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
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
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Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

The world isn’t ending, even if Shaun feels like it should be. For now, there is nothing to do-a lot of their equipment has been fried by the solar flares. Nobody knows if the Animus still works; there’s no one to test it on anyway, save for the man sitting in Shaun’s chair, but he’s never been interested in past memories.
His lips are on Shaun’s, kissing away the body-wide numbness and replacing it with a breathless rush-whether it’s hysteria or moans is something Shaun doesn’t know. Eyes stare at him so like another’s that Shaun is momentarily thrown back to a different time, a different place (maybe this is what the Bleeding Effect is like, but there’s no one to ask anymore). There is desperation here, a frantic need to make the past 24 hours disappear, to fill the empty space and silence that has opened up and this is the only way they know how.
Days ago, Shaun had dreamt about one of them, either of them, both of them and had dismissed it as a futile fantasy, something to be explored, if at all, after the crisis was over. Now that those midnight shames and secrets have been fulfilled and Shaun wants to laugh, to cry, to scream at the world that continues obliviously on. He wants to peel away the despair from the man in front of him, to rage and blame everything on the shaking hands grasping at his hips for not being able to hold onto someone, something else. Most of all Shaun wants to pry answers from the hot biting mouth, to ask if he cares, if he ever cared, if he would have wanted this a week ago. Instead he molds his body into the older man’s, kisses William once, twice, three times and closes his eyes.
The world didn’t end, but this is all that’s left.

This started out as Shaun/William smut and turned somehow into a weird, angsty aftermath!Shaun pining for both William and Desmond (what, I don’t even…). Sorry if it’s not what you asked for OP, every time I tried to write it somehow turned into this >.<

http://archiveofourown.org/works/779360/chapters/1467390

AO3 edition is now available. This will update about 48 hours after the chapter is posted here. However, it is cleaned up and there may be a few extra sentences here or there. :)

I admit I am one of those devoted readers, but I have never left a comment because I am terribly shy and never know what to say. ono I-I'm sure there are others who do the same...?

But I just had to say this story is so great, omg. It's so exciting when there's an update!

I love how you write both Connor and Haytham. They're perfect and I just- /flails

I thought all of this chapter was just as good as the rest of the fill, so no worries! But I do hope any future updates don't give you too much trouble :) I'll be here cheering you on! /waves pom poms

Haytham sat patiently, listening to the conversation that bubbled around him. It was a rare treat to be allowed out of the cabin. This wasn't the real world - it was the complex's mess hall - but it wasn't far removed. Charles certainly had been busy.

The atmosphere was cheerful, morale was high, and when Haytham used his second sight it revealed a comforting sea of blue foot soldiers. High above him the ceilings stretched in dark, curved timbers, resembling an upside down boat. It was of a similar structure to the native longhouses that dotted the frontier in clustered communities. Heavy, study slabs of local timber had been converted into work ready tables, and they were used for all manner of activities. Scanning the hall, Haytham spotted weapons being cleaned, papers being reviewed, boardgames being considered, and of course, meals being eaten. There were eleven of these tables, ten of them set up to run parallel with the hall's length, while the eleventh had been arranged at a right angle. This one was smaller than the others, sitting ten people along one side only compared to the twenty for the larger tables. At present it was occupied by several captains and other higher-ranking soldiers.

The space was lit by iron chandeliers and black candelabras that squatted in the middle of the tables, glass domes scattering the candlelight. These men were on the dog's watch - their meal was breakfast rather than supper. Once they had finished, they would relieve their comrades, whom would hurry in, eager to eat and trot off to bed. In total, there were over two hundred men in each shift, and there were three shifts, pushing the current populous of the complex at over six hundred and thirty men.

Construction on the Lodge had been halted, delayed by a rising need for a fence. Initially Lee had hoped that they would be able to disguise the complex as a town, but it hadn't worked out as well as he had expected. Hence the new fence plans. Charles had fumed about it - the Initiation had to be pushed back by a month and a half.

"At least this will give the tailor more time to perfect the ceremonial uniform," Haytham had said and Charles had seemed to calm.

It had been a month and a half since he'd been taken. His hair was growing back with remarkable speed. Yet it would be a while before it was long enough to pull back into a ribbon. But Haytham didn't remember being captured. Not at the present.

