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

Haytham panics when his hair starts going grey. Someone points out that it's still lush and thick, and his hairline isn't receding, so what does it matter?

Because let's face it, Haytham is a sexy fucker in the first sequences and evolves into a silver fox later in life. Goddamn.

I liked it XD

SECONDED SO HARD HNNNNGGGGHHH

Anon will commence the writing! xD

I will be bookmarking the gay out of this post <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Thirded!

Not OP!Anon but, awww this was so cute anon, thanks for writing it! I would like to read Haytham's reaction when he discovers his newfound son and Achilles are hanging out muahahahah

So Connor really doesn't seem to be okay with people touching him. That's okay, but I'd really like to
see a fic which involves this detail in a non-angsty way. No rape stories and none of that terrible
stuff, but just Connor simply and plainly not liking being touched by people just like that. So hey,
what if the guy just likes his personal space and thinks it feels weird having strangers pawing
at him? Like there's just that... Unease.

Perhaps Connor could explain this to someone (not Haytham, please) as they pester him about it.

Or perhaps it could be a true show of trust and acceptance when one day this particual person pats
Connor on the shoulder and the assassin is totally chill with it, no angry glares or nervous twitching.

And you know... maybe just maybe eventually it could get a little intimate eventually, involving all
kinds of touching and a eventually relaxed and confused but cuddly assassin.

Anyhow, do want fic that involves Connor and his love for personal space.
If there is pairings to be
involved, please have it be someone Connor actually likes, so no Templars, no incest and no snark
heavy relations.

OP!Anon

Eeee GOOD JOB ACHILLES :D

Somebody plz fill this, i want to see william with haytham... A dad to dad bitchfest about thier sons woukd be awesome :)

I'm on it.

yesss anon is my hero

I'm in the middle of writing solo Connor fantasizing about Washington, if that's good enough for the time being. I'll come back when it's finished. I am also in great need of this pairing, halp.

Taking down Washington is not just the will of the Templars - Charles is also fueled by his own jealousy and anger over being passed up for role of Commander by a man he considers his inferior. While still under Washington's command, frustration come to a head and Charles decides to take him down a peg. How badly and how far is up to you. Brutal, twisted - anything goes - but this is a personal vendetta to humiliate and dominate; the Templars' real plan has not yet been set in motion.

I was replying to OP feeling dumb about it, that's all.

I had no idea I need this but I want this so bad!

I see xD

That's what I get for not playing FF. I keep meaning to and then never do.

... wrong on so many different levels. DO WANT!!!

"Stretch. Stretch slowly, that's good," said Achilles, tenderly grasping the end of the wing in his hand.

There was a sharp popping noise as bones shifted and settled into place. Connor leaned into his chair, hugging the backrest, trying not to stiffen in response. His wing felt numb for a moment, but feeling came flooding back, more delicate, nuanced feeling, as the nerves properly communicated and the bones moved without scraping over each other. He could feel Achilles' hand, gripping the primary muscles.

His other wing fluttered, twitching and jerking as he tried to gain finer control over them. Many of their actions were determined by instinctual emotion, particularly when threatened or alarmed. They were strangely beautiful, in a way. Their colour wasn't anything special - they weren't jet black, like his hair - but under strong sunshine, he could make out russet and gold. Moving them felt good, almost pleasurable, the flexing of the muscles leaving a nice pang of connection.

Connor's toes wriggled as Achilles straightened a few of his feathers. It was a ticklish feeling, but he let the grooming go on, curving his other wing around to inspect it. A couple of downy feathers fell out as Connor fiddled with them. Satisfied, he pulled them in, folding them against his back. It was almost a velvet texture against his back, like the fabrics that they used for curtains in the fancy buildings he sometimes visited.

The primary feathers only just brushed the ground as he walked, a relief for keeping them clean. He may have had a big wingspan but the feathers were broader rather than longer. He used to slouch, much to the chagrin of Achilles who'd tried every trick in the book to make him stand straight, including a stack of books on his head. The wings forced his back into a perfect posture. It made Connor feel uncomfortable - such military-esque precision and control only served to highlight the obvious physical similarities between Haytham and himself.

If he was honest, truly, deeply honest, then Connor hated his face. He wasn't a vain man but anyone not entirely blind (and even then, Connor was sure that a blind man would be able to feel it) could see that Connor was related to Haytham in some way. If they had half a brain cell, they could figure out that Connor was Haytham's bastard. The only thing he liked about his face were the freckles, and that was stretching it since they had faded considerably in his adolescence. Therefore, he hated his straight posture even as Achilles rejoiced. He kept quiet - if it made his mentor happy then it couldn't be half bad. It made him feel sick regardless.

