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

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only

Join or Die

✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Exactly what it says in the title. The Assassins and Templars are all werewolves, hence their desire to be in groups (packs)and the constant fighting to defend their territory.

At some point after their first meeting Haytham stumbles across a badly injured Conner, who for some reason (sickness, exhaustion, etc) is not holding his own against his attacker/s. Now, so far, their relationship has been as in the game (strained, passive aggressive to outright hostile, full of insults, putdowns, and snark); however, seeing Conner in danger hits Haytham right in the instincts/true feelings. That is his baby/puppy and someone is going to die. Cue Papa-Wolf Haytham annihilating Conner's attacker/s, bundling up the injured Assassin, and taking him off to a safe place so that he can be mothered (er, fathered) back to full health.

Bonus points:
+100 for wolf ears and tails on everybody, which - when one is not seriously controlling their emotions - give away what one is really thinking/feeling
+500 for howling at the moon, and Connor being young enough that he still has a squeaky-puppy-howl. Haytham absolutely does not consider this the single most adorable thing he has ever experience, and does not want to cuddle the living daylights out of Connor when it happens. No sir, not at all
+1000 for sleepy/injured-puppy-Connor being extremely cuddly, and papa-wolf Haytham taking advantage of it
+10000 for Connor, who was not raised by other werewolves, being somewhat clueless on how a werewolf is really supposed to act; Haytham has to step in an educate him, like a real daddy (and "ha" Achilles, who's an awesome father-figure now)
+Internet if this is an A/B/O world, and papa-wolf-alpha Haytham is constantly on guard against/intercepting the numerous alphas who are drawn to clueless-omega-Connor

Oh my god. I need this like I need air. Especially that squeaky puppy howl. Oh my lord, I need to cuddly my pillows to death now because this prompt is AMAZING and someone needs to fill it RIGHT NOW.

You hear me all you writers? Get your butts over here. >:/

Nonononononononononononoooooo, I do NOT need another fic on my plate. I need to finish wingfics and eagle fics and time travel fics-no.

OP I hate you (not really, I love you.)

P.S. did you mean that they have ears and tails when they're human?

Definitely thirding especially fot the omegaverse thing. Would love to see Connor going through his first (or of the first) heat and Haytham not knowing what to do.

oh man fourthed. I actually wanted to prompt something that was pretty much just the A/B/O bonus right there.

I am not going to do anything with this. I am not going to do anything for this. I am not. I have other fills to work on. I do not need to make a happy papa!Haytham fic. I do not.

Fuck.

I might have something up for this soon.

First wailing Authornon here. I hope you'll enjoy this, as fragmented as it is. I seem to have a theme going here - Connor starts off in the midst of fever. This one is pneumonia, probably from the cold water, the silly man.
****
Feverish and cold, chest rattling with every breath, it had seemed like the best option to room at an inn for a few nights. Inns usually liked him, he had money to pay for his board and food upfront, but when he slid the coins across the counter, they were practically thrown back in his face with a snarl of "We don't serve your type here" and two brutish pairs of hands grabbing his arms and throwing him into the snow. Ill as he was, he could barely lift his hands let alone defend himself.

A rib fractured from a particularly forceful blow. He curled in on himself, trying to protect the others. A whine left his lips, a pathetic whimper for his brothers and sisters to find him. It was too soft, so he stopped, eyes struggling to stay open. Another rib cracked. The next blow made the two fractured ribs break and he screamed, short, sharp, a mixture of human and wolffish howling.

He didn't like howling. It wasn't deep and powerful like his brothers and sisters - they had laughed and said he was too young, despite his human body having matured. It was slightly embarrassing, but they reassured him that it would fade with age and practice.

Another kick made him howl again, stars clouding his vision, blurring the edges of his sight. He coughed, and lay there, hoping the end would come, hoping that someone with any sense of decency would call these men off. He didn't deserve this. His people didn't deserve this. Vaguely, insults and slurs bled through the muffled existence his world had taken on, ears pounding with sound of his own heart. Then a scream.

