Pain during Mayday - Pistols at Dawn Chapter 25

 This will be a double post as I did not post the review I completed last month. I hadn’t forgotten – I was just caught up in Apex: Legends. Anyways. We are now at 243, 750 words. It will be customary to include the word count at the beginning of each new chapter review. Just to let you know how far we are without actually saying anything.

Despite how well night settled like a silk curtain over the darkening city, the stirred streets beckoned the young men of Paris to a ruckus call. The pubs were struck with ignited crowds, most notably the civilians that weren’t too pleased with their ending days. I made quick work to reach Orfeo’s closing café, and immediately gave a warning glance to the bystanders who, once again, were looking at the shop with interest. They all dispersed at my arrival (as if they knew who I was), though one dared to not break gaze. I had to work extra to remember the anger-stricken expression of the opposing baker down the street.

Yes, they conveniently part their ways for the angry Woman of Colour who fucked their boss. I also feel the need to mention that we are in the year 1791 at this point, and any business that’s still operating with full capacity and with adequate supplies is doing pretty damn good. No one would be pleased with their ‘ending days’, because most were not employed and many more were starving. One thing that is never mentioned in this story is how utterly packed the streets of Paris were with homeless people, ruffians, and general muggers from the countryside. That is what happens when you don’t work ‘extra hard’.

Speaking of ‘extra hard’, Elysia feels bad for the baker across the street, yet didn’t mind driving him out of business when she and Orfeo stole grain back in Chapter 4. It’s just capitalism, baby!

“You got a problem?” I replied sternly.

He pointed to the window of Orfeo’s business, then to me, “You’ll get what’s coming to you. Just you wait, then you’ll be wishing you never interfered with my shop.”

“Why wait, when we can settle it right now,” I took a step forward.

Tough Bitch syndrome is always fun until you get punched in the face. In Elysia’s case, it’ll be like this when someone throws some ash tree dust in her face. She’ll be just like those women in the ghetto who lose their weaves during a Popeye’s fight: screeching and howling, fists flying and walking away in shame when $300 of Brazilian hair is on the pavement.

He scoffed angrily at that, though took a step back to create distance, “Wait and see.” He turned on his heel and left with a red face. What a damn psycho.

You robbed him of profit and you stole grain that he could’ve used. You did a Jeff Bezos and used the market to squeeze your opponents out of a living job and wage. You’re one to talk, lady.

The café door opened at my arrival, and replacing the usual figure of Jaq was no one other than Oya sweeping the rest of the dust out. Her large eyes regarded me, and motioned me to the side to avoid the dust hitting my boots. Beside the doorframe was Maduka who specifically monitored the direction I was coming from.

“You saw that?” I thumbed back to me.

"He had been staring all day." Oya admitted with one last sweep, and tapped the broom against the stone wall to cleanse it, "Jaq drew a mustache and a beard with some charcoal on the window over him. It looked fitting after a while."

Ah, the random Africans appear again! It’s almost as if the author really does think the demographics of this time period reflects modern day France. Maybe a watermelon would’ve helped?

“That’s pretty funny,” I snorted softly.

"Orfeo wasn't even mad he dirtied the windows."

Maduka’s light chuckle rings out, "Think his mind is on other things, Oya." Hi darting, amused glance was enough to signal me he knew something I didn’t.

They know he tasted your WAP.

Maduka’s light chuckle rings out, "Think his mind is on other things, Oya." Hi darting, amused glance was enough to signal me he knew something I didn’t.

I replied with, “Unless he sees Jaq's humor to be in his alley too."

Something tells me he doesn’t but that, "It's as good of a guess as ours.” Orfeo not being upset was reason enough to suspect. I was surprised he wasn’t here; he was usually the one to close. Maduka exhales, and wipes his dark hands clean from the rag on the counter, “Come now, Oya. Your parents have a surprise for you tonight. We need to get going."

I don’t think simple graffiti would anger a man who knows he’s dealing with a neighbour who hates his guts and would rather kill him for stealing his business. Who wouldn’t? If he’s getting mad at a kid but is fine with himself getting lost in a trance and burning bread, that just makes him a hypocrite.

Oya set the broom to the wall, blinking owlishly, "....A surprise is meant to be a surprise."

I gave Maduka an impressed smile, “She’s sharp.”

"I should know better. But I haven't revealed what it is," he turns to her. Oya tentatively thinks on it, fiddling with her hands shyly on her front apron.

Is it Aunt Jemima syrup? With the classic label?

“You’ll find out sooner what it is if you hurry,” I jest.

She gave an approving nod after, and smiled, “I’m ready to go then,” and folded her apron over her arm.

"’Atta girl." Maduka offered me an easy smile, "Orfeo is upstairs; it’s through the kitchen. I can close the door on the way out."

I open my mouth to clarify, but give into the offer instead, “Be careful, and thank you.” They depart with the lock of the door, and I settle the bag of coin from Charlotte on the counter.

It’s something when a country that had only 4,000-5,000 blacks has black people casually walking around and owning businesses as if they wouldn’t be the victims of racial abuse. More so with the race riots in Saint Domingue and the other Caribbean colonies like Haiti. Which, by the way, have NEVER been mentioned.

“The story of you doesn’t quite match with how you are now.”

Implying this woman has EVER changed.

I remind myself to breathe a two second after. A cold coil worms beneath my ribs, when the recognition of meeting the last corresponding brother of Augustine’s family finally connects to my mind. A twin of Orfeo, at that. Except, Samson seemed to know a lot about me and I knew nothing about him.  

Orfeo is the brother of Alessio, a man you had a romantic relationship with in the Brotherhood story. Orfeo also has a twin, Samson, who is either older or younger than Alessio. There were three brothers and the third only managed to appear for plot convenience’s sake.

Think about it this way: you can fuck both of them and wonder which one is which! You’re for open relationships, after all.

Something advised me that was a concerning issue, yet I had no evidence to tell me otherwise nor some sort of known caution to take. According to Augustine, Samson was the nicest out of all of them…other than the small prank of passing by as Orfeo. It was a harmless prank, I’m sure.

Since when did ‘concerning issues’ ever bother you? You haven’t used evidence to base your opinions or actions on anything regarding Brotherhood issues, but you can utilize them to their fullest extent when you want? Shocker.

In addition, Samson and Augustine’s meet up had nothing to do with me…I shouldn’t make it seem that’s what it was all about. I shake the apprehension aside, and make way for the kitchen.

Yes it does. He wouldn’t have sought you out and told you his story if it had nothing to do with you. Everything revolves around Elysia in this fic, so there’s no point in pretending she isn’t important.

A skinny door I had not paid attention to before almost concealed itself well into the wall’s decoration, its golden-colored doorknob giving itself away. I opened it with a gentle swipe to reveal the thin staircase, big enough for only one pair of human shoulders to stroll up. I was encased in darkness when the door closed, and I silently reached the top step. My knuckle rasped against the door.

You’d think the character with supernatural abilities could find a hidden door, but then again, a few chapters ago she couldn’t see an alarm bell standing in a hallway or thought it could be rung, so there’s that.

“Orfeo?” I called out. I knock again when I don’t get a response. A sudden creak of a sliding chair echoed inside, followed by clinking glass and fluttering footsteps swiftly playing. A mutter of something faint. Then, a soft stride to the door. The handle twisted to drench the obscure staircase in nitid candlelight.

What are the fluttering footsteps playing with? You could have stopped at fluttering footsteps. It’s fine. It works.

‘Nitid’ also means ‘radiant’ or ‘resplendent’. If you have very bright candelight, how is the staircase ‘obscure’?

Orfeo's hair is a mess, disheveled in every direction possible. His shirt is sloppily thrown on and his trousers are barely hugging at his hips. He looks like he must have rushed out from bed. He collects his thoughts and combs a hand through his midnight locks, "Uh….I-Elysia, I take it...Maduka let you in?"

“Uhh….he did—did I interrupt you?” There was really no reason to, I could have left the currency and gone back. But, it had been a bit since I’ve seen him…

So, we gonna see more cocksucking? How about some blown out pool parties with Cardi B songs playing in the background?

If he’s rushing out of bed, how is it he meticulously lit all the candles where their light was ‘resplendent’?

“No, I was in the middle of a nap…” he massaged the back of his neck, his familiar ascot tucking with it. Noticing Samson’s neck…did Orfeo ever take it off?

“I agree that my visit is……unprecedented.”

You had sex with him. Did he not get naked for you to see his bare neck?

