(Hello! I’m currently working on a bigger set of fatherhood headcanons for some of the Assassins/Templars but I’m making a small general list of things that might not be brought up in the bigger lists but could apply to any of them! Also trying to make them gender neutral just in case I work on stuff for Aveline and Evie! I’m trying to work on some smaller stuff here and there to help with the wait! I might also do a random set of smaller parenthood headcanons and drabbles of just one off things as well!)
* When they’re with their kids, their children get that scary dog privilege. Knowing they can easily become a target, their assassin/templar parent keep their guard up and will intimidate any threat made or else the consequences will be grave. Depending on the child’s age, they may not notice or if older, they understand its safer to stay around their assassin/templar parent than wander off, especially if it’s a lesson that’s been learned the hard way.
* Due to their assassin/templar training, their reflexes are super sharp! Say their kid tries to throw something at them, they either catch or block it by instinct. If their kid falls or trips, they’re right there to stop them from hitting the ground. They’re always aware and when a kid running around, those skills always remain in check.
* All the children like to play with their assassin/templar parent’s robes. They like to hide in them or sneak out to do training or something you wouldn’t approve of but get caught due to giggling or laughing. They also like to wear their robes, trying to act like their assassin/templar parent while basically swimming in the fabric and tripping over themselves.
* Even if their assassin/templar parent is not around, their child would be some of the most protected children in the world. From trainees, family, friends, allies, crews, gangs, and many others, anyone who tries to get at their child would have to get through all of that first.
* Ezio finds his scars add a certain charm and ruggedness to his already dashing good looks. Having an interesting backstory on how he got the one on his lips helps, especially when it could be embellished if needing to sway a potential romantic partner into his arms. Over the years, he’s gained new scars along his body, either from training, brawls, or the occasional close call with the guards or archers around Italy, and he will use each to his advantage.
* The feeling was a little funny the first couple of times Ezio kissed with the scar on his lips, the sensation on the raised skin there but faint. There was a dullness of pain but it wasn’t anything he wasn’t use to. Ezio enjoys how his lovers trace the marks across his body, making a sly suggestion of kissing them to make them feel better as it usually leads to another round of passionate lovemaking.
* Ezio, in turn, will be curious about your own, though he won’t be as forward with asking, disguising his curiosity as a comment or an observation about sharing the same lively spirit as himself. Whether you proudly display them or keep them hidden, he finds them beautiful and will remind you often, usually with a kiss with the ones that any eyes can see. The more private ones, he will indulge with behind closed doors.
* If Ezio is training you to be an assassin, chances are you both have marred each other at some point. Each wound or scratch is either made up for with an apology, a kiss, or a lesson about what to do the next time. When away from each other on missions, the scars become a nice reminder of the other and of their touch made permanent on your skin.
Connor
* Connor has his fair share of scars and marks, mostly from his childhood, training, hunting, and from missions that didn’t go quite as smoothly as been hoped. He doesn’t mind them, just reminders of moments from his life. He’s willing to tell his partner if they ask about them but some hold more painful memories than others and need time in order to hear the stories on those ones.
* Connor doesn’t like to be touched so it would take a lot of trust and asking permission. Most times, you would either see or touch them if you’re tending to his wounds and happen to graze them on accident, apologizing afterwards before focusing on getting him patched up. The first few times he tenses up but the more these moments occur, the more he gets used to them. Connor doesn’t feel anything when he touches them himself but then another does, it feels foreign, a slight sharpness creeping up on the skin.
* Regarding your scars, Connor won’t ask how you got them but will listen if you want to share. You might earn a rare smile or laugh from him if the scar came from a funny situation but if not, he apologizes. He’s gentle when he has to interact with your scars, making the moments brief and quick, but the warmth from his skin and hands feels rather nice if he happens to linger. He never thinks any less of you for having them, seeing them as completely normal, regardless of your previous class or background.
* Some type of injury is almost always guaranteed when Connor and you are training, hunting, sailing, or working on restoring the Homestead though most are just simple cuts or splinters. Though you bandage your own wounds at the beginning, you start tending to each others under the guise of practice in case Doctor Lyle is not around or if its not serious enough to need his attention. They may not be the best moments but it is time spent together which is sought more and more when your relationship starts to grow.
Shay (Assassin)
* Shay’s been through the wringer, fighting his way through the streets of New York as a child, working on ships with his father in his youth, and even killing a pirate captain! He’s got more cuts, scars, and scraps than most anyone his age but most are hidden by his clothes. He’s had a few associates point them out, claiming it’s due to “making his own luck” but to him, they’re another sign that he is lucky, making it out alive with the mark to prove it.
* It’s not uncommon to see Shay with a new scar or mark, the cause of which could be anything from attacks by wildlife, assassinations going less than smooth, or from a navy battle, usually being grazed by rogue shrapnel. He tends to be a fast healer but depending on your relationship, might stick around and milk his injury for your undivided attention, giving him the opportunity to talk and flirt with you.
* Shay is more than willing to share stories about his old scars, especially when you’re the one asking as you skim his body with your fingers, finding a new one each time. Since he’s so used to them, Shay doesn’t find the feeling odd or painful, it just tickles if anything but if brushed for too long can become uncomfortable.
* When it comes to your scars, Shay will ask about how you got them, tracing along them as well as you tell your tale. If it’s a scar he’s given you, depending on how close you are, he’ll either apologize or say he’ll kiss it to make it feel better which often leads to other means to make it up to you. If he’s lucky, you might even leave your own marks on him.
Shay (Templar)
* Now as a Templar, Shay’s luck with scars doesn’t get easier with the addition of assassins attempting to kill him at every corner, most nicking him if he didn’t catch them in time. He still turns to you to patch him up when needed though he tends to he more solemn and not as talkative. Depending on his mood, you try to cheer him up with a joke or old memory and if not, you at least make the best of your time together, letting him recover with a ear to listen to and a strong drink if needed.
* Shay’s still just as numb to the new scars as well as the old but his body aches more. After his fall off the cliff, Shay’s body appears more torn up than before with pains to match but he bares through it, his determination strong enough to weather any injury. He doesn’t like just anyone touching the scar over his eye, it would take a lot of trust for him to allow one to do so.
* Shay doesn’t share as many stories as he used to, some scars going deeper than the skin itself and he doesn’t want to worry you, especially if you’re together at this point. He will try to rekindle that spark between you if knew each other in the past, musing about the same old stories that you shared and laughing it off, trying to break the barrier between you and show he’s still the man you knew back then.
* If you knew him as an Assassin, Shay will make some sort of comment if he sees some new marks along your body, either saying you don’t have to take all his hits when he left or that it seems you’ve had it just as rough as he has. If you knew him only as a Templar, he’ll still be curious but respect for you to keep your secrets. He’ll still them all the same the way he knows how but the kisses and words seem more genuine than just a quick sorry or small peck.
