asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
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≈ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

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

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

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

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

≈ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

≈ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
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D'awwww YES please, that's an awesome prompt. I'd really like to see this.
Damn Ubisoft for making this pretty much impossible in-game.

Also, that name thing might actually be the best bonus EVER XD.

A/N: I know it's going pretty slow, and I'm sorry for that, but I'm still trying to figure out how much science you want in there... I promise after this chapter the story will go at a faster pace, I just need to cover some ground before-hand.

Chapter Three

Inspiration though didn’t come easily. Weeks of reading and rereading and taking notes became months of scribbling around on his paper. Jekyll and Hyde didn’t become any friendlier; they weren’t mean either, just so professionally distant that it felt like a Berlin Wall made of ice was built between them. Lucy was a good-natured girl, undoubtedly, though always in a hurry, and when she came to see him, he tried his best not to close up, not to show his growing frustration.

Elijah had worked on difficult inventions before. He had acquired a good set of skills concerning machines of all sizes, had learnt which parts to treat with utmost care, which parts were the most vital and usually also the most fragile, and which parts he needed to keep clean while working on them – most of this he’d learnt the hard way by trial and failure and stubbornness. Machines were surprisingly similar to living organisms, their organs fragile like the wings of a bird, electricity shooting through them like fluttering heartbeats, while in a whole they were rather difficult to destroy.

Comparing machines to birds wasn’t so far-fetched at all. In fact, he was going to build something that could make people fly, though not in a literal sense.

Yes, Eli had worked on difficult inventions before, but nothing had ever been just as difficult as this one.

He had soon realised that creating a machine that could decode DNA wasn’t even that much of a problem. There had been studies of this before, and even though DNA was a rather fragile and important thing of the body, if treated with care it was surprisingly flexible. He knew normal DNA didn’t contain individual, ancestral memory, as it wasn’t vital for the body to survive and evolve, but there were several sequences in the human DNA that hadn’t been decoded yet; they were blank chapters in scientific research. It was as though this part of the genome didn’t want to be investigated, as though it had something to hide, something dangerous. You needed to crack open the shell to get to the good parts. And it was like a siren’s call to Eli’s ears. Something was pulling him towards the secrets hidden in human cells, in his own body, and he was burning to find it out and snoop around. Maybe one day… one day he would crack open one of his own ancestors’ memories… He shivered at the thought of all the secrets waiting to be unlocked.

At first, he had thought of using chemicals. Certain DNA sequences had to be activated that would usually sit unconcerned, dormant almost. DNA was relatively fragile and easily destroyed – the process of splitting it up and decoding it must be done with caution, otherwise, the data could be lost and the body closing up, identifying the intruder as a threat and rejecting it from the body’s confines so that the subject would grow resistant to the influences of a particular drug. Chemicals would make the extraction of significant data rather risky. If they were contaminated with certain nucleases, its enzymes could chop up pretty much all of the organisms cellular data. Splitting up the strings of DNA permanently could, on a long-term basis, have similar effects like being exposed to radioactivity and Eli didn’t want to risk any permanent damage, especially since the machine would have to be connected to the subject’s brain in some form or another.

He needed to find another way.

Like with every other stunning riddle that had dug itself into his brain, the solution came to him in his sleep.

Eli woke with a start, sitting up in his bed electrified, gasping for air as if he’d just breached water and came up to the startling light of sun, blinding him in its force but still binding him to its warmth. Eyes wide in the dimmed light his room had during night time that made the world look flat and shallow, he pushed away the blankets that held him back in the cocoon-like nest he’d built during a fitful sleep, and got up, not caring about his calf that was still wrapped in the covers, dragging them to the floor. His fingers were trembling when he made his way to the small desk, his shirt still ridden up on his chest from sleep, the hem caught under his arms. His hair was scruffy and kept getting into his eyes, and he shoved them back haphazardly, searching for his pen hectically, whimpering when he didn’t find it at first.

He probably looked like a madman, but he couldn’t care less.

Pushing away documents and folders that tumbled to the floor, mixing up papers he’d have to organise again later, his fingers finally closed around the pen, his mind and pulse racing miles ahead. Laughing quietly in triumph he set out for paper, limping while his calf dragged along the blankets, but he already felt inspiration slip away, he couldn’t afford losing it all again, and damn Abstergo for its lack of paper, but he needed-

Groaning in exasperation, Eli stumbled over to the empty cement wall above his bed, his pen raised like a weapon while his right hand started drumming a rhythm on his bare leg to the beating of the clock. He huffed in relief, his gaze fixating on his new-found “canvas” while his hand scribbled away line after line in slightly messy mirror writing onto the cement. Abstergo would probably not be happy about his creative vandalism, but then again, it had all been Abstergo’s doing in bringing him here. They were the ones so eager to deal with his wayward mind.

All thoughts of Abstergo and a possibly pending punishment for his antics vanished when he grabbed inspiration by the hair, his hand acting on its own. Mumbling away silently, he moved across the plains of the wall, writing over the metal headboard of his bed when it got in the way. His pen screeched in the silence, the blankets shuffling behind him as his gaze narrowed in, eyes wide, the tip of his tongue dragging out over dry lips. Eli could almost feel the wheels in his brain, oiled and well-kept like a machine, turning, the words coming out through his hand before he formed them in his head, as the confines of his room fell away into a wide openness of empty space, where his eyes could see so much more.

When four hours later Lucy entered his room and snapped him from his thoughts with a startled gasp, hugging her notes close and just barely balancing the bowl in her hands, her eyes wide when she took a step back, Eli looked up from his notes with a surprised smile, his pen pushing against his lower lip in deep thought, his hands and cheeks, the wall above his bed, the headboard and the ceiling he’d reached by climbing onto his mattress covered in the dark blue ink of his pen. “Good morning, Lucy,” he said light-heartedly.

“I… guess…”

She came in cautiously, still hiding partly behind her notes, her eyes taking in the mess he’d made. Setting down the bowl onto the desk, she tugged the blankets that were still wrapped around Eli’s calf from his leg. Eli smiled again and turned back to his notes, scratching his stubbly chin thoughtfully. Lucy fell silent for a minute and seemed to hesitate before she turned away, shaking her head and leaving him in peace.