“That does spark my curiosity on why you're here." He rests his arm on the doorway, leaning his body against it. I remember the weight of it, when he was on me.

My tongue licks the canine tooth beneath my lips, and the heat stains my cheeks, “I came for a…..visit.” His nescient nature tempted this irresponsible element within me. To not tell him the surreptitious truth and to not ruin his night.

So you’re DTF and you don’t want to tell him you met his twin brother who has some cryptic information that may be useful to your cause. That sounds like a well rounded relationship built on trust.

Hey! Remember during the last chapter the Brotherhood was running out of funds, recruits, and morale? And how it was your responsibility as Mentor to fix that? How you just didn’t give a damn? Well that’s OK now, you’re just going to fuck your way out of it. Sounds cool, eh?

Because what harm could I do without telling him for one day?

His arm shifts so he can lean forward, “…Round two then?"

“How rude….I don’t even know your apartment.” Golden orbs shifted to his lips, then back up to challenge his tenebrous eyes, “Or where your bed is.”

‘Every day my Order falls to pieces and the World’s #1 Assassin Hunter is running around killing people, but hey! I get good dick!’

"Then let’s give you the tour," he smirks amusingly at this.

Great. Are we getting another 6,000 word PornHub sex scene?

“Not surprised, but also…surprising,” I replied, giving the room another glance.

“Surprisingly unimpressive?” he leaned over my shoulder.

“Heh, no. Thought you would be sleeping in gold coins or have a talking parrot somewhere,” I teased.

Orfeo has a room well beyond his means. It’s also exceedingly well lit despite the staircase being described as ‘dark’. You really would think he was storing gold coins or some other precious item if you have a hidden doorway, bedroom, and staircase.

"How very presumptuous...or stereotypical,” he rolls his eyes playfully.

“I apologize. We didn’t have much pirates in my world, so I don’t have a reference to go by except whatever your world has told me.”

"....A world without pirates must be a barren one." Orfeo made a face, "Or maybe you hadn't gotten the chance to see the ocean yet." 

I’m not an expert on Zelda, but just one cursory look at the wiki at least shows pirates as somewhat canon. Even if there are no official pirates in LoZ, Elysia lived in two different time periods and nations where there are prominent naval powers and dockyards. The fact she has done no reading on the area she inhabits and isn’t even aware France has a northern and southern coast bordering the sea is absolutely pathetic. She lived in Italy for an entire year and probably never even learned what a coastline was.

“I don’t remember an ocean; however, a sandy ocean, yes. Maybe it was an ocean once.” I eye the mirror. My head tilts. “I haven’t seen a mirror in a long time.” My arm reaches out, and I tentatively press my fingertips to it. It’s cold, and sleek like frozen ice. I blink and it’s foreign to watch it happen.

There are mirrors in the Café. Arno has them in his room; well, it would be Elysia’s room in this iteration. But they did indeed have mirrors and were a luxury item. Elysia has broken into mansions and museums; do you mean to tell me she has never seen one in years? There were mirror factories lining the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. One such factory had a riot where the workers were not getting paid a fair wage and was subsequently set on fire. Soldiers had bricks and tiles thrown at their heads. Police had to retreat. There is just no possible way Elysia has not seen one mirror when France's elite had them everywhere. 

"Mirrors are a luxury...and a curse. Careful with cracking it, its seven years bad luck."

The bags under my eyes, the pigmented scar that ran across my nose. It looks much like Arno’s, but the left side almost meets the column of my eye’s edge. I have so many sunspots along my cheeks, and small scratches where the battle memories laid. My curls had lessened their spirals, and I could swear I saw some strands darker than others.

Weird. These details were never mentioned beforehand. She has advanced healing capabilities, yet can’t slow natural aging despite being alive for several centuries. She inhaled a chemical that nullified her supernatural abilities and came away with nothing more than a slight cough.

It was somewhat puzzling to know that somehow Orfeo was….attracted to me in some way. Looking like this. I looked nothing like how I looked before when we first met. Then again, he only recognized me when I pulled my hood back enough and he saw my eyes. They were piercing, now that I had been so normalized observing every color but that.

It’s only been a few years and you’re acting as if it’s been two centuries. At least, that’s the crux I’m getting with these details. Elysia has not gotten any scars that have altered her face because she’s never been written as getting hurt. Tired, sure. Weakened, sure. But dragged along the ground and having her ribs cracked? No. She does not have wrinkles and, as far I can recall, she doesn't age the same way humans do. This attempt to humanize her fails because there was no textual evidence beforehand supporting any of these details. 

"Hmm...sometimes." He answered honestly, "Helps to remind me I'm not losing my head."

“That’s a weird way to put it,” I commented. Orfeo’s stare elongates, and I raise a brow when he’s quiet a moment too long, “….Are you okay?”

He tries combing it out, only to have the waves pluck back up, "Yeah....realized how messy my hair is."

“It’s not messy as—it’s not messy, you look fine,” I swallowed, already feeling the soft threads from before.

Ah,here we go with the cutesy “I’m a strong woman but I’m soft for your dick” thing. I thought I’d seen enough of it in Chapter 23, but I guess that’s too much to ask. We still have to encounter the Arno chapters.

He raises a brow, "Something on your mind?"

“….Uh, a bit but….”

He tilts his head, and his mouth parts, “I didn’t leave you too sore, did I?” He puts a hand on my hip, thumbing along it.

I scoff lightly, “I eventually recovered.”

That’s amusing, no? The immortal who had no scars until now, who had never gotten hurt until now, is hurt because her pussy got stretched out. Glad to see the magic works down there, too. Ever thought of waxing?

He smiles cheekily at this, curling his palm along my lower back, "You came for seconds?" I shudder mildly of his approach. He senses my hesitation and tugs me closer, “Being indecisive?”

“….I did interrupt your nap, after all.” I hold his arm. His orbs reflect the candlelight scattered along the room. They’re soft. “Unless you’d like to return to it.” The temptation resurfaces, a surge across my limbs when he caresses me this way. I shouldn’t have been so easy to allure, but my sweltering desire to hear Orfeo the way he was a couple of nights ago holds me.

So it’s only been a few days since you two had sex, and in the span of 48 hours, you have discovered Mirabeau is a double crosser, Bellec has turned against you, and the Brotherhood is falling apart. To think this woman was granted Mentor status in the scope of a year while doing nothing to earn it.

A craving repletion to forget what happened earlier, and focus on the present…

"I could but…" Orfeo didn't shy away, "Why would I deny you, if you readily admit that's what you're craving for..."

“…Maybe I am.”

“That’s not a yes.”

She’s there for no other reason than to get a dicking. She’s not there to talk tea with you. She literally has the world on her shoulders and she’s doing nothing to fix those problems. People are dying under her tutelage and all she cares about is primal pleasure.

REALLLY not the look you want for a Magic Woman of Colour. 

“Then….yes. I’m craving it now.” I play with hem of his trousers, and sink a finger in to trace down his lower abdomen that peeked from his loose shirt. I give it a firm tug, and the middle of my back meets the edge of the dresser unexpectedly. He follows suit, his hand cradling my lower back. One swift movement, and Orfeo’s lifting me to sit me properly on top of the furniture. I lean forward and meet his chest to avoid hitting the mirror.

I didn’t need more bad luck than what I already had.

Think about this: you have not one, but two, Master Assassins and Mentors going AWOL. One is so deep into French politics his career would be ruined if anyone found out, and the other has turned against you because he thinks you are disrespecting the Creed and not taking Shay Cormac seriously. People are dying, people are losing hope, your business is losing money, and all you can do is send talented people to their deaths.

To fix that bad luck, you go to another portal jumping immortal who bangs you with his big dick. In modern times, you’d be an OnlyFans model, not a hero.

"I love it when a woman knows what she wants..." Orfeo groans into the crook of my neck, exhaling hotly before peppering it with kisses. The vest is unbuttoned, and he tugs the blouse to expose my shoulder. He bares his teeth, and nips it playfully.

Do we really know what this woman wants when her needs are so simple as to fix into a single box? If anyone knew this Strong Woman of Colour was undone by the D, would anyone really stick around for this?

I sigh, and dig into his hair to satiate the lustful memory of before. I soothe upwards, and his breath hitches from the deep massage. My legs hold his sides and pull him closer.

James died for this.

