A crash comes from behind, you cry out, whipping your head around so fast he has to move out of the way or be hit by your hair. The idiot has swept his hand across the tabletop, sending ledgers, papers, pens and your oil lamp crashing to the ground.
“Frye, what–”
You’re shocked out of your daze, and he is at least good enough to at kick some of the broken glass out of the way, closer to the door.
“We needed more room!” He says, almost insulted that you’re upset at his actions.
“But the lamp–”
“Write it off as a business expense.” He shrugs, then kisses you again. You bite his lip in response, his head rears back and he rolls his eyes. “Alright, I’ll buy you a new one.”
Jacob lays you across the table, after you’re plied with kisses enough to let him, stepping between your legs to hike your skirts up.
“Buy you whatever you want,” he grunts as clothed knee burrows between plush thighs. “You deserve it.”
“I do? I have- ah, there - I have been wanting to get some new things for the office.” You're trying hard to stay grounded, but he notices the way your voice pitches up at the pressure of him against you. He moves his leg so his thigh grinds against your core and you growl.
“Just for the office? Nothing pretty for the best secretary in all of London?”
The friction you’re finally able to gain from rocking against him sends your head spinning at the compliment, but you cling on to that still-seething core of anger, letting it smolder.
“Oh, ‘the best secretary’ is it? Just a moment ago I was a - what was it again? She-devil?”
He laughs at your mocking, then sucks his next portion of air through his teeth as your hand touches the bare skin of his waist under an untucked shirt, nails raking across flesh, and the kisses pressed to his jawline.
“Well, it’s hardly incorrect, now is it? Wild thing, you are.”
At that, his coat is pushed from his arms and he can’t help but laugh again at your muttered I’ll show you wild, Frye. Another jibe gets him pulled in by his waistband to push your heat against his. A third gets him smacked again, this time for attempting to uncouple the front of your corset at the same time.
His cock throbs this time, and he curses your proximity. Watches as your eyes glimmer in cruel amusement as you feel the reaction against you, how your face twists to mock him.
Thank his lucky star you’re on his side. You look beautiful when you’re wicked.
“What’s this? Are you… excited about getting hit?” You breathe the words as if reciting a spell. Despite their reverence, your voice drips with condescension. He sputters in response, and you grab a handful of his hair, bringing him close. He can't meet your eyes, and you delight at the genuine blush dusting his face.
“I think I’ve just figured out why you want me in that boxing ring so badly, Jacob Frye.”
For the first time possibly ever, you see Jacob positively bashful.
“You uh… you may not be too shy off the mark there, darling.”
You grin at his confession, rocking your hips with his. He hisses, then laughs.
“Alright, I deserved that. However may I rectify this… grave misconduct of mine?” He smiles, oh so coy and you roll your eyes in response, pulling back by a hair.
It's the first time in minutes your speech hasn’t been interrupted with kisses or insults. Jacob watches the gears turn in your head, when that wicked little smile quirks the corner of your lip again. The hand in his hair relaxes from gripping to pushing, down, down, down ‘til he’s propped himself on one knee and worked your undergarments out of the way, grinning like a madman all the way down.
If this is but a literal taste of what's to come, Jacob will savour every second between your thighs.
You don’t move your hand from his head, meaning he’s pushed to the perfect position to see the whole of you. Gazing up, Jacob realises sharply that you may be the most frighteningly beautiful woman he’s ever met. You are coolly determined to keep your head despite your blouse hanging half off you, corset uncoupled and your skirts 'round your hips. It’s so bloody attractive that he doesn’t even care he’s at your mercy at this moment. Through dark lashes, he regards you with admiration.
“Well? I’m waiting for my apology, Frye.” You goad, and he uses that as his cue to tear your underwear from your hips. You shriek, but all insults die on your tongue as his licks a long stripe up the seam of you.
You laugh almost in shock, leading horse to water. He starts as he means to go on, with fervorous, long strokes. Jacob has the courtesy to not detach his mouth from suckling at your bud to comment on the exceptionally enthusiastic responses he’s drawing from you while you take your pleasure from his ministrations.
He adds a finger, crooked and attempting to undo you, and he hums as your eyes flutter shut with a call of his name. A second causes your thighs to shutter his head, but he pushes them back open with naught but a smile, leaning back to drink you in.
“C’mon, love, keep 'em open for me.” It’s murmured, but heard regardless.