A dark shape rammed into the first man, grabbing him by his neck and slamming him into the ground. There was a snap - no doubt his neck had been broken upon impact. The other man had tried to run. With a strong pounding of feet - paws - the shape (wolfwolfwolfyesgoodpack) bit the man's legs off and spat them onto the ground, leaving him to bleed out on the street.

The patrons of the inn paid no notice - the windows were tightly shuttered and they assumed the sounds of pain that filtered through the cheer were those of the man dragged out by his arms, not his abusers.

The shape turned into a human, tall and strong, who bent and slung him to rest on the human's back. They smelt of spices and smoke, an earthy scent of wet dog an underlying bass note. It smelt good (safewolfpackgood) and he sighed, nuzzling into it, letting his arms be moved around his wolf-friend's neck, hands being carefully wrapped in cloth so he wouldn't fall. They shifted, the wool turned to cloth, his wolf-in-sheep's-clothing, pack-wolf, good-wolf, father-wolf, his wolf trotted away from the bloody white-crunch with the meat legs, nosing him back on when he threatened to fall and then, after many miles into the woods, was a log-cabin, sturdy and strong just like his wolf-father, and warm and safe just like his pack.

/HUGS CONNOR/

Not OP but thanks for filling this anon, it's too cute.

Ooh, careful of the ribs! I'm glad you're enjoying this so far - hopefully it continues to impress! Thank you for reading.

Ugh I love this, please continue!

I will! In short bursts, I will do my best! Thanks for reading. :)

Thank you for the lovely comments, sweets! I will reply individually right after this posting is complete. Now onto a bit more Papa Wolf Haytham from his POV.

****
Flesh of man was easy to tear. The liquid-life was metallic in his mouth but good to his belly, and he had half mind to devour it whole except he needed this to look like a man attack. He didn't quite remember why that was so important - it was difficult with the screaming howls of his wounded pup so close - but he knew that shifting back would lessen the survivor's punishment; he wanted this man to be crippled and thrown into a madhouse.

The liquid-life spilt, the legs were torn, his pup (young-wolf, good-wolf, fragile-wolf) was crying in the snow with sickness and injury. Never before had the shift been so fluid, so powerful, and he gathered his pup onto his back, securing him, glad of the weak grip in his cloak and shifted again, taking him far away from these disgusting humans with no sense of equality or ethics. No moral code, no intellect, no concept of the punishment that awaited them when his pup recovered. When, not if. If his pup failed to live -

His pup whimpered and he slowed his pace to a gentle lope so as to not jostle his ribs further. The cabin was close, he could smell the cut oak, the scents of the inner circle - Charles' first shift (frightenedunsurethencomfortlovesafety), Hickey's criss-crossing tracks, a particular type of Indian smoke that William favoured - and above all his own human scent, screaming to protect, to defend (hispuphowdarethey). No enemies, no dangers, a den of wild wolves nearby - part of the pack even if they weren't human, covering the circle's tracks.

He nosed the log door open and coaxed his pup onto one of the beds. Then, with human hands, he unclipped the moccasins, the weapons, the sodden clothes, and pulled a blanket over his son to warm his skin from Death's fingers, removing the ash-grey from his face.

He sat by the man until the fever broke and even then only left for a few moments to fetch a bucket for nausea, send a pigeon from the coop to Lexington to summon a doctor, and a kettle full of ice to boil for tea. His pup was sweaty and murmured words that he couldn't understand, but drowsily accepted some warm tea before falling into a deeper sleep.

yay! papa haytham to the rescue! take care of the lil cute connor, yes? ^_^

Yes, yes he will. :)

There's a bit of Mohawk in this next chapter, which may or may not be accurate. If you can speak/write Mohawk and have spotted an error, please let me know. I don't bite. Also, ribs used to be wrapped, but as Haytham notes it's not really a great treatment.

