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

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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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!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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AHHH, this sounds hilarious and adorable why has nobody filled it yet??

Before I fill this, I have to know, do you mind there being smut?

I love you, writer!anon this we perfect especially the end with Connor planning these fights out

I'm so far under the weather, that I'm underneath the Earth's crust. Can someone please, please, please write a story where Connor is taking care of Haytham, whilst he has a cold, and the both of them are bitching about it the entire time? Laughter is the best medicine, so I would prefer it to be funny, more than anything. Can be GEN or Slash, I don't care, someone just make it happen, please!

Bonus points if: Connor makes Haytham some alphabet soup and gets pissed when he doesn't eat it.

2x Bonus Points if: Connor tells Haytham a bedtime story.

3x Bonus points if: Haytham ends up taking care of Connor.

“He who would be free must strike the first blow” – Frederick Douglass

~ ~ ~

The night was damned cold, and it had been a very long time since Desmond had slept outside on the hard ground under nothing but the sky. He was restless all night, and kept waking at the slightest breeze, or noise. Ezio insisted that they put the fire out before they went to sleep, so as not to attract unwanted attention when they were vulnerable, and the warmth from the coals had long since faded.

Desmond understood, he really did, but his body was just not used to roughing it like this. Ezio, on the other hand, was dead to the world, perfectly comfortable in his own body, laying sprawled out on the ground, and taking up way too much space for one man. Also, the Italian was an unconscious cuddler – Desmond couldn't even get close to him for warmth without finding himself trapped beneath an arm or a leg, Ezio snoring into his neck, and yeah, that was as awkward as all get out.

And that was the way he had woken up a few times, because apparently his subconscious sleepy self kept rolling him into the bastard. He supposed he should be grateful that his great-great-great-great-great-great-whatever (and he's sure there are a few more greats in there) recognizes him as an ally now on a subconscious level, otherwise he probably would have woken up more than a few times with a dagger in his heart. Therefore, he was resigned to a sleepless and uncomfortable night, and got what sleep he could, but was no where near anything remotely resembling rested when he was woken up at ass o'clock in the morning by drums of all things.

He had to give Ezio his dues where it counted though – that man when from quietly snoring to sitting up, fully alert and awake in less time it took for Desmond to clear his throat.

Ezio quietly grabs his belt, which had been laid to the side, all its various instruments of death still attached, and puts it on before doing the same with his hidden blades. It's almost eerie how silent he is in his preparation.

Desmond is not nearly as silent as he gets to his feet, sighs, and mumbles to himself for a few moments as he looks for his own blades – ah, over there, how the hell did they get way over there? – which earns him a harsh look of admonishment from his companion, and a low, mumbled 'novice' under his breath.

Desmond pinks; he is not Altair, but has spent enough time in the man's memories to take deep offense to that word, and he suspects Ezio knows it by the slight smirk that appears on his face when Desmond glares at him.

The drums get louder, and are coming from beneath them. Ezio points to a nearby rock face overlooking the road, and Desmond nods. Quietly, they climb up to the edge, where Desmond focuses his second sight. There are a total of eight soldiers on foot and two officers on horseback. Two of the foot soldiers are drumming, but the rest are armed with muskets slung over their shoulders. One of the officers on a spotted palomino looks half asleep, but the other one seems to be loading a revolver.

Ezio casts him a quick look, points to himself, and the two officers on horseback. He then points to Desmond and indicates the two drummer boys.

Desmond's look sours even more, because really? But he is a trained assassin, and does not question orders, even when given by sanctimonious assholes who question his skill set.

Ezio smiles at him, winks, and then he is jumping off of the side of the rock face.

That's his queue, Ezio is on his own, as Desmond does the same, taking the two drummers out with his hidden blades in an arial assault that sends a rush of adrenaline right to his heart, and then it is on.

