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

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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
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a continuation?! so awesome!!! i'm glad you made them both went inside the fort (as i always wanted and dreamed ^_~). although it was a bit different with the storyline of the game for the fort but you successfully made the story fit for both of them with the awesomeness interaction. loving it as always :)

keep writing, ya? don't let us keep hanging :DD

um.. thirded! pretty please?

is thirded a word? mine got a red underline under it. oh well.

this comes after having accidentally summoning them both in combat and watching them get shot and injured. so some gen and possible h/c would be lovely thanks

Different anon here! I might have written 90% of a half sort-of-smutty, half character study awkward romance thing... will post later if that's all right?

Not OP, but this anon would love to see it. :)

Connor finally decides that his fingers are slick enough, and removes them from Haytham’s mouth. “Spread your legs,” he commands, voice as blunt as always. Haytham obeys, the muscles in his arms tensing as he shifts even more of his weight forward to compensate for the odd stance. One of Connor’s hands digs into Haytham’s hip, and the older man knows that he’ll have bruises in the morning. It’s really a rather nice thing to realize.

But then Connor’s other hand is pressing impatiently at his entrance and Haytham isn’t sure who the hell is moaning so loudly but it cannot be him, really, he has more control than this, except that the noise stops at the exact same time that Connor claps one hand over his father’s mouth, and Haytham just keeps rocking back onto Connor’s finger, except that it’s not just one, Connor’s worked a second one in while Haytham had been distracted and it’s been too long, Haytham is very slowly falling apart in his son’s hands. He bites the hand that’s over his mouth, making Connor yelp and pull it away.
Being quiet is important, and Haytham is fully aware of this fact, but breathing is also a vital part of really any activity.

Connor growls after the initial shock of being bit, and shoves Haytham’s face roughly against the wall. “This is not yours to control,” he hisses in his father’s ear, viciously forcing another finger inside the older man. Haytham gasps, and he twitches in an indeterminable direction. He wants- something, and it’s really been far too long since he last surrendered himself like this, and Connor is rough in all the right ways, and Haytham pushes down onto the fingers inside him and groans desperately.
Haytham isn’t going to be able to walk properly tomorrow, he can already tell. But Connor is just teasing him, long fingers stroking roughly, Haytham trying to suppress the desperate moans escaping him. It’s not working very well, but Connor isn’t going to try to stop his father again. Instead, he bites down, hard, on the side of Haytham’s neck, pulls his fingers from the older man’s body, spits into his hand, slicks himself, shoves inside roughly.

Haytham gasps at the suddenness of Connor’s cock inside him. It’s too big, too rough, and God, is it perfect. Connor is rocking his hips in tiny circles, letting Haytham try to adjust, and the older man is grateful for the gesture, because Connor is, frankly, enormous. He lets his head rest against the wall, moaning softly, half out of the pain. When he was younger, Haytham reflects, he would have handled this much better. Now, though, he is out of practice, and far too deprived.
When Connor hesitates, Haytham hisses between gritted teeth, “If you don’t fuck me hard and now, I swear I will k-” Haytham breaks off with a rough cry, Connor not even trying to silence him now as he fucks harshly into his father. One of Connors hands slides around Haytham to tug at his cock, the pace of both hips and hand brutally rough. Haytham is crying out on near every thrust, and Connor is growling into the back of his neck, and it’s too much but not enough all at once.

Haytham leans most of his weight against the wall, making his hips push back against Connor’s at an entirely new angle and- oh. Haytham chokes back a shout when the change in angle combined with a particularly rough thrust results in Connor’s cock pressing roughly against his prostate, loses all ability to restrain himself when Connor, always quick to learn, does it again and again, the hand on Haytham’s cock speeding up and Haytham comes with a yell, his seed painting the brick wall in front of him in long white stripes. It takes a few more thrusts for Connor to come, Haytham still panting against the wall, letting out occasional whimpers of overstimulation. Connor snarls when he comes. Haytham is almost dissappointed; he’d half expected the boy to howl. Haytham can feel Connor’s release dripping down the inside of his thighs.

When Connor slumps to sit on the ground, legs feeling like jelly, Haytham grunts softly as his son’s limp cock slides out of him, and lets himself be caught by gravity as well, ending up sitting in Connor’s lap. They sit like that for a few minutes, recovering the ability to breathe, each lost in his own thoughts. When they do stand and dress, they do so quickly and silently, and go their own ways into the night. Connor leaps easily onto the rooftops; Haytham, walking with a considerable limp, opts to remain on the ground on his way home.