"Mm...that feels nice..." his eyes lull and he responds to the gesture with a tighter squeeze around my waist. He locks me there, and his mouth greedily explores my neck. A sensual pressure builds, and I exhale in an attempt to relieve it. Orfeo’s tongue plans differently, and with one lick of a stripe I moan. My dispensable scarf falls off, followed by the loose vest, and the various belts that had been strapped to me. The daggers clatter when they heavily drop on the dresser, the hidden blade removed a moment after. Once free of every dangerous thing do I finally move my arms the way I want; climbing up the valleys of his arms, mapping out the various muscles in his back and shoulders. He groans when I dig roughly; he sounds glorious.

I have wondered where her corset was, as she was seen wearing one at the Templar ball scene, but she’s as flat as a board and shaped like a man so I can understand why Les dropped the thing entirely. I’d also like to point out that having a ‘dispensable scarf’ floating around like that is going to get snagged on something and POP off with your head. 

"Elysia..." He cups his hand underneath my thigh, brushing along the length from my knees all the way down to my ass, squeezing it teasingly.

Is he lifting you up? You’re sitting on the dresser.

I gaze to him with dazed eyes, “You ruined my dress.” I grip the opening of his blouse, and with the force of the Twilight, it rips, exposing his tattooed chest to me. I drink it in, and I’m already moving. He grips my hair as I kiss along it with a lean. My nails swim across his rough sides; my hands bloom open, and I hold him. My pink tongue expels out, and it lathers across the tattoo. Orfeo flinches, and makes a new noise. I sit back up, and he looks dazed and wonderful with a blush.

The woman who can kick away swords and knock dudes out of windows can’t rip a linen shirt without her supernatural ability. That’s some nerf.

"You're just so eager to repay me back..." Orfeo tries to defuse the tension, though his hard hands plant on my legs, "You're really going to end up feeling it tomorrow if you keep doing that."

“I’ll feel less sore if we’re on your bed.” I rest my forehead against his, and drink in his tense jaw and sharp inhale, “Isn’t that what you thought of before?”

"You're going to regret those words." I’m lifted and my back meets the cushion of his bed. "I might wreck you."

Don’t worry. She’s looser this time around. Maybe there won’t be a need for lube.

My light struggle entices us both, “I don’t think you want to leave me in pieces.” I motion my hips up, and the light friction is enough to make us both sigh softly.

"I know you’re capable of handling it."

Just stick a piece of an ash tree under her pillow and watch her seize. Lord knows there’s enough of it in Europe. She’s capable of handling it. 

His force doesn’t let up, and in a swift motion his one hand is holding both of my wrists. The other travels along my side, and I gasp when the blouse rides up, exposing my bound chest. The binder unclips, and it drops off the bed. He traces up, following my tattoo markings. My hips jerk and my body stiffens when his thumb brushes along my nipple. He likes my reaction and does it again.

You are flat chested. There is no need to bind. Breast binding is bad for your health anyways. Wear a corset and you can keep them in place as well as protect your spine from injury. It is no different from a modern day bra. Better, even.

“Shit….” I bite my lip, and succumb myself to the pleasure welling into my stricken eyes.

"God help me, Elysia..." He kneads my breast, watching me squirm as my head rolls back in pure pleasure. My luculent moans are enough to rile him further, and the shirt is off me within the next second. My sides are clutched, and he drinks my sounds with an eager kiss; his hot tongue slips with want. I give into the hungering call, and I am squarely trapped beneath his weight. His hips grind, and I allow him to have full control of mine, “Mm...I should just make you come like this."

‘Luculent’, by the way, means ‘translucent’ or ‘see-through’. The word has no relation to sound, but sight or the appearance of an object. This is what happens when you thesaurus suck and you STILL end up using words incorrectly.

“That’s-mnnn!” My body jerks, but it goes nowhere being bound by his immortal grip. It merely feeds Orfeo’s tormenting pleasure, his bed far more sinkable than mine; it almost pools me in like a whirlpool, and Orfeo is the crashing waves preventing me from escape. His mouth let’s go of mine and instead frames along my jaw with sweet kisses.

Ah, here we are with the heart attack dialogue again. You’re giving ME one, dear.

“That’s what?” he whispers.

“Not f-fair,” I snap my hand to his right arm, and knead the tattoo pigmented on his skin there.

“I never said I was fair,” he chuckles, but his voice is short-lived and overridden by my flooding whines.

Is it bad I think of a malfunctioning ride at an amusement park when I read about this woman whining? That’s all I can imagine. I can’t see a human doing this but a machine desperately in need of grease.

As if the curiosity of the preceding night was brought to light, his teeth and tongue dance along the rim of my ear. The friction of his hips stimulates my lower region, and the obstructing clothes themselves give Orfeo further incentive to firmly do it. My face flames and my vision waters; I didn’t want him to stop.

Gods, and he didn’t.

Didn’t you have sex two days ago?

It makes sense your face is ‘flaming’ out – you sound like a potato baking in the microwave.

“Fuck...ahhh!” I gasp, and hold onto his tense arms for dear life. My legs squirm frantically, and he pushes again, and again, and his tongue snakes into my earlobe— he moans. What a lovely, euphonious sound...Gods, why did he sound like that???

Ick. Does she clean there regularly?

The stimulated nub of me explodes, and my entire body submerges into the depths of pleasure. The candlelight sheen takes me this time when my rolling eyes are determined to remain open, and they meet Orfeo’s hungry ones as he observes my reaction as if to memorize it. He rocks again to dampen my underwear further, and my jaw drops to release a sound between a breathless gasp and strangled moan. His brows furrow, and his keen eyes glitter beautifully.

Ears can be an erogenous zone for some, but the fact it’s being treated as an extra clit here is...interesting, to say the least.

Aren’t Orfeo’s eyes like pitch? He has no iris or pupil; it’s just one large pupil. How can you see any colour in them?

"There we go..." He rolls his hips to a stop, cradling a hand to my cheek, brushing it with his thumb. "You're going to be a puddle in my bed if I keep doing away with you."

“Y-You were eager to leave me...in pieces,” I struggle to say, slumping my cheek against his palm. I eye the symbols on his left wrist, and kiss it briefly. I brush up his sides (he holds his breath), and stop to thumb at his chest.

Not literally, I’m afraid. Two sex scenes and everything else important – or drummed up to be important – gets written away in under a paragraph. Remember James’ psycho uncle and how he knew what Elysia was? Me too. That was...what? Chapter 18?

"I am."

He buries his face into my breasts, sighing hotly and rakes his callous fingers across my hair. I clasp my hands onto his inner shoulders, and groan and relish from the deep, satisfying massage along the back of my head. How it keeps every other concern and worry I had earlier away from me.

"Your hair is soft...looks like I'm holding fire in my hands.”

I’m sure your recruits would be mightily pleased you are sending them on suicide missions while you’re getting eaten out by your pirate boyfriend. It definitely makes the Parisian Brotherhood look good. You live in a time period where the French Templars are not at their peak and you STILL manage to mess it up.

Bravo. 

I contently sigh, dragging my nails down his back and thumbing his upper muscles. His skin shivers. Orfeo's eyes roll and he regards me intently. He dips his head back down, kissing every part of my exposed front available to him. He flicks his tongue at my mounds, testing to call the withheld whines out of me. Somewhat satisfied, he takes one into his mouth. Sucking hard.

What mounds? You’re flatter than an IHOP pancake. I’ve seen the art. You’ve also got a neck longer than a giraffe.

He ascends me to a higher plane, and my body ricochets into a show of fireworks and sparks. His locks are captured in my clasp, his tongue skillfully dancing to expel every sound bubbling in my throat. It doubles when he goes to the next breast, and I gasp inward when his teeth come into play and hold my nipple there.

"Fuck you—"

Again, I don’t see or hear a human making these sounds. Best I can come up with, aside from a malfunctioning amusement park ride, is a lava lamp.

He grins at this, "You make this too easy..." Orfeo enjoys it all the same and proceeds to move down. He breathes hotly over the navel of my stomach, then tugs my pants with his teeth. "Let's get these off, shall we?"

My legs are free, and Orfeo doesn’t waste time to remove the rest to leave me bare on his bed. He hovers over, and his eyes ride along my figure. Almost like a predator feasting on his captured prey. I grip the sheets above my pillowed head, and I feel myself wet from his inspection alone, especially from how much light the candles gave to reveal every shadow I’ve built so much to conceal me.

Isn’t there a window in the room, and isn’t it midday? Nice how there is no natural light at all. You’re not really covering yourself with shadows when you’re so willing to get the D, now are you? I get you wanted to sound deep with that but it just comes off as a sick parody.  

To hide me away once before.

He bites his bottom lip. Absorbed.

Absorbing me.