Desmond can't see what Ezio is doing, but the palomino runs by him riderless, and he can hear the surprised yell from the other officer. The air is rent with the sound of a gunshot; Desmond can only hope that Ezio is okay before one of the armed guards tries to drive a musket into his side. He pivots, flipping quickly to catch the blade of another musket before he shoves the back end of it into right into its owner's chest, making the man stumble back. Desmond's on him in a second. He feels the sensation of danger from behind, and he doesn't even think; just grabs the man's body and flips around, using him as a human shield for the four musket shots that had been fired, perilously close to where Desmond just stood not even half a second ago. He drops the dead guard on the ground, takes the dead man's musket, and launches himself into the remaining group of guards before they have a chance to reload.

The second horse runs by, riderless, and a sword rips through the belly of one of the five remaining guards circling him. They are down to four now, two of whom are pale white and look as if they would rather be anywhere but here. Sure enough, they turn tail and run.

“Go --” shouts Ezio, as he continues to battle the other two remaining guards, and Desmond runs to follow the two that run off. They are too fast; one of them almost reaches the palomino that is still hanging around, further up the road.

Swearing to himself, Desmond pulls his 23 caliber out and shoots them both in the back in rapid succession. They fall, and he is quickly on them with his hidden blades to finish the job. When he turns around, Ezio has already dispatched the other two guards, and is limping towards him favoring his right leg.

Desmond doesn't think, he runs to the man, practically barreling him down in his haste to get to him. He falls to his knees in the road, hands pulling at fabric to see the damage. God, Ezio had been shot. That could be, like, a death sentence in this time. There were infections and things, and no antibiotics, and he did knot know what the hell he would do if he were left here alone and he did not know how to make penicillin, he knew it had to do with moldy bread, but–

“Stop worrying so hard, my friend, he only grazed me. See?”

Ezio sways slightly, and rests a hand on Desmond's head to steady himself. With his other hand, he works at the buttons of his breeches. He is clumsy about it, obviously in pain, and trying not to show it.

Desmond curses under his breath, and pushes Ezio's hand out of the way.

“Easy, man. Just... stop, I'll do it.”

Desmond undoes the rest of the buttons, and pulls the fabric down far enough to see the angry red welt against Ezio's left thigh where the bullet grazed him. Desmond swears, grabs Ezio's canteen off of his belt, and splashes water over the wound.

“Stay right there,” He orders, as Ezio winces. He's on his feet in a flash, searching the body of the nearest soldier. When he doesn't find what he's looking for, he moves on to the body of the officer who appeared dazed, and ah – there it is. He takes the small wooden canteen, rips some fabric off of the dead's man shirt, and returns to Ezio.

“This is going to sting,” Desmond says, as he splashes whatever spirits the man had in his canteen onto Ezio's leg. Ezio sucks in a breath, but doesn't move, and then Desmond is carefully field dressing the wound the best he can with the torn bit of dirty fabric. His hands are shaking as he falls back to sit on his heels and look up at Ezio.

Desmond pulls his hand through his hair.

“We'll uh... we'll have to get that looked at, when we get to Davenport... hopefully Connor will have recruited that doctor already, but yeah. That should be good for now... dammit.”

Ezio says nothing, just stares at him with a strange look in his eyes that Desmond can't place, before offering a hand.

And then it occurs to Desmond that he is sitting on his heels before Ezio with the man's pants halfway down to his ankles, and he flushes furiously and coughs into his hand before allowing the other man to pull him to his feet.

Thankfully, Ezio does not mention this at all as he carefully fixes his pants, before clasping Desmond on the back.

Ezio's gaze is intense when he meets it.

“Thank you my friend. I fear I did not properly anticipate some of the weaponry of this time, and I was... careless. It will not happen again.”

“Yeah,” Desmond replies, because he needs to gain control of this situation right now. “See that it doesn't.”

The smile he gets from Ezio in return is not the carefree smirk he is used to, but warm and genuine in a way that has Desmond turning away.