As the men left for their watch, the few that passed Haytham tilted their hats respectfully, the others not at all perturbed by the Grand Master in the corner. Charles emerged from somewhere, going against the stream of men trickling out, but finding no difficulty in parting the ocean before him. They naturally separated, clearing a path for their superior.

"Charles," Haytham warmly greeted him. "Have you finished your errands?"

He stood and hooked his arm through Charles'. A flush of pleasure appeared on his companion's face. Haytham chuckled; for such a simple and innocent action, Charles always seemed surprised by it, as if each time was the first that Haytham had decided to display their friendship.

"Yes. They are quite done. However, I wish to show you something before we retire," said Charles.

Such a pup, thought Haytham. So eager to please. Afraid to offend but loyalty and truth comes before preservation of social niceties.

They trotted into the brisk air, heading towards the cabin. Charles turned them away before it was in sight and headed towards the prison-cells. Haytham could hear a steady stream of (remarkably religious) insults wafting through the air, and the voice sounded familiar but he couldn't place it.

Charles pulled back the peephole on one of the cells and gestured for Haytham to look inside. Confused, Haytham did, and spotted a man in an old priest's uniform. He slammed the peephole shut again.

"We do not capture priests," hissed Haytham.

Inside the cell the threats and snarls stopped. Perhaps the priest thought he might soon be free. It was easier to think without damnations being shouted at him from close range.

"He is not a priest, sir. Duncan Little of the Assassins," replied Charles.

"They have sunk to new lows, then," mused Haytham.

"Indeed. What should we do with him?"

Drawing the peephole back again, Haytham leaned in to observe Little pacing the room in agitation. The man snapped his head up at the sound. For a moment, their eyes locked.

"Keep him fed and clean. We can use him as leverage," decided Haytham.

"Very good, Haytham."

The assassin leapt forward and grabbed the iron bars that protected the peephole. Haytham instinctive moved back to avoid any rudimentary weapons the prisoner may have fashioned. They still maintained eye contact.

"You are not Haytham," whispered Little.

He pressed his face closer to the grill, trying to see Haytham in the shadows.

"Connor?" exclaimed Little, but Charles slammed the peephole shut.

Haytham ignored the desperate shouting and pleading that Little made, the sound fading as he and Charles walked away, arm in arm, from the prison cells. Connor was his son. His dead son.

Haytham hoped the fence would be completed soon.

holy fucking shit

i-- i can't

oh my god connor isn't connor any more (please tell me he's not entirely "haytham" yet please please please i need a little glimmer of hope) and duncan is there and he knows something really bad is going down and do i smell an assassin/templar confrontation on the horizon??

and asdfghjkl i loved charles and haytham's friendship (OR IS IT MORE?!1) dynamic in-game, and to see it written here, tied in so well with the dirtybadwrongness of the situation... well, it's almost too much for my poor little heart to take.

tl;dr ilu anon, lots and lots and lots <3 <3 <3

i need this so bad, this is by far one of the most interesting things that i seen in awhile, there needs to be some kenway lovin. right now. please someone make this happen, there's not a lot of thingies out there like this D:

ohh could anyone please do this? sounds awesome! (plus there is indeed not anywhere near enough FedVi stuff out there D: )

Meep. :)

Couldn't help myself?

Glad you like. :)

But yes...Haytham is capable of doing what he thinks needs to be done, even if he really, really doesn't want to.

The quintessential Templar.

A little late, but I still badly want this!

Eh. Not sure what I think, but I did manage to meet my goals. So enjoy!

Strange Fates

Chapter 30 - Endings

Charles paced restlessly in his tent.

He was to meet one of his agents for some reconnaissance and the man was late.

Normally, Charles would have sent another one of his agents in search of the man, but...

Charles went about his duties these days with a distracted air.

He was still both a general in the continental army, seeking to eliminate the influence of the crown in the new world, and second-in-command of the colonial Templars. He had many tasks to oversee, his own battalion to lead, agents to supervise...

But his heart wasn’t in it.

He and Master Kenway were like a pair, each weighted down with moroseness.

He for the child and Master Kenway for his own child.

Charles considered it strange, that his mentor could grieve so when he was the cause of that grief.

But Charles’s mentor had always been a man of great conviction and principle.

He put the Order above anything and everything, even his own heart.

Even his own family.

Charles could not believe it when Master Kenway’s missive had arrived.

He had hoped that, with his willful blindness into the matter, with his one act of disobedience, that the boy, that his child...

Well.