Arno
* Arno tended to get into scraps in his youth, usually as a last resource if he couldn’t talk his way out or escape, earning a few scars along the way. A round of cards usually ends in a few bruises and cuts if Arno outwits his opponent or is caught cheating. Mastery with the sword as well as climbing the numerous buildings and trees have given him a good assortment of callouses and thicker scars on his hands and fingers. It’s really after Da La Serre’s murder and the scar that lined his face that he collects them more frequently from training under the assassins and their line of work.
* Arno doesn’t flaunt them, the only one he really shows off being the one he can’t really cover but even then, it’s a permanent reminder of his failure and needing to redeem himself. It would take some trust in order for someone to touch the scar on his face. Yet he does yearn for physical touch and one of the most intimate for him is for someone to kiss or skim their fingers along his scars and marks. They still sting on occasion but he’s used to it.
* Arno doesn’t ask about yours, knowing the pain that can come with them all too well. If you care to share, he will listen and in turn, would also kiss them as if reassuring they won’t hurt you anymore. He also likes to trace them early in the morning while you’re laying in bed as a way to wake you up if he gets up earlier than you.
* When training with him, a bit of Arno’s playfulness from his youth comes in if he ends up giving you a scar, encouraging you to give him one if you’re up for the challenge. He does patch you up afterwards and you do the same. If someone else manages to hurt you, he gets more aggressive towards them during training or fighting. You have to put his mind as ease and let him know you’re alright and can fend for yourself, figuring it stems from not being able to protect the people he loved. Even if it does ease him, it doesn’t make him any less protective of you.
Edward
* Being a privateer turned pirate turned assassin, Edward is basically a walking callous, scars and marks covering his whole body. From cannon fire, swords, gunfire, bar fights, shrapnel, and animal attacks, Edward’s skin is a mosaic with enough tales to fill a library. If you have the ear for it and a bottle to nurse, he’s willing to share a few stories though you could never tell which is the truth and what is merely a tall tale.
* Edward is very much numb to all his scars, not giving them much mind as they are an expected consequence of his trades. He only really comments on them if trying to intimidate or impress someone, the latter maybe adding a few of their own if they’re lucky to end up in his bed. The sensation is dull when a friend or lover traces his marred skin but occasionally there is a twitch of feeling, a light sensation that he rather likes.
* With Edward being so used to scars, he doesn’t mind yours and even expects them. The Caribbean is a chaotic place, after all, and it’s only a given at this point. He would strum his fingers along, asking if there were anymore you cared to show him, a tactic he’s used countless times to swoon a potential partner. He’ll listen if you care to share your stories but doesn’t ask outright.
* Edward would laugh if you’re wet around the ears and get your first scars, whether from rope burns, your first fight, or even cutting yourself from trying to butcher or skin your first catch, but reassure you’ll get use to them soon enough. If he’s the one to give you a scar, he’ll muse that you just have to get him back one of these days. Interpretation is up to you.
Jacob
* Jacob is a very rough and tumble type of person and has the scars and marks to prove it. He’s more than willing and able to prove himself, doing so at a young age with mixed results, the scars showing his successes and failures. He finds they add a certain charm and toughness to him that makes some people second guess messing with him while some are attracted to the danger and mystery.
* Jacob likes it when someone asks about his scars or when someone he fancies asks to touch them. The older scars tickle more than anything but new ones a still a little tender. He likes to tell you how he got them, maybe stretching the true a little to impress you and if it’s a funny or elaborate story, he’ll demonstrate what happened with you, leading to a lot of close contact and perhaps more.
* Regarding your scars, Jacob will ask about them, measuring himself against you and how much of a fight you’d put up. He likes to compare to his own and will go searching if you give him the opportunity, especially if they’re in an odd place. If you rather not share, he’ll respect that but the curiosity does start to eat away at him.
* If you’re training as a Rook, chances are you both have traded blows and left your own marks on each other. Jacob wears his as a badge of pride, especially if you both are together. If you happen to be pitted against one another in a fight club, he shows a little mercy at first but knows you can handle it, leading to patching each other in the train later and planning some sort of payback when the time comes.
* Shay has a pretty great alcohol tolerance but it does come at a heavy cost from his youth, getting drunk often when he was lost in life with no direction or purpose. He doesn’t drink as heavily as those days, but will drink more than his usual with his crew and fellow Templars if encouraged, usually during celebrations or victories.
* Shay is a rowdy but fun drunk, getting very physical though it usually starts with playful punches to the shoulder or pulling someone close to share a drink, laugh at an old story, or singing should the mood strike. It’s only when someone pushes him the wrong way or says the wrong thing that he’s ready to throw a punch.
* Shay’s a great drinking buddy, willing to buy you a pint for a job well done but can be a hassle when he does start a brawl and needs to be pulled away or else you’re fighting with him. He’ll apologize/thank you afterwards with the next round on or a gift if you rather not want a repeat of last time.
* When you’re drunk, Shay will keep an eye on you as you talk to others and dance with the music, even joining you if he’s in the mood. But if someone starts to hassle you, either from refusing their attention or settling a score, Shay would step in and tell them to leave you be or he’ll make them by force.
* Hangovers aren’t usually the problem for Shay after drinking, its getting patched up from a brawl that he needs help with and recruits you to do regardless. As for his hangover, a good meal or the “hair of the dog” cure does him best for a speedy recovery. He’s willing to cook or pour you something of your own if you could stomach it, willing to wait till the green is gone from your face.
Connor
* Connor is a light weight, doing well with only one or two drinks if spaced out well or more if watered down. His reasoning is to still be able and capable in case of an attack or emergency. During times of celebration, he will drink more and more potent beverages, but will do his best to moderate himself.
* Connor is a very social and friendly drunk at first, but later in the night he does get a bit sleepy. He’s definitely smiling and laughing more than his usual self, sometimes mixing English and his native tongue when he talks. He’s more tolerant of people touching him but still has his limits and muscle memory will take hold if someone gets too close and they get toppled to the ground.
* Connor needs someone to keep an eye on him when he’s drinking, just in case those reflexes kick in and he hurts someone or causes some property damage, unintentionally, of course. He might protest when you limit him or cut him off, but he does appreciate your efforts when his mind is sober. The real struggle is getting him into bed, the absolute bear of a man needing guidance before you get him roughly wear he needs to go though you know from living with him that he ends up on the floor more often than not.
* When you’re drunk, Connor keeps close and tries to have your best interest, making sure you’re cut off at your limit though this does cause you to protest and argue with him. You apologize the morning afterwards but he knows not to take your words seriously when boozed up, especially when it comes to comments that might be more suggestive. He makes sure you get to bed though whose bed is a different matter, you sometimes stealing his if the mood strikes you.
