asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
Part 2
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Part 4
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So, plot happens. And kittens happen, too. Because everything is better with kittens.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stroked the shivering kitten softly, both to warm it a little and to comfort it. It mewled weakly, and shivered again. He had to get it out of the rain.

He picked it up, gently as he could, and cradled it in his hands, trying to use his body and hat to shield it as much as he could from the storm.

"Where are you, Connor?" Haytham's voice called, from the entrance to the warehouse. "We need to get moving."

He let his fingers scratch lightly at the kitten's ears, and jogged around the corner to where his father was waiting, impatient as always.

"Finally! Where were you, child?" Haytham snapped, turning to face him at the sound of Ratonhnhaké:ton's footsteps. His brow furrowed when he caught sight of the wet bundle of fur clutched in his son's hands. "And what the devil is that?"

"It is a kitten, father," he replied. "I found it just around the corner."

"Put it back," his father said. "We have things to do, remember? Biddle can't wait for us all day."

"I cannot just leave it in the storm. It will die."

Haytham rolled his eyes, plainly irritated.

"Then put it in your pocket and come along."

Ratonhnhaké:ton gritted his teeth, fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the poor kitten in it. It mewled again, and he gave it an affectionate stroke. He walked just behind Haytham, and began the arduous task of moving all the various items he had on his person around, so he could put the tiny kitten in a large waistcoat pocket. He lined the pocket with a pair of cotton gloves as an afterthought. The kitten needed something to make it more comfortable, more insulation from the cold.

"Hurry up!" Haytham snapped, and Ratohnhaké:ton sighed as he stowed the kitten away, as carefully as he could. It gave his fingers a soft nudge with its cold nose, and he hoped that was a thank you.

…

Whatever it was that Haytham had wanted from Biddle, the captain was not being very helpful. Ratonhnhaké:ton sat on a crate on the wooden pier the Providence was docked at. He stroked the pocket containing the kitten lightly, and was rewarded by a tiny noise that sounded a little like a purr.

He replaced the damp handkerchief the kitten was wrapped in with a dry one, and it nudged his fingers again as he pulled his hand away. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, and shivered. His father was certainly taking a long time with Biddle.

"Captain Connor?" a voice cried, sounding utterly shocked. Ratonhnhaké:ton turned to look at the man who'd shouted. Surely he could not be talking to him?

A scruffy-looking sailor was walking toward him, apparently having just seen a ghost.

"Captain, you're all right!"

"Captain?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. The man was clearly mistaken and somewhat tipsy, but he ought to be polite. "Do I know you, sir?"

"It's Smithy! Simon Smithy, from the Aquila. I'm on leave, see, Faulkner saw to that. We're havin' a terrible time without you, sir! We thought you was dead or worse, sir. Everybody's dead worried 'bout you, sir. When they get back from the Caribbean, they'll be happy to see you alive an' well--"

"I do not know what you are talking about," Ratonhnhaké:ton said, feeling bad about interrupting the man.

As much as he would like to believe Smithy's story, it would be wrong to lead the man on when clearly there was a case of mistaken identities. Of course, there was a small possibility that he wasn't mistaken, but surely his father would have mentioned offhand if he really was captain of a ship. They wouldn't need to speak with Biddle if that was the case.

The man looked stunned.

"But… you're the captain. Best in the seven seas. How can…?"

"I think you have mistaken me for another. Even if I was your captain, I doubt I would do much good for your ship. I have lost a rather large chunk of my memory."

"Captain, sailin' a ship's like ridin' a horse. You never forget how to do it," Smithy insisted, looking quite agitated now. Ratonhnhaké:ton held his hands up in a pacifying gesture.

There was a faint noise, like men arguing, from somewhere behind him. Clearly Haytham's talk with Biddle was turning sour. It would be best to finish this conversation as soon as possible, then.

"Sir, you are drunk. When you are sober, come and find me again. If you still believe I am your captain, then I will quite happily come and see your crew when they get back from the Caribbean. Until then, I have much business to attend to."

Smithy looked crestfallen, but after a few moments of deep thought, nodded.

"Where will you be?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton gave him the address of Haytham's house, and bade the man farewell. He staggered off, and mere moments later, Haytham was storming off the ship, clearly furious.