~ ~ ~

“This is the most god-awful scratchy material ever made. And so freakin' hot, I feel like a stuffed turkey. How did those guys ever move in these things? And these boots! They are like a size too small, too narrow, and they smell. My toes are going to blacken and fall off before we get to Davenport. Thank shit we don't have to wear the coats, because I'd be dying.” Desmond tries to tie the officer's sword to his belt, scowling as it brushes against his leg.

Ezio sighs as he continues to secure all their remaining gear to the palomino mare. It was a fortunate turn of events that she only ran a short ways up the road, and Ezio had always had a way with females of any species. It was a simple thing to settle a skittish mare, after all... or colt, for that matter, but he has not the patience for it at the moment.

“The leather on the boots will adapt to your feet; they fit well enough. It is your mouth that needs adjustment.”

He doesn't mean to sound harsh, but his leg hurts. It had been a stupid mistake; he should have been more aware, should have known. He did not recognize the weapon for what it was until it was too late; it was not a mistake he could afford to make again.

Desmond glares at him, but the glare fades away quickly as he meets Ezio's eyes.

Ezio tries hard to school his face into an expression of neutrality. He does not like feeling weak, and he does not like others knowing that he feels that way.

“You should ride the rest of the way,” Desmond says to him, “I will lead on foot. And, hey, look at the bright side – your injury and these shitty clothes we are wearing all say 'robbed by thieves and scavenged off of dead men'. We'll just stash our shit somewhere close by, and retrieve it after we play at being damsels in distress.”

Ezio huffs, but does not comment, as he allows Desmond to help him onto the horse.

The rest of the trip to Davenport passes in relative quiet and peace, for which Ezio gives thanks.

Thanks to the Apple, Malik turns female.

Another wonderful chapter, love the Ezio/Desmond moments and can't wait for Connor to get caught in the mix.

MY THOUGHTS EXACTLY

I... I don't want to sound rude or nag or anything...;____;
But.... Uhmm... I was wondering... Is this abandoned...? ;________;
This fill used to... well, it still is one of the fanfic that
brightens up my mornings. Author!anon! I hope everything is okay;__;

As an Assassin, Connor Kenway faced death nearly every day of his short life time. He has been beaten, shot, and stabbed numerous times; but the worst of all was strangulation. At the age of four, he had his first near-death experience, pinned against a tree while Charles Lee squeezed mercilessly down upon his throat, obstructing the flow of air. The second time its with a noose, light and yet heavy around his throat as he was nearly executed by the same man with the Grandmaster's - Connor's very own father - blessing. Both times, he had been spared out of cruel mercy and luck.

He wasn't so fortunate this time around.

The two Templars had anticipated his attack on Fort George. When he had been injured and severely weakened from the siege, they struck together, completely overpowering him. To his surprise and dread, they had not killed him outright. No quick death would suffice for all the trouble he has caused them. To Connor, strangulation was the worst way to die as all he could do was choke and watch helplessly as his life was taken from him. Except, Haytham and Charles have found an entirely new way to strangle the Assassin, slowly and painfully.

Instead of the crushing force of a hand or gravity, Connor found himself choking on his own screams as his body was breached in a way he would never expected. He still manages to struggle, to resist, clenching down tightly around the rigid cock burrowing inside him. Charles laughs cruelly at first, withdraws reluctantly before slamming his hips forward. The brutal entry is not resisted this time, and Connor screams again while Charles moans while nestling himself closer between the assassin's trembling thighs.

It feels as if he's being strangled, even though his throat is bare. The fight has been beaten out of him, Connor still struggles as the pain threatens to overwhelm him and all he can breathe in his the sweat and male musk rolling off Charles' body. He feels sick and tries to lower his head, to hide beneath the white beaked hood

Haytham does not allow it. A strong hand grasps Connor's jaw and forces his head up and tilts to the side. He tenses as lips hungrily ravish his mouth, stealing his breath yet again. The kiss bruises his lips and a questing tongue slips through and mimics the thrusting motion between his legs. One particular sharp thrust causes Connor to howl and thrash against the two men he's trapped between. Lee is a jealous and vindictive bastard.