When Jekyll and Hyde took him to his office, he happily muttered under his breath, smiling when Jekyll looked at him curiously from the corner of his eye before turning back to the cold façade the two of them wore around him. “Thanks, boys,” he said when they dropped him off at his office.

“Why have you not…assaulted me?” It was not said with fear. Or anger. Or murderous intent. Rather, with an exhausted sort of acceptance.

“Wot, love?” Hickey snarled, flipping a page of the newspaper, “Don’t tell me our little brawl got ya all wet and wantin’? Wot, ya bloodlust need a bit of a fix?” he let out a spiteful chuckle. Hopefully, the threat would shut her up.

After all, they were the first words she’d spoken in well over two hours. From her position securely trussed on the floor the cell and next to his bed, she’d made barely a scrape of noise. Yet he knew was awake the entire time. The feel of her eyes boring into his back where he sat at his desk, his feet propped up and reading the afternoon paper, was unmistakable. He could only chalk it up to her sheer frustration of not being able to strangle him when she had the chance. Now, he had a pounding headache, split lip and a half-swollen face for her troubles. Meanwhile, her bloodied nose, bruised ribs and the nail marks all up and down her arms were his malevolent gifts to her.

They would’ve made a comical sight, the pair of them now looking like old, battered, bare-knuckle boxers. Well, except for the fact that she’d fucking tried to kill him. Yet a distant part of his mind couldn’t blame her; you could sure as shit bet that he would’ve fought just as dirty, had their roles been reversed. Admittedly, he’d always had a predilection for shit-stirring little scrappers.

Then again, she could’ve been a bit more civil and not tried to fucking kill him.

“Hardly,” she quietly retorted after a long while. He let out a long, exasperated sigh at the fact that she couldn’t take the hint and snap up her yap as she continued, “I simply expect it of you.”

Who in the hell did she think he was?!

Oh, he’d lost what little honor he had long ago, of that there was no doubt. His life’s blood was smuggling and espionage. He’d unapologetically lied cheated his way to the top of the black market. Of course, he’d killed men. To the point where it’d become almost bothersome whenever he was called upon to do so for the sake of necessity. He was certainly a man of all sorts of lechery. Never too picky about the skirts he chased and bedded, a bit of coin and a draft of beer completed his usual trifecta of appetites. But there was a world of difference between taking a wanting lass and stealing what hadn’t been freely given. And he sure as shit wasn’t no thief of that sort of thing.

Then again, he had little desire to explore why exactly the dodgy little git’s assumption of that sort of contemptible behavior from him pissed him off even more. He’d never bothered thinking too much on such complexities. Mostly because it’d never done damn a thing to either fatten his pockets or contribute to his various indulgences. So he settled for the usual insult and intimidation.

“Well, if ya don’t shut ya yap,” he jeered, still not bothering to look back at her, “I ain’t makin’ no promises that a piece of ‘ole Hickey won’t end up all up in ya!”

“Understood,” she steadily said.

Thank whatever savage gods ya pray to that I ain’t no right proper deviant, poppet. No matter what Lee and the lot ‘o ‘em be thinkin’ of me supposed inclinations, he furiously mused. Which has gotta be the only bloody reason why that wanker dumped you in me lap.

Within a half hour, the sounds of her even breathing signaled that she was finally asleep. Glancing back at the setting sun through the bars of his window, he shook his head in irritated dismay. For fuck’s sake, Lee was supposed to bail him out hours ago.

Ugh, what a bloody prat.

-----00000-----

Thankfully, Lee finally decided to drag his sorry arse back up to Bridewell the next morning. Along with some longwinded plan to frame his temporary cellmate for their plot against Washington. Plus, the murder of the warden. Though Hickey personally didn’t think was the best idea to inform her of entire fucking thing. Then again, what did he care? He was finally getting the fuck out of here.

He found himself rolling his eyes as Charles made his usual megalomaniacal threats at the little beast. Seriously, if he kept waving his flintlock about like that, the whiny bugger was bound to end up shooting him. Couldn’t they just say their goodbyes and be on their way? Being in the clink for over a fortnight was plenty of time for him to decide he that he pretty much despised enclosed spaces. No matter a better cell and whatnot.

Alright, so he couldn’t hold back a chuckle at the ‘lil wolf’s astonishment that their apparent order expected everyone to fall in line. Such was life. Either you swam with big fish, or got ripped to bits by the lot of them. Looked like she was about to get eaten. And not in the good way.

Oh well.

“What in the hell happened to your face, Thomas?” Charles snorted, his irksome voice snapping Hickey out of his thoughts as he slammed the woman’s cell door closed. “Please don’t tell me our guest,” he nodded to where Connor appeared as though she was mentally calculating the slowest, bloodiest and most vicious way to flay them both, “Gave you much trouble?” he chuckled. “Because it would be a true pity if she has yet to learn the valuable lesson of obedience.”

Gaze narrowing and taking in how Lee’s hand lingered on the lock to her cell, Hickey suddenly found himself sneering, “Got inta a bit ‘o fisticuffs in the yard. Not that it be any of ya fuckin’ concern.” Eyes snapping to his at his supposed explanation, she arched a brow of utter surprise. He could almost see the wheels of confusion spinning in her head at his unexpected lie.

Frankly, he didn’t want to dwell on it either.

“Well, I certainly hope the other lout looks worse,” Charles scoffed.

“Ya assumin’ he lived through it,” Hickey rolled his eyes. “Besides, it ain’t like I’ve ever let ya down on that front, eh?” he snickered, ignoring the peculiar pull at his gut as she continued silently staring at him.

“Surprise, surprise, you still serve some use,” Charles retorted with a dismissive wave, spinning on his heel and finally leading him out of this hellhole.

Shooting him a cross expression, Hickey growled, “Oh, go knock off ‘o it, ya feckless pillock!”

Soon, the assassin’s fate was the furthest thing from his mind. He had some tail to chase and copious of amounts of drinking to catch up on, after all.