"How did it go?" Ratonhnhaké:ton asked. His father scowled, and kept walking, grabbing his arm and towing him along.

"Disastrously. Who was that?"

"The sailor?" Ratonhnhaké:ton took his father's hand from his arm as gently as he could. He did not wish to aggravate Haytham further. "A case of mistaken identity. He thought I was the captain of his ship."

He might have imagined it, but Haytham might have tensed a little, and his scowl grew a little more pronounced.

"I hope you sent him on his way."

"I did. I told him to find me when he was sober."

"What? That isn't 'sending him on his way', boy, that's 'wasting precious time'!" Haytham snapped, irate.

"Whose time? Mine? I have all the time in the world, father. What did you need to speak with Biddle about, anyway?"

"Don't you dare change the subject," Haytham snarled. "If you must know, I needed him to take the Providence to the southernmost Colonies. Stupid bastard's only gone and broken his arm."

"So he cannot sail the ship?"

"No, he can't."

"That is terrible." Ratonhnhaké:ton paused a moment, before deciding to try to lighten Haytham's mood with a joke. "Perhaps I ought to sail it instead."

"What?" Haytham looked horrified at the prospect. "That's a terrible idea!"

"Well, I have no idea if I can sail or not. I might be really good at it."

"It isn't happening, and that's final." Haytham's voice was strained, angry, even.

Ratonhnhaké:ton is silent a moment, shocked really, and clears his throat.

"I was joking, father."

Haytham rubs his eyes with his hand.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I'm tired. Biddle put me in a bad mood. I never get to see you or spend time with you. I don't want you to go swanning off to New Orleans and getting in trouble, especially not in your current state."

"I understand," Ratonhnhaké:ton says. "Are we still going to the hospital?"

Haytham shakes his head.

"Tomorrow. I don't want to deal with that money-grabbing fopdoodle today."

"I could go in your stead," Ratonhnhaké:ton offers.

"You don't even know what I need to speak with him about. Don't worry about it. It's nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Ratonhnhaké:ton nodded, and gave the pocketed kitten a stroke, hoping his cloak wouldn't soak through before they got back to the house.

He hoped that his father would stop being so snappish and secretive soon. It made it rather difficult to trust him.

just wanted to let everyone know that I will have the next part up in the next couple days... real life has been a bit hectic with spring semester, work & family :). Just want to let everyone know I am still here, just havent had much free time :). I hope to have the next part finished by friday, it is half done. Thx!

This may be a bit unusual but bear with me, okay? This anon's kink is kissing. Yup, just that: kissing. So this anon would like to see two character of writenon's choice enjoying a good make out session consisting of lazily kissing each other.

Do they enjoy it for what it is or do they prefer making it enjoyable to their partner? Are they standing up or lying on the ground? Spider-man style? Do they get turned on just by the kiss? First experience? Maybe one of them has more experience and teaches the other the way they like it? Go wild, anon. The more unusual it is, the better.

This anon is looking for something slow-paced/fun/light-hearted and descriptive of the kiss itself, so porn and story are entirely optional (but very welcome nonetheless). Make me smile? :)

Preferred pairings are AltMal, Ezio/anyone (like, seriously, I'm totally okay with literally anyone), DesLucy, DesClay and ConHayth, but I'm not picky so if you want to go with something else entirely that's totally cool with me!

Thiiiiis. No trolls here, no name calling, both sides were pretty impressive with their coolness. It's already cleared up so let's just move on, okay? This is an awesome prompt that should get filled.~

Hey, it's cool. We're glad you showed up, though. Also, props to you for avoiding bias and doing your work as a mod, because really, I know a bunch of people in the fandom that wouldn't think rationally when they dislike something and I'm so glad this is not the case with anyone in this KM.

I am so glad this kink meme is filled with nice, rational people that can be civil when discussing things, asdfghjk;

Oh sweet merciful Lord, the noises I just made...

If no one's filling this I just might have to give it a go???

/eagerly waits for a fill

I love Connor's Aquila crew and the few moments you hear them talk in the game you can tell they admire their young captain. Wished Haytham would have let Connor captain the ship (with Biddle as his first mate, heh) after all Connor is the Ghost of the North Sea.