"Now, Charles," Haytham admonishes softly, dropping his other hand to dig into Connor's hip to keep him still. "I do not want him damaged any further."

"My apologies, Master Kenway," Charles replies breathlessly and slows his pace.

Once Haytham releases his jaw, Connor's head lulls back to upon his father's shoulder so he could stare vacantly up at the ceiling. The air feels heavy and difficult to breathe, harder to resist the set of hands - belonging to either Charles or Haytham, he does not know - sliding up underneath Connor's shirt to map out his chest. He can't help but try to roll his hips in an pointless effort to get away, and Lee moans and begins to quicken his pace.

It isn't long before the older man is at his limit, and shoves in deep one more time before spilling. He grimaces and fights down the nausea of both the liquid heat filling his insides, and Charles' slumped against him, panting heavily into Connor's ear. The Templar is heavy and still sheathed deeply inside.

"Get off..." Connor manages to rasp as his throat feels shredded and raw. For a long moment, he wonders if the man had actually heard him until a low chuckle reverberates against his ear.

"Stubborn boy. Still resisting even now..." Lee leans back and offers Connor one of his wicked smiles, before grasping the Assassin's sides as he pulls out very slowly.

Both the Templars move away, finally releasing Connor who falls back onto the large bed. He would run if he had the strength left. His ears pick up the rustling cloth being undone, and the sickening sound of lips mashing against each other. He keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling, and prays to whatever deity that exists that it will be over soon.

It isn't long before a heavy weight settles upon him, crushing Connor into the mattress, and his father - now undressed - is all he can see. He weakly tries to move his arms, wanting to push the Grandmaster off him, but they are easily captured and hauled up. Lee makes a snort behind him, while binding his hands with the long dark red sash they had removed along with his breeches. He looks away from it, not wanting to see the Assassin symbol, a cruel reminder of his failures.

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

I am so sorry Connor ;_; Sorry for the spelling and grammar mistakes, had to write this really late last night

This is the greatest fucking thing. I cannot wait for another part! :D

Yay! OP-approved, that means I can continue it!

Hehe, I know I goofed up on the size. Originally, I wanted to make the kitten really, really small, but I have absolutely no concept of how mobile the really cute and tiny ones are. Never had any pets growing up and am too squeamish to adopt one myself — even though I really want to rescue and raise one — on the count of my allergies. Since my neighbor’s cat has kittens, who are pretty small, but still large enough to roam around, I went with their general size.

Lol. Funny enough, I always forget how big Connor is — that sounds completely wrong, after I read this aloud. Oh, well… perhaps, I’ll put another, smaller kitten into the story as competition? :) Thanks for reading, by the by, it means a lot to me whenever someone takes the time to read the rubbish I write.

Author Anon here.

First, I'm definitively not offended. If anything, I'm really happy that you care enough to ask.

Second, this is not dropped. I just suffered from a terrible combination of busy RL and writer's block. I will try to post another part this week, during the weekend at the latest. This thing will be finished.

Thanks again for the comment !

Interestingly enough, British English spelling was standardised in 1755, when the first dictionaries were published... All right, I'm the only one here who finds that interesting. Coming up in the next few parts: smut of a very questionable quality and more manipulation.

I decided to use a Shakespearian English version of Canterbury Tales, purely because Middle English is a mystery even to people who specialise in Middle English, and I forgot how evil Chaucer was. (this is a really good version of the poem: http://www.canterburytales.org/canterbury_tales.html)

Haytham leans in again. The boy looks stunned, a blush creeping along his cheeks. In all honesty, he hadn't expected things to move so quickly. Connor has only been here for, what, a week? Perhaps a little more?

This time, Connor tries to mimic what Haytham is doing. He opens his mouth, brushes Haytham's tongue with his own. The boy evidently has had no experience with this sort of thing. He breaks the kiss, much to Connor's obvious disappointment.