* Connor will usually sleep off the hangover but if it persists, a home cooked meal and tea does nicely to cure it. If the same doesn’t help yours, he would turn to Dr. Lyle for help, the concoction bitter but it’s easier to bare it when suffering with another. Apologies about behaviors and words said when drunk as well as thanks are your usual morning routine, taking it slow in order to recover fully usually followed by working on the washing to clear out the lingering smell of liquor and sick.
Edward
* Edward can out drink most of crew and peers. Chalk up to his years of perfecting the art of being functional when intoxicated, Edward can hold his liquor well enough, stumbling but still about to stand, or wobble, on his own two feet. Doesn’t have a preference when it comes to his drinks, as long as it flows and he can keep the buzz going. He’s used to the smell of sick and alcohol after a night of drinking so he’s very much nose blind to it.
* Edward is a man of many moods while drunk and it’s a luck of the draw which flavor of Kenway you get. Sometime you’ll have a Captain merely celebrating with his crew, singing along and enjoying the company but sometimes you get a moody Captain, frustrated with his lot in life and unable to do anything except drink those worries and fears away. If company sours, he’s capable of holding his own in a fight but needs to be ushered out before he makes the situation worse.
* It’s take a crew to keep an eye on their captain but when half that crew is just as drunk as their captain, it feels like you’re herding cats if you remain one of the few sober or even buzzed. Depending on his level of drunkenness, Edward will go without hassle most of the time, but will get kicked out if deemed a menace. You do your best to get him back to the Jackdaw but you do lose him sometimes, Edward returning on his own accord or you finding him later and scrapping him up.
* When you’re drunk, Edward makes sure you’re having fun and keep up with him, eager to share a drink, and maybe even try to work that Kenway charm on you. He’ll tease you for not being able to hold your drink, especially when you lose a bet with him but after the money’s run dry, he will make sure someone trusted will take you back to the Jackdaw.
* The traditional cure is the best cure; a little stash of whisker, rum, whatever he has on hand is enough to sober him up and if you’re lucky, he’ll share a little with you as you watch the sun rise on another day. He will scold you if you upchuck your insides on the deck, motioning you to do so off the rails but offers a rub or pat on the back to get it all out before offering his cure all.
Arno
* Arno has a rather good tolerance, used to drinking moderately and his drink of choice of beverage being higher in alcohol content. Prefer red over white wine but hates how it stains his clothes and the complaints about cleaning those stains afterwards by you or woman at the Café Théâtre. Arno likes to drink alone as he doesn’t want to get someone else involved in his mess in case a fight ensues.
* Arno is a moody drunk, prone to great anger as well as great sadness which is when he usually drinks, aggravating his behavior. He’s more willing to get into fights at the bar and does rather well fending off others but can get overwhelmed and pummeled to the ground if no one drags him out ahead of time. He also sulks when he drinks by himself, regret and sadness boiling over until he tries to find another bottle to nurse the pain or succumbs to it completely.
* Arno’s preference is to be alone or left alone when he drinks, but he knows that misery loves company and might be open to wallowing in that misery together with someone he can trust. He manages to stumble back to base when drunk though sometimes you find him at the old La Serre home and have to drag him out of there, usually waiting until he passes out. The ladies at the cafe help you to get him into him into bed, keeping watch until he finally wakes up.
* When you’re drunk, Arno is vigilant when you drink in public, getting you out when you’re cut off, but you don’t always end up at the same place. You usually end up at the cafe or home with Arno nowhere to be seen until you end of finding him, buried in his blankets or already up and out for the day, looking exhausted but functional.
* Arno is not a morning person, choosing to sleep off the hangover before heading down to the kitchen for the tea or coffee though if he’s lucky, you or one of the other ladies will leave him a cup within reach. He’d get you a cup as well but wouldn’t wake you, especially if the night was rough for both of you.
Jacob
* Jacob thinks he has a high tolerance but it’s just above average. It’s his cockiness and personality that really sells that illusion. He can still get around and do his job, although stumbling would be a better term. Is even more sassy and talks back more to others, especially if they get on his nerves. Sobers up real quick when caught by Evie or Henry, who would rat him out to Evie.
* Jacob is a social drunk, mingling with others and is able do get some work done while boozed. He’s more reckless, willing to show off in a fight or challenging others to a drinking game or gambling. Will celebrate with his Rooks with a round on him for a job well done but would spoil someone who’s caught his eye like you.
* Jacob is also a great drinking companion, always trying to challenge you to a game whether it’s drinking or gambling(sometimes combining the two if you’re drinking privately in his room) and the prize for the winner? Another pint! He’s also ready to get into a rumble with you, knocking heads and taking no prisoners. You try to be each other’s alibis when questioned what had happened and you’ve covered for Jacob so much that you have a back catalog of favors he owes you.
* When you’re drunk, Jacob tends to hover as to not give anyone any ideas and has fought people for even looking at you a little too long. He tends to have a hand somewhere on you whether it’s rubbing your back if you’re puking in the alley or patting your shoulder when you finally down your third pint with encouragement of course. Is in flavor of sloppy drunk makeouts.
* During extreme blackouts, you have had to locate Jacob if he didn’t end back up on the train. A few Rooks and you have found him in some unusual spots such as hay carts, trees, trains, roofs, benches, and even a different train. You’ve found him in your bed a few times but keep that to yourself. Regarding hangovers, Jacob’s go-tos are tea with a hearty breakfast or just nursing another pint.
Ezio
* Ezio has an above average drinking tolerance similar to Arno due to their culture and drinking habits. He actually prefers just to be buzzed, enough to have a good time but doesn’t like to get sloppy drunk. It’s only on rare occasions that he’ll go overboard with the drinks. Prefers to drink with others but if trying to impress a girl, would sneak her a drink from his family’s private stash to share.
* Ezio is a very flirty drunk, the buzz he has going on making his charm even smoother, even through slurred speech. He’s more bold with his choice of words and a little more handsy, also in favor of a drunken makeout session. But Ezio draws a hard line in the sand when it comes to making out drunk and would never force himself on a partner and especially when they’re absolutely wasted.
* Ezio would be a great wingman when drinking, encouraging you to take a chance if you’re interested in someone and even workshopping what to say to them though it does get a little awkward when you use his advice on himself but he chalks it up to you being a little too drunk. If so, he makes you sit and sober up a little bit until you’re ready to come back. He will also talk you up to anybody you’ve shown interest in.
* When you’re drunk, Ezio keeps you within view and makes sure no man takes advantage of you. If he’s willing to teach men a lesson about cheating and fooling around then sober, he’s more than willing to extend that curriculum to some scumbag trying to cop a feel or force themselves on you. Ezio overrides any choices you make when you’re completely hammered, instead taking you home or back with a trust friend or ally to sleep it off, even carrying you off if he needs to do so.
* A good nights rest has never done Ezio wrong to relieve his hangovers. Sometimes he has company, sometimes he doesn’t but he hasn’t complained either way though it is fun to try to remember the night’s events by reenacting them. If you do end up in bed together, romantic or not, he’ll wait until you wake you, either paying with your hair and gently caressing your skin until you do and tease you about what you did or didn’t do until you pull him close or chase him out.