Chapter 2: Escape from the Gallows

June 28, 1776

“'Ello Connor! Didn’t think I’d miss ya goin’ away party, did ya?” Hickey brightly declared, dragging her out of the wagon some feet from the gallows. She remained silent, reduced to fixing him with an expression of pure, unadulterated hatred. If he were a lesser man, he would’ve flinched under that lethal gaze. Instead, he settled for the usual taunting. “I hear Washington ‘imself is gonna be in attendance. Hope nothin’ bad ‘appens to him!”

Her eyes widened for a split second as she spat out, “You said there’d be a trial!”

“Ah, no trials for traitors I’m afraid,” Hickey sighed with exaggerated regret. Though he didn’t really know if he was serious or relieved.

This whole affair was quickly turning into a clusterfuck of constantly shifting bullshit. Frankly, he was getting bloody sick of it. Particularly with the big bosses making all sorts of preposterous demands of him. If they would’ve just let him carry out his plan and quietly knock off Washington, the deed would’ve been done weeks ago. Now, they were offering up their sacrificial lamb to the hordes. What a waste, she could’ve been quite useful to Haytham and his grand schemes. Especially considering the little nutter had a mean left hook and a tendency towards attempting to kill whatever got in her way. His bruised face and neck alone bore the rather glaring signs of that. Then again, her reckless tendencies proved an irritating thorn in his side. So yeah, it would be best to rid the world of her.

…maybe?

Hmm, perhaps this was why the order never left him to make any of the big decisions.

Thoughts swiftly returning back to the present, he shrugged, “Lee and Haytham saw to that. It’s straight to the gallows for you.”

Her expression suddenly brokered no tolerance for negotiation as she turned and cast him a steady stare. He could blame it was the blurriness of the rain. Or the addictive bloodlust of the crowd addling his brain. But he could swear her cracked lip twitched upwards in a smirk as she firmly promised, “I will not die today. The same cannot be said for you.”

Hickey’s blood ran cold, his boots seeming stuck in mud as he froze. Rapidly blinking, his mind reeled at her insinuation.

Sure, he’d willingly thrown in his lot with the Templars, mostly at ‘ole Willie Johnson’s urging. But it wasn’t due to any hair-brained allegiance to some hazy, ridiculous higher power. Screw the hierarchy, he was here to get a leg up and avoid the poor house. That it was pretty convenient and paid exceedingly well was an added bonus. Aye, they went on and on about their supposedly lofty goals. What, with their diatribes about seeking world peace through order and combating chaos with an unyielding hand and blah de fucking blah. But if he was to be honest (and how long had it been since there'd been a need to do that?), it was all a bunch of bollocks.

Except, now there was the asinine conviction of the homicidal little chit as she walked her way to the gallows. Seriously, she couldn’t bother to give a flying fuck about the fact that she due for a long drop and a short stop in the matter of a few minutes? A broken neck, the mocking of the crowds and then a pine box. Assuming she was lucky and they didn’t rush to desecrate her corpse, that is. How could she not see there was no way back?

He was glad the other officer shoved her forward with a threat to shut her mouth. He didn’t intervene when some strumpet decided to send her reeling to the ground with a solid clock to the face.

He snorted in derision as Lee read out the final condemnation.

He looked away when the sound of the trapdoor snapped and reverberated in the air, a finality if he ever heard one.

A pity. That pretty little face wouldn’t do her any damn good now.

Except the crowd suddenly let out a hushed groan. Their silence going on for far too long, Hickey cracked one eye open and looked up toward the gallows.

Oh, for fuck’s sake! How in the bloody hell had the slippery little scrubber managed to get loose?!

Head snapping between the demon coming at him with a tomahawk (seriously, a mother-fuckin’ ax?!) and where Washington stood about a hundred feet in front of him, Hickey knew his decision would result in one of two outcomes. Either it would cost him his life, or he could eke out an escape by the skin of his teeth. So, he did what any normal gent would do when dropped between a rock and the psychotic ruffian swiftly becoming his hard place.

He fled.

...and I ran out of space. So this is part 5a

In spite of squinting against the driving rain and stumbling a few times along the wet, filthy ground, Connor’s blood was singing. The beautifully familiar weight of her tomahawk in her grip was a welcome respite from prison. Artfully twirling it about in her hand, she sighed in relief. Now, to complete her mission.

Her quarry vainly attempting to shove past the press of people surrounding him, Connor’s gaze flicked to where Washington was already being hustled away from the pandemonium. Well, that would make the task at hand a bit easier. Still, she was too far away to stop Hickey. She needed a back-up plan. Thankfully, it stepped in front of her in the form of a soldier demanding her surrender and threatening to shoot her.

She didn’t so much pause as she ducked under the barrel of his musket and sent her elbow crashing into his nose. With him distracted, she swiped the dagger sheathed in his hip from his sword belt. A blink of an eye and he was swallowed back up the crowd, no longer her problem. Using the mob’s panic to her advantage, she charged sideways to utilize a less congested pathway. It also gave her a clearer view of her recruits making their way towards her along the rooftops. It’d take them a bit to reach her, giving her a solid window of time to question Hickey.

Balancing the newly acquired blade on her fingertips, she hurled it at her target. It landed true, the contemptible lout crumbling to the cobblestones with a satisfying yelp of pain.

“Dammit,” Hickey indifferently sniffed, looking down at his hands as she approached, “I thought I'd at least live to see another day. Shame.”

“If I wished you dead, you would not still be breathing,” Connor vowed, dropping to her knees and leaning over him. Eyes alight with fiery determination, she grit, “I want answers.”

Without warning, she abruptly jerked the dagger out of his shoulder. It sent him reeling out a litany of strained curses, his breath hitching in spurts. Tossing the knife away and shoving the tomahawk under his chin, she pressed her hand to his wound in warning. It was all the proof he needed to make it clear that she had no qualms about drawing out his agony.

“Why did Johnson try and buy my people's land?” she charged, dark eyes flashing with ire. “Why was Pitcairn targeting Adams and Hancock? What purpose would Washington's murder have served? Why does your order support the British?” she demanded.