In the morning, he will be torn between feeling like he’s won a battle, and feeling like he should puke. Connor will make the decision for him when he climbs in the window, forces Haytham’s head back against the pillows, and kisses him roughly.

gosh i would love to see this!

YES PLEASE. I want this so hard.

Dammit I am so tempted to fill this prompt, but I don't know how and I don't want to ruin it with my shitty writing skills which I suffer from when I don't know how to approach a prompt. T.T

Post more soon!!!!

I vote Haytham!!!

Hello, this is the awkward romance but actually really terrible smut with a splash of half-made-up character study thrown in for good measure. There may be a sequel, haven't decided yet. I hope this is all right, OP.

The air feels heavy, somehow. He's too hot, they both are. Whether that's the alcohol still slowly burning their throats and clouding their minds, or the sweltering summer heat not yet fully dissipated, Duncan's not entirely sure. What he is sure of, however, is that in this particular moment, this moment he'll regret later and pray to the Lord to wash away his sin of sex outside of marriage (even if it's just a hand job), he loves the taste of Clipper and whiskey on his tongue.

He can't get enough of the feeling of Clipper's flesh against his and the rough, inexperienced strokes the other man uses over them both and the teeth and tongue ravaging his mouth. He's braced against the wall, one hand gripping Clipper's cropped hair, the other running over the scarred skin and slight muscle of the other man's body. Their trousers are bunched around their thighs, and there is oil slicking their skin, just enough to make the friction feel fantastic. Clipper gasps into his mouth as Duncan rolls his hips into his grasp and God it feels so good.

He's high on lust, drunker than he's ever been, and he can't bring himself to give a damn if the other hear what they're up to or not. They probably wouldn't care all that much, though Connor would probably faint and he's not sure if he'd be able to handle the inevitable stares and whispers of the morning after. He can trust the Brotherhood not to turn them into the watchmen, though, which is something. But that't not why there's a little niggling feeling of doubt and guilt at the back of his mind.

He groans as Clipper's fingers slide lightly around the head of his cock. Duncan kisses him harder, squeezing Clipper's arse in appreciation. More. He needs more. Just a little more.

The guilt is there because this is something he's wanted for a long time. Though he'd kept fastidiously to his vow of celibacy while still ordained, his missionary work had been something of an eye-opener. The tribes he'd been sent to 'save' had, in fact, saved him. He wasn't sure exactly what he thought of their spirit-based religions, other than that they had the same basis of kindness and compassion that his Christianity sprung from. In all honesty, he'd not paid much attention to that, he'd been far more interested in their relationships. Specifically, the sort that could've gotten him hung at home (and still could, his brain reminds him).

The particular region he'd been based in had quite varied practices, when it came to things like gender and sexuality. Women dressing as men, men dressing as women, the very idea had shocked him at first, but it made a certain kind of sense. After all, some men were more suited to feminine things, just as some women were suited to masculine pursuits. He'd read up on the neighbouring tribes' polygamy and polyandry on the way over, not quite believing until he saw with his own eyes that people could live so differently. And the idea that some of these tribes not only allowed couples to be of the same gender, but also celebrated such unions… well, that had been quite the culture shock.

Ultimately, it had been that experience that had prompted him to leave the Church. He still believed, of course. He believed strongly in the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary and the Lord of All, the Trinity, the Beginning and End. But he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that they were the only right path to goodness or God and he'd become disillusioned, especially where men like himself were concerned. The inverts. The condemned. The unsalvageable.

In this particular moment, he can't believe that this sort of union is wrong. It feels so right, after all. Like their bodies were made for each other, that this was meant to be somehow. He'll feel differently in only a few hours, unsure how to approach Clipper in the morning, not knowing whether they're still best friends or something more or if their relationship has regressed into that of awkward strangers.

The wonderful tension in his gut is building, and he can't help but wonder if it's more intense than he ever remembers it being because he's too drunk to recall properly or because it's another man's hand on him, another body pressed against his own. He wonders if this feeling is gratitude or lust or even if it is love. He doesn't know, and he doesn't have the mind to ponder further. He's close, so close.

He whimpers into Clipper's mouth, and he knows Clipper is almost at the edge, with the way his hands are jerking faster and their hips are moving more urgently and the way Clipper's body trembles. Clipper moans in reply, and Duncan comes, long and hard and the breath is knocked out of him completely.

