Um, I hope this fits with what you wanted, OP. Writer!Anon has not written smex in years, and het smex in even longer so hopefully it's okay?
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Haytham sighs and starts up the stairs to his room. It had been an incredibly long week. He had accomplish everything he’d set out to do, but there was still so much more to be done. At the rate he was going though, he was probably going to make some kind of mistake and get himself killed. He needed sleep and time away from his duties. Just a day or two (or three) to refresh himself.
Maybe run off to see Ziio.
Yes, that sounded fantastic. A few days in the wilderness with his beautiful Ziio.
He reaches his room, unlocks the door and steps inside. The door shuts behind him and he pauses, feels the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. He wasn’t alone.
Unfortunately, he was mostly unarmed—except for his lone hidden blade. Hopefully it would be enough. It would have to be. He flexes his wrist and the blade extends with a quiet woosh. He’s just about to put out the oil lamp and let his Eagle Vision take over when there is a quiet, throaty, feminine chuckle from behind the bed.
Haytham lets out the breath he’d been holding and his hidden blade retracts back into its sheath. “Ziio. Ziio, I could have killed you—what were you thinking?”
Ziio raises from her crouch and makes her way over to him. “I was thinking I wanted to surprise you.” She presses her palms to his chest and gives him a gentle but firm shove backwards.
Haytham grunts quietly as his back collides with the door, then squirms when her hands, cool from being outside, untuck his shirt and slip under it, under the waistband of his breeches to press flat against his hips. She smells like wind. Fresh air.
“I’m surprised,” he says honestly, sincerely. “Surprised, and glad. I was thinking about trekking out to your village in the next day or two to see you.”
Ziio smirks and steps even closer to him, tips her face up to his. Haytham starts to lean down to meet her, but she changes course and bites at the juncture of his jaw and neck. “I missed you,” she whispers against his chin, breath hot and damp.
Haytham’s cock, who had twitched in interest the second Ziio had shoved him up against the door, swells into hardness almost instantly. “Zii—“
She doesn’t give him a chance to respond, pressing closer and possessively sealing her lips over his. And then her hands, those petite hands that are so much stronger than they look, are tangling in the edges of his coat, yanking him away from the door and forcing him towards the bed.
When the back of Haytham’s knees hit the bottom of the bed, he reaches for her, but she smacks his hands away and captures his lips again in a series of rough, biting kisses. Her hands are everywhere at once, disrobing him; on his chest, sliding his damp coat and cloak from his shoulders; at his wrist, carefully removing the hidden blade, at his waist, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his breeches; on his head, flicking off his hat. She breaks their kiss to grab the bottom of his white shirt and haul it over his head, then pushes him down onto the bed with more force than Haytham thought her capable.
His boots and breeches come off next, leaving him completely bare and her completely *not* which is more exciting than Haytham thought it would be. He reaches for his cock the same time Ziio reaches for the laces on her soft doeskin pants, but his hands are smacked away again.
“Don’t touch that,” she breathes. “It’s mine.”
His cock gives an excited, traitorous, twitch of agreement, so Haytham obediently folds his hands over his stomach and waits for her to join him. It doesn’t take her long. She only bothers with her shoes and pants before climbing up the bed over him and straddling his hips, pointedly ignoring his hardness for now.
Haytham’s hands slip under the bottom of her long shirt and start to lift it, wanting nothing more to be rid of it, when she pulls away.
“No,” she whispers.
‘No’ is not a response Haytham is used to hearing when reaching to undress a beautiful, willing woman in his bed. ‘Yes,’ ‘Oh God,’ ‘Please,’ and incoherent moaning are usually all typical reactions, but never ‘no.’
Ziio is different. So different from the pale, delicate, frilly courtesans in London, or even the not-so-delicate, busty bar maidens in Boston and New York. She has a natural, earthy beauty and an intelligent mind to match it. She chuckles low in her throat at his sarcasm and just rolls her eyes in irritation at his attempts to woo her. She doesn’t put up with him when she thinks he’s being difficult or moronic, even going so far as to call him out on it.
Haytham finds it all infinitely attractive.