"Have you ever done this before?" he murmurs into Connor's ear. Connor tenses slightly, opens his mouth to speak, then shakes his head slowly.

"I thought not," Haytham chuckles. He kisses the side of Connor's mouth, trailing down his jaw, his throat, nibbling at his Adam's apple for a moment. When he gets to Connor's collarbone, he stops. Connor looks confused, probably wondering if he's done something wrong.

"Why are we stopping?" he manages, breathing heavily.

"As much as I would enjoy continuing this, I unfortunately have prior arrangements," Haytham replies. It's true. He agreed to speak with Pitcairn about the Order's progress in finding Connor's revolutionary allies, and if the clock in the corner of the room is right, he only has about five minutes before he needs to be in the library.

"Prior arrangements?" Connor looks annoyed now.

"Come on, now. Surely you don't think I knew you were going to come here, at this time? "

"You could have said something before," Connor mutters.

"Well, I apologise. Pitcairn will be here any moment, and we have much to discuss. Now, as much as I would like for you to stay here, you are still an assassin. The enemy. I can't afford to have you know all our plans and secrets just yet, on the off-chance you do somehow escape or find a way to communicate with the Brotherhood."

Connor glares at him, face flushed red in what's probably frustration. He wouldn't be surprised if Connor had momentarily forgotten that they are supposed to be enemies.

"Don't look at me like that," Haytham raises an eyebrow. "I'll come to your rooms this evening, if you like. That way we can... carry on."

Connor is silent for a moment. Probably feeling guilty, wondering what Achilles would think. What his allies would think. What those half-baked recruits would think.

"All right." Connor eventually says.

"Excellent. I'll be there at seven. Run along now."

Connor leaves, smoothing his clothes and brushing his fingers through his hair. He's muttering in a Native language. His words sound similar to the ones Ziio used when she was cross, but Haytham can't remember if they're the same or not. In all honesty, it was a long time ago and Haytham was never any good at foreign languages.

...

When he arrives, he opens the door quietly. He doesn't knock. The time for playing the perfect host is over. Now it's important to be seductive, needy even.

Connor is on the reclining couch, reading a book. Haytham leans in the doorway.

"What's that you're reading?" Haytham asks. He puts on his best charming smile. Connor twitches in surprise, head snapping up toward the door.

"Chaucer's Canterbury Tales," Connor replies, after a few seconds. He turns back to his book.

"Ah, how are you enjoying it?" Haytham steps into the room and closes the door behind him.

"It is difficult. The words are strange."

"That's because it was written a very long time ago. Words meant different things back then. It was, oh, four hundred years ago." Haytham walks to the bookcase and runs a finger along the spines of the books. "Would you like me to read it to you?"

"It's not that hard," Connor says, indignantly.

"I wasn't suggesting you couldn't read it. It's just that it was written to be read aloud, and there are few things more soothing in the world than having someone read to you."

"I don't need to be soothed," Connor snaps the book shut. Haytham decides that he's probably just being contrary because of the interruption to their... activities earlier. He plucks the book out of his hands, and uses his softest, most honeyed tone.

"Here beginneth the book of the tales of Canterbury. When April with his showers sweet with fruit the drought of March hath pierced unto the root and bathed each vein in liquor with power to generate therein and sire the flower..."

Connor shifts in his seat, sitting straighter. He looks vaguely unhappy, and his posture is stiff. Haytham pauses in his reading.

"...Are you uncomfortable?" Haytham asks, mildly. "You seem tense."

"I'm fine," Connor says, sullenly.

"If you like, I'll rub your shoulders."

"I thought you were reading to me."

"If you'll hold the book, I'll read over your shoulder," he flashes Connor a smile. "Shuffle forward."

Connor looks away, and obeys. Haytham realises what this strangely rude behaviour is all about. It's a crude attempt at manipulation. Childish, really, but understandable, given the circumstances. He moves to the couch, straddles the space behind Connor.