When he opens his eyes, unsure as to when he'd closed them, Clipper has already come as well. They lean against one another for a moment, regaining their breath and composure. Finally, Duncan takes a deep breath and lifts his head from the crook of Clipper's shoulder. He hesitates a moment, before kissing him at the corner of the mouth, a small thanks. Clipper gives him a small smile, and steps aside, allowing them to clean up as best they can despite their clumsy hands and intoxicated minds.

Duncan stumbles his way to one of the beds in the room, and flops down. He can already feel sleep threatening to take him, amongst the little niggling of doubt and guilt at the back of his mind. He's vaguely aware of Clipper crawling onto the hard mattress beside him; he knows that he ought to move or lock the door or something, so that nobody will know what they've just done if they come in, but he's too exhausted to care. Besides, this is Stephane's inn, the only people here for tonight and most of tomorrow are the people he trusts the most in the world.

At this moment, when reality is detaching and the blissful void of sleep beckons and Clipper is so warm, his arms wrapped around Duncan, everything seems just right.

im crying i love this so much thank you

and this is the original anon here! i will try to get something more on the gen h/c side for you either today or tomorrow!

i really never knew how much i needed this ship in my life until i read this fic. now i will go cry over how perfect this is and how there is nothing else of these two

I'm so sorry for not noticing this AMAZING AND BRILLIANT fill until now ;A;
God this was so hot and steamy and just... just everything I ever wanted Aghhghhh
Thank you A!A You made this OP's life so happy!!!! I... God, I need to re-read this. /runs away

Has anyone ever been to a Cirque de Soleil show? Well, remember everything that you saw...and now imagine the acrobatic, toned circus performers leaping and dancing and strutting all over the stage wearing flamboyant and colorful costumes and makeup as Assassin Brotherhood.

Just let that sink in...sleep on it...wait for...now write it!

shh...shh...there, there, I still love you so don't let this bring you down; you will prevail! :D

Strange Fates

Chapter 7 - An Eavesdropper

It was the flash of white cloth that drew Charles’s attention. After Master Haytham had refreshed the memory of all the Templars of their ancient enemy, Charles now likened the image of white with the Brotherhood, those persons who were deluded by naïve ideals and hypocrisy.

And so he stopped in mid-step, halfway to General Braddock’s tent to discuss upcoming strategies.

He glanced at the tent that he had seen that very brief flash of white and noted with alarm that it was Washington’s tent.

So.

The alliance between the Assassins and Washington may have been advancing somewhat.

This bore looking into.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he swiftly and silently made his way over to the commander’s tent. His duties as a patriot may have commanded that he meet with General Braddock, but his duties as a Templar demanded that he find out if their position was compromised within the continental army. Braddock could wait.

He slipped into the tall winter shrubs that littered the floor around the tent and placed one ear to the rough fabric, hoping to catch wind of what was being discussed inside.

“Connor,” a voice that must have been George Washington began, “what is wrong? Your letter sounded so unlike you and...”

“I, George, I...”

There was a brief pause.

“I should not have come here. I am sorry, George, I cannot, I...”

A light scuffle, the sound of a sob.

Charles raised his eyebrows in disbelief. From what he had seen of the Assassin, the boy was rather cold and controlled with all emotions except anger. For the boy to be in such a state...

He leaned his head closer to the tent. If something momentous had happened to the hated Brotherhood, if there was news to be had, then the Templars needed to know.

It could be vital for their position in the new world.

“Connor, Connor,” Washington soothed. “It’s alright. Whatever it is, it’s alright. I’ve got you.”

“You will detest me George. You will look upon me with contempt, and I am not sure if I can bear that.”

Charles blinked. Surely he had not heard that right. Surely the Omega Assassin hadn’t meant that the way he thought the boy meant it.

It was too ghastly to think of such a useless Alpha as Washington involved with someone quite as capable as the Master Assassin. Thorn in Charles’s side or not, the boy was talented, and even he deserved better than Washington.

“No, Connor, no. I could never hold you in contempt. Not you. Not for anything. You’ve done so much for me, and you mean so much to me, that I could never...”

So it was true.

Charles felt like retching at the image that came to mind. The Assassin’s sinewy body under Washington’s. The boy’s pretty amber-brown eyes gazing with adoration and love into Washington’s.

Even a half native deserved better than Washington.

“George, I—“

There was another silence, and Charles leaned forward to hear more.

“I have been feeling ill. I went to see Doctor White, and he said that...”

“That?”

“He thought I was, I am...pregnant.”

Charles nearly fell over.

Pregnant?

“Pregnant?” Washington echoed.

