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
Fill Only

Join or Die

✩ 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!

List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh Grandpa Haytham...yes, I think he'll be around, but since it's all Haytham Lee's journal, it will be through, shall we say, filtered eyes. He'll live for a few years yet, but he'll die, of old age if nothing else.

Haytham Lee is a cute cock block though. Hehe

A fill is on its way OP! I just need to fix it up a little

Oh man, I'm in Persona 4 fandom. Hmmm, I might take a crack at this, but I'm most comfortable writing Desmond, if that's okay with OP?

Go ahead! Desmond needs more love :)

Okay was wondering, since this story only takes place a few years after the game ends and Haytham was in excellent health before you had to kill him. I was also trying to work out the timeline in my head.

1776 - Connor and Charles are married maybe before or after the Declaration of Independence signing (Connor at the time is still 19, cause in my headcanon he's a Sagittarius). Charles goes off to lead the Patriots in the war and during the last six months of the year Connor has his miscarriage.

1777 - Charles is crowned King of the new independent nation. Connor spends 11 months in an insensate state, until he wakes sometime in the winter where he's eight months pregnant.

1778 - Haytham Lee is born

1784 - Haytham Lee starts writing his journal

1796 - Haytham Lee is inducted into the Templar Order. Later on The Inner Circle falls under a terminal disease and die within the year

Okay brain, enough distractions - need to get back to writing that 3 day smut fest for Charles (first part is almost done!)

Ooh, good job, author!anon. That was very well written. Only now I do want to see Charles happily listening to every command Haytham was thinking about. I hold you responsible. >.>

Okay so in Persona 4, people get kidnapped, and they are thrown into TVs where there is a secret world. And in that world, most people are separated from their 'Shadow', which is the culmination of all their inner fears that they refuse to face. And only when the person accepts that their Shadow is part of them can they be reunited (and sometimes the Shadow turns into a Persona, a strength they can use to fight with). Generally that person flips out and is like YOU'RE NOT ME! And our main characters fight the shadow and blah blah and then the person accepts it and we get a new party member, heh.

So I was thinking - Shaun fights for Desmond? DESMOND'S SHADOW BATTLE FT. BADASS SHAUN?

IS THIS ACCEPTABLE, OP?

No, it's not acceptable. IT'S AWESOME! ASDFGHJKL I CAN HARDLY WAIT! Go forth with my blessings, dear anon! <3 <3 <3

I... actually may do just that...

So I'm REALLY liking this plot, OP. I was gonna do something short, but there's just too much potential.

This is my first fill as well as my first attempt at writing anything smutty, so here we go!
------------------------------

The slave hears much but, truth be told, he retains very little of it these days. The words wash over him, meaningless. It is as if he floats in water, his ears beneath the surface. The voices are distorted, muffled and muted. Even when he does understand what is being said, he finds he has very little interest. Troop reports, pockets of resistance, towns put to the torch, civilians slaughtered... None of this has anything to do with him. His task is to wait, his body aching, until His Majesty has need of him, and that is what he does. There are moments, though... little glimpses of lucidity when the gloom sharpens and he can see things as they are, remembers things and he's not sure if they are memories or figments of a fevered imagination. Those moments are far and few between, but when they do happen, they make him wish he had the means to slit his own throat.

He stares blankly, straight ahead. The slave has this notion that maybe, once, things were different, that he was something more than a toy, a pet, but most days its all he can do to keep his eyes opened and focused, much less ponder over things that may or may not be. Some days he cannot not even manage that. He can barely feel the flagstone beneath his knees, the itch of the rough-spun against his skin, the cold of the iron around his neck. He cannot feel much of anything anymore, except for His Majesty’s touch.

It isn't until the slave hears his master gasp that he rouses back nearer to the surface.

“You!" his master gasps. He sounds shocked, livid. “How is it you live?”

He came to realize that there was a man in front of the throne in chains, he had been dragged before the throne against his will. This was unusual, to say the least. Many came before King Washington, to ask for favors, to bend the knee and pay homage, to repent and declare His Majesty the rightful king, but there were scant few that came by force. The scene feels familiar—wasn't he brought forward in a similar manner? Just how long ago had that been? He can't recall, realizes that he hasn't the faintest idea what season it is, much less what month or year, and feels vaguely disquieted.