“Did no one teach you not to talk when your mouth’s full, Frye?” It’s meant to come out as threatening. Instead its breathless and wanting, with Jacob laughing as you force his mouth back to work with a heel between his shoulder blades. He offers a kiss to the junction of crotch and thigh, then to your clit, taking it gently between his teeth. You lounge back, spellbound enough to forget your anger for a time. Marvellous how a problem disappears when it’s smoothed over like this.
He goes and ruins it all by talking again. Initially it’s all mumbles you can barely hear over your own voice, something you’re only the slightest bit embarrassed about.
“Fuckin’ beautiful.” You keen at the praise, but in the absence of more you shuffle yourself back up onto your forearms. Looking down at him through your haze, you realise that Jacob has been muttering affections to your cunt this entire time, clearly not listening to your earlier admonishment.
“Are you insane?” You scoff.
He catches your eye and grins as he nips at the inside of your thigh, the action making you shudder as he rests his cheek against your skin. He looks, in this moment, so innocent, as if he hasn’t got two fingers hilted deep inside your heat; like he’s not the most infuriating man in all of London.
“Just getting introductions sorted out, love,” Jacob says, eyes not moving from where his fingers disappear inside you, and there must be something wrong with you, because there’s a hiccup in your heartbeat instead of a retort that there wouldn't be any repeat meetings.
He presses an almost tender kiss to the top of your slit, and you can’t help but chase the view of him, pushing upwards so you’re resting your weight on your palms.
“Gotta loosen her up, yeah? You have to treat a lady right, after all.”
His breath is hot against your skin, and when he’s not holding your thighs apart his spare hand is put to work palming himself, committing every part of you to memory.
His muttering continues between kisses and licks, praising everything from your taste to the noises of your cunt, conversing with it.
He looks insane. It’s unnervingly attractive.
You scold him, swat at his head when he bites gently a second time on your clit, but let your head fall back when a particularly artful crook of his fingers send your hips bucking into the free hand soothing them.
It’s soon after that Jacob sends you over the edge for the first time, and on the spot he realises he is obsessed with it. How you bend forward and gasp his name with none of the typical shock or irritation; just a pure cry of pleasure. Pleasure he wrought. Mouth open with a wide smile, like you're about to burst out laughing.
He’s trying to temper how proud of himself he is, when your shuddering ceases long enough for you to yank him upwards to kiss him.
It’s still messy and full of teeth, but Jacob seems to have fucked some of the anger out of you, at least for the moment. He's almost content to pull back and leave you like this, more than happy to have seen this side of you, debauched and far removed from the prim and proper your ladyship he saw day-to-day.
And then your hands fumble at his belt, unable to concentrate for fear of loosing his lips against yours.
Well, in for a penny, eh?
He pushes you back - a little roughly, not on purpose - to look you in the eye. His trousers are by his knees, cock in hand, and yet he stops.
“You’re sure?”
You nod in affirmation, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Jacob shakes his head.
“I need to hear you say it, love. Can’t keep going otherwise.” You give him a look, then realise he's not teasing.
The stillness brings the reality of what you're about to do into focus. You’re on a knife edge, here. Sure, what’s a bit of anger-fuelled kissing between co-workers, but this? This is a step above.
You bridge the distance, kiss him, slower than before. It feels like nothing and everything. It feels like words your brain isn’t even prepared to think. Your nose slots easily beside his as you pull away. You don't want to think about how perfectly you align with him without even trying, how easily you tune to each other's frequencies, how natural it is to soften and open for him.
A tilt of your head, another kiss to the corner of his mouth, as you watch his knife-smile grow.
OH MY GODDDDD PLEASE DO TOPH BEIFONG X FEMALE READER HC PLEASE GIVE ME jealous TOPH, teasing TOPH “i could throw you across the room but i’d rather kiss you” TOPH. I AM UNWELL. I AM ON THE FLOOR. I NEED IT EXPEDITIOUSLY. 😩😩 THNX ILY!
toph beifong when jealous
adult!toph x you
she acts like she does not care, which is exactly how you know she cares. the more casual her voice gets, the worse it is. "oh, so she’s funny now?" meanwhile she is already standing closer to you than necessary.
jealous toph gets meaner. (damn)
her teasing has more you’re-really-testing-me-right-now energy and she gets hotter when she’s annoyed.
she will absolutely interrupt your conversation just because she can. she just slides in, throws an arm over your shoulder, and goes, "you done?"
she gets touchy.
she calls you pretty when she’s jealous, but specifically in a way that feels like a warning.