Another wretched sob.

“I think that when...that...happened in the jail, that he...”

Charles could hear the Assassin’s breath quicken from inside the tent.

“I was in heat, and it was the first time that...”

Another silence.

“I am so sorry George. I am so, so sorry. I did not mean for...”

“Connor.”

The harsh breathing quieted, and both Charles and the Assassin awaited Washington’s response.

“My dearest Connor. It is I who am sorry.”

Charles was disbelieving. Oh really?

“Sir?”

“It was in my defense that you came to this. It was in my defense that you were assaulted so. It was because of me that you now carry a...”

A bastard.

Charles’s bastard.

Charles’s breath hitched as he realized just what it was he’d heard.

Connor, the Master Assassin, their bane, was now carrying his child.

Astounding.

Simply astounding.

And what it could mean for their plans!

He could seize both mother and child! The law would be on his side.

The unwed Omega, pregnant. Why, if Charles claimed the child, then he could raise the child as he pleased.

And with the child in his grasp, the mother would have to surrender, would have to give up the Brotherhood foolishness.

It was perfect!

They had been planning on ambushing the Brotherhood and eliminating the threat altogether, but that was both troublesome and risky.

This was fate favoring him. This was the law, societal expectations, the world giving him their blessings.

Nothing could go wrong.

“Connor, I had planned to ask when things were better, when you were more recovered from your ordeal, but I worry for you now, for what can happen to you if people find out that you carry a child and are unwed...”

A sigh.

“I know. I know your people, your culture and your cities. I know how I would be viewed and the danger. It would be different for my people, but I do not wish to leave you in this war alone...”

Charles sneered. As soon as he gained control of the boy and the child, that would cease. It was lunacy to fight a war pregnant. He wasn’t of the antiquated belief that Omegas needed to be tied down and waited on hand and foot for the entire nine months, but he drew the line at actual combat.

“Are you keeping it? I have heard Omegas speak of herbs and medicines that...”

Charles tensed. If the Assassin planned to rid himself of the babe...

“I had thought about it. I do not know.”

It wasn’t the rejection that Charles had been hoping for.

“In truth, a part of me wishes to rid myself of this before it goes any further. I hate what was done to me. I hate the father and what he did to me. I hate that he took advantage of my heat. I hate him.”

“But?” Washington prodded.

“But I have also wanted a family for a long time. And this child, despite its father, may be the only family I am allowed. And that part of me wants to keep it. It is a new hope for me, I think, despite the way it was conceived.”

And despite himself, Charles could feel a welling of respect for the Assassin. He was strong.

“Oh Connor.”

He was as strong as Washington was weak.

“I am surprised, commander, that you ask such. Does not your culture, your religion forbid it?”

“I am a student of history, my Wolf.”

Wolf? What a ridiculous name.

“I know well enough that, before Christianity made its way to the great nations of the West, some of our nations allowed its people to kill children already born and with some years. The church views children and procreation within marriage as a religious duty, but it is not one wholly embraced by the people.”

“And you? What do you think?”

“I would leave the choice to you, my dear Connor. It is not my place.”

No, it wasn’t. It was Charles’s place.

“But I would make it easier if I could. So, dearest Connor...”

Charles could make out the sound of cloth shifting. The Assassin gasped softly.

“I love you and want to offer you the only protection I can. Will you marry me?”

A silence.

A deep and dark silence for Charles, who fumed outside the tent and dreamt of rending Washington to shreds.

The man would not dare to get in their way again. Not again.

“George, I...you are too good to me. I cannot allow you to waste your life with me when I carry another man’s child. Not just to protect me. I cannot...”

“Connor, Connor. You misunderstand me. I want to protect you, yes, but my love for you came from before this thought. Since I first met you, I was intrigued, then inspired and then bewitched by you. You are the single most amazing Omega I have ever met, and I can safely say that I have fallen in love with you.”

Another silence.

“If, if you truly do not wish to be with me, then I understand. But know this, I will never look at another Omega. I desire only you. You mean so much to me, and I—“

Washington was horribly cut off, and George thought he could hear heavy breathing. And then a sickeningly wet sound.

Like that of two lovers separating from a kiss.

“Then yes, George. Yes! I love you, I love...”

Another wet sound, followed by the sound of clothes being removed.

Charles abruptly jerked away from the tent.

He needed to report this to Master Kenway. He needed...

He needed to kill Washington.

For even daring to think about becoming the father to his child.