The Many, Many Times Ezio Auditore Was Denied the Pleasure of Fucking You.
A/n: well he got it in the end 🤣 Let me know if ya'll want the actual full smut
I. The Library, After Sunset
The Villa Auditore had finally fallen quiet. The servants had retired. Maria had kissed her childrend goodnight and retreated to her chambers with a book. Giovanni was still in his study, but the door was shut, and the candlelight beneath it had dimmed to a sleepy flicker. Federico had gone to the tavern. Claudia was visiting a friend in the city and sweet little Petruccio was asleep in his bed. For once...for once, there was no one to interrupt you both.
You were pressed against the heavy oak of the library table, your back arched over a stack of old maps that had long since ceased to matter. Ezio stood between your thighs, his hands gripping your hips with a desperation that bordered on painful. His belt was already unbuckled, his breeches hanging low on his hips.
"Finalmente," he growled against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. "I thought this night would never come."
You didn't answer. You couldn't. His mouth had found that spot behind your ear, the one that turned your knees to water and his fingers were working at the laces of your bodice with practiced, impatient tugs. The cool air of the library kissed the swell of your breasts as he pulled the fabric down, and his groan was low and animal when he saw you.
"Dio santo," he breathed, palming the heavy curve of your chest. "Every time I see you, I want you more. It is a curse."
You laughed breathlessly, tangling your fingers in his dark hair. "Then break the curse tonight, Ezio. No more waiting."
He didn't need to be told twice.
His mouth descended on your nipple, hot and wet, and your head fell back against the parchment. His hand slid down your belly, past the waistband of your skirt, slipping between your legs with a roughness that made you gasp. He found you slick and ready as he pressed two fingers inside you with a growl of satisfaction.
"Look at you," he muttered against your skin. "Wet for me. Wanting me. Finally."
You whimpered, rocking your hips against his hand. "Then fuck me already, Ezio."
He laughed, low, dark, absolutely filthy and pulled his fingers out to suck them clean. His eyes never left yours. Then he was reaching for his cock, stroking himself once, twice, before guiding the head to your entrance.
"Finalmente," he sighed again, and began to push....
The door flew open.
"EZIO! COME QUICKLY! THE VENEZIAN— OH."
Claudia Auditore stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still raised from where she had thrown open the door. Her eyes went wide. Her mouth dropped open. She saw everything, your bare breasts, Ezio's cock half-sheathed between your thighs, the frantic scramble of limbs as the two of you tried to separate.
"CLAUDIA!" Ezio roared, yanking up his breeches with such haste that he nearly tripped over his own feet. "What is the meaning of this?!"
"I—" Claudia's face burned crimson. "There's a messenger from Venezia. He says it's urgent. Father sent me to fetch you."
You were already pulling your bodice back into place, your face hot with embarrassment and frustration though you couldn't help but snort at her statement. The wetness between your thighs was starting to cool, and the ache of being so close..so close was almost unbearable.
Ezio was swearing under his breath in rapid-fire Italian, a string of curses that would have made a sailor blush. He was buckling his belt with violent jerks, his cock still painfully hard beneath the fabric.
"This is not over," he hissed at you, his eyes blazing with promise. Then he stormed out after Claudia, leaving you alone in the library with a throbbing clit and a ruined orgasm.
II. The Garden, The Next Evening
You had resolved to be patient. Ezio was a busy man, a Master Assassin, a leader, a brother, a son. His life was not his own.
But when he found you in the garden at twilight, among the roses that Maria had planted with such care, the resolve crumbled like old plaster.
He came up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, his cock pressing insistently against the curve of your ass. He was already half-hard, and the way he ground against you made your knees weak.
"The messenger," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Was it important?"
"Cazzo, no." He bit your earlobe gently. "Some merchant who thought he saw a Templar in the market. A waste of my time. But now I have time. We have time. Everyone is occupied."
He turned you around, walking you backward until your spine hit the stone wall of the garden alcove. The ivy was cool against your skin. His mouth was hot against yours. He tasted of wine and desperation.
His hands found your skirts, bunching the fabric up around your hips. He didn't bother with your bodice this time, he simply pushed your undergarments aside and slipped his hand between your thighs. You were already wet. So wet.
"Mia cara," he groaned, feeling the evidence of your desire. "You have been thinking about this all day, yes? Thinking about me? About my cock inside you?"
"Yes." your breath catching as he rubbed your clit with his thumb.
"Good," he said, and there was something dark and possessive in his voice. "Because I have been thinking of nothing else."
He lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist. Your back scraped against the rough stone, but you didn't care. You could feel him, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, the promise of what was to come.
He lined himself up. You held your breath.
And then.. ( of course )
"EZIO! MARIA SAYS DINNER IS....DIO MIO. "
Federico.
Of course it was Federico.
His older brother stood at the entrance to the alcove, a grin spreading across his face that was entirely too amused. He had the audacity to cross his arms and lean against the archway, as if he had all the time in the world.
"Mio fratello," Federico said, his voice dripping with mock concern. "I did not realize you were... ..gardening."
"Fottiti, Federico." Ezio's voice was strangled. He hadn't let you down yet, but his grip on your thighs was trembling. "Go away. Now."
"Mother will be displeased if you miss dinner again. She made your favorite, the ossobuco." Federico's grin widened. "But I see you have already found something to eat."
"I will kill you."
"Later." Federico gave a lazy wave. "Dinner first. Come, fratellino. The food grows cold."
Ezio let out a roar of frustration that echoed off the garden walls. He set you down with a gentleness that contradicted his rage, his hands lingering on your hips for just a moment.
"Wait for me," he said, his voice rough. "I will return. I swear it."
He didn't return.
Dinner stretched into evening, and evening into night. By the time Giovanni cornered him for a debriefing, and Maria insisted on an hour of music, and Federico kept finding excuses to follow him, the night was gone.
You fell asleep alone, your hand between your thighs, imagining his touch.
III. The Rooftops, Two Days Later
Ezio was losing his mind.
You could see it in the way he moved, jittery, restless, his eyes constantly scanning for threats that were not Templars but rather his own family. He had taken to dragging you onto the rooftops at odd hours, seeking privacy among the chimneys and tiled roofs of Monteriggioni.
"I cannot take this anymore," he said, his voice strained. He had you pressed against a chimney stack, the sun setting behind him, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. "Every time I try to be with you, someone appears. It is like a curse. A curse."
A snort escaped your lips as you tilted your head towards him. "Maybe we should just give up," you suggested, though the words tasted bitter. "Wait until everyone leaves for Firenze next week."
"No." The word was fierce. "I will not wait another week. I will not wait another day." He dropped to his knees.
