#aco fic

Heyyyyyy. I'm back at it again with some artwork that is a scene from my fic! I've been really into the idea of doing these types of drawings for a while but lacked the skill or tools to do it and now that I have them...I'm gonna keep doing it LOL. This one is honestly mostly all free handed and I'm so proud! It's suppsoed to look like a bit more of a sketched style.

This is the scene in my fic where Natakas and Darius have taken Elpidios to try and keep him safe while Kassandra fights. In my fic, she gets knocked out and when she wakes up in a cave, she breaks down. Very sad, very angst.

fandom: assassin’s creed odyssey characters/pairings: kassandra/brasidas, charon, deimos word count: 1,984 words

summary: there is a place—a tiny sliver of a place, no wider than twenty paces edge-to-edge in any direction, tucked away in serpentine crevices of the basalt plateaus that encircle the domain of hades—that brasidas does not dare enter.

notes: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 2 OF THE FATE OF ATLANTIS DLC! don't read until you've finished the torment of hades!

i’m about to start paying rent at the Sindominium™ bc apparently i live here now

anyway, ask for filth and u shall receive ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

46. “It’s okay, I’m here.” + Elucien

12. “I’m pretty good at providing distractions.” + Feysand

Feyre twists a lock of hair around her index finger, brows furrowed in concentration. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be—High Lord things to attend to?” She doesn’t bother looking up—won’t dignify his attempts to distract her with even so much as a sidelong glance.

Rhys wedges his hand between her knees and pushes, causing her legs to uncross. She slides her gaze to his, annoyed but doing very little to put a stop to his efforts.

“As luck would have it”—he grins wickedly—“no. My afternoon’s open.” Rhys puts pressure on the inside of her knee, and, with less reluctance than she’d like to admit, her legs part for him.  

Feyre settles for rolling her eyes but manages to remain focused on her task—mostly. She’s pretty sure she’s read this sentence before. Maybe not. All of them were starting to blur together—even before Rhys sidled up next to her ten minutes ago.

“You know….” she starts, finding it harder and harder to remember why she needs to read this proposal in the first place, closing her eyes against the heavy, demanding warmth blossoming between her thighs.

“Mmm?” His lips brush against the delicate skin on her neck, just below her ear.

Cauldron damn him, he knows all her buttons. “I might finish quicker if—”

“I use my tongue?” he murmurs, teeth scraping against her jaw, and the embers sparking in her core are threatening to burst into flame if he doesn’t let up.

She leans away from him, willing her mind to focus. “If someone”—she pins him with her stare—“would leave me alone for five minutes.”

“I can be helpful,” he counters, sounding offended even as he curves his hand around her thigh and gives a squeeze.

Feyre barely manages to stifle her laughter. “Right,” she mocks.

He tangles his free hand in her hair, and it sends the most delightful shiver down her spine. “I’m pretty good at providing—”

“Distractions?” Feyre finishes, cocking an eyebrow in challenge to the way his clever fingers are persistently working their way ever-higher up her legs—which, up until a few moments ago, were completely concealed beneath the fabric of a long slip-dress.

Rhys glares, but there’s no bite to it. “Encouragement,” he corrects, fingers continuing to roam towards the apex of her thighs, eyes glinting with a hunger which never fails to set her heart racing.

Feyre, stubbornly, tries to finish reading the lengthy document sprawled on the table in front of her. She only has a few more pages to go, but for the third time she reads the same meaningless jumble of words and—

Cauldron boil her, his damn fingers.

“Oh forget it,” she huffs, twisting to straddle him so he can touch her properly.

“Does this mean you’re done working?” He has the audacity to sound shocked.

“Shut up and fuck me,” she snarls.

Rhys digs his fingers into her hips, and Feyre doesn’t fight the moan that works its way free from her throat. “If you insist.”

Smut + Elucien

34. “Let’s keep this between the two of us.” + Elucien

Elain tilts her head and a lock of hair falls from where she’d secured it behind her ear. She feels fingers trace featherlight over her forehead, tucking the wayward strand out of her face. Lucien lets his hand linger just a moment too long on her jaw, brushes his thumb across her skin, twists the ends of her hair between his fingertips.

Her eyes drift up from the dense block of text to find him looking at her with a gentle, patient hunger.

She gulps—but doesn’t shy away when he leans forward in his chair, doesn’t pull back when he tips her chin up to align it with his, doesn’t turn her head when he presses their lips together.

Entire symphonies couldn’t play the song echoing in her chest; a bright, aching melody—loud and soft and fast and deliciously, torturously slow. But—

“I should get back,” she blurts, tearing her mouth from his, yanking her hand back from where it had become tangled in his t-shirt.

Elain can feel his body chase after hers—like magnets separated by force struggling to again become one.

“Elai—”

“I’m feeling a lot better about tomorrow,” she says, stuffing three textbooks and an overfilled binder back into her pale pink tote bag, refusing to make eye contact with him.

“Let’s—”

“Keep this between the two of us.” Her eyes are wide, pleading. Oh, he would be so upset if he found out.

Lucien frowns; nods.

And the sight tugs at something inside her; makes her feel even worse. “It’s just—”

“Graysen,” he finishes for her, sounding tired as he rolls his palm flat against the desk and sinks low in his chair.

She goes back to gathering her things, placing multi-colored pens in a zipper pouch and sliding that into her bag, too. “I don’t think he’d like it very much if he knew we were studying together,” she mumbles, working quickly.