BTW, isn't Biddle's ship is the Randolph?

Because everything is better with kittens

Connor adopting a kitten is too cute, wonder if Haytham will let him keep it.

Hnnnnnnnnnggggh, yes please.

YAY!! *fistpumps* Hope all is well with you, Writer!Anon... and I'll be eagerly awaiting the next part!

Oh my god I want to cry just from reading this prompt! I need this so badly in my life, please someone fill this aaaaaaa

(I've been going through the past memes and I saw this and I literally screamed when I read i because reincarnation fics are my absolute favorite thing ever so reposting it in hopes it will be filled...)

--------------------

So with The Secret Crusade taken into account, Altair and Malik are reincarnated into the 21st century with the same names, same appearance and personality, but they don’t know each other. All throughout their lives they’ve had little hints, the occasional weird dream, and déjà vu about their past life as Assassins, though it never really bothers them until one day when they run into each other on the streets or at a café or whatever, and get hit with an unexplainable feeling of recognition (and what they think is shallow attraction).

Cue confusion, being scarily familiar with each other, and the both of them trying to piece together some kind of closure from their 12th century memories – since Malik never got to find out what happened to the Order and Masyaf, and Altair had to live with the guilt of leaving Malik to die.

Also hundreds of years worth of frantic and bewildered I-don’t-know-you-but-I-miss-you sex would be cool too, but not necessary, lol.

thank you! -u-

That whole dance part /swoons/ I didn't think they would be sharing a bed together so soon! I have no doubt Haytham will (subconsciously) seduce Connor while they're laying together. Please, please update soon!

Wow, what a fantastic prompt-- I would totally read this.

YES! CANNOT WAIT!

OP here- If you want to fill it go ahead.

There needs to be more H/C on this meme.

So, looking for anything based on this pic by milkaru: http://milkdoggie.tumblr.com/post/37896553308/a-doodle-of-teen-leonardo-trying-to-calm-down

The fluffier the fic the better! :D How did Ezio end up hurt (and lost, I'm guessing?) Did he fight w/ Federico? Did Federico lose Ezio while on an errand? How did Leonardo find Ezio?

I'm assuming that Leo here is at least 14, and that should make Ezio around 7 (also making Federico, 10; Claudia, 5; and Petruccio, 3.) ~~No, I didn't go and google/wiki birthdays and when Leonardo became Verrocchio's apprentice. Nope.~~

Your writer!anon is a terrible person (you'll... see why), but thank you so very, very, very much for your continued support! :D It has been an absolute joy to write this story. Also! To the anon!reader who asked why Haytham hadn't just checked Connor out with his Eagle Vision before leaving... Well, haha, I address it a bit here. |Db;; Anyway, enjoy! Thanks again for reading and reviewing. You all are lovely people. ♥

***

Day Eighty-Four
Nothing happened.

Nothing happened on the trip back to the safe house, and nothing happened as they escorted their prisoner inside. Once, Haytham thought that he had seen a flicker of red out of the corner of his eye, but when he went over to investigate, he found nothing--no footprints, no disturbances to the snow. It was not necessarily a bad thing to be hypervigilant, but he’d be paying for it further down the line.

Since Zenger’s arrival at the Templar headquarters, Haytham had taken to the rooftops at night, keeping a wary eye out for that red pinprick to reappear. When asked, he simply told his subordinates that he saw better at night than any of the others, which was not a lie, but he kept mum about the nature of his unique seeing abilities.

Holding an Assassin with at least one other member of the Brotherhood out on the streets was dangerous, and they’d need the most advance warning they could get. Most men accepted his explanation without a second thought, for in their eyes, he was still their Grand Master. The only one who questioned him was Charles. Charles knew better, and he could not ignore the way the general looked at him with narrowed eyes and a frown.

They spoke in private a few days after Zenger’s move. Charles again brought up his apparent obsession with his son, and they’d argued--argued about what to do with the boy, what was best for the Order. It was easily the worst argument Haytham had gotten into with the man since their first meeting so many years ago, but he’d stood his ground; Charles had, at last, acquiesced, but only just. The general agreed to continue interrogating Zenger in his place and had, grudgingly, promised to avoid using physical force unless absolutely necessary.