You gasped as his hands pushed up your skirt, his mouth finding the inside of your thigh. He kissed a trail up your skin, his beard scratching deliciously, until his breath was hot against the damp fabric of your undergarments.
"If I cannot fuck you," he said, his voice muffled, "then I will taste you. And no one will interrupt this."
He pulled your underclothes aside with his teeth.
The first stroke of his tongue against your clit made you moan, your knees buckling. He caught you, holding you steady against the chimney, his mouth working with a desperate, hungry rhythm. He was not gentle, he was ravenous. He licked and sucked and bit, his fingers digging into your hips, his groans vibrating against your flesh.
You were close. So close. The pleasure was building, coiling in your belly, and you tangled your fingers in his hair and pulled him closer.
"Ezio..." you whimpered. "I'm going to—"
"EZIO! WHERE ARE YOU? THE TEMPLARS—"
Your release shattered into a gasp of frustration as Ezio tore his mouth away from you with a sound that was almost a sob. He stood up so fast he nearly stumbled, his lips glistening with your wetness, his eyes wild with fury.
"CHE COSA?" he screamed into the evening air.
It was Giovanni. His father, standing on the next rooftop over, looking mildly apologetic but also completely unbothered by what he had just interrupted.
"Templar scouts have been spotted in the valley," Giovanni said calmly. "We need every blade. You included."
"I—" Ezio's jaw worked. "I was busy, Father."
"I can see that. But it will have to wait." Giovanni's eyes flicked to you, and there was a hint of amusement in them. "The signorina will still be here when you return. I assume."
Ezio made a sound that was not quite a word. He punched the chimney. He kicked a loose tile. He swore in three different languages.
Then he looked at you with such raw, aching frustration that you felt it in your own chest.
"I am going to kill every Templar in the valley," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "And then I am going to find a room with a lock. And I am going to fuck you until neither of us can walk."
He kissed you hard, bruising, a promise and a threat and then he was gone, leaping across the rooftops after his father.
You slid down the chimney, your thighs trembling, your cunt aching, and wondered how much longer you could survive this.
IV. The Bedroom, Three Days Later
Ezio had devised a plan.
It was a simple plan, an simple but elegant. He had sent Federico to Roma on a fabricated errand. He had convinced Claudia to visit a friend in Firenze. He had told Maria that he and you were going to inspect a nearby ruin for Assassin activity, a plausible lie that would keep them away for hours.
Giovanni was the wildcard, but Giovanni had been called to a council meeting in the city. They had the house to themselves.
Almost.
Petruccio was still there, but Petruccio was ten years old and easily bribed with sweets and a new book about astronomy. Ezio had given him a pouch of coins and strict instructions to stay in his room.
"My little brother is the only one who will not interrupt us," Ezio said, locking the bedroom door behind him. "Because he is too busy counting his gold."
You laughed, but the sound was breathless. You were already undressed, lying on his bed, the sheets cool beneath your bare skin. He had promised you, finally, that nothing would stop him this time.
He crossed the room in three strides, his eyes devouring you. He was already hard, his cock straining against his breeches, and he shed his clothes with frantic efficiency.
"Finalmente," he breathed, climbing onto the bed, covering your body with his. The weight of him was perfect. The heat of him was intoxicating.
He kissed you deep and slow, savoring the moment. His hand roamed down your side, over the curve of your hip, between your thighs. He groaned when he found you ready.
"I have been dreaming of this," he murmured against your lips. "Every night. Every moment. I need to be inside you."
"Then be inside me," you whispered, arching your hips, guiding him.
He lined himself up. The head of his cock pushed against your entrance, slick and hot. You both gasped.
He began to push....and as if on cue.
A knock at the door.
Ezio froze. "No," he said. "No. No. Not this time."
"EZIO!" It was Petruccio's voice, high and excited. "EZIO, COME QUICKLY! THERE'S A BIRD IN THE KITCHEN! A REALLY BIG ONE!"
Ezio's head fell forward, his forehead pressing against yours. His cock was still half-sheathed inside you, twitching, aching.
"Petruccio," he called out, his voice strained. "Go away."
"But Ezio! It's huge! Mama says it might be a hawk! You have to see it!"
"Petruccio."
"If you don't come, I'm going to tell Mama you're being mean!"
Ezio closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. He pulled out of you with a shuddering groan that was equal parts agony and fury.
"This is not over," he said, pointing a finger at you. "I swear on the Creed, I will make you come tonight if it is the last thing I do."
He yanked on his breeches, stormed to the door, and threw it open. Petruccio stood there, beaming, completely oblivious to the murder in his brother's eyes.
"Show me this bird," Ezio growled, and he followed his little brother down the hall, leaving you naked and empty and furious.
You lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, your thighs pressed together to ease the ache.
Then you laughed. Because if you didn't laugh, you would cry.
V. The Wine Cellar, Late That Night
Ezio found you in the wine cellar at midnight.
You had given up on sleep. You were sitting on a barrel of Chianti, a glass in your hand, wearing only a thin chemise. The frustration had settled into a dull, throbbing need that refused to be ignored.
He appeared in the doorway like a ghost, barefoot, his shirt unlaced, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight.
"Everyone is asleep," he said. His voice was hoarse. "I checked. Twice. I locked every door. I barricaded the hallway with furniture."
You set down your glass. "If anyone interrupts us now, I will help you hide the bodies."
He crossed the cellar in two strides, pulling you off the barrel and into his arms. His mouth found yours, hungry and desperate. His hands tore at your chemise, ripping the thin fabric.
"I cannot wait," he said against your throat. "I cannot be gentle. I need to fuck you now."
"Then do it."
He didn't need permission twice.He bent you over the wine barrel, your hands gripping the wooden rim, your ass pressed against his hips. He kicked his breeches down just far enough to free his cock,thick, hard, glistening with need.
He pushed inside you in one smooth stroke.
The sound you made was animal. The sensation of being filled, finally, was so overwhelming that your vision blurred. He was deep, deeper than he had ever been, and he was moving immediately, fucking into you with a pace that was punishing and perfect.
"Yes," he hissed, gripping your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises. "Yes, yes, yes..."
The barrel creaked beneath you. The candles flickered. His balls slapped against your clit with every thrust, and you were so close, so close, the orgasm building like a storm and of course, because someone, somewhere hated him.
The cellar door flew open.
"EZIO! MOTHER SAYS!!!!BISCOTTI— "
It was Federico's voice.
But Federico was supposed to be in Roma.Apparently, he had returned early.
Ezio did not stop fucking you.
He did turn his head to scream at his brother, his hips never faltering, his cock driving into you with relentless rhythm.
"FEDERICO, SE NON TE NE VAI SUBITO, TI SPACCO LA FACCIA E LA INFILO NEL CULO DI UN CAVALLO! "
Federico stood there, mouth hanging open, as Ezio continued to rail you against the wine barrel. He was actually watching. The bastard.