"I need air," he said abruptly, almost knocking over his chair as he stood.

"Take the shawl," replied Achilles.

The older man was entirely unfazed by Connor's switch in moods. It happened regularly enough that he could almost time when it was going to happen. Something about being inside made Connor snappish and restless. Now he had another reason for his burning desire to sty outside.

Flinging the brightly coloured, long, thick shawl over his shoulders, Connor tramped outside, not bothering with shoes. It had rained recently and the mud felt good between his toes. Aimlessly, he walked to the stables to check on his mare. She was cantankerous as usual, tossing her head when she discovered he'd not brought her any carrots. Someone had been grooming her in his absence for her coat shone and her hooves were free of muck. Connor gave her nose a quick rub before she tried to snap at him.

The sun was setting, the homestead bathed in a serene pink and orange light, a light which was rapidly fading into the twilight. Connor stared at the woods, at the glimmering lights beyond, where the people of his community were settling down for the night, unseen but happy and safe. He looked over his shoulder to his beautiful ship, her sails tightly furled, her lanterns extinguished so she couldn't be spotted from the ocean by bounty hunters. Noises - animals calling, crying, reuniting, hunting, sleeping, a sigh and rustle of leaves like a thousand ghosts sharing secrets in a language that nobody knew; the smells - pine needles, moist earth, rich and heady, a tang of smoke from distant fireplaces, the fragile scent of the night flowers, and soon, the scent of dew. Nothing would accurately describe how the wilderness affected Connor, how he needed it in order to keep his spirit healthy, how the experience of just standing somewhere and letting it play out around him transcended any form of love he had known or will ever know. It was pure. A meditation. A contemplation. It stripped away all of the hate, fear, and betrayal that coiled and grew in his heart, it gave him focus.

Connor opened his eyes again, realising he'd dropped his shawl and was standing on the end of a tree-trunk overlooking the cove, arms outstretched. His wings were spread, testing the winds - there was a good updraft, a strong starting point for his first attempt at flying. The water below would break his fall if he failed.

Then logic got to him. The water would drag him down, wings too heavy to swim with, the breeze was just that - a breeze, and was too erratic to sustain him, and most importantly, his wings weren't strong enough, the bones and muscles twitching from the last physical session with Achilles.

Oh, but what a feeling it would be to fly. Even better than falling from the top of buildings to land in hay. Better than jumping from tree to tree, building to building, making each leap appear to be easy enough that anyone could do it.

Folding his wings, Connor lightly hopped from the branch, retrieving his shawl and wrapping it over his shoulders to appease Achilles. With one more wistful glance at the bay, he went inside to wash the mud from his feet.

Oh Haytham. You're still stupidly attractive no matter what your hair colour. Seconded!

When the wing popped and feeling started circulating, I could almost feel it, I'm enjoying this fill so fucking much. I love how you write Connor (the details about posture just make so much sense, both for Connor and Achilles) and I'm so in love with this fic!

Nothing would accurately describe how the wilderness affected Connor, how he needed it in order to keep his spirit healthy, how the experience of just standing somewhere and letting it play out around him transcended any form of love he had known or will ever know. It was pure. A meditation. A contemplation. It stripped away all of the hate, fear, and betrayal that coiled and grew in his heart, it gave him focus.

*whimpers and curls up in a blanket* I could read this all day!

Prompt based on this glorious picture:

http://all-i-want-is-maliks-dick.tumblr.com/post/36122775493/okay-guys-this-is-my-commission-from-mightier

Altair/Ezio/Connor/Desmond comfort smut is optional if very welcome.

A/N: Not sure if this is exactly what you are looking for... it's definitely cracky :)

William had never been a fan of the animus. Flitting about in Altair's and Ezio's memories had always felt wrong to him on a level he could never fully explain, much to the consternation of the other assassins. Rebecca, in particular, constantly saw fit to remind him that 'by the way, Desmond is not the only descendant, don't you know, and wouldn't it be nice to give Desmond a break once in a while?' On the many occasions when she was really pissed off, she would bring up Daniel or Clay and not so subtly remind him that combined, the two spent a fraction of the amount of time in the animus that Desmond had, and hey, look at how whack-a-doodle both of them ended up.

It was frustrating, because if he had any other choice – any at all, up to and including volunteering himself – he would choose it, rather than subject his own son to one more moment in that thing. But he couldn't volunteer himself without going the kind of bat shit crazy that Desmond seemed rather immune to – he never was able to synch with his ancestors at all.