So when she utters a quiet but demanding ‘no,’ Haytham complies and is not offended. He *has* undressed her before, after all. Sometimes. When they weren’t overly desperate. It’s not as if she doesn’t want his attentions—she wouldn’t have outsmarted and snuck past fourteen guards or scaled the three-story inn to see him if she didn’t—so he goes along with it and lets his hands linger at her hips.
Ziio takes his hands, intertwines their fingers, and brings them up over his head, through the slats of the headboard. “If you can’t make your hands behave,” she whispers, licking a hot trail up his cheek, jaw to temple, “Then I’ll just have to find a way to make them behave.”
She attacks his mouth, kissing him roughly, licking deeply, nipping gently though still hard enough to sting. Haytham groans into the kiss, responds as best he can, pinned to the bed as he is. When she pulls away, he chases her mouth, whimpers when she pulls just out of reach and lets out a hot, damp breath against his chin.
“Infuriating little tease,” Haytham rasps out.
Ziio smirks and sits up slowly, scratching the soft undersides of his arms from wrists to armpits with her blunt nails as she goes.
And to hell with keeping his hands to himself—or not—he wanted to touch her damnit! So he brings his hands down with every intention of ripping her shirt off like some kind of barbarian, rolling her onto her back, and taking her until she screams his name.
Or, he tries to bring his hands down.
He frowns and looks up at his hands, only to find them bound to the rungs on the head board—by his own belt, no less!
When the fuck had she managed that?
He makes an angry, strangled noise and glares up at her.
Ziio ducks her head to lave her tongue over his right nipple. “I told you, didn’t I?”
She had. And he can hardly be angry when she devotes the next thirty minutes to finding and licking and kissing every single scar on his body from neck to knees. His cock is so hard and been left to itself for so long that it’s starting to ache. When she settles down onto him, he sighs in relief, flexes his hips up to settle himself in more deeply within her.
Ziio gives a sigh of her own and finally, *finally* grips the bottom edge of her shirt and lifts it off over her head. Her hands find her breasts, cupping and squeezing, making Haytham’s mouth water with want.
Ziio notices. Notices, and realizes what he wants, and reaches out with her right hand, strokes her fingers over his lips. When Haytham opens his mouth to lick at them, she presses them inside instead. “Suck them,” she orders.
Haytham’s hips lurch upward at the command, even as he complies.
Ziio starts up a rhythm of steady thrusts down onto him, and matches it with her fingers into his mouth. Before long her head falls back, breath ragged, hips stuttering, and Haytham feels her come around him, clenching tightly, rhythmically. He waits it out, expecting her to recover with a serene smile and untie him, to let him roll them over and press her into the mattress so he can give her seconds (and possibly thirds) before finding release for himself.
Instead, Ziio gives him another sly smirk and pulls off him entirely, moving back and spreading his legs so she can settle between them.
Oh.
Oh, she was going to use her mouth.
He hadn’t expected that, but it’s a welcome turn of events.
Haytham feels himself grin down at her, gives his hips what he hopes is an enticing wriggle.
Ziio rolls her eyes but gives him that throaty chuckle that he’s grown to love, that he’s learning to associate with Good Things, and half crawls over him to pick up a small earthen pot on his bedside table. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now that he has he wonders what it is and what it’s for.
Haytham is, at heart, a curious and accepting man when it comes to other peoples’ beliefs and practices, and he is secretly touched that this could possibly be some Mohawk ritual Ziio was willing to share with him, an outsider. He drops his head back on the bed and listens to her settle back between his legs and uncap the pot
Warm slick fingers suddenly brush against the underside of his balls, press between the cheeks of his ass, and carefully prod at his opening.
Haytham cries out involuntarily, jerks his hips up, tries to squirm away but is unable to get far with his hands bound above his head. “Fuck! Sweet Mother of God, woman, what are you—“
Ziio bites at the inside of one of his thighs in response. “You’ll like it. Trust me.” And with that, she slips her middle finger inside, up to the second knuckle.
It didn’t hurt, like he’d expected, but it felt… strange. Not unpleasant though, so he’d go along with it for now.
Not that he had a choice.