"Now," you gasped, the sight of Federico's shock and the feeling of Ezio's fury sending you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, waves of pleasure that made your legs give out.
Ezio caught you. He pulled out with a growl of frustration, he hadn't come. Again.
But this time, he did not let go.
He lifted you, still trembling, and carried you past a stunned Federico, up the cellar stairs, through the kitchen, and into his bedroom. He kicked the door shut with his foot, and this time, he wedged a chair under the handle.
"No one," he said, laying you down on the bed, "is going to interrupt us ever again. "
He climbed on top of you, his cock still hard, his eyes burning with determination.
"And if they do," he added, "I am joining the Templars."
It was a bluff. You both knew it.
But the rest of the night was blissfully uninterrupted
Summary: You have some ideas for Ezio’s birthday present, and you settle on something special from his past
Warning(s): None
Pairing: Ezio x gn!Reader
Notes: Ezio’s birthday was mentioned in the book Assassins Creed: Renaissance, he wound up wishing himself a happy birthday. This is my way of rectifying that situation
The first thought you have is a blade.
It comes easily- too easily. Steel is the language of your shared life, after all. Balanced weight, clean edges, something that disappears into a sleeve and reappears at the exact right moment.
You can already picture it: a fine Florentine make, subtle engraving along the hilt, nothing ostentatious. Something worthy of Ezio Auditore da Firenze.
Something useful.
The idea settles in your thoughts, solid and tempting. You turn it over slowly, like a coin between your fingers, feeling every contour of it: the practicality, the familiarity, the way it fits so seamlessly into the life you both lead. It would be easy. Thoughtful, even, by the standards of your world.
And then you stop.
No.
You set the imagined blade aside just as firmly as you would place one back onto a table. The thought leaves a faint aftertaste- metallic, familiar, wrong.
Ezio has enough tools for killing.
Ezio does not lack for weapons. You have seen the evidence of that in ways most never will. You have watched him tend to them in quiet moments: hands steady, movements precise, as though each blade demands respect in return for what it is asked to do. You have seen how naturally they disappear into him, becoming less like tools and more like extensions of his will.
And you have seen, too, what they take.
Not openly. Never that. He wears ease like armor- smiles that come quickly, words that flow even quicker, charm that bends tension into something lighter. But there are moments, small and fleeting, where something heavier slips through the cracks. In the set of his shoulders when he thinks no one is looking. In the brief stillness after a job is done. In the way his hands linger just a second too long when cleaning blood from steel.
A knife would not be a gift. Not truly.
Not on his birthday.
You lean back where you sit, letting your weight settle into the worn familiarity of your chair. The wood creaks softly in quiet protest, a sound you’ve heard so often it barely registers anymore. Around you, your space exhales into stillness, dim light pooling in the corners, the faint scent of crushed herbs and oil lingering in the air, the hush of a place that exists just slightly apart from the rest of the world.
Beyond it, Florence refuses to be quiet.
The sound reaches you in softened layers, filtered through stone walls and shuttered windows- voices overlapping in distant conversation, laughter that rises and falls like something alive, the uneven rhythm of footsteps striking cobblestone. A cart rattles somewhere far off, wood against wheel against road, followed by the faint call of someone trying to sell something to someone who may or may not care to listen. It is a city that does not sleep so much as it pauses, briefly, between one breath and the next.
Somewhere within that pulse, Ezio moves with it.
You can picture it without trying. The way he slips through crowds as though they part for him without knowing why. The way he turns chaos into cover, noise into camouflage. He does not simply exist within Florence- he threads through it, bends with it, shapes it in small, unseen ways that ripple outward long after he has passed.
Your fingers tap idly against the table, a quiet, uneven rhythm that fills the space between your thoughts. Once. Twice. Again. The motion is unconscious, something to anchor yourself as your mind turns over possibilities.
Something refined, perhaps.
The idea arrives more slowly this time, less instinct and more consideration. You let it unfold.
Ezio had once been a nobleman, raised among silk and polished marble, where wealth was not just possessed but displayed. You can almost see it as clearly as the blade you imagined before: rich fabric, deep colors that catch the light like poured wine, stitching so fine it disappears unless you know to look for it. Something tailored. Something elegant. A ring, perhaps, set with a modest stone- nothing gaudy, but unmistakably valuable. A piece of the life he once lived, given back to him in some small, tangible way.
Something beautiful.
Something his, in a way the rest of the world no longer allows.
Your fingers still.
The thought lingers longer than the blade did. It almost feels right. Almost.
But then it shifts.
Because you have seen him now: not as he was, but as he is. The man who moves through shadow and sun with equal ease, who wears practicality like a second skin. The one who dirties his hands without hesitation, who does not hesitate to ruin fine fabric if it means getting out alive. Silk would catch. Jewelry would glint. Wealth, worn openly, would draw eyes- and Ezio has spent far too long learning how to avoid exactly that.
And beyond that, it would be a reminder.
Of what he lost. Of what was taken. Of a life that no longer fits him, no matter how well it once did.
You exhale quietly, the idea unraveling in your mind as you let it go.
No.
Not that, either.
The answer does not come quickly.
It drifts in without announcement, soft as dust in late light, carrying with it the faint echo of a night you had not thought to revisit until now.
It had been late.
Not the kind of late filled with urgency or tension, but the rare, fragile kind where the world seems to loosen its grip. No summons. No footsteps at the door. No work waiting with sharp edges and sharper consequences. Just time- unclaimed and unthreatening.
Those nights were uncommon.
Ezio had taken that rare mercy and made himself at home in your space as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Not with the careless entitlement of someone who assumes welcome- but with a quiet, unspoken trust that he already was.
He had stretched himself out without ceremony, occupying the space fully, comfortably. One arm tucked behind his head, elbow angled just enough to tilt his posture into something almost languid. The other moved as he spoke: slow, loose gestures that traced the shape of his words in the air, as though he had nowhere else he needed to be and no reason to rush toward it.
There had been no tension in him.
No readiness coiled beneath the surface. No constant awareness of exits, of angles, of threats.
Just… ease.
You had not asked about his family.
You rarely did. Not because you did not care- but because you did. Because you understood that some things, if pulled at too directly, unravel in ways neither of you would thank the other for.
But Ezio, on nights like that, when the world loosened its hold and the silence felt safe enough to inhabit, he sometimes offered those pieces freely.
“My mother,” he had said, his voice dipping into something softer, something less performed. His gaze had drifted- not to you, not to anything tangible, but somewhere just past the ceiling, as though the memory hovered there, suspended above him, waiting to be touched. “Made the best sweets in all of Firenze. I am certain of it.”
You had turned your head then, just slightly, studying him from where you sat. One brow lifted- not dismissive, but unconvinced in the way that invites argument.
“You are biased.”
“Of course,” he had replied without missing a beat, the answer slipping out with easy confidence. A smile had followed, faint but genuine, though he still hadn’t looked at you. “But I am also correct. She would make them on special days… or when my brother and I had been particularly insufferable.” A small pause, just enough for the memory to sharpen. “Which was often.”