***
Haytham waited by Connor's side as the doctor daubed, bound, and fussed over the injured man. Currently, the assassin was drifting in and out of consciousness, a chesty cough making it all the more difficult to set his ribs, and an innate sense of defense against touch - one that had swatted Haytham's hand away more than once. There was no indication that Connor was aware of his surroundings. Had Connor not been weakened by his illness, Haytham had no doubt that a finger or two would have been broken instead of weakly grasped at, and then the doctor would have two patients instead of just one.

With practiced ease, the doctor lifted Connor's body and started to lightly wrap the ribs to keep them in place for the healing process. Haytham frowned - he didn't like this process, especially not with Connor's cough but if it helped then he wasn't going to put up a fuss.

"How long will it take?" Haytham asked as Connor was lowered onto his bed.

"Twelve weeks at the least."

The doctor tucked some pillows around Connor, plumping them up so he wouldn't roll in his sleep.

"If you have more pillows, then I recommend that you find them. Judging by how fidgety he is now, the boy is the fall-out-of-bed sort. Which honestly doesn't surprise me considering he's a sava-"

"Whatever you're about to say," interrupted Haytham, very quietly, "I recommend you think upon it before continuing."

"Yes. Well. As I was saying, stop him from rolling, keep him warm, but not too warm, and make sure to support the ribs when he coughs. Breathe from the abdomen, avoid strenuous activities, the usual pneumonia treatment. Be liberal with the laudanum - a few drops with every meal. This should help reduce the coughing. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the undertaker before they box up Samuel Black."

And with that, the doctor picked up his case, jammed his hat on his head and left Haytham alone with an insufficiently treated patient. Haytham glared at the retreating doctor - if he could be called that - and vowed to ride into town once Connor had regained consciousness to send for a better doctor from Boston. It was absolutely disgraceful for a such an uneducated man to be calling himself a doctor. Unfortunately it was all the people of the frontier could offer and Haytham couldn't resent them for that. It wasn't their fault that they couldn't afford land closer to the cities.

Connor wuffed in his sleep, trying to roll onto his bad side, jerking back when it hurt him. Better find those pillows. Haytham doubted Connor would appreciate Charles or Hickey's pillows, since their scent was so strong, but perhaps William's would be soothing. The man had spent the most time with the natives after all.

Presently, he fetched William's bedding. Tucking it against his pup's side, Haytham frowned when it wasn't enough. Charles' scent would send Connor into a rage, while Hickey's was disgusting at best, so he couldn't use that. All the other pillows were already supporting Connor. A hand rose, and Haytham went to take it so it wouldn't flop back down painfully, but it wildly careened around his hand and grabbed his arm instead, giving a forceful tug.

"Rake'níha," Connor murmured, eyes slitted, trying to see against the light. "Rake'níha, oh niiawenhátie?"

Not for the first time Haytham wished he knew more than a few words in Kanien'kehá:ka. He could pick out something that sounded similar to 'father' but that was it. Obligingly, he knelt next to Connor as it seemed as if that was what he wanted.

"You were sick and being beaten but I brought you here - Connor, can you hear me? Connor?"

It was no use. The English name wasn't strongly rooted enough in Connor's brain for him to recognise it. Damn, he needed to stay awake for a little so Haytham could tip some tea and laudanum down his throat. The coughing was clearly painful, the chest disrupting the broken bones, pushing against those damned bandages and threatening to bleed internally - the negatives of laudanum's addictive property was the lesser of two evils in this case.

"Damn you, Connor, stay awake," growled Haytham, not daring to shake the man for fear of hurting him further. "Rattoon. Ratonhakakaka. Raddy. Radonha-"

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," whispered Connor, hoarse and dry.

"Ratonhn," Haytham mimicked slowly, trying to soften his tongue over the sounds.

"Haké:ton," repeated Connor, no more alert than before.