The man brought before His Majesty is broad across the shoulders, tall, dark-skinned, corded with muscle, dressed in animal furs and leather. A native, then. The prisoner doesn't answer King Washington—a dangerous tactic. Instead, he stares at the slave, slack-jawed, plainly horrified. Dark brown meets dark gray. The slave stares back, mildly disconcerted by the sudden attention.

“Haytham?” the native asks, voice tremulous. The slave frowns back at him. Haytham? It sounds familiar. Was that his name? It had been so long since he had last heard it. The slave did not reply. The last time he had spoken out of turn... well, that was hazy as well, but whatever had happened had left him in agony for days, and even the mere thought of speaking made something painful clench in his guts. He was never to utter a word, unless it was to beg.

His Majesty gives a short, harsh bark of laughter.

“Oh, you two are acquainted, are you? Tell me, how does a dirt-worshiping monkey come to know a British Templar?”

“Goddamn you, Washington, what have you done to him?” the native's voice is hoarse with fury, and he throws himself forward, nearly breaking the grasp of the two soldiers restraining him. The slave crimps his lips together, brow furrowed. It is difficult to be certain of anything anymore, but he doesn't think he knows the man, doesn't recognize him in the slightest.

Again, that mirthless laugh. “At this point, perhaps it would be better to ask what I haven't done to him.” The master idly traces the ridge of his slave's ear with his fingernail, and that he most certainly can feel, as sharp and urgent as a lick of flame, and he gives an involuntary, full-body shudder. “This is what happens to peons who presume to deny the power of the Apple.”

With his other hand, His Majesty raises his scepter, and the room pulses with golden light. The stone faces of the guards that hold the native soften in adoration, their faces the very portrait of bliss. The native roars in agony, writhing in their arms. He thinks—if he tries hard enough, he can remember the sensation: like being in a roaring oven, blood boiling in the veins, feels like the skull is fit to split at the fissures. It seems like King Washington holds his scepter for a long time, and then he abruptly lowers it and the native goes limp against his bindings, gasping for air, shaking violently. When he looks up again, his face does not mirror the guards. Rather, his his features are contorted with rage and he bares his teeth, stark white against his dark skin.

“I will feed you your own heart!” he shouts, and begins to struggle anew. His Majesty sighs, as if he were a benevolent schoolmaster and the murderous native was nothing more than an unruly, head-strong pupil.

“Ah. I see you've in need of a more... objective lesson.” The master rakes his fingers along the back of his slave's neck, near the collar, and this time it elicits a moan as well as a shiver. He leans into the touch and the sensation goes straight to his groin; the rough fabric of his trousers immediately feel uncomfortably tight. “You see, I have other ways to break a man to my will...”

His Majesty snaps his fingers, and the slave crawls on battered hands and knees between the seated man's legs. The slave's hands open his master's breeches with deft efficiency. His master is not wearing any small clothes, and his cock springs forth from confinement, already half-erect; using the Apple has that effect on him.

“Go on, show the savage how much you enjoy your captivity,” says Washington, and the slave dutifully takes the head of his master's cock into his mouth. He ignores the acrid taste. He's done this countless times, and he quickly swallows the man to the hilt. His master sighs in appreciation and runs a hand through his slave's gray hair, scraping the scalp with his nails. The touch is electrifying; his skin flushes and he moans around the shaft, bobbing his head enthusiastically, tongue lathing the thick veins, flicking the bundle of nerves beneath the head. He's completely unselfconscious of the fact that he has an audience, oblivious to how the the wet, sloppy sounds he makes with his mouth echo off the walls of the great hall.

“Stop this madness,” he hears the native demand.

“Why? Obviously, our mutual friend has no objections.”

“He is very clearly not himself.”

“No. I found that man to be most disagreeable. I—oh...” He sighs in pleasure, bucks his hips, pressing himself deeper. “I much prefer this version—Gentlemen, the mongrel has adverted his eyes. Correct him.”

There is a jingle of chains and the sound of a fist connecting to flesh. The native grunts but does not cry out. The slave does not concern himself. He concentrates on the feel of the hand fisting in his hair, the soft skin against his lips, the swollen head butting against the back of his throat. His master's thighs tense and there's that familiar little hitch in his breathing, and he knows he is close to his end.

“Touch yourself,” he growls, and the slave does not need to be told twice. His hand goes to his trousers and pulls out his own cock, already hard. He palms himself, his hand is a blur and he moans around Washington's cock. He's close himself—he's always so close, it only takes the lightest of caresses to set his skin on fire and make him gasp and squirm.