It was no use dwelling on could-have-beens and should-have-beens now.

Master Kenway had shot the Assassin. The boy had fallen from no small height. The other Assassins and Washington had carried off the body, no doubt to give the Master Assassin a proper burial.

There had only been a deep stain of blood left.

Charles’s longed-for child was dead now, his intentions be damned. And he didn’t even have any physical reminder to mourn over.

How vexing.

To fall in love with the child so that he’d even betrayed the Order.

And it had all come to naught.

Charles glanced at the timepiece in his tent and growled.

His agent was very late. He’d have to discipline his men for this.

He was in no mood to suffer incompetence.

Master Kenway was in a foul state after he was forced to kill his son, and the duties of leading naturally fell upon Charles.

He was acting Grandmaster until his mentor regained himself, even if he felt like withdrawing from the world to rage himself.

It was punishment, it must be punishment for wishing to keep the Assassin’s plans secret, for wanting the child that once grew in his belly.

It was too perverse to be anything else and...

A footstep behind him.

Finally, his agent had arrived.

With a growl, Charles whirled around, prepared to verbally lash the man and...

Pain.

Charles choked, doubling over and collapsing and...

His hand automatically went to his throat and came away wet.

He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t...

He stared at his hand, at the red painting it.

Why was it red?

Why...?

Another stab of pain, this time through the heart.

A soft voice whispered in his ear.

“You have caused a lot of harm, Charles Lee. But you have also attempted to do better in the end. Thank you for that. I cannot forgive you, but I will make your end faster than it might have been.”

And with that, the blade twisted, resulting in agony raging through Charles’s body before he mercifully sank into darkness.

He wondered if he would meet his child in an afterlife.

----

George finished penning the missive to General Putnam. Such a tragedy, that the late Charles Lee had been murdered in his own tent by a renegade Redcoat.

They would need to schedule a funeral for the decorated general, as was proper.

Even if George enormously disliked the Alpha for what he’d done to his beloved Wolf, it was important that morale be maintained.

It would demoralize the troops to learn that one of their trusted Generals had been working against them on his own agenda.

George had toyed with the idea of going along the original plan and exposing the man, but, after consulting the Brotherhood on the threat against his person, had decided against it.

The Templar Order was almost entirely defanged, having lost most of its Inner Circle and both Gerhard von Stantten and Frederico Perez besides. The new Inner Circle members were all relatively inexperienced and would worry about succession and internal politics rather than bothering George.

While their accursed Grandmaster was still alive, the man was aging fast. His chosen successor was dead, and many eyes were on the position of second-in-command.

Besides which, the only Templar capable of truly usurping his position was the late Lee. There was no point in exposing the man now.

George sighed.

He felt remorseful, that things had ended the way they did, that he would have to plan the loathsome Lee’s funeral.

After all the Alpha had done to his beloved Wolf, after he had single-handed brought his beloved to this pass, it seemed a bit too easy and too unjust that his death was quick and he would be buried with full honors.

George was not normally a vindictive man, but...

Well, the events of the past few months were enough to try anyone’s patience.

Speaking of which...

He heard a soft football behind him and turned to embrace that white clad figure behind him.

“Connor, you are doing well.”

The Omega smiled and gently grasped his hand.

George laid his head against that rounded belly.

“How is the child?”

A grunt.

“Excitable. I am kicked constantly.”

George grinned as he felt one of those kicks against his cheek.

How lucky he was to have this.

How lucky he was that—

“Your magic ring is a blessed miracle.”

Connor snorted.

“It is hardly a magic ring, merely a trinket from my travels.”

George sobered.

“It saved your life. If you hadn’t been wearing it, then—“

“—The bullet would have killed me, I know, as was my father’s intention.”

And what a chilling thought, that the Templar Grandmaster had been determined to end the life of both his son and that of his grandchild’s.

“Do you blame me?”

George looked at that beloved face.

“Blame you? How can I? If you had not done as you did, then they would have known you were alive. We would never have escaped.”

A clever ploy it had been.

His Connor had realized the opportunity presented by the repelled bullet and used the distraction to drop into the haystack to safety. It was unfortunate that he hadn’t quite fallen correctly due to the weight of the child and managed to stab himself on some sharp implements resting beside it, but it was probably for the best anyhow.

The Templars had evidently seen the blood and concluded that he had died. It allowed his beloved Wolf the time to heal, and then to take out their second-in-command.