"you know you look really pretty when people are trying too hard around you?" and now you’re blushing because what even is that sentence, toph???!!@@$#&
if someone is flirting with you, she gets so entertained by her own irritation. like she’s standing there thinking, wow. bold of them. stupid. then she says something smug enough to make them back off and spends the next ten minutes acting like she's the one being reasonable.
she absolutely pulls you into her lap in front of other people.
one second you’re standing there, the next she’s got you right where she wants you, arm around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. and when you give her a look, she just smirks, "what? sit." (yes, ma'am)
jealous toph is extra flirty on purpose.
oh, you want to see if she’s bothered? congratulations. now she’s murmuring in your ear, touching your face, and saying things that make your brain short-circuit just so everyone around you understands the situation.
if someone compliments you, suddenly toph is complimenting you better. if someone makes you laugh, toph has decided she is now the funniest person in the room. this is her battlefield now.
she will deny being jealous even while actively proving it.
okay. sure. that definitely explains why you’ve been pinned to her side for the last twenty minutes and why she keeps kissing your lips every time someone glances your way.
the second you tease her about it, she turns it around on you.
"are you jealous?" you ask. she just tilts her head, and grins, "nah. i know i don’t have to worry, but i still like when people know you’re mine."
note; DEAR ANON YOURE SO FUNNY😭 actually obsessed with this ask. like this is taking me out in the best way. you are evil, you are correct, and most importantly you understand the agenda. thank you so much i love you!!
disclaimer: this is for the people currently experiencing the deeply humiliating phenomenon of falling for zuko all over again. you thought it was over. you thought you were healed. and then adult zuko arrived like a personal attack from the universe, and now here you are and drafting your wedding vows in secret.
boyfriend!zuko, falling in love with you so quietly that by the time you realize what is happening, it is already far too late. there is no polished confession under a moonlit sky. just him remembering everything. the exact way you take your tea, the stories you tell twice when you are excited, the little look on your face when you are pretending not to be cold. one day you simply wake up to the horrible, delicious truth that he has been loving you with his full chest in complete silence.
boyfriend!zuko, standing beside you like he is not being protective, when in fact he is being violently protective in the most elegant way imaginable. just one hand at your waist, one unreadable look, and suddenly the entire room remembers manners. he merely exists next to you with that prince-shaped menace in his bones, and somehow that is more effective than anything louder could ever be.
boyfriend!zuko, pretending his constant care for you is just common sense, as if it is perfectly normal for someone to notice when your hands are cold before you notice when your hands are cold. your cup is already warm. your chair has somehow been moved out of the wind. the sweeter fruit has mysteriously found its way onto your plate. and when you narrow your eyes at him like oh, so you’re soft now? he looks mildly offended and says, “i am observant.” as though that explains why your entire nervous system now wants to marry him.
boyfriend!zuko, flirting like every word costs him dignity, which only makes it infinitely worse for you. he does not shower you with compliments. instead he looks at you once and says something catastrophic like, “you cannot expect me to concentrate when you look like that.” then he goes back to whatever he was doing as if he did not just rearrange your internal organs. the worst part is that he means it.
boyfriend!zuko, discovering that he is—against all odds—a forehead-kiss enthusiast. forehead kisses before you leave. forehead kisses when you are tired. forehead kisses when he thinks you are overthinking something and need help coming back to yourself. and because the universe enjoys cruelty, this only makes his actual kisses more devastating. because how are you supposed to recover from a man who treats tenderness like a sacred art form and then kisses you like restraint is a thread already fraying in his hands?
boyfriend!zuko, getting weirdly, breathtakingly quiet when you play with his hair. this man—this former disaster prince—this composed and broad-shouldered adult version of your first fictional heartbreak, simply goes still when your fingers comb through the strands near his neck. you push his hair back from his face and suddenly he looks like he has forgotten every language except yearning. he closes his eyes. his shoulders drop. his breathing changes. and now you have to live with the unbearable knowledge that this terrifyingly competent man can be reduced to silence by your hand in his hair.
boyfriend!zuko, being the type to write short notes instead of long letters. eat before the meeting. do not stay up too late tonight. come find me when you are done. i miss you. and that last one has you staring at the wall for twenty business days because what do you mean i miss you in that plain, devastating handwriting like he did not just set your soul on fire in six words.
boyfriend!zuko, looking personally betrayed when you wear his clothes. he tries to be composed. he truly does. but then you appear wrapped in one of his robes or wearing his jacket with the sleeves too long, and he just stops—like his brain needs to restart. and when you ask him what is wrong, he says, “you could have warned me.” warned him of what? of the fact that seeing you dressed in something that smells like him would make him look at you like he has several unlawful thoughts and not enough patience to conceal them? yes.