His Majesty grunts, holds down his slave's head, and he takes it all without any protest, feeling the king's seed flood the back of his mouth, and he swallows hard to keep up, and he barely registers the repugnant taste because he's coming himself, moaning and thrusting into his own fist.

King Washington sighs contentedly, stroking his slave's hair. “Clean up your mess,” he commands, and the slave lowers his head. He knows better than to use his hands; they still bear the marks from the last time he had made that mistake. He dutifully laps up his own seed from the stone floor between His Majesty's boots without a second thought.

The native makes a pained sound behind him. “You are a monster,” he hisses. “There are—I have no words to describe this... this...”

“This is justice. He, too, threatened my life. If you are so concerned for his well-being, perhaps you would like to volunteer to take his place?” At that, the slave turns his head, looking back over his shoulder. The native's face is flushed with embarrassment and now he looks more disgusted than angry. He meets the slave's eyes but quickly looks away.

“No,” he says, sullen.

“Good. Truth be told, I wouldn’t dare pollute myself with some feral animal, even if your features are... somewhat comely. No. I think I have other plans for you...”

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Ratonhnhaké:ton dropped the ceremonial cup, body trembling as he retched out the tea. That could not have helped with initiating the Sky World journey, and he thought, for a moment before another lash of pain rips across his back, that his mother was right and that the tea was too powerful an amplifier for him. Haytham had been a man of violence and Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't ignore his place as an assassin in his other world. He too was accustomed to warm blood spilling over his hands and the thought of that gave him a jolt of pleasure. Almost immediately disgust washed it away.

At least this pain reassured him that he was not dreaming, for he did not think it possible to feel such vivid detail in a dream. Ratonhnhaké:ton screamed, hoped that his brother was still nearby, hoped that this awful cry would alert him that something was wrong, and he needed help. Nobody came. Finally Ratonhnhaké:ton gave in; collapsing next to his bile, the warmth of the fire too hot yet the snow too icy on his skin, a fever grasping him and shaking him violently. His hood felt too tight, his trousers were itching and the world burst into fragments, mirrored shards crashing around him.

The Sky World. He'd made it. Ratonhnhaké:ton started as grey bodies jumped over him, fur brushing his face, excited yips and barks starting up as they circled him. Thankfully the agony had dulled, left behind in the real world, but it hadn't disappeared entirely. Now that it wasn't tearing him apart, Ratonhnhaké:ton could feel his mouth hurting, and he was horrified to spit out four pearly white teeth and tongued the gaps left. More pain erupted from his tailbone and head, but the wolves were beckoning and he wanted to play-hunt-kill, and he was on all fours and he was howling, howling, howling. And his fingers and feet had claws, he could feel them tearing the soft leather of his boots, and he wanted to stand but he couldn't and there was a heartbeat -

Thump, thump, thump.

He felt his own quicken, the pain forgotten. His brothers and sisters were sniffing now, their soft paws sinking into the snow. The scent of food was strong. He was hungry. They pointed their noses ahead.

(Ahead, brother-father-lover-son)

(Alpha, we have been waiting)

Ratonhnhaké:ton fell into place. The snow was crunchy under his paws and they taught him how to fly across it, barely breaking the surface.

Thump, thump, thump.

The scent was good and they taught him to press his muzzle against the track.

Thump, thump, thump.

The horned-giant was frightened and they taught him to chase it.

Thump, thump, thump.

The horned-giant was trapped and they taught him how to use his sharp teeth to rip out its throat.

The heartbeat had stopped and the warm blood spilled into Ratonhnhaké:ton's mouth.

(What do you feel?)

Death-hunger-food-desire-horror-AGONY

Ratonhnhaké:ton reeled back with a too-full belly, curling into the snow as his brothers-sisters-fathers-mothers-lovers-children ate their fill of the hunt. The horned-giant shrank, he felt bigger, weaker, sick, human. They turned to him and jumped, their bodies changing to spirits, merging with his flesh, and he gasped and shouted as the world was both too bright and too dark, eyes burning, blood on fire.

His muscles, which had softened during his recovery, clenched and tore, rapidly rebuilding themselves, restoring him. The meat was digesting at hyperspeed, providing nutrients and strength, excess fat on his body being stripped away, his waistband not cutting against his flesh any longer.