“How should I know?” Hickey spat out a burning cough before fixing her with a defiant stare. “The Templars. Lee. The big man, Haytham.” He gave a ragged chuckle as she flinched at the mere mention of her apparent greatest enemy. “They 'as the money. They 'as the power. That's the reason I threw in with 'em. That's the only reason.” Connor’s expression slid to stunned as he continued, “Sure, they 'ave some sort of vision for the future too. I didn't give a damn about any of that. They can sing their songs about mankind and its troubles. They can make their plans and spring their traps, don't bother me none,” he smirked. “They paid me, so I said yes. Didn't bother to ask who or how or why. Didn't care.”

Connor shot him with a look of disgust, her gaze clouded with loathing. “You chose to side with men who would rob us of our humanity? Simply because it was more profitable?!”

“What else is there?” Hickey scowled. “I'm not some blind fool who'd give up all I've got on principle. What is principle anyway? Can ya bring it to the bank?”

Connor sadly shook her head in disbelief, causing Hickey to roll his eyes.

“Don't look at me like that. We're different, you and I; you're just some blind fool who's always chasin' butterflies, whereas I'm the type of guy who likes to have a beer in one hand and a titty in the other,” he flexed his fingers. “Thing is, girl, I can have what I seek. Had it, even. You? Your hands will always be empty.” He let out a chortle at her expression of obvious confusion. “All of this soddin’ trouble for the likes of ya? A pity we didn’t wipe out the lot ‘o you like we was supposed to, all those years ago.”

Face twisting into an ugly snarl, she pressed her knee a bit too close to his groin for his liking. “You would do well to cease your pointless blathering!”

“Make me, ‘lil she-wolf-”

Her head jerked up at the worrisome sound of muskets suddenly being reloaded. Frantically looking around, she let out a growl of annoyance at seeing a handful of soldiers bearing down on them. Beneath her, Hickey’s callous laugh echoed in her ears, even as she pressed her tomahawk hard enough into his neck to draw a cut of blood. “Looks like ya got some ‘ard decisions to make, sweetheart,” he mocked, even as he winced. “Do ya get shot to shit? Or do ya let ‘Ole Hickey escape, eh?”

“Quiet your incessant chattering!” she hissed, digging her knee into his inner thigh and giving him a firm shake along his shoulder that caused him spit out a garbled curse of pain.

“Ten seconds, darlin’!” he sneered.

He wasn’t going anywhere, by the looks of it. And she still had to warn Washington.

She reeled back and soundly punched Hickey in the jaw, not caring about how her fist ached at the impact. It did its task, effectively knocking him out. Let the soldiers collect him, she mused. Besides, they were both still surrounded by the terrified, fleeing crowd. If they opened fire on her, they’d injure or even kill innocent civilians. She had to get the hell out of here.

Reaching down, she swiftly relieved Hickey of his overcoat. In spite of the large patch of fresh blood blooming across its ripped shoulder, it would be better at letting her blend in than nothing at all. Tossing it on, she leapt to her feet and shoved through the crowd. It wasn’t hard to act to the part of the confused civilian trying to escape the square; she now couldn’t see where Achilles or her recruits were.

She nearly stabbed the arm of whoever suddenly snatched at her wrist, shoving him away from with her other hand. “It’s just me, miss!” a familiar voice slid across her ears as his grip slightly loosened. “‘Tis alright, you’re nice and safe now!”

Letting out a muffled sob at the familiar sound of Clipper’s eager voice, she quickly collected herself as he dragged her up against a brick wall. It took a healthy bit of her resolve to steel her usual impassive expression to her face. She also furtively ran a hand across her eyes under the auspices of drying her face from the rain. It went a long way towards concealing the tears spilling down her cheeks. For now, she would blame it on the sheer relief of finally being not quite so near death.

“Clipper, thank you,” she latched onto his arm and urged them forward. “How did you all-?”

“Tallmadge sent word to Mr. Davenport,” he declared, trailing in her wake.

“Remind me to thank him for his assistance as well,” she breathed. Desperately ignoring the flash of agony that flared through her body due to her bruised ribs from falling through the trap door, she gulped down mouthfuls of air. Shaking her head in an effort to get her bearings as her vision swam with the beginnings of a fever, Connor squared her shoulders and questioned, “Where is Washington?!”

“Don’t you worry yourself none, Connor,” Clipper flashed her a relieved smile, “He’s-”

The sound of an order to prepare to fire snapped Connor out of the conversation. Glancing over, she muttered a curse in her native language at finding a half-dozen soldiers with their weapons aimed right them. Gripping her dagger, she shoved Clipper behind her as she dropped to fighting stance.

“At ease, men! At ease! I said lower your god-damned guns!”

Thankfully, there was no need to brace for a volley of bullets as Israel Putnam barked out his order. Behind her, Connor could hear Clipper let out a deep sigh of relief. Not that she blamed him in the slightest.

“This woman’s a hero!” Putnam bellowed, marching forward. “The general can be so stubborn sometimes,” he grimaced, shaking his head and taking in the general anarchy of the square. “‘Piffle,’ he said when we warned him something like this would happen. ‘Piffle!’”

“The traitor you are looking for is over there,” Connor pointed in the general direction of where she’d left him. “His name is Thomas Hickey. He’s an officer with the Connecticut militia and part of the general’s bodyguard.”

“Good!” Putnam declared. “Men, go gather him up!” he shouted, waving for them to do so, “We don’t want to deny the people their blood sport today, eh? I believe a hanging was scheduled, and we may still get our wish-”

“Stop!” Connor held up an adamant hand as the soldiers fanned out to collect Hickey, “He deserves a fair trial.”

“He wanted to kill the Commander!” Putnam retorted with disbelief, “Nearly killed you as well. He's a scoundrel-”

“But still a man,” Connor steadily said. “For justice to be served, he must be tried for his actions.”

“Even though he denied the very same to you, girl?!” Putnam shot her a look of absolute disbelief. As she silently nodded, he rolled his eyes and chomped on his cigar, snorting, “You’re nothing, if not consistent.”

As they discussed Washington’s whereabouts, Connor nearly passed out from the waves of weariness washing over her. Finding out the general was heading to Philadelphia, she was thankful as Clipper politely made his excuses to Putnam that they had to go. Ushering her away, he soon brought her to inn where he, the other recruits and Achilles were staying.