After a few minutes, Ziio adds her ring finger and pushes them in further, almost up to the last knuckle, and *strokes* inside him.
Haytham’s breath catches in the back of his throat. He clenches his hands into tight fists and feels his legs open just a little wider.
“Good?” Ziio asks, sounding smug.
Haytham ignores the question in favor of focusing on her fingers. She doesn’t thrust them in or out, instead just makes some kind of movement within him that has him seeing sparks behind his closed eyes. It’s more than good, it’s bloody fantastic, and it isn’t long before he’s almost incoherent with need and moving his hips to try and get more out of it.
“Please,” Haytham hears himself start to beg, “Please—I need—Please touch me.”
“I *am* touching you.”
“I need more than that—please just—“
“You need more?” Ziio asks, nipping a kiss over one hipbone.
“All right.” She slides her free hand from his thigh, up over his hip, across to his stomach where she presses down, holding him down as she eases a third finger into him.
The unexpected, half-pleasure, half-pain burn it brings makes Haytham’s thighs tremble. He curses, shouts, cries out Ziio’s name. His arms give an involuntary jerk at their bonds before he takes a deep breath and tries to relax into it.
Ziio pauses to let him adjust, fingers inside him motionless, fingers on his belly stroking soothingly, gently. After a few minutes, she pats his stomach, grabs up her little clay pot again, and drizzles more oil onto her other hand without even entirely pulling out of him. Then she starts to move again, and it is, again, equally too much and not enough.
“Ziio,” he begs, hips jerking up as she presses and flexes her fingers against that bundle of nerves within him. “Please…”
“I have you. Let it happen.” Her fingers curl slightly, and her gentle strokes turn to more of a circular press.
Haytham’s breaths are coming in quick, panting sobs. His cock weeps shiny, sticky trails on his stomach. He’s so close. “Ziio—“
“Shh,” she soothes. “Just let go.”
Haytham lets go, lets his back arch so hard it cracks, lets his ass clench so hard around Ziio’s fingers that it almost hurts, lets himself come so hard his vision goes white, then black, as he passes out.
FILL 1/2
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Haytham sighs and starts up the stairs to his room. It had been an incredibly long week. He had accomplish everything he’d set out to do, but there was still so much more to be done. At the rate he was going though, he was probably going to make some kind of mistake and get himself killed. He needed sleep and time away from his duties. Just a day or two (or three) to refresh himself.
Maybe run off to see Ziio.
Yes, that sounded fantastic. A few days in the wilderness with his beautiful Ziio.
He reaches his room, unlocks the door and steps inside. The door shuts behind him and he pauses, feels the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand on end. He wasn’t alone.
Unfortunately, he was mostly unarmed—except for his lone hidden blade. Hopefully it would be enough. It would have to be. He flexes his wrist and the blade extends with a quiet woosh. He’s just about to put out the oil lamp and let his Eagle Vision take over when there is a quiet, throaty, feminine chuckle from behind the bed.
Haytham lets out the breath he’d been holding and his hidden blade retracts back into its sheath. “Ziio. Ziio, I could have killed you—what were you thinking?”
Ziio raises from her crouch and makes her way over to him. “I was thinking I wanted to surprise you.” She presses her palms to his chest and gives him a gentle but firm shove backwards.
Haytham grunts quietly as his back collides with the door, then squirms when her hands, cool from being outside, untuck his shirt and slip under it, under the waistband of his breeches to press flat against his hips. She smells like wind. Fresh air.
“I’m surprised,” he says honestly, sincerely. “Surprised, and glad. I was thinking about trekking out to your village in the next day or two to see you.”
Ziio smirks and steps even closer to him, tips her face up to his. Haytham starts to lean down to meet her, but she changes course and bites at the juncture of his jaw and neck. “I missed you,” she whispers against his chin, breath hot and damp.
Haytham’s cock, who had twitched in interest the second Ziio had shoved him up against the door, swells into hardness almost instantly. “Zii—“
She doesn’t give him a chance to respond, pressing closer and possessively sealing her lips over his. And then her hands, those petite hands that are so much stronger than they look, are tangling in the edges of his coat, yanking him away from the door and forcing him towards the bed.