"Haké:ton," said Haytham. "Ratonhnhaké:ton."

"Rake'níha."

There was that word that sounded like 'father' again.

"Why is your language so infuriating?" Haytham complained, more to himself than to Con-no, Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Yours is equally so," he mumbled before falling asleep again.

Clearly exhaustion was more powerful than his thirst. Haytham supposed that his son would wake when it was necessary. Now to fix the rest of this pillow problem.

Poor puppy Connor /PETS/ I love how protective Haytham is and snapping at the doctor for calling his son a savage.

I love how you have Connor walking his father through his native name even when he's half out of it. So freakin' cute. Agh, now my teeth hurt from all the fluff.

Love your story, can't wait to see where you go with it!

Fill: Wolf-Father 4/?

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Re: Fill: Wolf-Father 4/?

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Re: Fill: Wolf-Father 4/?

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Re: Fill: Wolf-Father 4/?

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Re: Fill: Wolf-Father 4/?

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OP loves you

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Re: OP loves you

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Fill: Wolf-Father 5/?

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Re: Fill: Wolf-Father 5/?

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The young assassin was going to get himself killed one of these days. Haytham sighed as he turned down an alley, keeping himself out of his son’s eyesight. The wind might have carried his scent, but he had followed the boy before, and had only been forced to stop when the boy left the cobblestone streets of the cities. As cunning as Haytham counted himself, he had been raised in cities. The frontier belonged to Connor, his senses told him.

Haytham snatched a poster off the wall, crumpling the thick paper and tossing it into a snowdrift. He wasn’t helping the boy, of course. But his walks through his city would be calmer if he didn’t have to worry about the assassin scampering past with a collection of guards following him. His ears still rang from when he had last come upon the boy fighting a group of guards. He had kept his human ears since then, but the loss annoyed him. Although it was rather nice not to hear the creaking beds in the tavern.

The boy was barely trained, Haytham reasoned. His Order had slain anyone in the Brotherhood that could have taught him. The old man, Achilles, if he was still alive, wouldn’t know what to do with a young werewolf. It had been one of the reasons Haytham had spared him all those years ago. Not the only one, he admitted as he entered the Green Dragon, but one of the most important. Any werewolf seeking a pack, seeking a way to train their senses, would come to the Order. It had been a brilliant plan.

Unfortunately, it had not worked. Haytham took a seat at one of the tables, signaling for a drink. His foot tapped under the table, the restless nature of his wolf wanting to go out, to take the pup that was in his territory and make him submit. Haytham quelled the urge, taking a sip of the beer the barmaid had brought over to him. It wasn’t worth it. The boy had his own territory, out in the wilderness of his mother’s people. He was merely visiting Haytham’s lands. The wolf snarled, but quieted as Haytham got up, tossing a few coins onto the table.

Haytham replaced his hat as he went back outside, his ears shifting to those of a wolf. The failure, he mused, was not the Order’s fault. They had assumed that like their brethren in the Old Country, that werewolves were an inherent part of the world. Johnson had heard stories from the Mohawk about their limmikin; men who took on the aspects of the beast, but did not become them. Haytham had met a few while he had traveled with Ziio. None had reacted to him, given any notion that they recognized him as a brother.

So they had given up hope of finding any others. Indeed, Haytham thought, he had been the only werewolf in the colonies these past sixteen years. His territory ran the length of the colonies, as far as he was concerned. To finally be challenged, to have another wolf edging on what was his was almost novel. But the boy was barely a threat. Haytham had almost laughed when he had first seen him a year ago. He hadn’t even bothered to try to hide his scent, climbing foolishly after the man Haytham had sent to the rooftops. Haytham had followed him after that, trying to gauge the boy.