That had drawn a sound from you- low, brief, something that hovered between amusement and acknowledgment. Not quite a laugh, but close enough to brush against it.
“What kind?” you had asked, the question slipping out before you could consider whether you should.
Ezio had tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he sifted through the recollection. Not hesitating, choosing. As though he were selecting from something far more precious than any blade, any coin, any possession he carried now.
“Frittelle,” he had said at last.
The word lingered, warm in the air between you.
“Fried,” he continued, his voice gaining a touch of quiet fondness, “dusted with sugar. Sometimes filled- with cream, or citrus, depending on what she had.”
A faint breath of something like a laugh followed, softer than before.
“You could smell them from halfway down the street.”
And then, Ezio smiled.
Not the one he offers the world.
Not the practiced curve that disarms and distracts, that smooths over edges and turns suspicion into something else entirely.
This one was different.
It did not ask to be seen.
It simply existed- gentle, unguarded, warmed by something untouched by the man he had been forced to become. For a moment, the years between then and now seemed to thin, like mist burning away under morning light.
“I used to steal them from the kitchen before they had cooled,” he went on, the faintest trace of mischief returning- not sharp, not performative, just… remembered. “And she always knew. Always.”
“Did she punish you?” you had asked.
Ezio had let out a soft huff of laughter then, quieter than usual, edged with something that might have been fondness, or grief, or both so tightly woven they could no longer be separated.
“She made more.”
Tracking down the ingredients is not simple.
Florence has no shortage of sweets, but this- this matters. You ask questions carefully, circling the city in a way that would almost resemble one of Ezio’s own routes if it were not so distinctly… softer. Bakers, vendors, an older woman who eyes you with suspicion until you mention the name Auditore, and then with something like understanding.
By the time you return, your hands carry what you need.
The process is unfamiliar.
Messier than you expect. Less precise than a blade, less predictable than most things you are used to. Dough sticks where it shouldn’t, oil heats unevenly, sugar dusts your hands and refuses to leave.
But you persist.
You try once. Twice. The third attempt comes closer: golden, lightly crisp, just soft enough beneath the surface. You fill a few, leave others plain, dust them carefully.
When you finally step back, you study the result.
They are not flawless.
But they are right.
You find him as you so often do: suspended in that strange space he occupies so effortlessly, somewhere between motion and stillness, presence and absence. Ezio Auditore da Firenze is not hiding, not exactly. But he is not meant to be found, either.
A rooftop, this time.
The tiles are sun-warmed beneath your boots as you climb, their heat lingering from a long day now slipping toward evening. The city stretches out below and around you, Florence caught in that fleeting, golden hour where everything softens- edges blur, shadows lengthen, and even the worn stone seems to glow as though lit from within. Light spills across domes and towers, catching in windows, turning them briefly to fire.
Ezio sits at the edge of it all like he belongs there more than the ground below ever could.
One knee drawn up, the other leg angled loosely over the drop, posture relaxed in a way that would look careless on anyone else. On him, it reads as balance. Control. The quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly where he is, exactly how he will move if he needs to.
He notices you before you speak.
Of course he does.
There is no visible start, no shift that would betray surprise. Only the subtle turn of his head, the faint adjustment of his shoulders as awareness slides seamlessly into acknowledgment.
“There you are,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the small distance between you. That familiar ease settles into place as naturally as breath, wrapping around the words like it always does. “I was beginning to think you had forgotten me.”
You step closer, the space between you closing with quiet certainty.
“Unlikely.”
The single word lands without effort, dry and steady.
His gaze finds you fully then- and, just as quickly, shifts.
It flicks to what you carry.
It is a small movement. Brief. But it sharpens something beneath the surface- the curiosity that lives just under his charm, the part of him that notices everything worth noticing. His head tilts slightly, not out of confusion, but interest.
“And what is this?” he asks.
There is no suspicion in it. Only that easy, probing curiosity, dressed in lightness.
You hesitate.
It is subtle, barely a pause, but you feel it all the same. The weight of the moment settles in your chest, not heavy, but present. This is not a blade. Not something practical, not something expected. There is no easy script to follow here.
“It is for your birthday,” you say at last.
The words seem to land somewhere deeper than you intended.
Ezio stills- not completely, not in a way most would notice. But you see it. The near-imperceptible shift, the way something behind his expression flickers before he can quite catch it. Surprise, yes, but softer than that. Something unguarded, exposed for only a heartbeat before it is carefully, skillfully folded away.
He does not like being caught off balance.
“You remembered,” he says.
His voice is quieter now. Not lacking in warmth, but stripped of some of its usual performance. There is no teasing edge, no clever turn waiting behind it.
Just the truth of it.
“I listen,” you reply.
Then you extend the bundle toward him.
The motion is steady, deliberate. Not rushed, not uncertain. The cloth catches the last of the sunlight as you hold it out, its edges glowing faintly gold against the deepening hues of evening.
He takes it more slowly than you expect, as though the act itself has shifted in weight. His hands- so often quick, decisive, already halfway into motion before thought can catch up- pause around the bundle with unusual care. The cloth rustles softly as he draws it closer, and for a brief moment, even the air between you feels like it has tightened, held in anticipation.
When he opens it, the scent reaches him first.
Warm. Sweet. Familiar in a way that does not belong to the present.
It rises gently into the rooftop air, carried on the last remnants of sunlight, and something in Ezio’s posture changes so subtly you might have missed it if you weren’t already watching. The world does not stop- but Ezio does, for just a breath.
For a moment, he does not speak.
Does not move.
He simply looks.
Then, carefully- almost reverently- he reaches in and picks one up between his fingers. The pastry is delicate, still holding the faint softness of warmth beneath its sugared surface. He turns it slightly, as though confirming it is real, as though memory alone might have been playing a trick on him.
“…Frittelle,” he says at last.
Quieter than you have ever heard him.
The word is not spoken so much as released, like something that had been kept too long behind closed doors.
You watch him.
Not just the recognition in his eyes, but what it pulls with it. It is not immediate. It arrives in layers.
First the scent, then the texture, then something deeper- something that does not belong to the present rooftop or the stone beneath you, but to kitchens long gone. To warmth that did not have to be earned. To laughter that had no sharp edges hiding beneath it. To a version of him that did not yet know what it meant to survive becoming someone else.
His gaze softens- not outwardly, not in any way the world would notice- but in a way you do. You see it in the absence of defenses.
When he looks up at you, there is nothing carefully arranged there.
No charm assembled to soften the edges of what he is.
No mask waiting to be put back on.
Just him.
“You remembered that night,” he says.
It is not a question.
“Yes.”
The word comes easily, steady in your mouth.
“I thought,” you add, voice lowering slightly, “you deserved something that did not belong to… all of this.”
You do not need to name it.