He ached - one big ball of bruises - as the light flickered and died, and the shattered Sky World shoved him onto his back, his hood returning as the real world reclaimed his body. Ratonhnhaké:ton slowly rolled onto his side, then pushed onto his knees, staring at the dead, mostly eaten elk beside him and the wolves chewing on the remains, ignoring him. Then he looked at himself and almost recoiled in shock. The aches and bruises were indeed from his body pulling itself back to peak within a matter of moments. Ratonhnhaké:ton placed a hand against his stomach - empty - and felt his body breathing, rippling like a well oiled machine. His nails were longer, not his claws but close. His mouth felt fine until he saw the meat and hunger dominated him, the wolves growling as he approached them, and he snarled back, opening his mouth to bare his teeth. Tearing the meat easily with the fangs, paws on the soft fur of the horned-giant -

- Ratonhnhaké:ton spat the meat out, stared at the nails that had become claws and stuck a finger into his mouth, trying to wriggle one of the sharp canines that were threatening to puncture his lips. He pushed himself to his feet, stumbled and resisted the desire to walk on all fours. He wobbled, swaying forward, but a tail straightened and balanced him. Knocking his hood off, he felt his ears - pointed, silky, laying flat against his head, twitching up and around, listening.

This wasn't supposed to happen. It had never happened before.

"What have we got here, then?"

Ratonhnhaké:ton blinked and looked to the voice, a bluecoat hunting, then to his hands. The claws were gone, as were the teeth, ears and tail. He sighed - he was just hallucinating - and easily snatched and shot the bluecoat when the bayonet lightly prodded him, scratching his chest.

The clan. They were in danger. If one bluecoat was this close, then others would be around. As he ran, Ratonhnhaké:ton failed to question how he'd known precisely where he was upon waking and why the wound on his chest was gone.

Charles always follows Haytham's orders. Haytham decides to explore this fact. Smut happens.

http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=10045443#cmt10045443

*discreet cough*

Just in case you ever have time to write another fill (since this one really was wonderfully IC and interesting).

OP is in awe and glad she logged on to post her werewolf piece at the same time because HOLY FUCK. THIS IS AMAZING. Haytham's complete and utter submission, the collar, Washington's cruelty and Connor's rage are all absolutely spot on. I think I'll have to re-read because BWAH, I love it! Thank you for such a perfect beginning. <3 <3 <3 all the love and cookies for you!

OP! Are you still there? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

I was going to try and wait until I was done with my WIP, but as it's gotten to the point where this plot bunny is starting to eat my brain and is interfering with me writing other fics, I'm jumping the gun early. I'm currently plotting stuff out now, and I was just wondering: do you mind some extra ships on the side? Obviously, Connor/Haytham will be the main one, but aside from that, would it be okay with I included some Charles/Connor and maybe even a tiny bit of Charles/Haytham as well? (Haytham/Ziio is a given, but...)

If you'd rather it be strictly Connor/Haytham (or would rather one of the extras but not the other), I am fine with that as well. I just figured I'd ask. :)

Well, this is practically an invitation!

(practically? pffft, i'm on it like white on rice)

Anon is sooooo happy you finally updated! Both chapters were amazing as usual! ^_^ what ever are you talking about dear anon? The smut was perfectly hot! I loved how Altair was so impatient, Malik just walks in the door and bam! (Like white on rice! :D) Can't wait till the next chapters! :)

On it like Ezio with a hot female.

~~Bad joke is bad.~~

Last minute notes: When someone is thrown into the TV, they appear on the Midnight Channel as their Shadow self. Also, I might forgo Personas just to ax the complication that would be, so this is definitely more firmly in the AC universe than the P4 universe, even though there's still a TV World. ...Yep. IDEK I JUST LOVE FUSIONS OKAY. Also there will be a P4 style dungeon done with true AC flair. >.>

Hopefully this is the kind of thing OP was looking for, and if I can work it in (no promises) is OP okay with some Shaun/Desmond sexytimes?

OKAY ON TO PART ONE OF GOD KNOWS HOW MANY. WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF?

Wonderwall

It’s a long, hard climb back to consciousness, each sense returning to Desmond in waves. At first, all he knows is that it is cold. Desmond shivers, a full body shake starting in his shoulders and working its way down his spine, a chill that’s gotten out of control. It’s the sharp pain in his hip that lets him know that he is writhing on top of something solid – cold and hard and most definitely not his bedroll.