He had never been trained, or even been part of a pack, Haytham had realized. He wore that Assassin hood as a mark of his membership to the thrice damned Brotherhood, and as a way to hide his ears. He had let it slip off once, chasing after a thief, and Haytham had seen his shock, the way he pulled his hood up and gave up on his chase, blending into a nearby crowd. It was not the first time Haytham had followed him, but it was the first time that he had seen the boy head back into the wilderness without contacting the so-called Sons of Liberty. He had chanced following the boy a short distance into the frontier, only to find discarded clothing and paw prints.

Achilles, for Haytham had no doubt that it was the older man who was training his son, had not taught the boy anything of his nature, or how to control it. And it was going to get worse for the boy if he did not receive any sort of training. The wolf could make a man snap out at friends over a simple disagreement. Haytham had seen it happen, young werewolves giving into the beast and slaughtering those they had called friends. There was only one thing that could be done in those cases, and Haytham had no intention of putting his son down, not if some agreement could be reached.

It would be a struggle, he knew, to get the boy to even trust him. More so if the old man had filled him with lies about the Templar Order and their goals. But, if one could be reached, the boy could be trained, and Haytham could remove a hideous obligation. There was always a chance he would kill the boy, especially if they stayed on the opposite sides of this hidden war, but he was loathe to kill the boy because of something that he could influence.

It had begun to drizzle as Haytham reached the outer most section of Boston. He tilted his head slightly, allowing a few drops to hit his face. Most people were scurrying for cover, realizing that this was only the beginning to a much bigger storm. Haytham smirked and continued walking, tipping his hat to a few soldiers as they passed.

“Can’t believe that savage managed to get away,” he heard one of them mutter.

“Saw Jerry stick ‘im in the leg right before he got him,” another said. “And John gave him a nice cut across the face.”

“He won’t be moving in this weather,” the first one said, turning down another street. “He’ll probably turn up in the sewers tomorrow.”

“Good riddance.”

A small sliver of anxiety curled in Haytham’s chest as his wolf took note of the men’s scents. He followed their trail, cursing the drizzle he had been enjoying. It wound around until he found blood spatters on the ground. He knelt for a moment, taking in their size, and determined that they were from the men who had been fighting his son. But a few, longer splashes, like those of someone flicking blood off a blade, smelled like the boy. And there were quite a few.

Haytham felt his chest vibrate with a growl as his wolf surged to the forefront. He could feel his spine extend, his tail ripping through his trousers, but still hidden by his cape. He sighed, pushing the wolf back a bit, but accepted the heightened senses that it gave him. It was strange, but the wolf, although annoyed at his son’s trespassing, was upset by the harm that had come to him. The boy was his, Haytham acknowledged, pacifying the beast, and admitting it to himself for the first time. It would not do for someone else to injure him.

It had begun raining in earnest as Haytham stood, but it did not disturb him as much as it might have. The blood that had been spilled was still fresh enough to track. The boy had lost a lot, he realized, as he followed the trail, coming upon large splashes of the scent. He could not have gone much farther.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he heard a slight whimper. His ears flicked forward, trying to determine where it came from. He let out a soft growl, trying to encourage the boy to vocalize. Another whimper led him to a hay cart, which he entered, shifting past the layers to find his son at the bottom of the cart. Dark red stained the white coat he wore, Haytham marking at least two other wounds that the soldiers had not seen. The boy whimpered again, trying to curl in on himself. Haytham let out a warning growl, and the boy stilled.

“This hay bale is hardly large enough to hold both of us,” Haytham mused aloud as he shifted around the boy. “Turn, boy.”

His son whimpered again, his features curled in pain. Haytham let out another growl, this time one of command. Before his eyes the boy shrank in his clothes, until a russet-colored pup was curled in the robes. Haytham felt his eyes widen slightly as he saw how young he appeared to be. He had been fully grown at the same age, but his son looked to be just leaving his infancy. Shaking his head, he cast the thought out and grabbed the robes, using them as a rough sack to carry the pup.