"Here," he says, placing the book into Connor's hands. "I think we were still on the first page."

Connor finds the page, and lets Haytham peer over one shoulder. His fingers brush over Connor's shoulderblades and he slowly starts to rub small circles into his back. Connor visibly relaxes, and Haytham doesn't need to see his face to know he's smiling at his little plan working.

"If you wanted me this close, all you had to do was ask," Haytham murmurs into Connor's ear. "I was starting to think you weren't really interested in me."

"Sorry," Connor stutters slightly as Haytham nibbles at his ear.

"It's all right. When Zephyr hath with his sweet breath," Haytham breathes, one hand slowly running through Connor's hair. "Quickened again with ev'ry holt and heath, the tender crops and the young sun into the Ram one half his course hath run."

"I thought you were meant to be giving me a back rub," Connor says, though he doesn't make a move to stop Haytham's hands, nor does he sound annoyed.

Haytham chuckles and nuzzles Connor's neck.

"I suppose I did say that, didn't I? And many fowl maketh melody that sleep through night with open eye. So nature does prick them onto ramp and rage. Then do folks long to go on pilgrimage... "

Haytham's hands continue to wander, as he murmurs the story of pilgrims journeying to St Paul's.

haraughghgh YES THIS brilliant please

Ohhh yes. This makes for an amazing 'what if?' scenario, especially with Johnson and Pitcairn. Also, kind of want to see how this would effect Connor and Achilles...

Another brilliant chapter, anon. I love how fast their 'relationship' is progressing. Though I do feel for Connor as he probably will (if he hasn't already) develop feelings for Haytham and not realizing he's being manipulated.

I'll eat my hat if there wasn't some one-sided groping going on while they were riding that horse. Why else would Paul insist on sitting in the back instead of in the front where he can steer if he's the one who knows the directions?

Bonus points if he manages to get all the way to giving Connor a handjob without getting killed for it, and Connor ends up almost falling off, actually falling off, or accidentally spurring the poor horse to gallop straight into a patrol of Redcoats because it's his first orgasm and he can't handle it.

Once again, huge thank you to everyone who commented on this, you guys are great.

+1.
Desmond could sleep through a bomb going off ten feet away from him. Clay, on the other hand, could be woken up by a sheet of paper rustling in their neighbor's apartment. It was great for Desmond, because the twitching and yelling in their sleep that they were both prone to didn't disturb him at all. Clay barely slept most nights, but he rarely complained about it. He was content enough to just watch Desmond sleep through the night instead. Besides, with the whole semi-permanently unemployed thing, it meant if he did get tired enough to sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, he actually could.

On the rare occasions something managed to wake Desmond up, they had a ritual. It took a little while for them to decide that it was alright, it was okay, that they didn't have to actively stamp out the temptation, and once they deemed this as therapeutic rather than a bad idea, they were happier for it. Wordlessly, they'd both get out of bed, throw on clothes, and quietly crept out their bedroom window onto their building's fire escape. They'd walk up the stairs to the highest floor calmly, slowly, so they didn't wake up their upstairs neighbors with their footsteps on the old metal, and climb the rest of the building to get onto the roof.

If it was cold outside, Clay would always mumble about how he should have brought a bigger jacket, Desmond would offer his hoodie, and Clay would stubbornly refuse it, saying it would get in the way in a few minutes anyway. If it was warm, neither of them said anything, at least not in English; sometimes they'd talk a bit in Italian. Usually though, they'd just appreciate the limited view the roof of their little five story building gave them for a long while. But, like clockwork, once they were done admiring, all it took was them glancing at each other, a raise of the eyebrows from Desmond, a tug of the lips from Clay, and then they'd start running.