George went back to stroking that taut belly.

“Paul is pleased about the news of our wedding,” he murmured.

“You told Paul Revere?”

George chuckled at the grimace in that voice.

“He unfortunately found out when he mistook my correspondence with his own. I hope you don’t mind him being one of our guests?”

The Omega didn’t look too put out.

“If we must.”

It seems that his Omega never forgave his friend for that rather eventful horse-ride.

George didn’t blame him, and if he ever learned that those gropes had been on purpose...

Paul Revere ought to tread carefully.

But now was not the time for such thoughts.

George rested against his beloved Omega.

To finally have Connor, to be safe, to soon be named father to Connor’s child...

George felt content.

He was looking forward to the future.

Finis

Oh wow they get a happy ending for once ;w;

Just... gonna sit here with all my feelings... It's k didn't need my heart anyways.

But seriously good job with all of this. I also hate you for keeping me on the edge of my seat the whole time.

I felt bad for always giving them tragic endings so...happy ending! Sorta. Yay!

Glad you enjoyed the ride. :D Will be taking a short break and seeing if there's any other ideas floating around that head 'o mine.

Haven't quite decided yet.

:O

OMG. Just realized that with the frenetic pace we've been keeping, we basically did Nanowrimo three times over.

Wow...

Omg, anon. I love you. I mean I hate you for making me think he was dead, but I freaking love you as well. Splendid work~

Thanks. :)

To be honest, I did toy with the idea of him actually being dead, but decided that I already put him through the wringer, killed him, and all sorts of other terrible things in my other works. It's only fair that he gets at least one happy ending. :D

Asked and answered! Really fun to get a look into the minds of the other Templars!
Also, daaaaaaaaaaaaaamn! Poor Conner! I'm torn between wanting someone to give him a hug and make things better, and wanting someone to come along a push him over the edge completely to see what would happen. The three personalities within him are simultaneously creepy and awesome. Seriously, I half expected Connor to start having a full-blown fight with Haytham in that last bit.
Can't wait to see where this goes! <3

Oh man, writer!anon you spoil us too much with your speedy updates

And oh shit- Duncan's going to have a hard time dealing with this. Im still holding out hope that there is some of Connor left... just enough for him to be somewhat back to normal with time

poor, poor connor ):

Alrighty, give me a couple of days and lets see what i can do.

Like in many closed communities, internal politics and news were two of the main cornerstones that fueled the members. It kept them amused, since news from New York, Boston, and other industrial powerhouses was limited, months old by the time it reached the complex. When Captain Morgan returned from his respite in New York, he was immediately leapt upon by his men for scraps of information about the outside world.

He had little to give, except for the rumours that the war would soon be at an end. Already the French were pulling out, their naval force collecting troops. It might not be for another few years that peace was officially made, but he was assured that the Templars would be able to flourish in peace. Their fort might not have to be as military-geared in the future. They wouldn’t be disturbed, at any rate. Grand Master Lee had made political amends - they fought for the Patriots now.

Well, that’s what they wanted the Patriots to believe. They fought for themselves.

But Captain Morgan was more interested in the news that they had for him. Was it really true that they had caught another Assassin? The other captains smugly told him that they’d allowed the man to stay at the west outpost thinking he was a missionary, but caught him snooping around the Cabin. Morgan scolded them for being misled by the obvious disguise.

Morgan’s run-in with the Assassin in the Cabin had been the height of humiliation. He’d learned his lesson from the incident - never trust an Assassin. Furthermore, never trust an Assassin strung out on hallucinogenic herbs, and certainly don’t approach them in the depths of a vision. Yet Grand Master Lee had been kind to him. After he had recovered from the concussion, Morgan had been allowed a pass of leave.

So he had left, done the task (however reluctantly, the fear of all that he held precious destroyed being the only motivator to keep Morgan going), and seen his fiancée, collected trinkets and mail, and returned, his social grace within the fort somewhat restored. Later, he would find the prisoner (he couldn’t think of him as Grand Master Haytham, nor did he dare think of the man as Captain Davenport. He was a wraith that haunted Morgan’s dreams) and be freed from his contract. He’d done the task. He’d betrayed his brothers-in-arms. And for what?

His darling Charlotte.

Morgan closed his eyes, brushed off some of the younger men, and joined the officers for a late meal. Such a betrayal. Justified only by love.