He hopped out of the bale, tucking his son close to his chest to shield him from most of the rain. He paused, seeing a trio of orphans, and beckoned them over.

“Carry a message for me,” he told them, shifting the boy so that he could grab a few coins, “to Charles Lee at the Green Dragon Tavern. Tell him I felt caged up, and I’ll be gone for a few days.”

The orphans nodded and dashed off. Haytham hitched his son more securely and strode towards the city gates, intent on reaching the frontier before the boy woke.

not OP! and a second fill! so much awesomeness. i can sleep in happiness tonight. with a wide smile on my face! um... more? <(-^.^-)>

Authornon of the first fill here - I'm so happy to see another fill! This is absolutely adorable but ahhhhh, poor puppy Connor!

Not OP loves this so much! Can't wait for more!

Two amazing fills? Is it my birthday? Seriously, this is just amazing; your Haytham is spot-on and I am loving the ways you're blending the werewolf elements in. And puppy-Connor. I squeed so loudly at that point that I woke up my dog. He is now looking at me like I've gone completely insane. I hope you're pleased with yourself Anon, you've made my dog question my sanity. ;D

All of my love Anon, can't wait to see where you go from here!

Thanks! Another part should be up sometime today!

Just some extra stuff. This image is what I based Connor's wolf form on: http://www.barnorama.com/wp-content/images/2011/04/B1203/35.jpg. This is the one I used for Haytham:http://www.daveshumway.com/data/photos/46_1_MG_1161GreyWolf.jpg.

Haytham had forgotten how much he had enjoyed the frontier. He shook his body, dislodging some snow that had built up on his grey coat. A rabbit hung from his jaws as he jumped over snow drifts, heading to the cave cum den he had left the boy in. It was different from the cities, where the snow often turned to a muddy slush before anyone could admire its beauty.

The small fire he had left going in the cave was still lit. His son snuffled and snuggled deeper into his white robes. Haytham rolled his eyes and shifted, his coat once again falling across his shoulders. If there was one thing he was going to teach the boy, it was going to be how to shift with his clothes. It was less likely to get him thrown in the stocks for public indecency.

His son cracked open a tawny eye and shut it. A paw covered his muzzle, and Haytham almost laughed at the sign of dismay. He put the rabbit to roasting and went over to him, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck. The pup yelped and twisted, trying to bite him.

“Now, now, none of that,” Haytham said, swatting him on the nose. The pup managed to look offended, still squirming. Haytham rolled his eyes and poked the boy on his haunch, right next to where he had sewn up a nasty gash. His son squeaked, his jaws snapping slightly as the pain registered. “You’re being rather rude, boy.”

Haytham sat the boy down on the white robes again and rotated the rabbit, making sure that it was well-cooked. While raw meat wouldn’t harm either of them, he preferred cooked meat. From the way the boy’s nose was twitching, he did as well.

“Are you going to shift back?” Haytham asked, taking the rabbit off his makeshift spit. The boy cocked his head to the side, obviously confused by the question. “Human, boy. Unless you prefer to eat in that form?”

The boy squeaked, his fur standing on edge. If he had been older, Haytham might have felt a little threatened. But his son merely toddled over and sat in front of him, his head hanging low. Haytham sighed and picked him up, stopping his squirming with another pat on his muzzle.

“You don’t know how to voluntarily shift?” he asked as he tore a strip of meat off the rabbit. He held it out in front of the boy, who snapped it up eagerly. “I would have thought that your mentor would have at least taught you that much.”

The boy growled, turning to glare at Haytham. Haytham scratched him behind his ears and smirked.

“I am not a fool, boy,” he said. “There was only one assassin left alive. The old man must be training you. Poorly, if he doesn’t even know the basics of caring for one of us.”