They'd run to the next building, and then the next one, cross the street using the poles for stoplights, and they'd keep running. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From the East Village to Harlem. Run through the trees at Central Park, across buildings in SoHo, past marquee signs in Times Squares. They'd run until their arms and legs burned, until breathing hurt. Until they weren't in New York anymore, but Jerusalem, Florence, Xianyang, Moscow, Rome, Boston, Paris, Istanbul, the Farm, and until it became New York again. They'd run until they could hear long-dead people below them speaking a flurry of languages, commenting on the strange men in white climbing all over their buildings.

They'd run until they could hear the footfalls of Templars and guards alike chasing them, until they could hear La Volpe urging them to run faster, Yusef's laughter, Uncle Mario's words of advice, until they could almost see them. They'd run until the Bleeding Effect took hold, and until it let them go again. They'd run until they could see the faintest sliver of the sun peaking over the horizon between the skyscrapers. They'd run until they were perched on top of the Empire State Building, watching the city come alive below them, until the city swirled around them in all directions, until they could picture eagles soaring around them as they watched the world turn.

They'd run until they forgot the war with the Templars, until they forgot Juno, the Pieces of Eden, until they forgot their deaths. They'd run until they remembered it all again with stunning clarity. They'd run until they accepted it was okay that they weren't okay, until they damned the fact that they were so utterly fucked up.

They'd run and they'd keep running because, once upon a time, they were Assassins, and running is how their Brotherhood survived. As long as they could keep running, the Assassins could handle everything the world, the Templars, and The Ones Who Came Before threw at them.

They'd make their way back home, and while they'd always be too exhausted to speak, the sentiment was always there in the tired smiles and hushed laughter as they ducked back through their bedroom window. They could live with this, with all the shit that happened to them, the same way their ancestors always did: Fight when you can win, run when you can't.

Once again, huge thank you to everyone who commented on this, you guys are great for helping motivate me to actually finish this.

+1.
Desmond could sleep through a bomb going off ten feet away from him. Clay, on the other hand, could be woken up by a sheet of paper rustling in their neighbor's apartment. It was great for Desmond, because the twitching and yelling in their sleep that they were both prone to didn't disturb him at all. Clay barely slept most nights, but he rarely complained about it. He was content enough to just watch Desmond sleep through the night instead. Besides, with the whole semi-permanently unemployed thing, it meant if he did get tired enough to sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, he actually could.

On the rare occasions something managed to wake Desmond up, they had a ritual. It took a little while for them to decide that it was alright, it was okay, that they didn't have to actively stamp out the temptation, and once they deemed this as therapeutic rather than a bad idea, they were happier for it. Wordlessly, they'd both get out of bed, throw on clothes, and quietly crept out their bedroom window onto their building's fire escape. They'd walk up the stairs to the highest floor calmly, slowly, so they didn't wake up their upstairs neighbors with their footsteps on the old metal, and climb the rest of the building to get onto the roof.

If it was cold outside, Clay would always mumble about how he should have brought a bigger jacket, Desmond would offer his hoodie, and Clay would stubbornly refuse it, saying it would get in the way in a few minutes anyway. If it was warm, neither of them said anything, at least not in English; sometimes they'd talk a bit in Italian. Usually though, they'd just appreciate the limited view the roof of their little five story building gave them for a long while. But, like clockwork, once they were done admiring, all it took was them glancing at each other, a raise of the eyebrows from Desmond, a tug of the lips from Clay, and then they'd start running.

They'd run to the next building, and then the next one, cross the street using the poles for stoplights, and they'd keep running. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From the East Village to Harlem. Run through the trees at Central Park, across buildings in SoHo, past marquee signs in Times Squares. They'd run until their arms and legs burned, until breathing hurt. Until they weren't in New York anymore, but Jerusalem, Florence, Xianyang, Moscow, Rome, Boston, Paris, Istanbul, the Farm, and until it became New York again. They'd run until they could hear long-dead people below them speaking a flurry of languages, commenting on the strange men in white climbing all over their buildings.