I’d sincerely love it if he became The Thing and just assimilated her.

He exhales sharply, and grabs my waist, "See what you do to me...?" The tent in his lower region slides across my ass, and I’m burning.

He’s hard. Undeniably so.

This should be posted to PornHub: ‘Hot Brown Feminist's pussy DOMINATED by the patriarchy!’

'Hot Brown Woman PINNED by huge cock!'

'HUNG guy teaches MOUTHY FEMINIST a lesson!' 

That’s how ridiculous this is. Whatever the title, it will be better than this. I swear. 

I hold myself steady because god, I want to collapse. He swivels my hips with his motion again. My jaw slacks, and an embarrassing, breathless whimper shoots itself out of me. It’s what he wants.

“Damn it…” I shift, trying not to pay mind to his undergarments I’m ruining with my arousal. His pants are to his knees, and he kicks them off.

His next grind is hard and purposeful, "Are you going to let me take you like this?"

Hey man, someone has to go drilling for oil!

He toys with another grind against my wet sex. He moans deeply and digs his fingers into my hips, guiding them to move exactly the way he wants me to, and I do it without a thought. He adjusts, and uses his fingers to brush along my entrance to stroke me there. I grit my teeth.

"I'll go nice and slow."

I’m well aware I took him before, but another part warns me it won’t work out this way. A searing pain holds my lower region, and before it can get uncomfortable does Orfeo withdraw, just enough to make me alter my position. He anchors my hips again, and this time I slide better. Little by little we overcome the new position, until finally—

I was about to say. You’ve already taken him once, and your vagina is magical enough to where it can heal any tears a normal human woman would get. You have lived for however many years as a virgin, and suddenly you are the expert on sex? Normally, being on top would give you more control.

“Fuuuuck,” I prolong out, abashed face caked in crimson. My head hangs to hide my embarrassment, of the feral state the immortal has managed to succumb me to. He rocks his hips up, and I almost throw my head back from the impaling force of it. He really is going to break me.

And I craved that.

I’m glad we are finally getting a sequel to Vlad Tepes’ epic impaling kills. All we’re missing is the gut distension or the tip coming out of her mouth.

My arms shake, and his eyes are half-opened, drunk and fixated on me. His lips shine from his swiping tongue, and he leans to take my mouth in to let me taste it. Its robust, and undeniably intoxicating. My back arches, and he fixes my hips to saddle on him properly. 

He reminds, thumbing my cheek carefully while the other hand grasps my side, "Just let me know if I'm going too fast or too hard."

His dick is so big he runs the risk of tearing her insides out. I wonder if he managed to give someone a prolapse when he was a pirate. Ain’t no way a guy like that is a bottom.

“Yes…” I hum out. The pressure leisurely builds, and the creaking of the bed sounds out when my waist rocks in tune with Orfeo’s lifts. His callous palms travel along my back, his kneading skills of a baker proving use when he gropes me sweetly. My moans increase with each slide onto him, and our once careful dance starts to roughen, a means to an end that we both needed to fulfill.

Too bad James never got a means to his end. Too bad Arno won’t. Or Bellec. Or Mirabeau. Or anyone who actually has something to give in this world. It’s all set aside for this woman’s pleasure.

He fastens my sides to lock me in place, and my head reels when Orfeo’s patience is overridden by desire; he prods upwards into me, and the hotspot he was well aware of is easily accessible this way. My back tightens, and I slam my hands onto his limbs to hold myself up. He doesn’t stop, god he’s not stopping, oh fuck oh fuck—

I try not to beg. I fail, miserably. I don’t even last a second. I watch him as I bite my bottom lip.

Now you’re giving me the mental image of a woman riding the mechanical bull from the bull’s perspective. Is there a speed button?

"Take it, Elysia—" his head rolls back and locks me to him. We eagerly meet at his rim. My nails dig into his upper arms and he can't help but groan every time I do it.

Oh god, oh fuck, fuck, fu—

Damn, this really sounds like a Riley Reid movie. Are you sure there’s not going to be a ‘You fucking destroyed it’ scene?

The nerves twist and wring out my muffled, intoned cries, and I snap my mouth shut to suffocate them. Still, Orfeo pounds into me to secrete them out, and I’m moaning in his mouth where he drinks it. I hold onto him for dear life, my savior from the explosion that wanted to make me curl away, to breathe the world outside. To remind me of other duties and responsibilities.

Great to know the Mentor who was gifted that position for God knows what can shirk them whenever she wants when she’s horny. Imagine if Shay walked in on them just then.

I remained here, with Orfeo, the deliciousness of his ravage and unforgiving splendor. He still slamming, to fulfill his promise of breaking me apart. The world turns, and my sweaty back hits the unorderly sheets. The pillows are gone, fucked off somewhere else. I snatch my hands onto the headboard behind me, to hold on for dear life as Orfeo continues his rampage. I’m merely a puppet beneath him, controlled by the inner strings he knew so well to coil and pluck.

 Someone should edit this into a SFM. I just want to see how ridiculous this looks from an animated perspective. This is not making anyone horny and it isn’t a treat to read. This is just comical. It’s stuff you see from guys with futanari fetishes.

He bucks, again, again, and again.

I whine. The room in unbearably hot; his hands scorch lusciously on my skin. My sex is undeniably drenched, my toes curled to accommodate my spread legs open at his sides. My head flies back, and whatever hair that isn’t plastered around my sweating forehead and temples flies and flails around my head. It’s impossible to ignore, and I come again, rocking helplessly underneath the greedy pirate.

He groans, "Fuck, fuck..."

Damn, that’s twice in a row! Or is it three times? Ah, who cares. Girl is being spitroasted without the benefit of a second guy.

It sounds like a prayer the more he kept reiterating it, the more he continues to thrust into me. How many times we might have switched positions as he now has his arm pressed to my lower back, my ass perked over the edge of the bed for his eyes to take in. He kneads it, keeping his hand restrained from outright spanking it. Instead, he holds my neck in place as his hips smack into me. He's veering towards the edge, but lust continues to drag out his wants to stay longer and feast on me.

I immerse myself.

Interesting how his wants matter, but not Elysia’s. Yes, she has ejaculated twice. But it doesn’t exactly read as if she’s centering herself in the pleasure. For a character who has been repeatedly touted as one you don’t want to mess around with, she sure is subservient when it comes to a guy with a big dick. I’ve said before that that’s comical and ironic as far as feminist stories go, but to see it done from an open SJW author always brings a smile to my face. They just don’t get it.

It’s endless. I oblige, and I lose count. I lose count of how many times I was flung from any sort grasp of composure. Just when I think I can’t anymore— 

“Or-feo!” I bite and sink into the sheets. His chest presses into my back, and his hand climbs. The instinct to be alarmed when he holds my neck from the front is swiftly subsided when he thrusts again. Again, again, again. The way he cradles me close, how his teeth bite onto my shoulder to prevent himself from breaking, and mix with my pieces, is indescribable. “A-Again, it’s coming again!”

Ah shit, I just happened to run out of quarters. If I pop in a few more, will you do it again?

He doesn’t take it as a sign to slow down, more of an incentive to drive further into me, to make sure he’s taken everything from me, to pin me hard and keep me locked in his grip. He groans gorgeously, and I growl when his hand grabs a handful of my curls, and tugs to make me arch my back. The pain mixes with the pleasure so well, and it sends me spiraling into a stimulated madness that I never thought I would ever cross.

I don’t mind reading rough sex. If done well, it can be naughty to read in the best ways. But this? This makes me cringe. It’s stuff that gets you sent to the doctor.

It’s also telling that Elysia is still willing to let a man she hasn’t adequately bonded with take everything from her during an act of passion. There is no romance or care there as there is between Arno and Elise, so there’s no motive for them to fuck as they do. It’s a just-so explanation. You are not meant to question it.

My moans turn to silence when he indelibly punctures through me in that angle. He doesn’t stop, and sings my name like it’ll be the last time he’ll ever get to say it. My golden eyes dance and skid in unison; my legs tremble, and they’re no longer holding me.

He takes me in so many times.

So. Belly bulge? Are your eyes bulging so much they left their sockets and are mingling together? 

I croon for him. My eyes roll to the furthest planes of my head before it drops to the sheets again. He takes this as a sign to speed up his own efforts, taking in every moment to milk it out. He groans sharply when he has to stop, being a bit more careful then last to pull out to take care of himself. I’m moaning incoherently beneath him, and his name expels out.

Is she even capable of getting pregnant? Is Orfeo capable of impregnating someone? That’s never been addressed. I doubt it ever will be.