boyfriend!zuko, being deeply romantic in a way that feels handcrafted for your downfall. he remembers the smallest things and turns them into care. he knows which days are hardest for you and makes himself available without making a performance of it. he takes you to quiet places with beautiful views and acts like it just happened naturally, as if he did not plan the entire thing with military precision. loving him feels less like being swept away and more like being steadily, exquisitely claimed.
boyfriend!zuko, making safety feel more intimate than seduction. yes, he is handsome and his voice should be regulated. but the thing that truly finishes you is how safe he feels. how your body unclenches around him. how easily you fall asleep against his shoulder. how carefully he holds your softer, messier truths without ever turning them into weapons. he does not make you earn gentleness by bleeding for it. he simply gives it, like love should have always looked this way.
boyfriend!zuko, absolutely losing whatever remains of his self-control when you get affectionate in public on purpose. your fingers on his collar. a lazy kiss near the corner of his mouth. your hand smoothing the front of his robe while he is trying, unsuccessfully, to maintain a conversation. outwardly he remains composed, because of course he does. inwardly he is one second away from hauling you somewhere private and asking, in that low voice, whether you enjoy testing him. and the answer is yes.
boyfriend!zuko, being the final, devastating form of a childhood crush because now he knows how to love back. before, he was yearning from a distance. now he listens. now he stays. now he cups your face like it is something precious and looks at you as though loving you is not a burden—just the clearest truth he has. and really, that is so unfair of him.
『••✎••』
anyway. i am being incredibly normal about adult boyfriend!zuko. by which i mean i am not.
SUMMARY: being on your period, you’re one hormonal woman but you hate the idea of period sex, mainly because the idea of seeing your own period blood on someone else? It seemed gross… but will graham was the human equivalent of gross, and he wants to please his girlfriend by any means necessary.
CONTENT WARNING: 18+ CONTENT, oral sex (reader! receiving), period sex, cum eating, blood eating, will is a nasty man and you love him for it, hair pulling (will! receiving), multiple orgasms, cum eating
AUTHOR'S NOTE: uhhhh will graham, eat my pussy now!!! this came from the weirdest possible inspiration; watching wild ‘n out, best of hood jeopardy (part 2) where the prompt was “things girls say to avoid having sex” and one of the contestants, named justina was like “I’m on my period!” and nick says “I DON’T CARE” yeah, it inspired this! I posted this on my ao3 (magnus17) but did it as clark x lois instead, because why not!
his tongue pressed against your pussy so eagerly.
will graham wasn’t a rookie when it came to blood. he was a detective for gods sake, he’s been around death and guts for as long as he can remember. he knew what blood was like, how it flowed and pumped. he knew that blood harvested a metallic and saltier taste, he wasn’t shy about getting to know everything about the victims he had to take care of.
will also wasn’t a rookie when it came to you. he knew what your blood tasted like, when your body hit your cycle every month, he knew what you tasted like… and it’s intoxicating to know that this man didn’t care about blood.
he wasn’t grossed out by blood, he wasn’t grossed out at the idea of fucking you on your period, he didn’t even have a second thought when the idea entered his mind and stuck to his brain lile glue. he couldn’t get it off his mind, and in some parts, will didn’t want it off his mind.
you, however, hated the idea of period sex. not because you didn’t want sex— period hormones make your body go a little too insane for your liking… the only problem was the actual idea of it. the idea of bleeding all over the sheets and will’s mouth. the idea of seeing the liquid that’s been tormenting you all week on his tongue like milk. the idea of accidentally flowing too hard and seeing the gross clots hit his cheeks.
but will was entranced by the idea, and when he offered to eat you out to relax you when one of the cramps hit you harder than the others and you couldn’t believe he offered it? he didn’t waste any time.
“baby, let me help you.” will offered, his voice soft but he had that deepening tone that got you going crazy, especially now when you’ve been too damn horny.
you shook your head, crossing your arms across your chest as his hands put themselves on top of your thighs, spreading them open on the bed. “will… no… it’s fucking gross. i’ll bleed all over you, all over our bed, it’s messy and it’s just… gross.”