It was some weight off his shoulders, but it provided little relief, what with all these other troubles that loomed over him.

Truth be told, it was his worry that drove him to take over the night watch. Haytham dreaded to think that Connor would betray him, but that fear had sunk its claws in deep. Night after night, he waited in the bitter cold, regardless of the sleet, snow, or ice that fell from the heavens; he waited to see the blazing red silhouette of his son storming across the rooftops, out for his blood.

In hindsight, this entire problem could have been resolved if he’d just looked at his son with Eagle Vision prior to his departure, but Haytham had come to a realization since arriving here in New York City: he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. If the boy was the cool blue of an ally, then he would have rejoiced, but what if he was not? What if he remained white or worse, red or gold?

Haytham had been a coward. It would be easier for him to accept the fact that Connor had fled in his absence than to swallow the giant lie that would have made up their curious relationship the past few months. Such softness in personality was unbecoming of him, and he turned his fear into an uncompromising devotion to watching over the safe house.

On more than a few occasions, his brothers had asked that he remain indoors, especially when the weather was unusually brutal, but time and time again, Haytham would refuse; he would keep his vigil no matter the circumstances. The only problem with this was that the morning would always find him chilled to the core, and despite spending the daylight hours sleeping in front of a roaring fire, Haytham could not shake the cold that sank deep into his bones.

And how his head ached!

Hour after hour, he would keep Eagle Vision activated, peering into the darkness in hopes of spotting a flash of red, but not once did he see anything. Never before in his life had he used the ability to such an extent, and it was starting to give him quite the headache. Then again, Haytham had to grudgingly admit that he’d also developed a bit of a cough along with a few other symptoms that pointed toward the development of a cold, but he refused to admit to being ill --not when there was such an important task at hand.

That said, tonight proved quite a challenge for Haytham: the aches in his body were worse, he felt cold no matter how much he wore, and his head pounded with a vengeance. To be resuming his watch in such a condition was reckless (too much like the boy, he thought sardonically), but all the same, Haytham still climbed onto the roof and began his rounds, despite his complete and utter lack of energy.

The first few hours passed without incident, as per the norm. The streets were quiet, and down below, the two men posted at the front door could be heard whispering and stamping their feet; on occasion, the yowl of a cat or the sound of a dog barking would break the silence. The skies were overcast, but, to Haytham’s relief, the night was still dry--he was shivering enough without any additional help from the environment.

He had pressed his fingertips to his temples and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Haytham saw it: a red spot bobbing up and down in the distance. However, one pinprick of red turned into two, three, four--five, and he cursed quietly. Haytham whistled low, and the mumbling of the guards immediately ceased; their silence was quickly followed by the urgent rap of knuckles against the door.

Pulling out his spyglass, he studied the on-coming figures: only one wore the white cowl of an Assassin, but while the frame of that individual was too small to be that of his son, the knowledge provided Haytham with little comfort. Desperation and a growing feeling of dread filled him as he stuffed his spyglass into a pocket and took off toward the Assassins. The cold air burned his lungs, and his muscles protested; his limbs felt leaden as he ran and leapt.

The five silhouettes split, each heading in a slightly different direction, but their breakneck speed didn’t not slow. Haytham wondered if they did not know if they had been spotted or if they did not care for stealth now; he hoped that his men would be ready by the time they hit the safe house. He could not think to chase them all--not when the world wavered in front of his eyes and his body protested every move that he made.

Pausing to hide behind a chimney, Haytham slumped against the bricks, pressing a hand to his forehead as he tried to catch his breath; his skin burned beneath his fingertips. With a low growl, he forced himself to focus--to forget the throbbing in his skull, the ache that made him feel weak, the tiredness that plagued him body and soul. This was a battlefield, one that he had voluntarily forced himself onto, and Haytham would not allow himself to fall here--not when Connor’s allegiances remained a mystery to him.

Peering around his hiding spot, he saw the angry glow of a man dressed in a priest’s robes fast approaching his location. As the footfalls drew ever closer, Haytham tensed, and just as the man passed to his left, he made a grab at the Assassin, hoping for a clean kill. His arm was deflected, though, and the man twisted away, Haytham’s fingers losing their grip on his clothes.

Well, so much for getting the job done the easy way.