“Orfeo….”

That’s enough to send him over the edge, and his soft cries are sweet and charming to lull me to him.

"God damn it, Elysia."

I’m glad someone is being elegant about it.

The room is bright, and the morning sun fumes the room.

The bedframe hits the wall with every thrust, and Orfeo’s back glistens from his sensual workout to undo me again. I encourage it with nails scratching at his hip and wide thigh, and my eyes dance for him.

Damn. This guy deserves and award for going at her twice. Glad there’s nothing else important going on in the world for them to waste so much time fucking.

Begging for the release.

“Baise!” he grunts, and my neck cradled from the front. The air struggles in my throat, but I don’t stop moaning.

“Oh fuck—” I loudly expel, and my nails dig and crack into the wooden sill of the window. The sun’s heat threatens to burn me there as it bakes my entire back in its outstretched fingers. My hair is tugged, and I let it happen.

Too bad you’re not a vampire and you don’t turn into dust when the sun comes up.

A shadow overcomes my face, and I feel a rough, much stronger hand clutch my chin from in front.

“…Elysia…”

I open my eyes properly, the pleasured tears blurring the room. It slightly clears, and my chest is pierced with an icy stalactite that numbs my entire body.

“You like being fucked by my brother?”

I gasp inward, and I attempt to stop Orfeo. I reach, but my arm drops like dead weight. I take him all in, and I groan from sheer mortification.

Augustine’s dark eyes scan my face, “Next round is mine—”

My oh MY. 

 HEYO

My eyes shoot open, and I sternly sit up with a cold, sweaty back. I breathe out heavily, and regard the night sky to my right. I shakily swallow, and notice the shifting body of Orfeo’s naked, slumbering form on my left.

He’s fast asleep, his slanted lashes peaceful and spent. The back of his hand curls, and twitches in whatever dream he’s lost in. The blush on him had subsided, but it doesn’t make him less handsome.

That was quite the wakeup call, wasn’t it?

I’ll say. You just fantasized about having a threesome/double-teamed/gang banged. It’s all about being sexually free! Or just French ;)

I shift forward, and Orfeo’s once embracing arm around me slides off easily. I remember him brushing my back.

""It….It feels nice not lying here alone."

"

Before I fell asleep.

Now that was a dream.

That was a dream—I had a dream about that, with August—

You know, you could always have more than one.

It’s interesting seeing the author’s personal politics being brought into this, specifically with Les once saying she was exclusively a lesbian to now being pansexual. I guess the dreaded dick was too much to resist, eh?

To go back to Elysia, it’s fine for her to fantasize about a multitude of hot men running a train on her. It was a predictable end – all the haughty taughty feminists, especially Leftist ones, want to be dominated by hot dudes (preferably white).

I’m on my feet and quickly collect my garments and gear scattered along the room. I dress quietly after a quick cleanup, and the hidden blade is fastened on last.

It would be a real showstopper.

I slap my hands to my face.

Why deny yourself that?

I had to get Samson out of here as soon as I could.

Don’t be a fool.

Out of what, France? He just wasted all that time going there to meet you. Now you want to send him away because you had a sexual fantasy involving his twin and the other brother? Damn girl, you're demanding! 

I walk over to the table where I grab a spare piece of parchment. I write quickly, though my hand wobbles at trying to keep it legible:

Rest easy,

Elysia

And roll it up to tuck it in Orfeo’s palm. He squeezes it, and the corner of his mouth lightly lifts.

C’mon Fox.

And how is this exactly my fault?

Have some fun.

I sigh…but lean down and kiss his temple.

 

You would like that, wouldn’t you?

I leave the apartment through the window.

I was told there would be smut. I wasn't told it'd be this fucking terrible. 

The true morning wasn’t as blinding, and gradually seeps with an assortment of blues and gold. The summer is starting to heat the day quickly, and I use whatever early morning I can to work my way along the rooftops to get from one location to another. The usual sightings of grouping mobs being scattered by the police force of the city grew notably this day, and the pubs were almost filled to the brim with obambulating customers. I kept my focus on the more dire question of tracking down La Bande Noir, but it seemed every connection I could find didn’t have the slightest idea of where their next junction would be.

It’s just too hard to use ‘wandering crowds’, huh? I’m glad at least that we’re getting somewhere with some semblance of plot. I was beginning to think the whole ‘Assassin’ thing was left behind for the spitroast fantasy.

Remember the anime twins who tried to kill a random ballerina at the opera house? Me too.

I entered the next available café, and picked out something sensible to eat on the way. With purchase at hand, I exited the structure, though questioned the bundle of people stalking nearby it. None looked like they were planning to buy something….but were definitely looking at would it could provide. I moved myself along, though it didn’t take long to—

Be thankful you can actually buy something. Of course she wouldn’t get jumped – she’s a Magic Woman of Colour!

“Oh, hey Elysia!”

I look over to my right, seeing the hooded figure of Arno waving over to me. He rushed with enthusiasm, and arrived with a smile. He took notice of my freshly bought bread.

“Good morning to you, going to invite myself to a bite,” he plucked a top portion of it off, and helped himself.

I bid away the lecture in my head, “You’re welcome. Scoping out the area?”

I really have to give it to the author: she manages to infantilize any male character she personally doesn’t like. Even Bellec, who has always been the rough but fair headed man, is portrayed as an illogical, emotional racist. Arno has to have one of the worst characterizations. Every action of his is childish and he refuses to grow up. His mannerisms aren’t cute or relatable.

I would’ve liked to hear what the lecture was. Something to do about threats of bodily harm?

“Yes, but no luck,” he sighed after swallowing his piece. He slanted his posture, and threw a casual arm out with a huffy exhale, “My sister is far too good at what she does.”

“The more reason to find her,” I replied. My brows furrowed after a considerate bite, “Bellac hasn’t talked to you, has he?”

Arno’s brows lifted in question, “Not as of late. Should I be concerned?”

I lied, “No, merely asking is all. I didn’t see him at the headquarters this early dawn when I went to go pick around in the Library.”

Look, I get you want to be secretive around the whole Mirabeau thing. But Arno should be – and was – quite perceptive. He’s not picking up on any social cues and he doesn’t even suspect Clement or Stephen is up to something. He was told that Mirabeau is a traitor directly from Elysia. He doesn’t seem to think Bellec’s disappearance or silence is related to that, which doesn’t vibe to his canon self.

Lastly, and I’ll get tired of repeating this: stop referring to Elise as Arno’s sister. They’re not related.

“I’m sure he’s……busy, doing something,” the student reassured with a light shrug. “What brings you here?”

“I’m looking for my fair share of information.”

“Oh? Anything I can help with?” he leaned at this.

I finish my breakfast and gave him the short version, “I’m looking for La Bande Noir. Ever heard of them?”

You’re a Mentor. You should know everything but you’re too busy sucking dick, so of course you need someone else to do the hard work for you. Never ask a Woman of Colour to do hard work, you colonizer. 

He rubs his cleanly-shaved chin, “Here and there. I did end up doing a mission tied to them a while back and ordered by Bellac, but I failed it considering I couldn’t make it past their guard posts.”

“Wait, you’ve found them before?”

He nods curtly, “Yes.” His short answer hides something else. 

It’s something when Arno, who is an immensely gifted Assassin, couldn’t make it past a group of idiotic guards. He can’t climb, he can’t sneak past them, but Elysia here can ignore an entire alarm bell right in a hallway and she’s a better Assassin than he is. Wow.

I pursue, “…How? What connection did you use?”

He holds his words for a moment, and he internally battles with giving me his own short version, “…How essential is it that you need to track them down?”

“Honestly, it’s pretty much up there,” I confess.

Arno sighed, and his shoulders slumped of my determined goal, “……You owe me,” he wags of his finger pointedly at me.

Finally. Are we going to see de Sade? I was beginning to think he’d never show up. What will his characterization be?

The Frenchman leads quickly and efficiently toward a small district of Paris, and it’s one I don’t recognize. A lot of courtesans and bystanders decorate the block, and I make a doubletake when I realize they wave to Arno in acknowledgement, especially the disguised guard at the door of the apparent brothel.

Remember: she’s a Mentor. She has lived in Paris for ten years. She knows nothing about the backstreets. And she has never seen this many prostitutes. Incredible.