Desmond, however, wore Altair, Ezio and Connor like a pair of fitted kid leather gloves. He occupied those memories with every fiber of his being, as if they were ingrained within his very soul. Desmond's synchronization rate in the animus was the highest of any assassin, ever – and William would bet any templar as well. It would explain so very much about Vidic's obsession with finding his son, when there were many others of their lineage leading easily accessible, mundane lives.

The only time Desmond showed even a hint of instability was during the short period of time he had spent in the animus reliving the memories of one Haytham Kenway. The anxiety, aggressiveness, and sheer agitation Desmond had shown, in retrospect, was a sure sign of the animus poisoning his mind. William had been too blind with rage at his son's words and frustrated with Desmond's complete disrespect for their creed and their all important mission for William to recognize how very out of character Desmond had been acting when they had their not so little fight.

He regretted his words and actions, and oh, how he understood the boy, now that Vidic kept forcing him into the damned thing. It was, no doubt, the same accursed machine that Desmond had spent the better part of a year in, reliving memories over and over and over that did not belong to him. William's grip on his sanity was slipping, slowly but surely, with every synchronization bar.

Vidic was growing increasingly desperate to find anything that might help him locate another piece of Eden, preferably another apple. And so, William found himself flitting through the life and times of his ancestors at a dizzying speed and rate. It was slowly and surely eating at the edges of his rapidly degrading sanity. Worse, Vidic kept 'changing the channel' on him, so to speak, so he would jump from one assassin to another mid-memory.

It wasn't long before he realized that if he was going to maintain any semblance of sanity, his best bet was to be desynchronized as soon and as often as possible, which meant he spent a lot of time falling and dying. Vidic grew wise to this, though, and the bastard had one of his engineers update the animus with neural stimulants, so that William's physical body felt real pain each time he fell off a cliff, jumped in the water as Altair, or allowed a bunch of templar guards to run him through with their blades. So, no more dying in the animus.

'That's okay', he thought, 'I can be creative.'

Fucking with Abstergo and not going crazy in the process were just added bonuses.

The first opportunity came up when he was reliving an early memory of Altair's. Saladin's men were pushing Altair's father over to a platform where he would be summarily executed in front of the future Grand Master Assassin, traumatizing the poor boy for life. His 11 year old animus avatar pushed to the front of the crowd, tears dripping down his virtual cheeks, with William along for the ride. Any moment now, the Saracen would kill Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, and poor little Altair would scream and rant and rage as he watched his father die. William had a feeling that Vidic was making him relive this particular memory just to be an ass, and he damn well wasn't going to play his game.

“That's it!” He shouted out in English, throwing his hands up in the air. “I'm not watching an execution without popcorn. It's just wrong.”

Umar Ibn-La'Ahad, up on the execution platform, smirked at him.

“And puppies. We need puppies,” the man responded in Arabic, right before the executioner fitted the noose around his neck.

William snorted in bemusement, feeling a dizzying kinship with the soon-to-be-dead man, who most definitely did not historically answer his son's cries in that fashion. He didn't have long to muse on what the hell had actually happened before he desynchronized into the white loading screen of the animus, Vidic swearing at him profusely from above.

He supposed he should have expected to find himself, once again, witness to an execution, because Vidic was just that kind of asshole when he didn't get his way. This time, of most of Ezio's family.

'Yeah,' William thought to himself. 'I'm not sticking around here either.'

He turned and faced the man who was Ezio's dad, trying to ignore the boys he could see peripherally. No need to give Vidic the satisfaction of seeing him crack.

“Sucks to be you,” William said, shaking Ezio's head in sympathy. “I'm not sticking around to watch though – there are some good courtesans around here, and Ezio has heavy pockets.”

Once again, the man about to die smirked at him, his eyes positively sparkling with mirth.

“And I shall do the same, when I am you.”

There was no animus loading screen as he desynchronized, probably because Vidic was physically pulling him out of damn the thing by his shirt.

“Woah, there. Careful with the hands – that's Armani you are manhandling.”

He saw the blow coming towards his head before it hit, and he willingly fell into the blackness when it did; unconsciousness was a much better alternative than another second in the damned animus.

When he awoke two days later with a black eye and a bump on his head the size of an egg, he found himself physically strapped down to the accursed machine with Vidic looming over him, his face as red as a cheery tomato.