“gross?” will said, nearly in shock. gross was will graham’s middle name, he lived in a gross mind that was too engrossed in vile material that no other human could begin to think about. “hun… i see so much worse things than your body doing it’s natural behavior… i want to do this for you… so please, just let me help you relax, f’me? i can see how tense you are.”
you looked at him like he was crazy… but you couldn’t resist it. your pussy was telling you all sorts of things, you needed him, and the look on his face? oh you couldn’t say no to that…
and that’s how you ended up here, legs spread, pussy wet with both your period blood and your wetness as will’s tongue lays in between your folds, nose pressed onto the top of you.
you whimper at the feeling of his wet tongue, your legs unable to close due to his hands keeping them open. his tongue feels ten times more intense on your period, your folds reacting so much easier now that your hormones are acting up. “w-will… oh fuck will… please…”
at your whispered and soft pleas for him, will gives in, pressing his full mouth against the heat of your core rather than just his tongue. he kisses and licks along your slit, savoring the sweet taste of your arousal as well as the slowly growing hint of metallic as his tongue doesn’t dare to delve a little too deep.
will pulls back slightly, only after a few soft licks of his tongue and sucks of his lips, his eyes locked onto yours. his thumb strokes up and down the inside of your thighs. “you’re so fucking gorgeous like this, hun…” he murmurs, his voice low and gravelly with lust, shooting vibrations through your veins. “could eat this pussy all night… so fucking good.”
without waiting for your pleas and making you wait, your thighs shaking on his shoulders, he dives right back in, tongue swirling around your vulva in circular motions. he sucks gently, applying just the right amount of pressure and force to send shockwaves of pleasure through your body, feeling you jolt in his hands.
will lifts his head, a line of spit following his mouth to keep him and your cunt in connection as he slides three of his fingers into his mouth to lube them up with his spit. you whimper as he pulls back, fingers clutching the bedsheets, moaning under your breath as you watch spit decorate his fingers, immediately going back to your vulva.
your back immediately arches off of the mattress as you feel his tongue flick up and down your clit, mouth so carelessly sucking on your vulva, taking full advantage of how sensitive and wet your pussy was, a high pitched whine escaping from your throat. one of your hands shoot down to his curly hair, lacing your fingers through his curls and immediately taking a few yanks at it, heels digging deep into his back muscles. “will! oh fuck!”
the sensation of his skilled tongue and the warmth of his breath on your most intimate places is overwhelming, shamelessly pushing you closer to your orgasm, not controlling how much blood flows out of your folds.
“oh fuckkkk, will… d-don’t stop, don’t stop please.” you gasp out, hips bucking erratically against his mouth and chin. your mind goes blank, completely and utterly consumed by the intense pleasure flowing through your veins as will’s mouth sucked harder.
his lips and cheeks slowly begin to get covered with your blood, his mouth greedily eating and drinking up every part of your wetness and period blood with a smirk tugged on his lips. spit dropped onto the mattress, groans vibrating through his throat as the metallic taste hits the back of his throat. and before you could think, his middle finger presses into your folds, easily sliding into your cunt.
will hums in approval at your reaction, soaking it all in as his mind goes blank at your broken pleas. he doubles his efforts, alternating between long, slow laps and flicks and quicker movements of his tongue. his finger slides so easy, in and out, doing a c’mere motion and curling it upwards when his knuckle hits your folds. he doesn’t care that blood is all over his finger and getting onto his hand, he doesn’t care that one of the ingredients in the mix of flavor in his mouth is your period blood. it’s fucking delicious to him.
he pumps slowly, occasionally matching the rhythm of his finger to his tongue inside her clit. “oh yeah, baby.” he growls under his breath, sloppily making out with your cunt as his nose pressed further. “taste so fuckin’ good… s’like a heaven, just for me.”
“fuck— fuck, please, will, pleaseeee, let me cum, so so close.” you blabber, whines leaving your throat as you don’t even control your hips and how they grind against his mouth, how harshly your fingers are digging and tugging at his hair. you don’t care that your blood is covering his nose or hairs of his beard or his lips.
will continued his relentless assault on your throbbing cunt, his tongue flicking rapidly across your sensitive bundle of nerves as he coaxes you closer and closer, teetering on the edge of your orgasm. his finger pumped harder, the tip of his finger rubbing the top of your cunt.
sensing your impending orgasm, will decides to make it better by sliding in two more of his fingers, pressing against your folds and with the help of both spit and blood, glides them in no problem. his three fingers; right hand’s pointer, middle, and ring, pump into you quicker than ever before, curling all of them to hit that magic spot deep within your pussy. his lips sucked harsher as his fingers went faster, matching the rhythm of his oral movements together.
you scream so loudly you’re sure your neighbors can hear, but you don’t care. it feels so fucking good. your heels dig into his shoulder blades, fingers tightening their grip in his curls as you cry out in pleasure. “fuckkkkk! will! will! oh fuck! s-so good!” you moan out, slurring your words.