His eyes are honest; cautious. “Is that what we were doing?” he breathes, voice barely a whisper over her thundering pulse.

Elain swallows back the ‘No’ on the tip of her tongue and stands. “Goodnight, Lucien,” she says instead. It comes out harsher than she meant it to, but it’s probably just as well. She’s kind to everyone, but she’s kindest of all to her red-haired lab partner. Too kind, perhaps.

Her hand’s on the doorknob to the study room, turning it, when—

“Sleep well, dove.”

She pauses at that—at his name for her. Offers him a small smile. It’s not enough—or maybe it’s too much. She’s not sure.

She’s not sure of much anything nowadays—except how she feels when she’s with Lucien.

But… it can’t—they can’t—

“See you in the morning?” he asks, voice tender.

Not for the first time, Elain wonders how things might be now if Feyre and Tamlin had never dated, had never ended things in tears and screams and anger. And maybe it makes her a bad person, maybe it makes her a traitor, but—

“See you in the morning,” she says softly, smiling, like she’s giving up a closely guarded secret.

Lucien smiles back, and she thinks it feels like hope.

11. “Don’t touch me.” + Nessian

“Don’t touch me!” she shouts, eyes wild—frantic. A wounded animal caught in a trap.

Cassian pauses, stunned by the raw terror he hears in her voice, feels through their bond—and instantly his approach changes. He slows himself down, palms the air in front of him and angles his body to make himself seem less imposing. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His voice is low, serious.

“Cass, please—” she begs, frightened, gaze hurriedly sweeping from side to side as she shuffles away from him a fraction of a step at a time. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

He studies her, just as he would any other person; tries to keep his own fears at bay. Nesta won’t let herself get near him, but then he watches her for a moment longer and realizes—she won’t let herself get near anything.

Whatever’s plaguing his mate, she genuinely believes it makes her a threat to his life.

“Nes, you’re not gonna hurt me,” he promises, tapping one of his siphons to remind her he can more than handle himself.  He tilts his head and lifts his brows, silently assuring her that he’s not in any danger—not from her, at least. Again, Cassian slowly extends a hand—

And again, Nesta takes a step backward, pulling her arms in tight to her chest to shy away from his touch even more.

Cassian cocks his head to the side, worry twisting his features. Never, in all the years he’s known her, has Nesta Archeron tried to take up the least amount of space possible. “Nes—”

She checks her sides again, tucks her elbows closer to her ribcage.

“Show me,” he commands, tone gentle but firm. He needs to know what he’s dealing with—what they’re dealing with.

She swallows—hard.

“Nes, I need to know,” he tries again, uses the bond to soothe her raging spirit.

You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe.

It calms her a fraction, but it’s not enough. She doesn’t believe him—doesn’t believe she won’t hurt him beyond what a healer can repair.

He calls upon the magic within him and lifts his arm over his head; drops a red, thrumming shield over his body.

It’s alright. You can show me. I can handle it.

Nesta nods, and, fingers shaking, she reaches forward, lets her hand hover over the table between them. She gulps, her eyes finding Cassian’s.

Go on, he encourages. You won’t hurt me.

Nesta touches the tip of her index finger to the table’s surface, and—

Grey, ashy particles float to the floor, formed from what had, moments ago, been solid wood.

Oh.

Cassian stems the flow of magic through his body, shield disappearing, only air between them once more; and he’s not exactly afraid, but—

“You’ll be fine.” He tries to sound confident, but what he just saw reminds him of the way the Killing Curse manifests—except… Illyrians have years to learn to control their power as it grows and matures right along with them.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snaps, toes of her black boots covered in a layer of dust she created.

Cassian sets his jaw, chooses honesty this time. “I’m not leaving you.”

He can feel it when her thoughts take a turn. What if it gets worse? What if I can’t control it? What if everything around me just—

“I’m not leaving you,” he says again, putting more force behind the words.

Nesta bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling. “Cass”—her voice wavers—“I’m scared.”

Me too, sweetheart.

13. “I’m not saying I want a threesome—but I wouldn’t be opposed to it.” + Moriel/Cassian

“Listen,” Mor slurs, drunk on fae wine and feeling bold, “I’m not saying I want to have a threesome—but I wouldn’t exactly be opposed to having one either.”

Cassian and Azriel share a look.

Is she saying… what I think she’s saying? Cassian tries to ask—too nervous to actually form the words.

Mor takes a greedy sip. “Just putting it out there.” Dramatically, she waves her thin-stemmed glass in a wide arc to make her point, some of its contents sloshing onto the pavement below the couch where she and Azriel sit, her legs sprawled across his lap as his thumb traces small, teasing circles ever-higher up her bare thighs.

She pouts at her carelessness and brings a second hand to cradle the precious liquid, sitting up a little straighter.

Azriel flicks his gaze from Cassian to Mor; studies her carefully. His shadows flare to life, caressing Mor’s neck before they circle back to whisper secrets in their master’s ear.

Mor hums, rubs her legs together in a less-than-subtle way as she looks between them both, a wicked expression overtaking her features.

Cassian’s mouth goes dry as he waits for Azriel to let some emotion slip through—some indication of how he feels about all of this. And then—

“I’m game if you are,” he says slowly, voice low, and there’s a sly grin on Azriel’s face when he slides his eyes back to Cassian’s.

Five hundred years of dancing around this very thing, all for it to come to a head after a cheap bottle of red at Rita’s on a Thursday night.

Cassian considers his options for exactly half a second before making his decision. “I’ll get the check.”