Assassin's Creed Drabbles

↳ admiration

 brasidas has never mixed pleasure and business, but there's a time and a place for everything. rated 18+ for smut (M/F/M threesome)

RAYS OF GOLDEN light filter through the sheer curtains drawn around the rooftop peristyle. A gentle awakening after the early mornings and long days of reaping the summer harvest. Turning over, you glimpse your husband —the linen sheet tangled around his waist and legs, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, his lips parted, still snoring softly. It's a rare thing for you to wake before him, but you take a moment to study the sunspots on his cheeks and shoulders and the scars from the agoge and battle.

Brasidas of Sparta wakes with a soft groan, instinctually seeking you out. His arms twine around your waist, pulling you to him on the bed of linens and pillows. You smile against his neck, feeling the tickle of his dark beard on your temple as he inhales the rose scent lingering in your hair.

"Agapi mou," he breathes, voice still tinged with sleep and rougher than normal. His fingers soothe along your spine, and the way he holds you reignites a fire from the previous evening in its wake.

There's little more you want than to be able to stay in his embrace all day, relaxing, talking of childhood, and nothing of importance. But there are chores and errands to be done, and both you and Brasidas know this —having set aside extra stores of grain and olives to be donated and traded. You place a hand on the center of his chest, fingers grazing over the smattering of hair there as you distance yourself, resisting his tantalizing caresses while your will is still strong enough. "Not now, husband," you chide. "We must go to market."

He curls his fingers around your wrist and pulls your hand up to his lips, placing a chaste kiss upon your knuckles with a languid smile. "Forgive me, wife," Brasidas muses before sitting up, stretching out his arms with a low groan —joints popping and back cracking. You echo his movements, knowing neither of you could set aside duty and errands any longer.

BRASIDAS REMOVES THE last woven basket of olives from the cart, passing them to a merchant in exchange for two amphoras of sweet wine and the promise of a chous of pressed and infused olive oil. The Thracian makes a note in his ledger, then passes you a smooth stone, no larger than a coin, with the sigil of his family carved into it —a token to be traded when he returned to Sparta with fresh oils.

Dianthe waves you over, offering a small basket of figs and apricots in exchange for you and Brasidas helping her with her youngest son —a brazen boy of four, too young for the agoge but not too young to begin to learn— since his father's passing. Few boys could say they'd been trained by the great general. Watching the two had only made you long for the day when the gods would grant you a son or daughter.

He's quick to take the basket from you, adding it to the cart next to a newly woven blanket —a gift from a helot you had helped evade the autumnal slaughter. "Alexios!" Brasidas calls, spotting a man walking through the agora wearing the armor of a lowly mercenary. The misthios waves back and heads in your and your husband's direction. The two clasp forearms in greeting, smiling. "It is good to see you, my friend."

Alexios's attention shifts to you, standing vigilant at Brasidas's side —curiously observing him with bright and kindly eyes. His smile is wide and charming and crinkles the corners of his tawny-gold eyes when he realizes who you must be. "You never mentioned a wife," the misthios accuses.

"I do my best not to mix pleasure with battle or politics," Brasidas notes, his hand settling on the curve of your back. It is a partial truth; he refrains from speaking of his personal life to the Spartan regiments. Though, he often seeks your advice in matters of both war and policy now, making you his closest and most trusted confidant in the whole of the Greek world.