Without warning, the boy’s hackles were raised, and he launched himself out of Haytham’s grasp. He let out a coughing bark as he landed, falling on the dirt as his back legs gave out under him. Haytham watched as he dragged himself back to the pile of his robes and tucked himself into a ball. Setting the rest of the rabbit to the side, Haytham began to move towards the boy. His son growled and showed his teeth, to which he rolled his eyes.
The wolf came to the forefront easily, covering him with fur and dropping him on all fours. Haytham shook his head at the sensation, and focused on the boy again. His son had backed up in his little nest, his back arching slightly and his teeth bared in fear instead of anger. Haytham chuffed a short bark, one meant to order another wolf to come closer. The boy, still afraid, cocked his ears forward at the sound, but made no move towards him. Haytham repeated the sound, adding a growl for emphasis. His wolf snarled in his mind as the boy continued to stay where he was.

Haytham walked over, ignoring the pitiful growl the boy gave him. He grabbed his scruff in his jaw and took him back to where they had been sitting. Arranging the boy so that he couldn’t escape again, Haytham tore another piece of meat and held it out to him. His son squirmed for a few moments, trying to escape, before he stilled and took the food.

Their meal continued in silence as they picked the rabbit down to its bones. Haytham still felt hungry, but there hadn’t been any large animals around. He put the thought in the back of his mind as he examined his son. He looked young, which made Haytham worried. A young pup should have someone looking out for them, teaching them to hunt and play. From the reports he had heard from the Order the boy moved like an adult as he stalked the streets of Boston. Yet he looked like a young pup, similar to what Haytham had shifted to when he was nine years old.

The boy yawned, his eyes fluttering shut. Even though his human senses were telling him that Haytham was an enemy, his wolf recognized Haytham as his father. He snuggled into Haytham’s side and closed his eyes, falling into sleep. Haytham curled himself around his son, keeping him warm. He would have to ask the boy’s name, once he shifted back. It was rather annoying to refer to him as boy all the time.

Morning came too quickly, the faint light streaming into the cave. Haytham moved carefully so not to jar his son from sleep, and shifted back to human form. As he did so, he noticed the boy do the same. Haytham froze, but the boy did not rouse from his sleep. Haytham rolled his eyes and took off his cape, spreading it over his son. He poked at the dying fire, adding some sticks to the feeble flames, before grabbing the boy’s robes. Using the same needle that closed his son’s wounds, he began to sew up the holes in the robes. He was so wrapped up in repairing the outfit, that he did not notice the boy wake.

“Why are you doing this?”

Haytham looked up in surprise before turning back to his work. “You’re untrained, and I would rather not have to put you down like a rabid dog. As for this,” he said, holding up the robes, “it seemed rather practical. You do need to wear clothes, after all.”

“We are enemies.”

“You are my son,” Haytham said, ending the argument before it could begin. “I’ve known since you first set foot in Boston. While you may have different beliefs, it is rather hard to refer to you as an enemy at this point. You are nothing more than an annoyance to us.”

“Then why am I here? Why did you not kill me?”

“I have no reason to,” Haytham answered, tying off and cutting the thread. “You’re barely more than a pup, yet to learn his place in the world.”

He heard rather than saw the boy start at the words. Looking up, he saw his son almost curled in half under his cape.

“I am a monster.”

Haytham snarled, shifting with barely a thought. The robes dropped under his paws as he stalked over to the boy. His son began to crawl backwards, but stopped when Haytham let out a warning growl. Haytham could see the whites of his eyes as he padded closer and jumped to put his front paws on the boy’s shoulders. Almost immediately the boy shifted back to a pup, Haytham’s cape dropping to the floor. He grabbed his son before he could make a break for it, dragging him back to where Haytham had been repairing his clothes. He dropped the boy on top of them, then folded himself around him. His son tried to wriggle out of the embrace, but stopped when Haytham growled.

They sat like that for almost an hour. When the boy began to grow restless, Haytham shifted again, unsurprised when the boy did as well. It had been much the same when he was first understanding how shifting worked. Haytham motioned for him to put on the robes, which the boy did grudgingly.