***
Stephane currently had a squirmy tailor, pleading for mercy, at his feet and willing to tell him anything.

“Please, don’t do it!” wailed the man.

“And why should I not? I think they would look better without arms.”

“No,” shrieked the tailor. “I said I would tell you anything. I need this commission, you cannot ruin so much work!”

“Tell me who these are for,” demanded Stephane.

The tailor babbled something incomprehensible, tears and frantic sobs distorting his speech. It was pathetic. Stephane had never taken much stock of fashion, and it disgusted him to see such extravagant amounts of money wasted on impractical clothing.

“A man in a cabin. I don’t know where, maybe four hours from here? They come for me at night and keep me blinded until I am left with a few men in a cabin.”

This made Stephane pause, give a forceful tug at the right sleeve. It popped a few stitches, and the horrified gasp was enough to make Stephane stop.

“There is another fitting in three days time. You can follow them quite easily - they put me in a carriage with my equipment,” sniffled the tailor. “I would not lie, please sir. They forced me.”

Settling the garment back on the counter. Ruining a commission wasn’t in Stephane’s interests - he wasn’t about to destroy this man’s livelihood.

“What does this man look like?” asked Stephane. “The one you’re making these robes for.”

Blowing his nose into a handkerchief, the tailor flapped his hand at a mannequin standing in the corner of his tidy, colourful workroom. Calico cushions had been tacked to it, increasing the shoulders to a breadth that Stephane was quite familiar with.

“He’s big. But he has such awkward proportions - his waist is delicate compared to his shoulders. As you can see, I had to rustle up some padding to get my mannequin right.”

There was a drawing tacked above the mannequin, a coat of pale cream and bronze detailing had been artfully conceived, taking in elements of coats Stephane had seen on many military officers. This one had something that made the assassin think of the ocean.

“Yes, and have you ever heard a name?” he pressed.

“Henry. Han. Haymitch, I do not know! I do not try to listen. I did not ask to be involved in this. They threatened to besmirch my business and my family. I have three little ones. They are only paying me out of courtesy.”

Stephane slammed his fist into the counter, upsetting the pin-box, making the tailor jump in unison. Haymitch was close. But he needed the tailor to come to his own conclusion. There needed to be a genuine recollection, not a frantic attempt to get Stephane out of the shop with words that the tailor thought he wanted to hear.

“Merde, man, think,” snapped Stephane.

“It was very close to Haymitch,” mumbled the tailor.

He picked up the pin-box, collecting the strays and dropping them back in. Stephane was about to snap at him that this really wasn’t the time when the man’s eyes widened and he exclaimed, “Haytham! That was definitely it.”

Stephane closed his mouth, nodded, and apologised for the disturbance before running to the closest courier.
•••

“Captain Morgan,” called a voice. “I wish to speak with you.”

A large hand clamped on Morgan’s shoulder, pulling him back. When Morgan spun on his heel, a reprimand on his lips, he jolted in shock. The prisoner was out. The prisoner was out and nobody seemed concerned.

The brown eyes were not the same as when Morgan had last seen them. They did not hold the fire or lust for escape. This was not the same Assassin. Grand Master Lee had been successful then. They’d converted the Assassin.

Morgan swallowed. Converted or not, this was still a dangerous man to be playing games with. To tread carefully would not be enough - crawling across the ice would be more apt than walking.

“Yes, sir,” said Morgan faintly.

He wondered if this was the end. The prisoner ushered him over to the entrance of the mess hall.

“A thousand apologies for knocking you about earlier. When I came to my senses, you had already been taken away. Charles saw fit to keep me bedridden. The doctors say it was a fever,” said the prisoner.

“And you are all better now, sir?” Morgan asked.

“Of course. It was only a fever. Do you forgive me?”

“Yes, as you said, it was only a fever. No lasting damage, sir.”

The prisoner patted him on the back.

“Good man. Now,” and the man leaned against the wall, blocking Morgan from escaping, reminding him of a panther examining it’s prey. “Now, I would like you to tell me about New York.”

“Sir?”

“New York,” repeated the prisoner.

“It went well.”

“No trails?”

“None that lead to me. Your comrades will find you.”

“Very well, you have earned your freedom,” sighed the prisoner, and he leaned back, releasing Morgan.

When the prisoner left, Morgan was filled with an immense sense of relief, like a bullet had whizzed past him, his heat beating madly. Morgan had the feeling that he’d just avoided being sent to the slaughterhouse.