They'd run until they could hear the footfalls of Templars and guards alike chasing them, until they could hear La Volpe urging them to run faster, Yusef's laughter, Uncle Mario's words of advice, until they could almost see them. They'd run until the Bleeding Effect took hold, and until it let them go again. They'd run until they could see the faintest sliver of the sun peaking over the horizon between the skyscrapers. They'd run until they were perched on top of the Empire State Building, watching the city come alive below them, until the city swirled around them in all directions, until they could picture eagles soaring around them as they watched the world turn.

They'd run until they forgot the war with the Templars, until they forgot Juno, the Pieces of Eden, until they forgot their deaths. They'd run until they remembered it all again with stunning clarity. They'd run until they accepted it was okay that they weren't okay, until they damned the fact that they were so utterly fucked up.

They'd run and they'd keep running because, once upon a time, they were Assassins, and running is how their Brotherhood survived. As long as they could keep running, the Assassins could handle everything the world, the Templars, and The Ones Who Came Before threw at them.

They'd make their way back home, and while they'd always be too exhausted to speak, the sentiment was always there in the tired smiles and hushed laughter as they ducked back through their bedroom window. They could live with this, with all the shit that happened to them, the same way their ancestors always did: Fight when you can win, run when you can't.

Okay, this is a random little prompt, but did anyone get really REALLY excited at sequence 1 at the Opera? This anon sure did ;u; Haytham was talking about how he came to that opera house several times before and just that sassy high class-iness in the atmosphere. Unf <3

So the prompt is, this anon shyly requests Haytham and Connor having a date or something in a high class fashion. Okay, if anything, anon REALLY wants to see two of them going to the opera together. Afterwards, they can go to a fancy dance party, restaurant, etc, etc <3 This anon really wants to see cute Connor interacting with new things and Haytham being amused/annoyed about it <3

Bonus points for:
-Dance party where Haytham teaches Connor.
-Trying to make Connor dinner etiquette and Connor being annoyed about it (He learned basic etiquette/manner from Achilles thankyouverymuch)
-Connor excited about opera but trying to not show any excitement to Haytham.
-...And of course, Haytham knows about Connor's excitement and thinks it is quite cute.
-Sexiness afterwards! ...Well, it IS kinkmeme ;u;

Oh unf @_@ please moooooore!

Oh man, can't wait for the next bit! (And I feel horrible for wanting to see what Lee and Hickey have planned for Connor. XD)

Not OP, but holy shi!t this was amazing!!! Thank you so much anon! Can't wait for more!

Hi everyone whose reading this, just want to say I am putting this story up on AO3 (mostly because I hate fanfiction.net, and everything I have up there was written when I was like, way younger and is mostly shite, and I haven't written fanfiction in like, 10 years and want to start anew *ahem*... uh yeah, anyway)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/576557/chapters/1034001

Link here. I spit polished it and shined it up, too. Nice and clean! I will continue to post here first, then put a more refined copy up on AO3 (story won't change, I am just spending more time cleaning up spelling, syntax, etc, etc. for those who care about that sort of thing -- I am usually too impatient when filling on a kmeme to care :) )

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Page 54 of 385

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: Gen!Fic - Connor meets his cousins much to his Father's Chagrin

Re: Connor/Haytham - Lip Gloss

Re: Kiss with a Fist [1\1]

Haytham/Connor - Haytham's under the weather! :-)

Fill: Every hour God sends, part 4

Altair/female!Malik

Re: Fill: Every hour God sends, part 4

Re: Haytham/Charles, Connor

Re: Fill Part 7

FILL PART 1/?

Re: Fill: Every hour God sends, part 4

Re: You've got to be Kitten me [1\?]

Re: Fill Part 7

FILL 9/?

Re: Desmond/Shaun, one-sided William/Shaun

Re: If I knew then, what I know now

Re: FILL 9/?

Paul Revere/Connor, touching

Fill 6/6

Fill 6/6

Opera House Haytham/Connor

Re: FILL PART 1/?

Re: FILL 9/?

Re: FILL PART 1/?

Re: Fill: Every hour God sends, part 4 A|Anon here with link