Sight is a little harder to reclaim, his eyelids heavy and crusted over with grit. He groans, rubbing at his eyes with clumsy fists, his body not quite responding the way it should. It takes real effort to push himself up to a sitting position, and more effort still to not fall right back over. Desmond blinks a few times in an effort to alleviate some of the blur in his vision, his eyes burning as he tries to reorient himself.

Everything is white, that pristine hospital shade stretching out in all directions much too bright for Desmond, and it takes long seconds for his eyes to adjust. White tile is what is currently freezing its way through his jeans and seeping into his bones. He looks up slowly, his neck sore – had he been drugged? How long has he been out? – and his muscles only barely cooperating.

When he sees it, he gasps. In the middle of the room is what could only be an Animus, but the thing that steals his breath away is not the machine but the thing – person – sitting on top of it.

Staring at him with golden, glowing eyes and a malicious smile on his face is him.

No, that can’t be right – the bleeding effect is going wild, he thinks. It’s Altair in modern clothes; in his clothes, and it’s weird, it’s bizarre, yeah, but he’s been through so much already that this is nothing. Just another drop in the bucket.

Sound is the last sense to return, or more accurately, it had been silent right up until he watches his own scarred lips contort into a sneer, and he hears his own voice speak.

“Hello, me.”

Fuck.

---

They think it’s Abstergo. Shaun and Rebecca work tirelessly, trying to find leads where there are none, but just because they can’t find any doesn’t mean they aren’t being fooled. No matter how deep they dig, all the evidence points to Abstergo still looking for Desmond, but Shaun is convinced that it’s a ruse to keep them in the dark.

He would have gone right on believing that, too, if he weren’t up at midnight, long after Rebecca has retired, trying to find their precious Subject 17.

A sudden light source catches Shaun’s attention, and he’s about to tell Rebecca that he is busy, thank you, and to kindly not shine bright lights into his already abused eyes when he hears a very familiar voice.

“Hey,” Desmond says, and Shaun whips around in his chair so fast he almost topples over. Instead of seeing the man himself, or even Rebecca fiddling with security tapes at her desk, all he sees is the TV they’ve been using as a large computer monitor flickering, Desmond’s face peering out at him.

Shaun just stares, baffled, some part of his mind noting that the computer the TV is connected to is decidedly off and that nothing about what is happening makes even the slightest bit of sense.

“Have you ever wanted a puppet to do with as you wish? Of course you have, who wouldn’t? Want a savior? Do you need a test subject for your inhumane experiment? Or maybe you’d like a puppet who will do… other things.” At this, Desmond winks, drawing attention to the unnaturally yellow eyes, a sly smile on his face.

Shaun has no idea what to think.

“Desmond Miles is your man. Want me? Come and get me.”

Then the image is gone, and the resounding silence that follows is deafening.

A sequel to the fill here: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1795.html?thread=10023171#cmt10023171

It takes four words and a particular half-smile to make Charles leave the others at their table in the Green Dragon Inn, following Haytham like the dogs he loves so much.

"Come with me, Charles."

Haytham is well aware that the others know, or at least suspect, why they are leaving. Haytham is also sure that they will keep their mouths firmly closed. These men are his brothers-in-arms, trustworthy comrades. Well, for the most part. Hickey snickers into his ale as Charles gets up, mutters something that could be 'bugger' or 'butter' or perhaps even 'bummer'.

"Yes, sir," Charles says, and in mere moments, Haytham is upstairs, unlocking the door to his room. Charles jogs up the last few steps, reaching the upper floor just in time to see Haytham step through the threshold.

Haytham counts the seconds: six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He doesn't turn around when he hears the familiar footsteps stop just a few metres too far away. He concentrates on taking his hat and cloak off instead. Charles hovers at the open doorway, awaiting the order.

Haytham does not make him wait for very long. His voice is firm, but not harsh. Soft, but strong.

"Come in. Lock the door behind you."

He does not need to see Charles' face to know that he allows himself a slight smile, as he takes two measured steps forward. The soft sound of the lock turning is a comfort, and it is only then that Haytham faces the other man.

He gives the smile he knows Charles loves to see, and steps toward him.

"Close your eyes," he says. Charles takes a deep breath, and his eyes flutter shut. "Stay still."

He gets as close as he can to Charles without actually touching him. Haytham leans forward, breathing softly on his skin, dips his head into the crook between shoulder and throat. His hand brushes Charles' wrist, skims upwards toward the shoulder slowly.