He understands.
The city below. The work. The weight that never quite leaves his shoulders, even when he pretends it does. The life that presses in from all sides and never asks permission before demanding more.
Ezio exhales.
It is soft, almost disbelieving- like something in him has been caught between recognition and disbelief, unsure which one to choose.
Then he smiles.
Not the practiced curve that meets crowds and strangers. Not the easy confidence worn like armor.
This one is quieter. Unguarded. Real in a way that feels almost private, as though it should not exist outside this moment.
He lifts the pastry and takes a bite. His eyes close briefly as he tastes it.
Just a second.
Just enough for the world to fall away from him without asking permission.
When they open again, something in them has shifted. Not healed. Not erased. But softened at the edges, as though the memory it carries has, for once, chosen not to cut so deeply.
“These are not quite as good as my mother’s,” he says.
You snort softly before you can stop yourself. “I expected as much.”
“But,” he continues, the faintest trace of warmth returning to his tone, “they are close enough that I will forgive you.”
You arch a brow. “How generous of you.”
That earns it.
A quiet laugh from him- genuine, unforced, unmeasured. It slips out easily, like something he has not had to think about in far too long. The sound lingers between you, lighter than the air that carried it.
For a moment, the city below feels distant. Not gone. Just… less immediate.
“Stay,” he says after a beat.
He tilts his head slightly, extending another pastry toward you as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
You take it.
His fingers lift.
Careful. Unhurried. Not the hands of an assassin reaching for steel, but something quieter- something deliberately restrained. He takes your hand with a gentleness that feels almost at odds with everything else you know about him, as though he has chosen this exact moment to prove that not all of him is built for violence.
His thumb settles lightly against your knuckles.
And then he leans in.
The motion is slight, but intentional. Controlled in the way only someone trained to never waste movement can manage. His lips brush the back of your hand- not performative, not exaggerated, but steady, deliberate, unmistakably sincere.
A kiss.
When he pulls back, he does not immediately release you.
His eyes are still there when he looks up, close enough now that the world behind him blurs into soft gold and shadow.
“You did not have to do this,” he says.
His hand still rests around yours for a moment longer than necessary, as though letting go would make the moment less real than it already is. And Ezio does not seem in any hurry to move on from it.
You were scrambling toward the main piazza, your breath ragged and your lungs burning. You had been running for too long. From the whispers you'd caught in the crowd and the relentless pursuit, you knew they were after you.
The Templars. Their heavy boots thudded on the stone pavement just a few meters behind you. They no longer even knew why they wanted you, perhaps for your knowledge, maybe just because you were born a member of the Assassin Order, but it didn't matter. They were going to catch you.
You burst into the large, bustling square where the market was being held, but the chaos offered no help. The crowd parted as if obedient to their will, and you found yourself trapped.
Three hefty Templars in cloaks closed in on you. They drew their swords, the blades gleaming in the afternoon sun.
"No escape, ragazza," one of them rasped with a coarse sneer, taking a step forward. You were cornered, without a sword, without a weapon, and without your Hidden Blade.
You closed your eyes, clenching your hands into tight fists, ready to fight even though you knew you had no chance. This was the end.
Just as you were about to launch yourself into the hopeless fight, you felt a strong but gentle grip on your shoulders. Something yanked you sharply into the air.
You gasped in surprise and looked down. The ground was receding. The shouts of the Templars and the noise of the market faded into the distance.
You were suspended, your legs dangling freely, high above the rooftops of Florence. Your expression was a mixture of astonishment, relief, and a new layer of apprehension.
The one carrying you possessed enormous, majestic, dark gray and whitish wings that moved rhythmically with powerful strokes. They belonged to a man. Or rather, a creature.
It was a Harpy, one of the myths you had heard of but never believed. He was wearing an Assassin's cloak, white and red, with the familiar hood. Beneath it, brown hair and prominent cheekbones caught the light. His grip was firm but not crushing.
You felt him circling with you, heading for the tallest spire of a nearby church, a place where you could be safe. He landed gracefully but with immense force in the old bell tower.
He carefully set you down on the roof while he himself, with an elegant sweep of his wings which he folded behind his back, settled beside you.
"Are you all right?" he asked in a velvet voice with a slight Italian accent, his keen eyes fixed on your face, examining you for any injuries.
"I... yes," you mumbled. For a moment, you just stared at the enormous, folded wings. "Thank you so much. Who are you?"
He smiled, and the smile was dazzling and slightly cheeky, mischievous. It was a smile that instantly reassured you and, at the same time, made your heart pound.
"My name is Ezio Auditore da Firenze, mia bella," he said, with a slight bow that would have been ridiculous if not for his rescue. "And what is your name, the one I pulled from the wolves' claws?"
"I'm Y/N," you replied, your eyes not leaving his, even as the wings continued to fascinate you.
"Y/N," he repeated, as if your name tasted sweet on his tongue. "A beautiful name. You are an Assassin, I gather. Why were you alone? Are you hurt?" he asked.
"They've been chasing me for days," you admitted, shuddering. "I was afraid it was over."
"You don't have to be afraid anymore, carina. You are safe with me," he said. Absolute confidence and calm radiated from his tone.
You knew you should leave, warn the others, continue your mission. But exhaustion, the danger, and the calm look in his eyes held you in place.
"I never thought Harpies were real," you breathed out, laughing softly. "You have beautiful wings." Ezio grinned again, a joyful expression lighting up his face.
"I hear that often, tesoro," he joked. "But you are even more beautiful."
You sat there in silence for a while. The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of purple, orange, and golden yellow. The view of Florence from up there was magnificent, and you felt a strange sense of safety you hadn't experienced in a long time.
"Are you on the run alone, Y/N?" he asked after a moment, his voice soft, like a whisper of the breeze.
"Yes. I was supposed to meet with... the others," you replied. "But I think they'll be looking for me for a while now."
Ezio stood up. His shadow, with the majestic wings, covered you. Instead of a sword on his belt, he had only a light dagger, but his greatest weapon was undoubtedly his wings and talons.
"Allora," he said. He turned to you, his face kissed by the golden light of the setting sun. "Assassins should not wander alone. Vieni con me (Come with me)."
He reached out his hand to you. You weren't sure what he was offering, shelter, help, or perhaps more? But you knew you couldn't say no. His wings were a promise of freedom and security, and his gaze... was a promise of warmth. You placed your hand in his; his skin was rough but warm.
"Where are we going, Ezio?" you asked.
"To safety, amore mio. To a base where there are other Assassins who will help you," Ezio replied, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. Then he smiled that reassuring, yet daring, smile. "And then... we will have to talk about those Templars. And about your safety."
You knew this wasn't the end of the danger, but in the shadow of Ezio Auditore da Firenze's wings, you had found something you hadn't expected. A feeling of belonging and warmth that overcame the fear and fatigue. Perhaps the flight of love was only the beginning.