***

Ratonhnhaké:ton thrashed in his bed, screaming. Charles stroked short hair with his palm, a hush slipping from his lips as he kissed the man on his temple. Catching one wildly flailing hand, Charles carded his fingers between Ratonhnhaké:ton's, rubbing his thumb over the back of Ratonhnhaké:ton's hand.

"Ah, sir, it is fine. You are fine," he breathed.

He pulled the blankets up and tucked Ratonhnhaké:ton under his chin. Ratonhnhaké:ton curled tighter and nuzzled against Lee's shoulder.

"The fire is gone. I will protect you," he said.

***

Duncan lay awake, haunted by red curtains and gold trim, an uncle slaughtered, an opera halted.

He sang the notes to himself.

Connor wasn't Connor, and his eyes may not match Haytham's in colour, but the soul-piercing gaze had been inherited.

Haytham was alive. Alive and well in the blood that coursed Connor's veins, transforming him with dark hunger. The rumours had been true. Haytham Kenway may have died, but he wasn't truly dead. The other trail, the more obvious one, the one that said Captain Connor Davenport is being held in a new camp, had also been true.

Both were alive yet dead and yet not.

The tune of the opera stuttered to a halt.

Duncan wept for the fallen.

I really cannot thank you enough for pointing that out. It opened up a whole new section that I wasn't sure how to get across, until you pointed out the guards. For me, creating rituals and closed communities is really fun. I think it underlines the point that the Templars are human as well, and their lower-ranked members are often just as innocent as the other side. It's important to have balance - not all of them are cray cray psychopaths or even ruthless. They're ordinary people that just happen to be part of a small Templar army.

Thank you for reading! The conflict is precisely what I wanted to induce. This is not a soft, fluffy fic and I want it to drag some sort of intense emotion from you. I'm glad that I'm achieving this!

*purrs in content and rolls around* I fucking love you too!

I can't tell you that, because spoilers for the next part, but your keen nose certainly has picked up on a confrontation of some sort. But the Assassins are going to have to get their act together - 630+ men against 5-6 assssins is going to be a tough one. I suspect someone needs to put the recruitment posters up.

To me, Charles and Haytham have a sort of Watson and Holmes relationship. Charles clearly adored Haytham, while Haytham was slightly more reserved in his affection. The early sequences are really interesting, because Charles has a very puppyish demeanour when he's trying to impress Haytham. Yet, I do think they're both on the same intellectual level. There isn't a massive gap like Holmes and Watson, although Charles seems to downplay himself a little. And the thing is, in this time period, men had really good male friends. They would take a bullet for each other. They would link arms in public. They would set up business together. (And jump redcoats together). They were close, and would keep that friendship strong until they died.

Uhm, yeah. That's my two cents on it.

I write fast because if I don't, l'll start procrastinating on it. And that's bad. Because even though I love the stories I tell, I get scared of what people expect of me. Whereas if I keep going, then that fear is gone. It's all about keeping the flow going. :)

Duncan will probably have the worst of it. After all, Haytham killed Duncan's uncle. That's a horribly traumatic event for anyone.

Thanks for reading!

OP: 0.0 <---my face when reading this

Wow, that was awesome and so creepy. Dang, Charles works really fast. I feel so bad for Connor! It's so weird reading his thoughts as Haytham now. And poor Duncan, this must be driving him crazy. I love this fic so much,I can't wait for the next bit ^_^

Hello, this is AuthorAnon. I've been pretty sick this past week, and its made writing pretty difficult. There will be a new chapter, I promise. It just might take awhile.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Fill Fail

Grief's Madness - AO3 Edition

Re: Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 18 / ? ]

Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6

Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6

Re: Connor/Haytham/Edward

Re: How Federico and Vieri's not-so-secret relationship became even less of a secret

Re: Strange Fates 29

Re: Strange Fates 29

Re: Connor/Haytham, post-game, broken!Connor, noncon

Strange Fates 30

Re: Strange Fates 30

Re: Strange Fates 30

Re: Strange Fates 30

Re: Strange Fates 30

Re: Strange Fates 30

Re: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)

Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6

Re: OP

Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)

Re: Grief's Madness 5/? (TW: as above)

Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6

Re: Grief's Madness 7/? (TW: as above) previous part should've been 6

Re: Grief's Madness 8/? (TW: as above)

AuthorAnon