Ignoring everything else, she collapsed into bed. She attempted to brush off the doctor Achilles fetched for her and fall asleep right then and there. But Clipper, Stephane and Duncan were having none of it. Their concerned fuss over her caused her to alternately blush and stammer with grateful surprise. Distracting her from her embarrassment with a few bold tales of how they carried off her rescue, they swore to return as soon as the doctor finished with her.

She insisted to the physician that she hadn’t been violated in prison. So there was no need for him to perform an incredibly awkward sort of personal exam. One small comfort was that the Templars apparently wanted her to survive long enough to make it to the gallows. No doubt, the damned guards were in on their plans, likely due to the promise of coin. Hence, why they constantly kept her in solitary confinement for the most part. At least before she earned her way into the pit and then ended up in Hickey’s cell.

Otherwise, she’d suffered a black eye, a swollen cheek and split lip, bruised rips, two broken fingers on her right hand, some cuts, lacerations and probably a mild concussion. Not to mention, the slight fever she was running. The doctor warned that her illness was the biggest concern, for it could easily grow worse if she wasn’t fully rested. Patching her up, leaving her with a sleeping draught and ordering her to remain in bed for the next few days, he soon departed.

Achilles quickly had a bath brought up. “Hush up, girl. We’ll discuss this later,” he waved off her apology for getting herself into such a dire situation, “For there are always lessons to learn from one’s mistakes." Dropping a fresh set of clothes on the bed, he retreated from her room. After the bath, he and her recruits promised her they would all have supper in her quarters.

What does my father have to do with all of this? Connor’s mind tiredly wandered as she scrubbed off the last fortnight of filth with a groan of relief. And most importantly, what is the next step in putting an end to the Templars?

This is just brilliant, anon. I love the way you write and I'm sooo excited for more.

I love this version of the execution with Connor sparing Hickey, can't wait to see how they went from enemies to... Lovers-I-guess

So yeah, basically, the Kenways are mermen, and you know, Kanatahséton is pretty close to the sea.

Pretty much free license to whomever wish to write something for this, but please don't make Ziio almost drown only to be rescued, she's too badass for that.

THIS, SO THIS. Thirding. Especially the name bits.

("Honestly, son, it's not that much harder than Welsh.")

Haytham could be drowning on the beach and Ziio rescues him!

So Hickey doesn't ever look at her and think, hey, where have I seen that nose before and those cheekbones?

Black Flag era Edward Kenway gets thrown into the future (the Apple/a Piece of Eden did it) and pops up on the Homestead. There, he meets his grandson, Connor. While they're both wary of each other at first, Edward becomes proud of the boy while Connor slowly warms to good old granddad. But then, Edward finds out Haytham is a Templar and that Connor is in constant conflict with his own father. So Edward and Connor team up to try to figure out if Haytham can be brought back into the Assassin fold

Bonus if Edward has memories of his own life that haven't happened yet, like getting killed by Reginald Birch, and Jenny getting sold to slavers and what not. When/if he returns to the past, will he attempt to "fix" his mistakes? Even if it may result in Connor never being born? Or will his attempts only make things worse/inevitable?

Double bonus if Edward sees how awkward Connor is around women and gives him some much needed lessons in dealing with the opposite sex. Because no descendant of his can possibly be that naive.

The tank - glass, expensive and thick to preserve itself against attacks, sealed together with equally heavy steel - was disgusting. They’d been on the road for weeks, and the humans that normally cleaned out his tank had taken off on another land-current. It was awful, but there was nothing he could do about it. While he could survive in fresh water, he preferred salt, and longed for the waters of the Channel. When he complained to the ringmaster, he was given the excuse that they were not near an ocean, and that to provide salt artificially would not be profitable.

Haytham loathed the man. Despite being of lesser intellect than the merman, the ringmaster lorded his supposed humanity over Haytham’s head. If Haytham had his way, if he could just escape from this damnable cage, then he would happily clasp his hands around the tender throat and strangle the ringmaster. Not once had they been so foolish as to let him dry out, fearing for his life. Yet if they had, (Haytham had made no effort to correct them, leaving this trump card up his sleeve for when the time was right) they would have discovered that Haytham had legs like the rest of them. That his ears could be as human as theirs, his nails not hardened, teeth blunt and useless for hunting.

Yes, he was as human as the rest of them. They were the monsters.

Before he had been captured, Haytham hadn’t had any desire to take his human form under the darkness of the new moon. But having endured a disgustingly stifled journey from England to the New World - Ahmaryka - Haytham found himself rather compelled by the desire to escape.

He’d been young, ten mere years of his life had passed, when he was captured, and it was by this youth that he had managed to fight off the sicknesses that he had encountered in captivity. His father had not been so fortunate, an injury turned sour, and the infected wound killed him after a violent fever. Jenny had been split off, sold to someone else, and Haytham’s mother had made no attempt to come after them, remaining in their den, staring at him with hateful eyes as he tore the flesh of a whaler’s throat.

But his first owner had been good to him. Reginald Birch. A sigh-en-tist of unusual compassion. He had been gentle, coaxing Haytham out of his poisonous mood, teaching him not only English, but Greek, Latin, and French as well. The food was never lacking, and Birch had constructed a large salt-water pool with rocks and algae, seaweed to hide in and eventually other exotic creatures joined Haytham. It had been good. For seven years Haytham had lived in that pool, unable to escape the locked doors.

It had been peaceful, tranquil, yet Haytham still craved home. To know it was so close, yet masked by the pungent aroma of London drove him to maintain his strength, that one day he might be able to swim in it once more. Reginald promised that he would take Haytham back to the ocean once he turned eighteen.

•••

A door was flung open. Shards of timber littered the ground. A trickle of smoke licked the air with a salacious wisp from the pistol flecked with blood.

Haytham later learnt that Birch had betrayed him. Unintentionally, but betrayed nonetheless, and in Haytham’s eyes any form of Birch’s redemption had vanished like the twisting smoke when there had been no rescue.

***
The ringmaster was lost.

‘Good,’ thought Haytham bitterly. ‘Let us all die in the cold.’