The entire first floor of the brothel is littered with different ornaments of furniture and goblets of various degrees of class. Some are empty, others are spilling from the thoughtless, euphoric hands that lazily clutch them. Women and men of various ethnicities are dressed in revealing dresses, slanted blouses and glittering jewelry; we catch glances that aren’t too shy to show their interest. The windows are all closed and covered in lavish, crimson curtains of silk and the sun colors the entire quarters in a smolder-red light. Blindingly erotic on purpose.

How many ethnicities are we referring to here? Again, France was nearly 100% white. You are not going to find the Algerians, Chechens, and Arabs there as you would in modern day France (and who are currently turning it into a tribal shit hole). Are we in a French brothel or a Turkish harem? 

"Back again so soon?" the man named De Sade sits casually back; his notebook propped upon his bent knee with the quill's feathered end stroking along his exposed neck. He eyed me carefully, his amusement enhancing at that, "And you've brought company."

My curiosity to interrogate Arno of this contact subsides, because I realize several people are looking our way. I can’t tell if anyone is armed, but I’d rather be courteous than shred any possible bridge of obtaining my goal quicker (and previous experience has showed me a brothel should’ve been the next place I should’ve investigated). Not to mention, this appeared like a contact Arno heavily relied on with the obvious, casual demeanor this man posed to the Dorian.

Nice lampshading. No, you never considered talking to prostitutes or ‘sex workers’ because I reckon they were entirely beneath you, just like your café employees you almost made into prostitutes. 

Not to mention, de Sade was well known in Paris. Elysia has been there for years and has never heard of him. In fact, she’s never heard of any prominent French politician or author because she frankly doesn’t give a damn about anyone there. It’s impossible for her in her position not to know. And yet, here we are. 

I laid my hand on my chest, and bow my head slightly, “Apologies. Surely, it’s never best to interrupt an entrepreneur hard at work.”

You don't even KNOW who he is, woman. 

"Ah—Au contraire, it's only a pleasure to be acquainted with a spectacle as yourself," his tongue thickens with the English words. He eyed me considerably before fixing his lupine gaze to Arno, "Now then, judging by your ever serious face, you have your need of me again, hmm?"

De Sade speaks English? You do know 'au contraire' is French, right? Right. 

He's only eyeing you because you're 'new', but he really wants Arno. Are we going to get a dog collar scene? Maybe some spanking with whips and chains? Dildos? You know it's coming. 

“I need a confirmed location of La Bande Noir, today preferably,” Arno answered. “It’s of the most importance.”

"And one you will surely not find yourself lucky to come across, without an insider such as myself. They change almost daily, twice if they're feeling bored; held for an auction with countless, desired artifacts that have been…unburdened away from their owners.”

Arno doesn’t wait, “You know where then.”

It's interesting how Arno has de Sade do all the hard work and literal dirty work for him, but had to go through ballet training to save a ballerina who was written out of the plot entirely. He didn't use de Sade for that even though that's his forte. Think of how much time, story space, and plot this could have saved (and solved!).  

De Sade grins, “Today’s auction is special, but you wouldn’t know that unless I told you…just now.”

Arno crossed his arms, “Go on.”

“The only way to get in is to possess a token of entry.”

“And that is?”

De Sade teases him further, “You know I don’t like handing out answers to you, my dear Arno.” The Dorian doesn’t let up, and at this De Sade rolls his eyes of his unchanging demeanor. “One of these." Using the tip of the quill, the brothel owner lifts an ebony ring of many from one of the numerous necklaces around his neck.

This reminds me: de Sade became the King of Beggars after the original was killed by Arno in-game. In this story, La Touche and his master were all killed by Shay and the anime squad. de Sade is already king by now. How'd he get into that position? He would have had to taken it, and Arno would have also been privy to what really happened.  

Plot hole, or convenient excuse? You tell me. 

"A black ring?" Arno asked.

"Your ticket," De Sade corrects, rubbing it between his dirtied fingers.

“Name your price,” I didn’t waste time, and Arno regards me with a quick look.

Because you aren't going to be the one paying it.

“Resolute, I see.” De Sade sits up at this, and hooks his leg over the other. His shoulders spread at the head of the couch, the quill slowly caressing the side of his face. “I did not catch your name.”

“It’s Elysia.”

“Ohh….sounds exotic. Did you ask my Arno here for my specific assistance?”

“I did, yes.”

I’ve always wondered who wore the pants, and now I know who owns the collar.

My tongue pressed to the back of my teeth, and De Sade giggles heartily my silence.

“Love is a very fickle thing. It grows and evolves to unprecedented volumes. Men are always after it, for various different reasons, I’m sure. I wouldn’t know, Love and I have a complex relationship. But, the one thing that is sure and absolute…the one that will never desert me….” he twirls the quill between his forefinger and thumb, and his tongue rides along the entire top of his teeth, “…is Lust.”

“…Sounds like a personal…observation you have made about yourself,” I admitted, because what else do I say to that.

Lady, there is no excuse for you not to know who this man is. You haven’t read a single book (which can be attributed solely to your creator) during your five years in France and you’re running off of a misguided and shallow intuition. The man who created the most scandalous book in France and ended up in the Bastille for it is a literal random to you.

His eyes glittered, “Women are not spared either.”

“Why…are you telling me this?”

“Simply a thought,” De Sade’s eyes never leave mine, and I fully understand why Arno’s posture is the way it was when he stepped in. How the hell did he manage to get involved with someone like this? “Thank you for enlightening me as a spectator.”

Yeah, the guy who got accused of whipping and abusing prostitutes in obscene ways is so bizarre to you. You need an ‘oof’ t-shirt.

“You want us to…steal it?” Arno raised a brow, mouth lightly parted in disbelief at the end.

"It would be ill-bode for the work to be sold to an ignorant, uncultured swine who can't tell from a Neo-classist from those rubbish, Romanticism pieces."

I inhale, and nod firmly, “Consider it done.”

De Sade’s brows waggled, “Lovely~ I’m indebted to you.” He tugged at his necklace, and walked down from the platform of his pedestal. With a fluid motion, one ring was removed from his necklace, and Arno was quick to give a judging look.

Of course, the Woman of Colour is tasked to steal a priceless painting, and given the ring that should have been meant for him. That's OK, though, he's going to get fucked heartily for it.

“I think you meant to unhook two, not one.”

De Sade drops the ring into my open palm, giving me a courteous smile before fluttering his lashes to the male Assassin, "Elysia has offered payment for her way in. You on the other hand, have not…yet."

"...You really make things harder than they should be," the Dorian’s tone dripped with annoyance.

De Sade chuckled mirthfully, “That’s what makes it fun.” 

Ah, nothing like subtle rape/BDSM/sexual abuse jokes. Sexual harassment is fun and wholesome when it’s against a guy you dislike!

“…Fun is subjective.”

De Sade twirls the second piece of jewelry, "I can think of...something you may be able to repay me with."

Arno retched a face, "Which is...?"

"You'll know when I need it." The Dorian crossed his arms, and I look between the two with disguised concern.

Before I can protest, “Alright, done,” he catches the flicked hoop flung to him.

You’re going to regret that. If we ever managed to see the debt paid, that is. I hope to God it won’t actually be written, but if it is? I’m definitely going to have a sourer taste in my mouth.

De Sade pirouettes in place, walking back to his couch, “Bring the painting to me, in one piece.” He lays back the same way when we had arrived, but I don’t want for him to dismiss us. We’re back outside, and Arno grumbles to himself as we’re trailing down the street.

“….What did he mean by that?” I dared to ask.

He keeps walking, “Whatever it is, please Pray for me.”

Lube, boy. You are going to need lots of it.

La Bièvre district isn’t for the faint of heart; it’s contagious of ruffians and ill-fated folks who were not as fortunate as others in the inner city. A lot of trash and debris was littered, with already broken, shielded windows dressing the apartment complexes. It had been a while since I stepped foot here, and the last time I recalled was with Beylier when he tried to set up a trust fund for the district itself. Freed slaves would often find themselves here to start a living, and Beylier (being the honorable and charitable man he was), set up safe houses for them to escape any kind of discrimination that hindered their futures. With Mirabeau’s parsimonious outlook and lack of money for the Creed, I could only hope Beylier was able to keep that project going.

Again. 4,000-5,0000 BLACKS IN ALL OF FRANCE. Slavery was already illegal in Paris, so any ‘slave’ already there was freed by virtue. It’s so nice that black people are getting more money and attention than the millions of whites in that country on the brink of starvation. Tribalism is a helluva thing.

“You know I’m not human, Arno. When you saw me the way I was.”

He doesn’t flinch at that, “…I know.”

“That still doesn’t bother you?”