“cum baby, cut all over my face.” he urged, voice muffled by your wet folds, his beard darkened with red and cheeks with streaks of liquid on them but he couldn’t care. you tasted too good to even mind the fact that his stomach was churning at the taste of blood. “lemme taste it… let me taste your orgasm.”
the words enter your ears, you soak them in, and before you know it, you’re hitting your orgasm. his words are all it takes for you to tumble over the edge, a strangled cry of pleasure rips from your throat as your body seizes, waves of intense pleasure crashing and bashing through you. your pussy clenched around his fingers tightly, practically keeping him in as your cunt pulsed.
“oh fuck! will!” you drag out his name, your juices flowing freely all over his face, not caring about particularly anything as his face becomes a glistened mess of blood and wetness. he laps your cunt eagerly, drinking in your fluids like a man starved. your cum tastes delicious on his tongue, he’s moaning freely as each drop hits his tongue, taking more and more of it like a greedy dog.
the aftershocks began to finally subside in your body despite will’s tongue continuing to lick you up and down, cleaning up the sloppy residue of your cum, faint traces of blood, and spit. you soak into the bed, hair sprawled on the pillow and body feeling so good. you keep your legs spread wide, allowing will unrestricted access to your spent body, a languid smile curved on your lips, eyes glazed with satisfaction.
finally, will pulls his fingers out, free from your tight cunt. he brings them to his mouth and sticks out his tongue, licking them clean, savoring the taste of your cum again and relishing in the tang of your release.
“you look so stunning like this baby.” he mutters, voice husky and low with satisfaction as he places a kiss onto your abdomen, his hands going to your sides to rub up and down your skin. “taste so good baby…”
your fingers lace through his hair and forces him to come up to where your head was, wrapping both limp arms around his neck and bringing him in for a kiss. his lips lock against yours, you can taste yourself on his lips but you couldn’t care.
“thank you…” you whimper against his swollen lips, chin scratching against his scruff.
he hums, raising an eyebrow. “for what baby? just doing what I know you need…”
“exactly that.” you confirm, shutting him up with another kiss.
main masterlist | kinktober masterlist
god I love him so fucking much. never watched hannibal but he’s so sexy, and I’ve watched enough scene packs! trust! possibly more will graham x reader coming up, because I luv him and his sexy, depressed ass!
The heavy steps could be heard from outside the door. His every step hurried, mixed with weight. Weight of his worries? Exhaustion? Or just simply his mind.
Some of the dogs perked up. Catching his scent. The knob twisted twice before opening. Closing just as quick. You could hear that he is back. The dogs barked as they saw him. Jumping on him, trying to get his attention but it wasn't on them at the moment.
You, blissfully unaware of the storm that was his mind right now, stirred the tea. One tea bag, two spoons of sugar and a pinch of salt. Just how you like it.
You could hear the footsteps. Thud, thud, thud against the hallway. Making you raise your brow. You stepped away from the counter, tea forgotten as you peak your head out to hallway.
You saw him, but only for a second. Before you could even ask, his lips were on yours. Soft. His hand came up to hold the back of your neck, holding you still as he licked his way in between your lips.
A man starved is what would be used to describe him right now. In a moment of surprise, you pushed at his chest. Only for his free hand to come and wrap around your wrist, pulling it away.
Backing you up against the counter. The steam of the tea still wafted in the air. You could feel yourself running out of air. A small distressed sound leaving your lips against his, the sound almost swallowed by him before he pulled back.
Looking down at you, your chest heaved with every breath you took. Up and down, over and over but it felt like the air just wasn't entering your lungs. His lips moved to you jaw. Kissing down to the side of your neck.
"need you. . Need you so bad." He whispered against your skin. Tainting it with his words. "Please—", he stepped closer. The words covered in desperation. His body pushing against yours. As if wanting to mend and be one.
He wants to be close. As close as physically possible. At this moment, he feels like the only way he could breathe is through you. His lips found yours again. His hand leaving your wrist to wrap around your waist. Pulling you close.
Hands placed under your thighs to lift you up. Lips still attached, swallowing every sound, every whisper of any word.
Walking to the living room. Sitting on the chair as he placed you on his lap. One hand leaving to unbuckle his belt. Teeth nipping at your bottom lip, making you whimper. Your hands loop around his neck, one hand in his soft curls.
He unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down as he pulled his cock out. Hard and seeking attention. It almost looked painful. Using his arm wrapped around your waist to lift you up, having your weight on your knees as he pulls your shorts down, just enough.
Using his spit, to coat his tip as he run it between your silken folds before letting you sink down his length. His mouth gaped, head tilted down, as a strangled breath left him.