His water was almost too murky to see out of, he didn’t care if it was salt or not, he wanted fresh water and he wanted it now. It was choking him on his own dead scales and rotted food, most of his days now spent as close to the airtube as possible, breathing in the ice-sharp air that pricked at his lungs. The darkness was as bad, his case covered in ratty cloth. Every now and then, when a wheel went over a hole in the road, the fabric would lift, almost blinding him with the flash of sudden brightness from the sunlight outside. Otherwise, it was a dull green, with needles of light from roughly patched holes in the cover.

But the ringmaster was lost and that gave him greater pleasure than any other to hear the frustration of the disgusting man ranting at his crew. The land-currents were worse here, rocking the carriage back and forth as it bounced over stones and ruts from other travelers. Then the party jerked to a halt.

Haytham heard shouting, different shouting. Scared, frantic. He went still, pushing his ear as close to the airtube as he could, listening. The language was not one he had heard before - in his journey, Haytham had picked up snippets of languages here and there. Perhaps it was a group of the fierce natives that the colonists had disturbed. Something smacked against his tank, the water amplifying the noise to an unbearable drumming. A darker patch started to spread across the cloth cover and Haytham had no doubt about what it was. The scent soon followed through the airtube.

The shouting continued, and someone tapped at the cover, then clawed at it, pulling the cover away entirely. Haytham bit back a screech of pain and curled away from the light, covering his eyes to adjust. Once his vision had cleared he noted that several men and women, definitely natives judging from their pretty animal-skin clothing and dark skin, were using the cloth to wrap up several dead bodies and toss them over the cliff where the caravan had precariously stopped. They hadn’t noticed him.

Haytham wasn’t sure if he wanted them to.

Clearly they were dangerous, and who was to say that they wouldn’t also turn against him? It was the first time Haytham had been grateful for his murky tank, hoping they didn’t see him. Yet, if they didn’t see him, who would know of his existence?

A woman’s face, narrow, with high cheekbones, pressed against the glass, squinting.

***
Kaniehtí:io did not like being deceived. When the shabby man in his faded coat with missing buttons failed to answer her truthfully, she broke his finger. When he persisted in a ridiculous charade - she did not, for one instant, believe that the man that was referred to as the “ringmaster” did not know what was going on in his own circus - she had him bound and gagged, thrown into a bear cage. Fortunately for the ringmaster, the bear had been set free.

She peered through the green water, wondering what exactly lived inside the magnificent glass case. A glimmer of scales had caught her eye, pale blue or perhaps even white, so it had to be some sort of fish. A very large fish. It probably wouldn’t be very good eating, not after being kept in sludge that barely qualified as water. Yet she was still curious to see this fish. Perhaps they could free it.

A hand split the water, forming a fist to pound against the glass, making Kaniehtí:io startle back.

“There’s someone in the tank,” she cried.

Grabbing the keys off one of her companions, she hurriedly flipped through them to find the correct key to release the lid. Clambering onto the driver’s seat to gain elevation, Kaniehtí:io could see the hands had moved to press at the lid, and a man’s face had emerged from the water to suck air through a tube that flopped over to the side of the tank. He was darker than most white men she had seen, his face an even tan, black hair swirling around him in the water. His eyes pleaded with her.

The locks were almost done. Onto the last one, Kaniehtí:io looked at the man again, and spotted the flash of scales again. When the lid came off, the stench almost made her gag. They had kept a man and a fish in here? Was he part of this weird display of mutilated animals or had he been shoved in there as punishment? There had been a sign proclaiming the display, but she hadn’t been particularly bothered with trying to decode it, the paint long faded from any legible language.

“Thank you,” he gasped, coughing up slime that made Kaniehtí:io hold her hand over her mouth.

Although he had dragged himself out of the water enough to cling to the back of the driver’s seat, he seemed reluctant to come further out. His chest was still covered, but as Kaniehtí:io observed him she was surprised to find his body unmarred by wrinkles that skin had after prolonged exposure to water.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No,” he replied, and it was then that she identified him as English.

“Then can you come out?”

He gave her an odd look.

"Not exactly."

The abrupt answers didn't answer anything. Kaniehtí:io snorted in frustration, pushing her braids back. Something splashed behind the Englishman; ah, it was the scales again.

"I needed air, to be truthful. And - " he hesitated, glanced away, preoccupied with the drop to the river below. "- and water."

She offered her waterskin to him. When he grasped it, his nails almost scratched her hand, long and pointed as they were. Eagerly, and rather messily, he swallowed a third of it down before stopping, a happy crooning noise rumbling down the back of his throat, almost too deep to hear.

“Thank you, ahhh...”

“Kaniehtí:io.”

“Kanehehdiio.”

“Kaniehtí:io,” she repeated firmly.

“Kan-tí:io, I am most sorry, but my tongue cannot quite grasp it yet.”

Rolling her eyes, Kaniehtí:io said, “Just Ziio, then. It is what your people tend to find easiest.”

“I am sorry. My name is Haytham,” he said in a rather meek tone, even though his eyes were still raised and chin thrust up proudly.

Kaniehtí:io huffed. It was up to him to figure out whether it was of derision or amusement. Someone called out; the others had secured the other circus-hands in the bear cage with the ringmaster and were ready to leave. The horses pulling the tank looked tired, and she didn’t want to put them through more strain. It was clear from the abuse of his animals that the ringmaster hadn’t cared for much outside of hoarding money. Haytham looked sickly in the same manner, as if he’d been treated like one of the exhibits than a circus-hand. The sooner he got out of the water, the sooner she could get on the road.

“Well, Haytham,” and she rolled the name around in her mouth, dryly musing that his language was much more difficult to master than her own. “Are you going to get out or not? I refuse to let these ponies drag pointless weight.”

“I suppose I have to. You will have to promise me one thing, Ziio: do not scream.”

She tensed, moving away from him, not caring that he still had her waterskin. That sort of language meant one thing: trouble. He raised his hands in an attempt to soothe, then slowly laid them over the driver’s seat, and with an impressive show of strength, smoothly raised his body out of the water. For a moment Ziio thought he was naked (that would certainly go a long way to explain his reluctance to leave the filthy tank), but as the water slipped down his waist, scales started to appear.