“You--!” The Assassin never bothered to finish his sentence, instead drawing his blade. Haytham thought he heard a note of surprise and something else in that voice, but he would not have time to think about that now, not when the clash of steel was ringing in his ears. Deflecting the blow with his hidden blade, Haytham took a step back before drawing out his own sword, feeling its heavy weight in his hand.

He lunged, and when he saw his opponent move to block his blow, Haytham changed the angle of his strike, sweeping it to the side and shifting his target from the man’s chest to his arm. He was rewarded with a cry of pain, but his triumph was short lived, as the Assassin retaliated with several savage blows that had him stumbling backwards. Slipping and sliding over to the other side of the roof, he tried to put more distance between them as he panted; his blood pounded in his ears, and Haytham was sure that his heart was going to hammer its way right out of his chest.

Again, he tried to take the offensive, darting in with the aim to strike at the Assassin’s sides, but the man was ready for him this time, deflecting the blow and replying in turn. Cold steel bit into flesh, and Haytham whirled away with a poorly muffled shout, his free hand moving to press into his upper arm. His opponent circled him, the tip of his saber completely and utterly steady.

Haytham wondered whether or not conviction alone would be enough to get him through this.

The Assassin made a lunge at him, but he blocked the blow, albeit barely. Coupling his illness with his fresh wound, he did not have the strength to withstand the ferocity of the strike, and his blade was knocked out of his hands, vanishing somewhere over the edge of the roof and clattering to the ground below. Haytham frowned at this development, but perhaps it was for the best. He’d be quicker with the hidden blade, and the weight of it would be easier for him to manage with the remaining strength that he had. The only problem, of course, was now the Assassin had a rather significant distance advantage, and the only way to resolve that was to move in close.

Springing forward, Haytham feinted to the right before slipping over to the left. He was quick, yes, but not quick enough as he felt his opponent’s sword graze the flesh of his side through the thick layers of clothing that he wore, but he was rewarded with a groan as he rotated and slammed his fist into the man’s stomach, the blade digging into flesh. It was the Assassin’s turn to stumble; Haytham followed up his attack with a swift kick that sent the man sprawling.

His aim with the blade was off, though, and he cursed himself; he’d struck too far to the left, missing the liver as he’d originally intended. The Assassin pushed himself back onto his feet, and this time, his grip on his sword wavered. Even so, he still seemed to be faring better than Haytham, who was breathing hard, feeling too cold and too hot at the same time, and battling the lightheadedness that only grew worse as his wounds continued to bleed.

Haytham shook his head lightly as if to clear his thoughts, but his vision only became worse, dimming around the edges. In the distance, he could hear the shouts of men, gunshots, and the clang of metal striking metal; the feeble flicker of candlelight was beginning to reappear in windows across the city as the commotion continued, but hopefully, no one would be foolish enough to come out to investigate.

Though, an interruption would likely be a good reprieve for him at this point.

With a roar, the Assassin ran at him, a fearsome sight to behold--covered in blood and sweat, eyes burning with a fire he recognized as the unbanked desire for revenge. Haytham caught the edge of the blade with his own, but step by step, he was forced backwards until the heel of one foot stood on nothing but air. They were too far up for him to survive this fall, and there were no opportunities for a soft landing in sight; Haytham fought back with the desperation of a man on the verge of death, but he couldn’t push the Assassin away, couldn’t stir up the strength necessary despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

If he thought about it, this was a rather suiting way for him to die: in the defense of his ideals, on the battlefield, and at the hands of an Assassin. He would have preferred to have put up a better fight, but there was still the chance to take his opponent with him; it would only take a well-timed grab, and they’d both be tumbling over the edge. His life was not the best, filled with bloodshed and grief as it was, but there was nothing he was ashamed of, nothing he regretted--well, almost.

There was still the matter of his son. It was always his son.

Haytham grunted, muscles screaming in agony, and he leaned as much of his weight toward his aggressor as he could before closing a fist around the man’s collar. His right arm buckled without the support of the left, but Haytham held on, breaths coming in harsh pants. A grim smile curled his lips, and he dared the Assassin to do his worst, testing the man. How badly did he want him dead? “Go on then,” he hissed. “Push.”