OMG! OMG! OMG! This chapter was amazing! The marriage proposal and Charles finding out about the pregnancy >__< Oh, anon how am I supposed to wait until tomorrow night for more??? Especially knowing that Charles is going to spill the news to Haytham ... and are George and Connor finally taking their relationship to the next level? O_O /plasters self against the tent/

Also, is there another General Braddock other than Edward?

Falling behind today thanks to my bratty nephew who just drove me crazy for hours. So may not post anything tonight.

Reader!anons, you all are making your writer!anon turn into a giant pile of goo on the floor, okay? To the two anons who read this whole thing in one sitting, I applaud you and thank you for your enthusiasm, and I am honored (and absolutely delighted!) that something I've written would prompt such a response. And to the anon who had been lurking around before, thank you for following this story since the start! Annnnd thank you for breaking from the norm and commenting! I am most flattered that you would do that for me. *^*

And last but not least, to the first anon who commented, it was hard killing off Jamie. I've actually shied away from character death several times already for this story, but it just... had to be done this time. :( But um, yes, I hope I don't disappoint with the rest of the fic. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your lovely comment!

So now that I've rambled enough... The next part, from your slow writer!anon to you lovely, lovely reader!anons. ♥

***

Day One Hundred and Eighty-Seven
Escaping Bridewell Prison turned out to be easier than escaping the city proper. The confusion surrounding the gallows gave both men enough cover to slip out unnoticed, but once they were out on the open streets, there wasn’t really any good way to hide the fact that they were carrying around a dead man.

Walking the horses gave too many individuals the opportunity to gawk and draw attention to them, while galloping their rides through the streets was hardly any better, snarled with people as they were. By the time they’d managed to get halfway down the block, they had no choice but to trample all in their path in the hopes of escaping the droves of militia that were now on their tail. The frontier was their only hope of escape, and it was toward that destination that they rode.

Time and time again, Haytham was tempted to tell the boy to leave the Assassin’s body behind. It hampered his riding, which slowed him down, and it also meant that traveling by foot and escaping to the rooftops were not really viable options either. It irritated him to no end, but to see the determination on his son’s face made him swallow whatever words of protest that sat at the tip of his tongue; Haytham had done enough damage in the boy’s life, and for once, he would not try to do more harm.

It was only when the soft embrace of twilight enveloped them that they were able to shake off their pursuers after many hours of looping, circling, and backtracking through the forest. They had ridden largely in silence, what few words they shared were terse and to the point; this was, Haytham felt, more than just because they were being chased. The expression Connor wore was frozen in a mask, and he seemed a touch too focused on the task at hand, like he was trying to mask another emotion behind his concentration.

He would not pry though, would not do anything aside from press a hand to the boy’s shoulder when they at last stopped for the night. Haytham assumed that he was still mourning the loss of his brother, even if he had put up a brave front while they had still been in the city; the woods did, in a way, have a way of making a man feel sentimental.

He, too, could feel its effects upon him, and he hated it. Haytham could think of nothing but bronzed skin beneath his fingertips, proud eyes, and soft lips beneath his own. It did not matter how much he tried to work on their next plan of action; his thoughts would continue to turn toward his son until at last he gave up, allowing himself to wallow in his feelings.

They would eventually bury Colley at the base of the tallest tree in the area, and they did so in near silence, with Connor murmuring something in his native tongue as they settled the earth over the freshly dug grave. Haytham was not a religious man and had no idea if the Assassin was, but he hoped that the individual had found peace, somewhere and somehow.

When the task was completed, Connor thanked him again for allowing him the time to do this--to give his brother a proper burial despite the risk that it put the both of them at--and Haytham had merely smiled, bittersweet. Pain was still etched in the features of the boy’s face, but there was nothing he could do to erase it. For too long, he was not the father that he should have been, and while their relationship was patched now, he was still not the father he should be and never would be, given all that had transpired between them.

What comfort he could give would be found in gentle caresses and soft kisses, but it felt... wrong at this moment. So, he did nothing.

By the time they arrived back in Philadelphia, Haytham felt as if he had gone mute, seeing as he’d hardly spoken for days now. The sounds of the city were loud and grating upon his nerves after the quiet of the woods, but his mood lightened a little when he saw Mrs. Langley waiting for them in the open doorway of the Kenway home.

--Even Connor managed to crack a smile when the woman came over and pulled them both into a fierce embrace.

The joy, however, was short-lived. No more than a few hours had passed since their return that his son came to seek his company in the privacy of his bedchambers, his expression serious and his gaze revealing a sorrow he still would not voice. “I must return to the Homestead,” he said quietly. “Lee will not be satisfied with the results from Bridewell Prison.”