He didn’t have legs.

He didn’t have legs.

“I was considering sliding off the cliff,” said Haytham, still looking wistfully over the edge.

“You do not have legs,” said Kaniehtí:io, stuck on the fact that Haytham didn’t seem to find odd.

“Not at the moment, no.”

Bringing his eyes back to her, he gave her a gentle smile. One hand ran down the long, scaled tail that twisted itself to stay out of the spokes of the cart while the other edged to hers and lightly tapped her fingers. Now that he was next to her, she could see his ears were more like fins, and had a thin slit before fanning into a ruffled edge, flaring up with delicate pearl tones that matched his tail. At least they would match if not for the thin layer of greenish slime that covered his body.

Haytham took another swig of water, filtering it through gills on his neck, the liquid trickling down his neck and chest. His tail flicked anxiously. Ziio, emboldened by this strange man touching her first, touched his hip, reassuring herself that this was real.

“There is a valve on the side of my tank,” he said, pointing down. “Unscrew that and the ponies will not have to deal with the useless water.”

“Will you not dry out?” asked Kaniehtí:io.

“Only if I stop drinking regularly. A damp blanket will keep me hydrated for several hours and you can drop me at the nearest river.”

When she didn’t move, Haytham shuffled uncomfortably.

“You are taking this rather well.”

Yes. Yes she was. She supposed at some point she’d wake up and this would have all been a dream, but then again everything was so vivid. Perhaps that meat for dinner hadn’t been quite as fresh as it should have been. No, half-men, half-fish didn’t exist.

Shapeshifters did.

Haytham hadn’t shifted though, if he was a shapeshifter then he’d change back. Shaking her head, Kaniehtí:io hopped from the cart to find the plug. The water was truly disgusting, clogging the valve before it had even emptied a third. Finding a stick - there was no way she was putting her finger in that hole - she prodded at it until it cleared, spilling more sludge across the road, where it poured over the cliff and into the river below. Now that it was empty, the extent of the grime was exposed. A jelly had formed on the glass, debris littered the bottom.

“How long did you live in there?”

Baring pointed white teeth, Haytham replied, “Too long.”

***

The hunting group didn’t know what to make of it all. A man with a fish’s tail? Surely he was blessed by the gods. Eventually they decided to acquiesce to Haytham’s request, and lowered him into the nearest suitable river.

Kaniehtí:io only looked back once, met the gaze of grey-blue eyes, and turned to the forest to make the trek back to the nearest colonial town to dump the animal smugglers. Her companions said that Haytham had disappeared under the water, blending with the white froth.

She wondered if she’d see him again.

She told herself it didn’t matter. He was free now. If the gods had sent Haytham to test her, then she had done her part.

FOURTHING (IS THAT EVEN A WORD?), MOTHERFUCKERS

NOT OP BUT THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL AND PERF OMFG THANK YOU WRITER ANON PLEASE KEEP UP THE GR8 WORK

*Caps lock off*

Hello I hope that I did not scare you away with my words, but I'd like to say that this fill was fucking awesome! Please do keep up the good work mate. (:

Seconding!

Do you guys even know how done I am with this fandom?
C'mere you awesome mother fuckers.

*Hugs*

THIRDING THIRDING THIRDING

HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK

Chapter Four

It had been years since that morning. His notes and doodles still clung to the walls, and every morning when he opened his eyes, they glared at him, the blue a stark contrast to the cement walls that were still as lifeless as they had been the first day.

“Mr. Griffiths. I have received word you have succeeded.”

Eli looked up from where he’d been staring into empty space, scratching at the hint of a beard caking his chin, and rubbed a pending headache from his temples. “Mr. Vidic,” he said, nodding in greeting.

The man stood on the threshold to his office, Jekyll and Hyde’s broad shoulders blocking the view into the corridor, where the lights were already dimmed for the night. He smiled. “I had a feeling it would be time soon. How long have you been working on it? Two years?”

Clearly he would know the answer, wouldn’t he? “Two years and six months, sir,” Eli corrected, not bothering with weeks, days, hours and minutes, because that would probably not be of interest (how could it not be? Could you ever be too accurate? Probably you could. And if someone did, it would be him of course).

“So. You have built a machine that can decode DNA?” he asked, cocking his head to the side, staring at the bulky… Thing in the middle of the room. It looked like a huge table, or maybe a bed – or an altar, if you were to get fancy. Slightly curved steel, interrupted by blurry light making its way over it, glowing in the harsh lighting coming from the ceiling that didn’t reach the corners of the room delving into the shadows; underneath it all were hundreds of small lights imbedded in hard drives and measuring instruments, ones he imagined would blink and flicker as soon as the machine came to proper life, enveloped in the light fog coming from an improvised cooling system. Huge external hardware lined up in front of the office’s shelves. His eyes flashed when he imagined the device in the room they had reserved for it. It was perfect.

“No.” Vidic would have looked offended it not for the curiosity flashing across his face. Eli smiled apologetically. “The machine does not decode DNA. It would be far too risky to have outside forces messing with the genome and transferring the information back into the individual; the connection between the two vessels would be fragile and weak.” He paused, thinking, and continued. “It is very similar to transplanting organs: the more time and distance needed to be covered between the patient giving the organ and the one receiving it, the more can go wrong. It is a lot safer having all the work done in one place.”

Vidic observed him deep in thought, arms folded on his chest, one hand carding through the mess of his beard as though it would help him sort out his thoughts. Eli took his lack of reaction as an invitation to continue.

“The machine does not decode DNA, but it’s a requirement for it to happen. The device and the human body need to operate in tandem, the former supplying it with the tools necessary and monitoring, the latter decoding its own DNA and sending impulses from and to the brain.”

“Explain yourself,” Vidic said coldly, but a small smile appeared on his face.