When the back of Haytham’s knees hit the bottom of the bed, he reaches for her, but she smacks his hands away and captures his lips again in a series of rough, biting kisses. Her hands are everywhere at once, disrobing him; on his chest, sliding his damp coat and cloak from his shoulders; at his wrist, carefully removing the hidden blade, at his waist, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his breeches; on his head, flicking off his hat. She breaks their kiss to grab the bottom of his white shirt and haul it over his head, then pushes him down onto the bed with more force than Haytham thought her capable.
His boots and breeches come off next, leaving him completely bare and her completely *not* which is more exciting than Haytham thought it would be. He reaches for his cock the same time Ziio reaches for the laces on her soft doeskin pants, but his hands are smacked away again.
“Don’t touch that,” she breathes. “It’s mine.”
His cock gives an excited, traitorous, twitch of agreement, so Haytham obediently folds his hands over his stomach and waits for her to join him. It doesn’t take her long. She only bothers with her shoes and pants before climbing up the bed over him and straddling his hips, pointedly ignoring his hardness for now.
Haytham’s hands slip under the bottom of her long shirt and start to lift it, wanting nothing more to be rid of it, when she pulls away.
“No,” she whispers.
‘No’ is not a response Haytham is used to hearing when reaching to undress a beautiful, willing woman in his bed. ‘Yes,’ ‘Oh God,’ ‘Please,’ and incoherent moaning are usually all typical reactions, but never ‘no.’
Ziio is different. So different from the pale, delicate, frilly courtesans in London, or even the not-so-delicate, busty bar maidens in Boston and New York. She has a natural, earthy beauty and an intelligent mind to match it. She chuckles low in her throat at his sarcasm and just rolls her eyes in irritation at his attempts to woo her. She doesn’t put up with him when she thinks he’s being difficult or moronic, even going so far as to call him out on it.
Haytham finds it all infinitely attractive.
So when she utters a quiet but demanding ‘no,’ Haytham complies and is not offended. He *has* undressed her before, after all. Sometimes. When they weren’t overly desperate. It’s not as if she doesn’t want his attentions—she wouldn’t have outsmarted and snuck past fourteen guards or scaled the three-story inn to see him if she didn’t—so he goes along with it and lets his hands linger at her hips.
Ziio takes his hands, intertwines their fingers, and brings them up over his head, through the slats of the headboard. “If you can’t make your hands behave,” she whispers, licking a hot trail up his cheek, jaw to temple, “Then I’ll just have to find a way to make them behave.”
She attacks his mouth, kissing him roughly, licking deeply, nipping gently though still hard enough to sting. Haytham groans into the kiss, responds as best he can, pinned to the bed as he is. When she pulls away, he chases her mouth, whimpers when she pulls just out of reach and lets out a hot, damp breath against his chin.
“Infuriating little tease,” Haytham rasps out.
Ziio smirks and sits up slowly, scratching the soft undersides of his arms from wrists to armpits with her blunt nails as she goes.
And to hell with keeping his hands to himself—or not—he wanted to touch her damnit! So he brings his hands down with every intention of ripping her shirt off like some kind of barbarian, rolling her onto her back, and taking her until she screams his name.
Or, he tries to bring his hands down.
He frowns and looks up at his hands, only to find them bound to the rungs on the head board—by his own belt, no less!
When the fuck had she managed that?
He makes an angry, strangled noise and glares up at her.
Ziio ducks her head to lave her tongue over his right nipple. “I told you, didn’t I?”
She had. And he can hardly be angry when she devotes the next thirty minutes to finding and licking and kissing every single scar on his body from neck to knees. His cock is so hard and been left to itself for so long that it’s starting to ache. When she settles down onto him, he sighs in relief, flexes his hips up to settle himself in more deeply within her.
Ziio gives a sigh of her own and finally, *finally* grips the bottom edge of her shirt and lifts it off over her head. Her hands find her breasts, cupping and squeezing, making Haytham’s mouth water with want.
Ziio notices. Notices, and realizes what he wants, and reaches out with her right hand, strokes her fingers over his lips. When Haytham opens his mouth to lick at them, she presses them inside instead. “Suck them,” she orders.
