Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳heated

edward happens to particularly enjoy it when you're upset with him. rated 18+ for smut.

The sun hangs low over the old cove, painting the ramshackle village in shades of blood and gold. Some of the anglers come to the manor and tell you the Jackdaw's sails are on the horizon, rounding the headland. Any other time, you would be on the docks, waiting for her return, to see Edward Kenway at the helm and welcome him home.

But the news only stokes the bitter fury already simmering in the pits of your belly. He left without you ereyesterday, slipping away at dawn with nary a word—without the decency to wake you first or kiss you goodbye—taking your charts and correspondences about that damned Dutch fluyt out of Aruba.

When the door of the great room creaks open, Edward steps in—sea spray still damp on his cheeks, a little half-smirk curling at his lips. "Dove," he begins, hands already raised in surrender as you start toward him, "before you flay me alive..."

You don't give him a chance to finish. The crack of your open hand against his cheek echoes through the empty manor. Edward's head jerks to the side—half-smile vanishing as a bright flush blooms against his sun- and wind-burned skin. He doesn't move. Suppose I deserved that.

"You left me like some common tavern wench!" you snarl, clenched fist landing against his chest. The impact thuds against hard muscle, but he barely rocks back. "I wanted that ship, Edward," you tell him, fists and voice shaking. "We were to take her together. Why?" He catches your hand on the next strike, fingers locking around your wrist.

The answer should be easy enough to say. When it's only my neck in the noose, I can live with the odds, he thinks, but no treasure is worth gambling your life. You yank against his grip, chest heaving. And he's too much of a proud dastard to speak true and plain about matters of the heart. Edward pulls you close, looking down his crooked nose at you—a dark heat sparking in his clear blue eyes. "Because I'm a selfish pirate," he grits out, "who'd rather see you alive and furious than in a watery grave on account of soured information."

His words only feed the fire. You twist free of his hold and shove him, hard. Back toward the oak table strewn with maps and empty rum bottles—and Edward lets you. "Alive and furious, am I?" you hiss, pressing against his shoulders again. The back of his legs hit wood, and the gleam in his eyes borders on dangerous. "You arrogant bastard."

Your fingers curl around the belt of his pistol holders—the flintlocks and his cutlasses left on the foyer table—hauling him closer instead of pushing him away. Surging forward, you press your mouth against his. Edward's breath catches, surprised for half a heartbeat, then he groans low in his throat and answers with equal fire, lips parting, tongue sliding against yours. It's salt, rum, and pent-up fury.

And when you feel that smirk of his trying to return against your mouth, you bite down on his bottom lip, hard enough to draw a sharp hiss from him.

"Christ," Edward breathes—the sting in his lip and cheek only spurring him on. His hands curl around your waist, fingertips pressing into your flesh through wool and linen. The faint metallic twinge of blood where you broke skin taints the kiss, and the sound he makes is half pain, half raw want.

Edward spins you around. The great room tilts, maps and bottles scattering as he bends you over the table. Empty rum bottles clink together—one rolls off the edge and shatters. He presses in behind you, chest to your back, one broad, careworn hand splayed between your shoulders, pinning you down.

"Stay furious." His voice is heady and rough at your ear, breath hot against your neck as he presses your feet apart with his boot. "I like you like this." Edward rolls his hips into your backside, letting you feel what your rage has done to him—half-hard cock straining through the linen of his breeches.