Charles does not even tremble, to his credit. He simply breathes, slowly and evenly. Haytham is not fooled by this facade of calmness and control. Charles' skin is flushing, his arousal mostly hidden by his ornate clothes.

Haytham brings his head back up, and runs his lips along Charles' mouth. Charles breathes in sharply, through his nose. The hand at Charles' shoulder slides to his collar, and then to his cravat. Haytham hooks his fingers through the lace, just as he gives Charles a rough, biting kiss. He worries Charles' lower lip with his teeth for a moment, before kissing again, forcing his tongue into Charles' pliant mouth.

Charles' tongue flexes slightly, and he swallows, almost certainly involuntarily. That's far better than he used to do. It's high time for a reward.

"Kiss me," Haytham snarls, pulling back a moment. He pulls the untied cravat from around Charles' neck, and drops it to the floor. He deftly undoes the buttons of Charles' waistcoat, as Charles gives a desperate sound and instigates the next kiss as best he can without moving, and without opening his eyes. He almost misses Haytham's mouth, but it feels good nonetheless.

Haytham slips his hands beneath the heavy coat and the waistcoat beneath it, shucking them off onto the floor.

"Shirt," he orders, between harsh, nipping kisses.

Charles obeys, fingers fumbling at his clothes. Haytham unties Charles' hair with one hand, and Charles' breeches with the other. He pushes Charles firmly, but not cruelly, backwards onto the bed, then pulls away, taking Charles' trousers with him. Haytham unbuttons Charles' boots hastily, pulling them and the bunched-up fabric off long, pale legs. Charles manages to wrench his shirt from his arms, and tosses it to the side, where it falls to the floor. Usually, he would insist on folding his clothes and putting them away properly, but tonight is an exemption to the rule.

Haytham takes his own boots off, and climbs onto the bed. He runs a hand along Charles' collarbone, then up toward his cheekbone. Charles' eyes are still closed, and his small clothes are doing little to hide his interest in this turn of events. Time for a change of pace, then.

"Pleasure me," Haytham murmurs into Charles' ear. "With your mouth. Look me in the eyes."

Charles' eyes snap open, though whether from surprise or from obedience, Haytham is unsure. Haytham props himself up against the headboard, and splays his legs meaningfully.

I need to go to bed. Aaaargh. There will be more tomorrow!

AGH IT'S BEAUTIFUL
CONTINUE IT NOW
DON'T STOP BRO
GO GO GO

Poking my head out from under my rock to just tell you how excited and happy I am for this part of the fill. Really really can't wait to see where you go with this. (Also thank you so much for adding in Kanen since no one seems to like to write bout him and it makes me sad)

Back to quietly lurking and checking daily for updates. Loving this AU so much.

Damn. If you ever decide to write more, I'll be right here and waiting. Awesome, awesome ficlet. I particularly like that you're using Connor's real name - especially so because it's set in TTOKW. The pacing and expression of what Connor was going through was spot on.

hnnnng this is so hot i can't wait for the next part!

Anon Wants a story about Connor finding out that the Aquila originally belonged to Edward (His grandfather, if you didn't know that shame.... shame on you.) Maybe Faulkner gives him a book that had been Edwards that was stashed aboard, Maybe Faulkner has sailed with him, (he would have been around 10 when Haytham was born, so perhaps a cabin boy or something :I)

also I know that the Aquila was made after Edwards unfortunate end but bare with me, Anon needs some heart warming fond memories of grandpa Kenway over here!

If someone could write this for me I would love you forever!!!

~B

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: Continuing Fill 3 - His Mother's Son

Re: Yes please

Re: Persona 4

OP

Re: Continuing Fill 3 - His Mother's Son

Re: Command 1/1

Re: OP

OP

fill anon

FILL ---------1 of ? -------Enthralled

Fill: Rise 1/1 (spoilers for tToKW and tw: gore)

Haytham/Charles, chains of command

Re: fill anon

Re: FILL ---------1 of ? -------Enthralled

Re: Role Reversals

Re: fill anon

Re: Dream Catcher - Part 5a

Re: OP

Wonderwall [1/?]

Comply 1/?

Re: Wonderwall [1/?]

Re: Continuing Fill 3 - His Mother's Son

Re: Fill: Rise 1/1 (spoilers for tToKW and tw: gore) OP

Re: Comply 1/?

more than a ship