Haytham’s hips lurch upward at the command, even as he complies.
Ziio starts up a rhythm of steady thrusts down onto him, and matches it with her fingers into his mouth. Before long her head falls back, breath ragged, hips stuttering, and Haytham feels her come around him, clenching tightly, rhythmically. He waits it out, expecting her to recover with a serene smile and untie him, to let him roll them over and press her into the mattress so he can give her seconds (and possibly thirds) before finding release for himself.
Instead, Ziio gives him another sly smirk and pulls off him entirely, moving back and spreading his legs so she can settle between them.
Oh.
Oh, she was going to use her mouth.
He hadn’t expected that, but it’s a welcome turn of events.
Haytham feels himself grin down at her, gives his hips what he hopes is an enticing wriggle.
Ziio rolls her eyes but gives him that throaty chuckle that he’s grown to love, that he’s learning to associate with Good Things, and half crawls over him to pick up a small earthen pot on his bedside table. He hadn’t noticed it earlier, but now that he has he wonders what it is and what it’s for.
Haytham is, at heart, a curious and accepting man when it comes to other peoples’ beliefs and practices, and he is secretly touched that this could possibly be some Mohawk ritual Ziio was willing to share with him, an outsider. He drops his head back on the bed and listens to her settle back between his legs and uncap the pot
Warm slick fingers suddenly brush against the underside of his balls, press between the cheeks of his ass, and carefully prod at his opening.
Haytham cries out involuntarily, jerks his hips up, tries to squirm away but is unable to get far with his hands bound above his head. “Fuck! Sweet Mother of God, woman, what are you—“
Ziio bites at the inside of one of his thighs in response. “You’ll like it. Trust me.” And with that, she slips her middle finger inside, up to the second knuckle.
It didn’t hurt, like he’d expected, but it felt… strange. Not unpleasant though, so he’d go along with it for now.
Not that he had a choice.
After a few minutes, Ziio adds her ring finger and pushes them in further, almost up to the last knuckle, and *strokes* inside him.
Haytham’s breath catches in the back of his throat. He clenches his hands into tight fists and feels his legs open just a little wider.
“Good?” Ziio asks, sounding smug.
Haytham ignores the question in favor of focusing on her fingers. She doesn’t thrust them in or out, instead just makes some kind of movement within him that has him seeing sparks behind his closed eyes. It’s more than good, it’s bloody fantastic, and it isn’t long before he’s almost incoherent with need and moving his hips to try and get more out of it.
“Please,” Haytham hears himself start to beg, “Please—I need—Please touch me.”
“I *am* touching you.”
“I need more than that—please just—“
“You need more?” Ziio asks, nipping a kiss over one hipbone.
“Yes,” Haytham whimpers. “Yes, fuck yes, please…!”
“All right.” She slides her free hand from his thigh, up over his hip, across to his stomach where she presses down, holding him down as she eases a third finger into him.
The unexpected, half-pleasure, half-pain burn it brings makes Haytham’s thighs tremble. He curses, shouts, cries out Ziio’s name. His arms give an involuntary jerk at their bonds before he takes a deep breath and tries to relax into it.
Ziio pauses to let him adjust, fingers inside him motionless, fingers on his belly stroking soothingly, gently. After a few minutes, she pats his stomach, grabs up her little clay pot again, and drizzles more oil onto her other hand without even entirely pulling out of him. Then she starts to move again, and it is, again, equally too much and not enough.
“Ziio,” he begs, hips jerking up as she presses and flexes her fingers against that bundle of nerves within him. “Please…”
“I have you. Let it happen.” Her fingers curl slightly, and her gentle strokes turn to more of a circular press.
Haytham’s breaths are coming in quick, panting sobs. His cock weeps shiny, sticky trails on his stomach. He’s so close. “Ziio—“
“Shh,” she soothes. “Just let go.”
Haytham lets go, lets his back arch so hard it cracks, lets his ass clench so hard around Ziio’s fingers that it almost hurts, lets himself come so hard his vision goes white, then black, as he passes out.