“You have a name, boy?”

His son looked up at him and raised an eyebrow. “Ratohnhaké:ton.”

Haytham rolled his eyes. “I can’t pronounce that.”

“I go by Connor,” he told him.

“Much easier to pronounce,” Haytham replied as he turned back to the fire. “You’re seventeen years of age, if I’m correct?”

“Yes.”

“You should have been shifting at seven,” Haytham mused as he added more twigs to the fire. “When did you start?”

“Less than a year ago.”

“Curious,” Haytham said. “There should be a dry log near the entrance. Would you mind fetching it?”

Connor grunted, his footfalls going in the direction Haytham indicated. A frown marred Haytham’s face as he considered and discarded what he knew about the boy. It was strange and slightly worrying that he had only just begun to shift. But, aside from that, Haytham found that he was relieved. Connor’s wolf was still young enough to be taught, and the boy could be told how to control it.

Connor sat the small log next to Haytham, and took up a seat across from him. He had pulled up his hood again, but Haytham could still make out that he was very uncomfortable. Haytham let the silence between them remain as the log crackled and began to burn.

“You do not seem surprised to find out about me,” Connor said, breaking the silence.

“I’ve known about you since you first set foot in Boston,” Haytham replied, looking at him. “A young werewolf, with no obvious training, in my territory? There haven’t been any of our kind besides myself in these lands for nigh on ten years. I assumed, and was proven right. Any other questions?”

“Why did you help me?”

“Because a young werewolf, no matter what side he may claim to be, needs to be trained in how to control his beast. I would rather not have to put you down.”

“And yet you may have to.”

“But not for lack of training,” Haytham countered. “While our ideals may be different, any Assassin would do what I am doing for our kind, child of a Templar or not. It concerns me that whoever trained you has not.”

“He does not know.”

Haytham threw the twig he had been poking the fire with into the flames. “And if you had asked, he might have at least tried to help. Might have told you that you aren’t a monster.”

“In my village there are stories of men who have lost themselves to their beasts,” Connor said. “It is a curse among my people.”

“Well, in your case it is not,” Haytham replied. “My father was a werewolf, as was his father before him. The Kenway line has always had a inclination for it, even since before our departure from Russia. It seems it was passed on to you as well. Which means that you should be trained in how to use it.”

“I will not be trained by a Templar.”

Haytham felt his anger rise, but let out a deep breath. He knew it would be hard to convince the boy that he needed to be trained, even if his father was the only one able to do so. A father that he seemed to loathe.

“In this instance, I will refrain from attempting to push my ideals onto you, if you will extend the same courtesy of listening when I speak,” Haytham said, his voice measured and careful. “If you are not trained, you run the risk of striking out against those whom you care about, not just those you seek to kill. It is a weapon, but one that you instinctively know how to use. Which means that after a few days, we’ll go our separate ways, and never speak of this again. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

It was far from easy to convince the young Assassin that every sudden move Haytham made was not meant to hurt him. But, slowly, Connor began to trust him. Within the first day of his tutelage, Connor had stopped shucking his clothes when he transformed. On the second, he helped Haytham take down a young buck while transformed. Haytham had chuckled when Connor later told him that it would have been far easier to hunt in his human form. Haytham had countered by asking what would happen if he didn’t have his weapons. At the end of the week, Connor had learned what Haytham had set out to teach him. Instead of saying goodbye, he simply walked out, casting one look back at the small form curled up on the floor.

It would not due to become attached. Either way, one of them would kill the other.

This was too cute, especially papa!wolf teaching his pup the basics. I really did wish they had met earlier in the game, made sense with Connor mucking up Templar affairs both on land and sea since he was 17.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Werewolf AU - Haytham is the ultimate papa-wolf

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Fill: Wolf-Father 1/?

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OP loves you

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Fill 2: Versipellis 1/3ish

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OP loves you too

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Fill 2: Versipellis 2/4

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