The words, “And he will want to finish the job,” hung unsaid in the air.

“And?” Haytham turned away from his dresser, hands automatically moving to fold behind his back; he had been expecting this. To be quite honest, he was surprised that Connor had not taken them straight there. Perhaps he had needed time for his grief to stew, for the anger he felt to rekindle his need for action. Well, it didn’t matter; the time had finally come. “What will you do?”

As much of a fiasco as the execution had been for them, Charles had fared no better. One of the Assassins was now gone from this world, but he’d failed to kill the rest whom he flushed out, and now? Now the general had no more cards to play, no more victims to put out on display and draw the Brotherhood to him. No, if he wanted access to them, Charles would have to go to the Assassins--to the Homestead, which was, logically speaking, their last stronghold.

“I will kill him,” Connor replied simply, arms folding across his chest as if daring Haytham to challenge him.

He rolled his eyes and made a soft, irritated noise. “Do you think he will march there alone, boy? Do you think that he’s that much of a fool?

“He has many men of the Order at his disposal. He has led armies. What will you do against such odds?”

“My brothers--”

“--Are battered and lost. Will you still send them into battle when their best hope is for a quick and painless death?”

“We have won against greater odds before,” Connor countered, the volume of his voice growing with his irritation now. “Do not try to stop me, father.” Those words came out as a snarl. “Lee will die by my hands.”

Anger welled up within him, flaring like it had when he’d stopped Connor from riding for New York. Again and again, the boy insisted on doing everything on his own, and Haytham could not help but feel a touch offended that he did not think to ask him for assistance, especially given all that he’d done for that worthless Brotherhood of his thus far.

“Your memory is poor. Must I remind you again that we share a common enemy?” he muttered, giving his son an irritated look. “He will come at you with as many men as he can muster, so I ask you this: why do you not do the same?”

“I cannot ask the Homesteaders to fight. There are only the seven--” Connor froze for a moment, gaze dropping toward the ground. “There are only the six of us. Who else is there?”

“You forget the men I have at my beck and call.”

The boy lifted his eyes, brow creased and lips curled into a frown. “I do not understand.”

“It’s quite simple,” Haytham answered, taking a step closer to his son. “You need men to help you protect the Homestead, and I--” He pressed a hand to his chest and forced a smirk to his lips. “--command the other half of the Order. Surely you don’t need me to explain the rest.”

“Your men would never fight for an Assassin cause.”

No, they wouldn’t. On this matter, Haytham had to agree wholeheartedly with his son, but the difference was that he already had a plan in mind. True, he’d be gambling a little here, relying entirely on his son’s fiercely loyal heart and unfailing desire to protect those he cared for, but it was because of those very things that he could not help but feel surer of this plan than many others he’d put together over the years.

“But they’ll fight for a Templar one.”

When Connor said nothing, Haytham looked down at his hand, fingers toying with the silver ring he found there. With a quiet sigh, he removed it and then grabbed the boy’s wrist, turning his palm upwards before depositing the item there.

“An Assassin takes on many guises to accomplish his goals,” he said, slowly curling Connor’s hand into a fist for him. “Think of this as one of them.”

He didn’t want to help the Brotherhood, not really, but to save them was to earn his son’s unswerving aid in finding and disposing of Charles. To have the boy be a Templar--a real Templar--would have filled him with an unspeakable warmth and happiness, but right now, Haytham would have to be satisfied with this lie that he himself suggested.

Pressing his hands against the boy’s arms, he pat them gently before moving away, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder. “May the Father of Understanding guide us, hm?”

OMG. I did not mean to write Braddock. This is what happens when you write fic after you're tired and everything...

Meant to write General Putnam.

._.

Good luck with family. :) Aww...nephew are adorable. :D

Heh, no problem anon, but for a moment I thought Charles was reliving a flashback, maybe how he started hating George for being Edward's second in command or something. Going to go back to rereading... because this chapter is just too amazing.

I sense upcoming tragedy, because soon Connor will not be in any condition to fight against both Charles and Haytham.

:D

Glad you like it!

Haven't quite thought that far ahead (I'm winging this somewhat), but deciding between two options, one of which is more tragic.

two options, one of which is more tragic

o_o oh?

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [8.5/?]

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Where Did You Learn That? (3/3)

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OP LOVES YOU ;A;

Cirque du Assassin

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Strange Fates 7

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Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 17 / ? ]

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