There was a moment of hesitation, and that’s all Haytham needed. He twisted and retracted his hidden blade, yelling in pain as the Assassin’s sword finally connected with flesh, cutting deep into his shoulder. His nerves were on fire, his body on the verge of collapse, but he shoved the man with his good shoulder, putting all of his weight and what remained of his strength behind the movement. Surprised by this course of action, the Assassin stumbled back, and Haytham engaged his other hidden blade, the dagger sliding out into his palm. He lashed out blindly, his vision obscuring from pain and blood loss, but when his blade met nothing but air, Haytham crumpled, body giving out at last.

As his vision faded, the final thing he saw was a blue blur engaging the Assassin. Haytham did not wonder who that individual was, though, did not give him a second thought. No, his mind was focused on something else entirely, something far from the battlefield: on the boy, the brat, the thorn in his side.

--On his son.

SORRY. I'll stop with the cliffhanger endings soon, I promise. orz /terrible person oh yes

Oh yes I want to see this, especially if Clay helps.

Thirded with enthusiasm. It'd be really interesting to see Connor try to convert somebody. You know he'd be stubborn as hell.

Another cliffhanger??? Really??? Sigh... oh how your torment us, anon. Despite what he did to Jacob, I hope Haytham is all right (eagerly anticipates the 'master' and 'slave' that is to come). I love how in the first part of this story, Haytham was going on about how his son's recklessness, and here he is fighting while he's ill and fatigued.

I kind of wonder who the Assassin he is fighting was... Duncan possibly? I imagine Connor took the time to train his recruits alongside Achilles (who has passed away already, right?) at the Homestead and they have all seen the Templar portraits at the manor, but it's obvious that Duncan was scarred for life when Haytham had killed his uncle right in front of him.

Anyway, I hope you update soon because these cliffhangers are killing me!

Yes! since some men go gaga over an all girl pillow fight I want to see an all male pillow fight! I want it erotic! Preferably Altmal, ezioleo, des/con quien sabe! just as how men fantasize about a girly sleepover I want the same thing but with out male counter parts! Go crazy!

...totally agrees that everything is better with kittens. //cuddles the kitten//

And OP is absolutely smitten with the kitten and hopes that Connor has many more affectionate times with it. :D

Also love the Aquila sailor moment. They must be so worried about Connor! I wonder what will happen when the sailor shares information about Connor's whereabouts with Faulkner?

Love your Haytham, btw. He's very IC and very much the business-before-pleasure-but-really-suck-at-emotion guy we all love from the game. :D Maybe he'll even warm up somewhat with the kitten?

Speaking of the kitten, I do wonder how the rest of the Templars will react to the little furball. :3

In which Malik is time-shifted into the 21st century, and pretty much throws his hands up into the air when he sees the state of the Order. He can tolerate Rebecca and Shaun, but Desmond, oh how Malik hates Desmond. Not only does he wear the novice's face, but he's even more incompetent. And he's supposed to save the world?

While he's stuck there, Malik makes it his mission to whip the novice's descendent into shape. He's a harsh and relentless teacher, and has no issue taking his ~~UST~~ frustration out on Desmond. But it's through training him that Malik begins to realize his feelings for Altaïr.

bonus points if:
+ Malik comes to accept Desmond, maybe even like him.
+ He struggles awkwardly with modern technology & culture.
+ Somehow Malik's interference changes ACIII's ending.

If anyone could write this prompt, I would love you forever! And if you'd prefer to write this as a genfic, please be my guest.

As exhausted as he was, Haytham couldn't sleep.

There was constricting pain in his chest, like coil of sharp wire that seemed to tighten whenever he moved, whenever he breathed. He lay in the bed in the room Connor had shown him to, staring at the ceiling, willing sleep to come and steal him away from the pain, if only for a short time.

He had become complacent in his illness. Before this, he wouldn't have wanted to sleep. He would have kept his guard up, refused to sleep in the home territory of the enemy he had been fighting for so long. Now... now that enemy was his son, and his days were not so likely to end at an Assassin's blade, but a far more shameful, tortured death.

It was really rather tiresome.