Your grip on his tightened. Feeling him, in you, was a feeling you will never be used to. "Ah— Will. .", you whispered. Your face going into hide. Forehead against his shoulder. Your hips squirmed, starting to move but his hands firmly placed on them.
"ju— just stay. Like this", he whispered. His voice shaky. Vulnerable. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, he swallowed thickly. His dry throat bobbing as he did. "I need this", he whispered softly.
The feeling of you, felt like he could breathe. Like the haze in his clouded mind has finally cleared. Wafting away like the steam of the forgotten tea.
Warnings: P in V , war room sex, table sex, bent over a table fucking, cream pie
The war map was spread across the table.
Tokens, markers, notes, everything perfectly placed, because Sokka had been at this for over an hour.
“And then,” he continued, pacing back and forth with a stick in hand, “we flank from the western ridge, force them into the narrow pass, and—”
You leaned back in your chair.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Your arms stretched over your head, your chest pushing out as your shirt raised.
Sokka stopped, mid speech, mid step, mid thought as he watched you. “…and then we—uh—”His eyes dropped, just for a moment only for them to snap back up. “…you did that on purpose.”
You smiled sweetly. “Did what?”
“That,” he gestured vaguely, trying and failing not to look again. “The...stretching, the very distracting stretching—”
You tilted your head. “I’m just sitting here.”
He scoffed. “No, you’re strategically sitting there.”
You leaned forward slightly this time, elbows resting on the table, of course your shirt had to have a low enough cut to show off your cleavage.
Sokka’s brain short-circuited. “Okay!!! no! nope—new rule, no leaning, no stretching, no… being hot while I’m trying to think—”
You reached out and dragged one of the tokens in a slow circle. “Continue your plan, strategist.”
He swallowed, hard. “Right. Plan. Yes. Plan.”He turned back to the map. “And then we...uh....push forward..."
You brushed your fingers against his wrist, just lightly though it was enough to make Sokka freeze.
“…I’m under attack,” he said quietly.
You smirked.
He turned his head slowly. “Are you trying to sabotage my planing?”
“Maybe.”
That was it.
Sokka dropped the stick. “Okay,” he said, stepping toward you. “New plan.”
Before you could react, he grabbed your waist and lifted you easily, setting you on top of the table.
The map crinkled beneath you, pieces that were once settled on the map scattered. “Hey—!”
“You started it,” he shot back, stepping between your knees.His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your skirts higher. “You know exactly what you’re doing when you look at me like that.”
You raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Like you’re about to burn the entire strategy meeting to the ground,” he muttered.
Your hands slid up his chest. “Maybe I am.”
He leaned in and kissed you hard.
All teasing gone.
All strategy abandoned.
His mouth was warm, insistent, a little messy and exactly like him as his hands gripped your hips and pulled you closer.
“God,” he murmured against your lips, “you’re trouble.”
“Your trouble.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “I am painfully aware.”
His hands moved faster now, tugging at your clothes, pushing fabric aside until your pussy was exposed to the cool air.
Sokka sucked in a breath.
“Oh wow,” he whispered. “You’re already, okay, yeah, this meeting was doomed.”
You laughed softly until his fingers brushed through your slick folds.
Then your breath hitched.
“Still think I’m overreacting?” he asked.
“No.”
“Good.”
He fumbled with the belt around his hips because of course he did, getting it half undone before swearing under his breath. “Why are these so complicated, who designed—”
You leaned forward and kissed him.
He forgot the belt entirely. “…right,” he muttered, finally freeing his cock. “Priorities.”
He stepped closer, positioning himself between your thighs.
“Last chance,” he said, though his voice was already rough. “We can stop and go back to the map—”
You wrapped your legs around his waist. "Fuck the map." you whispered.
Sokka grinned. “Yeah, I thought so.”
Then he pushed inside you, slow at first.Just the tip, the man groaning into your neck as it brushed your clit.
Then deeper.
Until you were filled completely.Both of you let out another groan.
“Okay,” he breathed, forehead dropping to yours, “that’s… that’s better than any strategy I’ve ever come up with.”
You tightened around him, legs wrapping around his hips.
He hissed. “Don’t...don’t do that unless you want this meeting to end immediately—”
You did it again, a grin on your lips. "You're adorable when you think you can't last."
“Okay!! meeting’s over.”
He started moving, quick, eager thrusts that made the table creak beneath you.
The scattered map slid under your hands as you clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders.
“Sokka—”
“Yeah,” he breathed, “I know, I know—”
His pace was messy but strong, driven by pure need, his hips snapping forward as he tried to find a rhythm that didn’t completely destroy the table.