He quirks his mouth, and then shakes his head, “No, it doesn’t.” I pause, and I don’t realize I’ve been silent for a good two minutes until Arno answers, “You don’t have to tell me everything…I was merely joking.”

Of course not. It’d be racist for him otherwise. The immortal who can huff magic dust and kick away swords is 100% human, as well as try to bring a dead man back to life with healing crystals. What ever could have led you on that thought pattern?

I connect the words after another moment, “I was born in a place, far away from here. I ran away, and I ended up in Tuscany, a long….long time ago.”

He nods to indicate he’s listening. I’ve only told this story a couple of times, but it felt like that’s the only story I’ve been telling everyone unfortunate enough to associate themselves with me.

‘I became a Mentor in only five years, and nearly murdered you when you called me out on my incompetence. But I’m the victim here, white boy.’ 

“I had a mentor there, and we trained for a year. I….I fell in love with him, or I think that’s what it was at the time. Something from my past came back, to deal a punishment I was sentenced for back home. I could’ve made the decision to start anew with my mentore….but I knew it wasn’t right. The people that were hurt, the misfortunes that followed me, it wouldn’t end unless I stood up for myself rather than let others do it for me. I did the right thing to make it all stop…and paid the price for it.“

Really? You stand up for yourself and don’t let others fix your mistakes? Too bad nothing in the text shows this to be true. You tanking the café is one case; you deliberately letting James die is another. Oh, and knowing that the Brotherhood is falling apart and you saying you don’t give a shit about it to Bellec and fucking your Mentor’s brother is icing on the cake. Elysia is a fuck-up, but her author doesn’t have the gall to remotely reflect on that.

I don’t think Arno ever took a breath during my exposition. In case he misheard.

“I don’t remember much when I arrived in Paris. Maybe after a year did I come to my senses, and sought my place here where Beylier helped to recruit me.”

You spent a year in Paris, wandering around as the token brown woman, learning nothing about the people you lived with, and conveniently got rescued by another token. Ho hum.

The heavy burden on my shoulders mildly lifted when I finally caught Arno up to speed, “I don’t know what it is I have with Orfeo but its something. However…the man I fell in love in a previous life is Orfeo’s elder brother. He….he doesn’t know what’s transpired between us.”

“…Ohh….”

‘Elder’? How’s Orfeo immortal, then? I doubt this will ever be answered because we still know next to nothing about ‘Corvus’.

“It turns out, Orfeo’s twin brother-“

“He has a twin? Identical twin??”

“Yes. His name is Samson, and he was in the café yesterday evening. His personal items were stolen by the Bande Noir and I gave my word I would get them back for him; I want to do my best to preserve my relationship with Orfeo, and I’m aware Samson knows of my previous relationship.”

Yeah but you spent the morning fucking his twin, and fantasizing about getting railed by the other. Priorities. Priorities.

Arno nods again, sitting forward and rubbing his lips in thought, “That….yes, that is a lot.”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“It’s…thank you for being honest with me, Elysia. It must’ve been hard to recount all that. I apologize if I pressed too much.”

“No…no, it’s fine,” I shook my head. “It’s nice to confide in someone. I…I was too late to fully open to James. He asked something similar on that day, but I just wasn’t ready to open up to him, or anyone, to be frank.”

Elysia never once cared about Arno. She only started caring when he was the one in a rough place. When he was drunk and stupid and she saw it as a way to ‘fix him’. She expected him to be prim and proper and yet she expects the world to listen to her woes while she refuses to change. I expect nothing less from a self insert bitch.

“Then….let’s do our best to make sure this plays out smoothly as possible for you.”

My mouth slants up to a smile, “That easily convinced?”

Arno smirked, and gave a nudge to my arm, “You know, you could always thank me. That’s always worth hearing. Oh-hey look!”

 You’re never getting thanked, Arno. You’re a Fucking White Male.

I inhaled, a fist pressing against my lips. After a few rapid blinks, “...While that may be, I highly, highly suggest you leave this to me and my mentee.”

Arno lifted his hand, giving it a small wave, “That’s me. I’m Arno. Arno Dorian. Pleased to meet you. You look...just like Orfeo-wow, sorry, highly inappropriate but...if you just...” Arno blocked out the length of Samson’s hair with a hand, and tilted his head to angle his view, “Yeah, would you look at that. Impressive.”

God I hate this fucking dialogue. It makes me think about choking on a chicken bone.

The one man I confided most of my secrets with; it had to be this one.

"....That is what twins are after all, Mr. Dorian." Samson regarded in a flat tone, "And I regretfully have to decline; only I'm able to identify what are my items. I could describe them to you but there could be tens of others that look exactly like it."

Arno nods with a small pout, “He’s got a point. And having more hands to aid us with....our pillage would be desirable.”

YOU HAVE FUCKING EAGLE VISION. YOU CAN TELL WHICH ONE IS THE REAL ONE.

“I’m also concerned with your safety,” I signal to Samson. “The auctioneers are prone to be aggressive, and I don’t want to endanger you in case something were to go amiss.”

"I am....adept enough to handle myself. Though a disguise to shield my face would be best to acquire before heading in."

"On such short notice? Pfht, good luck with that,” Arno waves his hand.

Samson smiles knowingly, "Oh, I can see something we can use right away."

Arno squints, and he notices Samson is looking right at him, “ “....What.”

Buck and cuck, Arno. Buck and cuck. You’re being filled in and paved over like a pothole.

“I think he means your coat, Arno,” I clarify.

“What? Why mine?””

I’m already taking off my ring (knowing it was best to remain on Samson’s good side) to hand it over to the identical immortal, “Because I don’t think red hair is going to camouflage well trying to sneak inside.”

I thought Orfeo’s hair was black. In any case, red hair wasn’t too uncommon during this time period. Why didn’t Samson bring a hat or his own disguise beforehand? Or is this just another attempt to make Arno look bad? I’m going with the latter.

“...But you’re so tall,” Arno groaned with a slump of his shoulders, opening his arms out to demonstrate, and then looking up and down Samson. “...You’re going to stretch this.”

"....Do you have any other ideas then?"

“....You can wear it like a scarf, with the hood on,” Arno suggested. He unfastened the buttons, and lent it over to bare his slender form. Samson worked the cloak around his lean neck, and tucked in his long hair into the hood. With the help of his long, dark coat, it was convincing enough.

I like this implication that Arno is a manlet. Orfeo was never described as being a hulking brute, but someone of above average height. Arno is actually quite tall, because his father was nearly Shay’s height and height tends to be genetic. He may not be as large as Connor but there’s no reason for this stupid charade. People would already notice Samson’s large form over Arno’s. The red hair is the least of your concern.

“Be close to Samson, then; last thing I want is to have one of the bandits recognize him inside.”

"And how will you manage?" I’m taken aback by the twin’s polite concern, but give a reassuring nod.

“I have ways. You should have a little faith in me,” I nudged his arm lightly. “.....Also keep an eye on the Dorian, I would appreciate it.”

If you’re well over six feet and built like a linebacker, no amount of clothes is going to hide that. You will stand out. And Arno has Eagle Vision, that ability you so conveniently forgot?

“Hey-“

“He has a tendency of getting himself into trouble on impulse.”

“....I bet I got it from you-“

“Absolutely not.”

He doesn’t deprive people of food or kill them for pleasure, unlike you. He’s been under your tutelage for two years; this kind of feedback should make you look worse, not better.

"I’ll keep that in mind." Samson remarked and fixed the hood one last time, “We'll meet you inside then. And, thank you again.”

I give another approving nod, and exhale lightly with a small smile, “Sure thing.” The two situate themselves in the line, and I move myself away, hatching a plan to bypass a blind spot of one of the snipers from above.

The sooner Samson left, the better for all of us, I’m sure.

So...will he fuck Arno? I’m gonna toss in a few dollars.

Arno certainly didn’t plan this kind of day, but he wasn’t going to complain about it either. As Elysia made herself scarce from sight, that left an exposed Arno to readjust some of his belts and hidden weapons, opting to hide most of them within the confinements of his boots and inside his hidden pockets. Once convinced did he well enough did he and Samson make their move.

Because a giant dude with red hair bringing his own clothes is too pleb. He needs clothes from a man he knows is smaller than him. Fit like a (tight) glove.

They stood quietly for a moment, because needless to say Arno wasn’t sure what to make of Samson yet (considering Elysia herself didn’t have the faintest clue either). It was a little jarring to see the identical resemblance, especially when Samson didn’t roll his eyes or make a snarky remark every chance possible. Even now he patiently stood beside Arno, and didn’t pay mind to being accompanied by him (Orfeo would’ve already made some sort of complaint regarding that).