Finally he gave up on any hope of sleep, sitting up and getting off of the bed. He had at least been wary enough to sleep in his clothes, minus the sodden cloaks and coat that hung downstairs to dry. He crept to the door, and slowly eased it open. After surveying the hall to make sure there was no one about, he padded out into the hallway.

The Davenport manor showed careful care, in every aspect of its furnishing. In a brief moment of foolish sentimentality he thought it rather reminded him of all things his son controlled. Whatever the boy's flaws, Haytham would not begrudge the fact that he put his utmost effort into whatever project came along. Be that repairing the tumbledown old manor that the Davenport homestead had once been, or hunting down every single on of Haytham's associates.

He really should have killed Davenport a long time ago. Perhaps if he had- but no, there was no time to bother with perhaps and recollections. He did not have the luxury of second-guessing his course, when now he had no time nor strength to alter it.

Haytham walked down the staircase, wary of every creak of the stairs. He reached for that sixth sense that had aided him since childhood, scanning the foyer below. There was a faint glow from a room to the right. He reached the base of the stairs and peered in for the source of the glow. Connor was slumped at the desk that stood in the center of the room, asleep over what looked like a trade ledger. Edging closer, Haytham could make out sums and stores recorded, as well as the goods sent.

A flicker of pride ignited in his chest, over this small symbol of sophistication. Ziio, or perhaps Davenport, had educated his son well. He preferred to think the former.

It was obvious Connor had tried to stay up to make sure Haytham didn't get into any important information. Haytham smiled wryly, and noted Connor was still in the soaked, mudstained clothes he had trudged all the way from Boston in. He shook his head, scanning the room before his eyes alighted on an old blanket, draped over a chair. He picked it up and tucked it lightly around Connor's shoulders, so the boy wouldn't take ill and die before Haytham. That would rather defeat his purpose to coming to the manor.

Still wide awake, Haytham explored the rest of the house. He found a candlebra that was affixed to the wall rather oddly, and was about to fiddle with it to try to ascertain its purpose, but when he reached up his fingers were trembling too hard to examine the fixture. The coils of iron around his chest seemed to pull tight, and he started to cough. He muffled the sound with his sleeve, but the coughing didn't cease.

He had to lean against the wall to support himself, his legs suddenly having failed their simple tasks of keeping him upright. Still he coughed, barely able to get a breath in, until he could taste the tang of iron in his mouth, and blood dripped from his lips.

For a delirious second he thought someone must have come up behind him and stabbed him in the back, for the agonizing pain that pulsed from his chest. How many time had he inflicted such injuries without a second thought, watching the blood bubble from his victims' mouths as they spoke their last? He had overcome the fear of that end long before. But this...

Suddenly someone was at his side. He could hear the questions in that harsh, demanding tone, even pick up the worry buried deep beneath the outwards spite, but understanding the words was beyond him. A fact which was deeply irritating, as he had always had a good grasp of linguistics...

He realized he was on his knees on the floor, still gasping, gasping like a man whose throat had been slit in two, and that familiar figure had a hold of his shoulders, shaking him, trying to ask him something. He stared into the boy's wide, dark eyes, and they reminded him of someone else, a long time ago. She had always chided him for foolishness, overconfidence. Arrogance... ruthlessness...

Lost in these thoughts he barely noticed the boy, flickering red and blue against the darkness closing in.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

long-term loss 3/?

Fill!anon here :)

no subject

Re: Oh someone fill this please~

Re: /tumbles out of the forest

Re: [GEN or Desmond/Any] Hurt Comfort while in the animus

Re: long-term loss 3/?

Re: long-term loss 3/?

Re: Shaun/Desmond, accent kink

Re: Fill!anon here :)

Re: [GEN or Desmond/Any] Hurt Comfort while in the animus

Altair/Malik reincarnation

Re: Satahonhsatat (Listen) - Part 3b

Re: [GEN or Desmond/Any] Hurt Comfort while in the animus

Re: Fill!anon here :)

Re: [GEN or Desmond/Any] Hurt Comfort while in the animus

Chance Encounter

Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 8 / ? ]

Re: [GEN or Desmond/Any] Hurt Comfort while in the animus

Re: connor/charles captured, reverse

Re: Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 8 / ? ]

all male PILLOW WAR!

OP...

Malik/Desmond & Malik/Altaïr - Training

all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 4/?