“Next time,” he muttered between breaths, “we’re—definitely..not..doing..this...on...important—documents—”
You laughed and then moaned as he hit deeper.
“Okay,” he corrected, “we are absolutely doing this on important documents again.”
Your body tightened, your breath breaking as the pressure built.
Sokka felt it. “Oh!! there it is, yeah...come on—”
His hand slipped between your bodies, rubbing your clit clumsily but effectively.
“Finish it,” he murmured.
You did. Your orgasm hit hard, your body tightening around him as you gasped his name.
Sokka followed seconds later, groaning loudly as he thrust deep and came, his grip tightening on your hips as his body tensed.
He collapsed forward slightly, catching himself on the table.
For a moment, everything was quiet until Sokka gave you a shaky smile. “…we should probably fix the map,” he said weakly.
You looked down at the scattered pieces, the map torn then back at him.
“…nah.”
He grinned.“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again, “we’ll wing it.”
The map was ruined.Pieces scattered. Ink smeared.The entire western flank plan now crumpled beneath your hands.
And neither of you cared.
Not when Sokka was still inside you, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours, trying and failing to recover.
“…okay,” he said weakly, “that was..uh, very productive.”
You smirked. “Was it?”
“No,” he admitted immediately. “Absolutely not. We are definitely losing that battle.”
You laughed softly.
His hands were still on your hips, still holding on to you, not letting you go. “…but,” he added, voice dropping, eyes flicking down where your bodies were still joined, “we might win this one.”
Your breath hitched slightly. “Oh?”
Sokka swallowed. “Yeah.” He pulled back, just a little only to push back in as a groan left your lips, your nails digging into his arm.
“Still sensitive?” he asked, a little too proud.
“Shut up.”
“Not a chance.”
His hands tightened on your hips as he shifted, guiding you forward.
“Turn around.”
You raised a brow but obeyed, sliding off the edge of the table just enough to bend forward, your hands bracing against the ruined map.
Sokka took a second and just looked. “…wow.”
You glanced back over your shoulder, a smirk forming on your lips. “What?”
He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.Just...… wow.”
You rolled your eyes but your body warmed under his gaze.
He stepped closer, hands sliding over your hips, up your sides, squeezing your waist.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered.
“You’ll survive.”
“Debatable.”
He lined himself up again, the head of his cock brushing your already sensitive pussy.
Your breath caught. "Sokka—”
“Yeah,” he murmured, softer now, leaning over you slightly. “I know.”
Then he pushed back inside you, your hands tightened on the table as your back arched, a broken sound leaving your lips.
“Spirits,” he breathed, gripping your hips as he settled fully. “You feel even better like this, how is that fair?”
You tried to answer, only for it to die on your lips because he started moving again.
Harder this time, more confident. His hands held you steady as his hips snapped forward, each thrust pushing you slightly against the table.
The wood creaked beneath you.
“Okay....okay....this, this is good,” he muttered breathlessly. “This is very good, this is....yeah—”
You laughed weakly, your head dropping slightly, eyes closing.“You’re still talking.”
“I talk when I’m—” thrust— “focused—”
Another thrust.
“Very focused.”
Your walls tightened around him.
He groaned.
“Oh—don’t do that!!don’t do that—”
You did it again.
“Okay!! no!!now I’m losing focus—”His grip tightened as his rhythm sped up, less controlled now, more instinct than strategy. The slap of skin echoed softly in the room, your breaths mixing with his low, broken sounds.
“Sokka—” your voice broke.
“Yeah!!! yeah. I’m right here—”His hand slid up your back, pulling you slightly upright so your back pressed against his chest.
His mouth found your shoulder, biting lightly before kissing over the spot. One hand still holding your hips as the other clutched the betrothal necklace around your neck.
“Next time,” he muttered, thrusting deeper, “we’re not doing this where people can walk in—”
“You said that last time.”
“And I meant it less now.”
You laughed and then moaned as he angled deeper, your breasts bouncing with each of his thrusts.
“That’s it,” he breathed. “That’s the spot—”
Your legs trembled, your grip on the table tightened. “Don’t stop—”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
His pace grew rougher, his control slipping again as he chased your reaction, your sounds, your body, the way you tightened around him.
“Come on,” he murmured.
Your orgasm hit fast, your body tightening around him as your breath broke into a sharp gasp.
Sokka groaned loudly, his thrusts stuttering before he buried himself deep, coming hard with a breathless laugh against your shoulder, a whimper leaving your lips as you felt his release slide down your thigh.
For a moment, neither of you moved, just breathing, recovering.