“You are going to cooperate this time, Mr. Miles, or I am going to kill you. Slowly, personally, and with great pleasure, apple be damned. I will record the ordeal, put it on youtube, and email a link to your son. Believe me when I say it is in your best interests not to keep fucking with me.”

William rolled his eyes at the empty threat, as the animus booted up once again. This time, on the frontier.

He was in between key memories; it seemed that Vidic had far less knowledge and control of the memories of Connor Kenway than he did of the others, so the Templar had just dumped him into some random moment in the assassin's life. Good for him; he'd spend as much time as he could spinning wheels, just to see how long it took to piss Vidic off again. And anyway, his head hurt like a son of a bitch; even deeply immersed in the animus he felt the throbbing. So it wasn't as if he had any motivation to actually do anything so mentally exhausting as actually synchronizing.

William was able to get away with collecting feathers, stabbing and skinning beavers, and lock picking chests for three whole days before Vidic pulled him out of the animus to blacken his other eye and tell him to get a move on. By then, his headache was pretty much gone.

Once again, he found himself on the frontier, which he didn't actually expect, considering how much time he had already fucked around in it. This time, the animus booted up with him in the Kanatahséton village, instead of in Troy's wood. William found himself half wondering if Vidic actually knew that there was an apple here at one time. Not that it mattered; he wasn't going to go anywhere near where the apple was located anyway, thank you very much. Instead, William spent time conversing in Mohawk with the tribe's inhabitants and smoking a little kinukkinuk around the fire, which gave him a nice mellow zen that transferred to his physical body.

'Huh, must be an actual memory – Desmond's going to be so jealous'.

Somehow, William managed to stuff his pipe and a bit of the crazy Native American frontier weed in Connor's pouch before Vidic changed the channel on him once again.

In the loading screen, he checked the pouch, and smirked to himself to find the pipe and weed still there.

So when Haytham jumped him and asked him if he had any last words, his answer was “let's get stoned.”

Haytham seemed to find the idea acceptable – of course he would, it was his own former life he was propositioning with mind altering substances. William always liked the exotic, in any life – and the two of them shared quite a few tokes from the pipe he borrowed in silence.

When no sign of desynchronization was imminent, William turned to his former self and scowled.

“You know, if you would have gotten your shit together with Des—err, Connor, my life would be so much easier.”

“My son is naïve and impossible and a great big thorn in my side. But Ziio...”

“Yeah, brother, I hear you. She was pretty hot.”

“That she was.”

It would be the last thing he would hear in the animus before he was pulled out and unceremoniously shoved into a cell by two burly templar agents, albeit with a few more bruises.

Later, after Desmond lays waste to the entire fucking building, and questions him about the bruises, he shrugs and smiles.

“Worth it.”

Y-you really mean that? Oh my gosh, I don't know what to say! Well, 'thank you' is a good start, so thank you! Ahhhh, I'm kind of flailing around because everyone has been so bloody sweet to me, and I'm having an overload of love. (A love overload is a good thing, it makes me incredibly happy for a bucket-load of time).

Connor, to me, is slightly moody, angry, but a decent and humble person. He's lived most of his life in a village with really open housing structures. I just can't see him being able to forfeit his connection with nature to move into a city, despite it probably being easier, quicker, and cheaper for him to operate as an assassin while based in Boston or New York. It's a sensory cleansing, where you just stop and feel the world, and understand that you are a part of it. It doesn't have to be a nature-based thing either. I imagine that Ezio would do the same while perched in an alcove of a cathedral - Altaïr simply watches the Masyaf courtyard from his office, and Desmond runs until he can't run anymore, panting, perched up high to see the stars.

Ahahahaha, I'm just going to stop rambling now. :) But thank you. Thank you so much.

seconded... omg... must see this!!!

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Hair Panic

Re: Mini-fill - Meeting Achilles

Re: Connor/Haytham, marking

Re: Possible WriterAnon here?

Re: Haytham/Connor You're Not My Dad! AU

Re: Connor/Haytham, tender sex

Re: Mini-fill - Meeting Achilles

Personal space!

Re: Mini-fill - Meeting Achilles

Re: William Miles - synchronization rate 0%

Re: Malik torture!

Re: Haytham/Connor

Re: Washington/Connor

Charles/Washington (non-con)

Re: Teaching Connor reading/writing

Re: Culture Clash (tw: humiliation, possible noncon)

Re: Reginald Birch/Haytham

Re: Charles/Washington (non-con)

Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?

Re: Hair Panic

Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?

Desmond's ancestors welcome him home

FILL: Sync this.

Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?

Re: Ezio teaches Connor how to talk to women