Funny how all these ‘original’ characters have the character traits he would normally have. He has none of his sass or smarts and is routinely outshone (I use that word lightly) by other characters. It’s overall bad development. But everything has a reason, and that reason will likely be revealed in another 100,000 words.

"Perhaps, I would have offered to scrape something together for Elysia but, well, wouldn't want to put doubt in her skill."

“Ah right. Well, it sounds like you know a bit about her.”

“Yes, my eldest brother had been the one acquainted with her first. He’s told me fascinating stories of their time together, though I hardly believed some of it could have really been possible.”

Arno tilted his head at this, “Huh. You don’t say. I mean, I believe you.”

Of course! We couldn’t have anyone bad talking the Magic Woman of Colour, now could we? Everyone needs to praise and love her and admire her skill – even at the cost of other people’s lives – but hey! Magic!

“Then you can imagine my surprise to see she’s real.” Samson smiles, “You’re her student, are you not?”

“Yes I am, one of a few.”

"Then you must have some interesting stories about her too.”

Arno opened his mouth, closed it momentarily before answering, “I…suppose so. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“That’s fair.”

Ah, guess we all forgot how she threatened to kill you in front of her employees that she nearly impoverished when you told her she was running the café into the ground. Or shoved you into a Church where you nearly got shot with your fellow recruits. Or forced you to wear a leotard and attend ballet classes for a foiled Assassination plot that could have been avoided if you stole a single letter and asked questions.

Just Assassin Things.

“I can only imagine the struggle.” Samson hums contemplatively, “If I might ask, did you always know you were of an Assassin heritage?”

“Hmm? Oh. Ahem,” Arno waves briefly, “No, apparently my father was, but he never told me. He…passed away when I was a young child.”

"That's a coincidence then that it’s found its way to you again."

Arno takes a moment, to try to read through Samson’s words and decode them. But, nothing sounds forced. He sounds polite about everything and is patient with every question Arno proposed to him.

Should Elysia even be worried about Samson?

If you have to ask, there’s your answer. If you are pleasantly surprised that someone is patient with you when you’re asking questions, you have been surrounded by gaslighters and abusers your entire life. Sorry, but Elysia is not someone you should be looking up to.

“When he passed, my step-father took me in, who was the Templar Headmaster. Again, I didn’t know, maybe it was bound to find its way to me without my say so.”

"Maybe, but it seems fortune finds you in good company now with Elysia; be sure not to close up from your support group should things become hard."

….Maybe Elysia picked the wrong brother to be with.

Nah, I think he’s enjoyed enough ‘support’ from her already. She’s too busy fucking the baker when the Brotherhood is falling apart, and is happy to put a dog collar on Arno to drag him around.

He’d be better off with Alcoholics Anonymous.

"It’s well-guarded after all." Samson tugs the hood further down, "There's two or three snipers on the roof should...something occur. Best keep ourselves discreet until Elysia returns."

“You caught that? Heh, a reminder I shouldn’t underestimate you.”

"You shouldn't...that'd be your last mistake."

Just imagine if Arno used his Eagle Vision. Wouldn’t it be grand to see where his targets are and associate who’s evil and who isn’t? Man, that’d be something.

Arno still doesn’t see Elysia, but isn’t concerned, “Does that mean you can fight? I mean, you have some sort of training?”

"Ha, oh yes...I have many years of experience on the field. You're lucky this is the furthest extent of discourse you might see in your life time; war is a whole other level."

And that military training didn’t lead you to bring your own supplies and/or clothing? Ho hum. You must’ve just spend your days plugging cannons. Both sets of them.

A movement shifts behind, and Arno turns to catch Elysia sliding into view, her hand straightening down her vest and tucking a red strand inside her hood.

“Welcome to the party,” Arno grins. “Have any trouble?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle. And I take it you behaved?”

He’s not a dog. Stop treating him as one.

Arno scoffed with a hand pressed to his lean chest, “Of course I have. I’ve been keeping Samson company and saving him from boredom.”

She quirks a hidden smile, “Is that true?”

"Arno has riveting tales to offer." Samson inclines to agree, "Though he does like to ask a lot of questions."

“That is something he likes to do.”

“I like to know people. It’s part of my job, and charm,” Arno retorts. “Samson appreciated it, I’m sure.”

Yes, my dear, that IS part of being an Assassin. So glad you just hate people who ask questions. God forbid they call you out on your bullshit and make you uncomfortable.

Samson makes a chortle sound, turning enough away that neither of them can see his face. He clears his throat, adjusting his stance steadily, "Seems the auction is to begin soon, I see movement up ahead."

“Then we should pay close attention,” Elysia advises.

Wouldn’t it be great if one of you had a special gift to know where targets are and who enemies are? Just a note.

Arno doesn’t argue, and faces ahead to see several of the brutes spreading out to cover their designated posts. One single man is on the platform, with an assortment of treasures and casual belongings set behind him. The Dorian readies himself, knowing it would all go according to plan with Elysia here with him.

“Welcome to the auction, gents. Let us begin!”

And then we have another 10,000-14,000 word chapter where absolutely nothing is solved! 

OK, I felt the need to share the screen cap I took of the author's note for this chapter. 

Real talk. People are not reviewing your story simply because it is garbage. Pure, unfiltered shit that stinks up the air in the heat of summer. It is that bad. You have about a dozen people following this story and they don’t comment because they’re too polite to offer a negative comment. The way the AO3 community works is that it tends to be over supportive; even if you give constructive criticism or call out how stupid a story is, YOU are viewed as the bully and aggressor. Even if you said no nasty words and directed your criticism at the story alone, people hate seeing it. It reflects the growing infantilization of young adults and how unwilling they are to hear an opposing thought.

As for Elysia’s sexuality, I honestly don’t give a damn. I don’t care if she was adopted by a nearly all-female species whose sexuality is open and where you can fuck whomever you please. She lives in an era where homosexuality was decriminalized for private affairs only and has openly gay friends flirt with each other in cafes. She feels shame about wanting to sleep with twins, which really feeds into her virgin mentality; which, by the way, begs the question: she lived among an all female tribe (males are rare among the Gerudo) and yet not a single one taught her about her body or what to expect during sex. Not one taught her how to masturbate or feel sexual.

The quote about her ‘hiding in the shadows’ means nothing. She just fits the cliché of the nasty, stuck up character who lets loose when a guy with a big dick bones her. I wish it didn’t end up this way, but honestly? I probably should have expected it. It’s embarrassing to have a grown woman act this ignorant on sex.

The author has also gone from being a lesbian to being pansexual. The woman who bragged about snagging hot girlfriends and making straight white men jealous now realized she likes the dick, too. It’s fitting, and those desires really come out in her work.

When the author said there would be smut in this story, I thought there’d be something better than the teenage era stuff she posted back in 2014. I was wrong. Even the worst plots in this fandom still have better written sex scenes than whatever Les has produced. She isn’t gunning this solo, so her two co-authors also have a share in the blame. Not a single person read this and decided that it has gone on for too long or reads like shabby porn a teenage boy would post on WattPad. There’s an almost comical view of women Les has produced and it doesn’t remotely come off as empowering or feminist.

I didn’t miss she focus on the sex scenes and how they take away from everything else. There are objectively worse things going on in this story line and the author chooses to focus on Elysia’s sexuality. The problem is, she’s just not that strong of a character where her sexuality matters or impacts anything. She has forms no bonds, no friendships, and has no erotic connection to those she is intimate with. She is, physically, mentally and spiritually, a piece of cardboard.

If you’re wondering why I am being so harsh towards a fictional character, it’s only because the author is selling her so hard and is trying to rewrite an entire game around her.

We are not even close to approaching a climax – well, aside from Elysia’s, that is – and these chapters are too long for the content they produce. Chapters this length should be chocked full of detail and development, yet we were just introduced to de Sade and, predictably, Elysia has no idea who he is. Arno’s relationship with him will naturally be the slave and dog collar dynamic, with him getting that asshole ripped and torn. As crude as it may sound, that is how it’s going to be.

The author has introduced multiple plot lines she has discarded or otherwise forgotten about. The ballet plot, the James subplot, the anime villain plot, the Shay plot, and the rest are all in the background or show up with new, random characters as a means of telling the audience they’re important.

243,000 words, and we still aren’t going anywhere. Please note – we are not even halfway through. We have yet another year of this. It’s going to be a long, arduous journey.