Eli’s hands danced as continued talking. “The genetic ancestral memories we’re looking for sit dormant in the strongest nucleotide pair of the DNA, which is hardest to dissociate without causing damage. The machine uses low-level magnetic fields,” his hands followed the glowing spine in the middle of the slightly curved metal plain, “to temporarily separate the DNA strings and make those parts pliable for the body that we need to focus on. Combined with the small electric shocks here and here,” he indicated the round knobs sitting in a straight line, starting from the head part, “directly into the base of the skull and the spine, the subject is pulled into a semi-conscious, dream-like state, not unlike a coma, while they also serve to monitor the individual’s heart rate, brain activity and the reflexes shooting through the nerves in his spine. The impulses sent from the brain in reaction to the images created are visualised on this screen.”

Vidic listened to his explanations of the machine’s doings, of the translation and visualisation programs he had implemented on it and of how the subject would need to be hooked up, in complete silence, not once pointing out flaws or asking the questions that were so obviously written across his face.

Eli took a step back when his monologue came to a close, suddenly feeling tired, his shoulders tense and aching, and scratched the nape of his neck, humbled when a hint of astonishment crossed the doctor’s features. “But to be honest, the most work is done by the subject itself. The device forces the mind to open up, to become more sensitive to impulses from within, while shielding it from outside influence, and creates a simulation based on the data it converts from the subject’s brain’s impulses. It simply places an avatar of the memories’ ancestor inside the simulation to give the body some sense of control.

“Problems could come up if the subject’s genetic ancestral memory is corrupted in some form or another; or if the individual strays too far from the original memory. The memories stored are probably not complete – none of us remember everything as clear as bright day. But I think the mind would detect harsh deviations from the originals… It… the subject would need to try and stay true to his ancestor’s actions,” he grinned, “to try and stay synchronised with the ways of history.”

Vidic’s eyes flashed curiously. “Or else, what would happen?”

Eli shrugged his shoulders in thought. “I do not know if there might be long-term changes, but an immediate reaction could probably be compared to the body fighting a virus: identifying the intruder and rejecting it. I’d guess the brain would close up to the impulses reflected by the machine.”

“You’d be kicked out from your ancestor’s memories like a disease?”

He nodded. “As far as I can tell, yes, that’s how you could describe it.”

Vidic paused for a moment before quietly asking: “Is there a way to steer the memories?”

Eli blinked. Why would you want to do that? “I… I don’t think so. As the process of decoding is done by the body itself, I’d guess it is instinct choosing. Whatever memories the unconscious identifies as being important – which would probably be those equally important to the ancestor – would be the ones to come first. To make an example; if you had ancestral memory from both Napoleon Bonaparte and that of a beggar of the same time period, the key events in the life of Napoleon would be given priority… I think.”

“You need to change this. There must be a way to choose what memories to screen.”

“I… think it would be unwise to mess with the process.” He cringed at Vidic’s hard stare. “The human unconscious can be very powerful, and if it detects intervention, it might… snap.”

Vidic didn’t bat an eyelid at his assumptions and simply glared for a second before sighing and going back to that smile of his that always left Eli uncomfortable. “Then is there at least a way to speed up the whole process?”

Eli paused again, hesitating with his answer. It was curious how Vidic seemed to insist on something, his words masking other questions he did not dare ask. Why would anyone want to accelerate the procedure of looking at ancestral memory when you wanted to gain knowledge? Were they… looking for something in particular? Certain events in history they wanted to check, certain… books on medicine long lost to wars and poverty and cold winters they wanted to view before they were destroyed? Eli suppressed a snort – that just didn’t sound right.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Uh… no… no, I don’t think so. You really shouldn’t-”

“Maybe by putting the subject in a coma?”

“No,” Eli said decisively, slight anger, discomfort and wariness boiling in his gut and creeping up to lie heavy around his shoulders and pull at his hair. Vidic looked positively furious, so he lifted his hands in an attempt to make peace – just the way you would approach an angry bloodhound. “I mean, that would only slow the process down, as the mind would become uncooperative if pushed into a state of absolute unconsciousness.”

Elijah could see the vein pulsing in Vidic’s temple, barely holding back a violent flinch when the old man lifted his hands, but then the doctor sighed and proceeded to massage his palm with his thumb. Eli observed the stroking motion until Vidic addressed him again.

“When will it be available for use?”

Eli pushed a strand of sand-coloured hair behind his ear and leaned against his machine in an attempt to display casualness while a feeling of unease tugged at the nape of his neck.

“Well… in theory, it’s all ready to be hooked up.”

“In theory?”

Elijah nodded shyly. “Yes, sir.” When Vidic narrowed his eyes, he hastily continued. “I am pretty certain it does work on every human individual whose genetic information hasn’t been damaged.”

“Well, you should make sure it turns into an absolutely certain, then,” he snapped, before smiling. “This machine will be connected to humans. No one would want to be responsible for any damage made, Mr. Griffiths.”

Eli stared at Vidic, not liking the chill that went down his spine. “I understand.”

“I expected nothing less. Set to work as soon as possible,” Vidic said, turning around to leave. The door hissed when the corridor behind swallowed him up in the dim night-time lighting, and slid shut, proudly presenting the lit cross through its middle. Eli’s shoulders slumped and he pinched the bridge of his nose, his thoughts racing. Why was Vidic so impatient? He had never received any kind of deadline, never in those two and a half years he’d been working on the machine. His invention wasn’t meant for medical reasons; it was simply a device for historical research… was it? Something not meant to save lives or cure diseases, merely for the sake of knowledge. Right? They had told him so often enough.

But what was the meaning behind those questions? And why did his stomach knot in anxiety when he looked at his device?

For the first time in his life, he didn’t know what he had built anymore.

A/N: ~~Is anyone still reading this?~~ I will be away from the internet for two weeks, more or less, so I won't be able to post anything - just so you know I won't abandon the fill ;-). I hope to be writing more in that period of time. Some Leonardo coming up soon!
Also, OP, if you have any more suggestions and/or wishes to include in here, do tell me and I'll try and fit it in.

R-really?! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! *blushes and hides, giggling happily* I was so nervous that my merperson mythos wouldn't be liked. Thank you so much!

No problem. (:

6 days/???.//./

shit how did i not notice this. i am a terrible person.
happy [belated] birthday!

i still hope that someone can fill this since it was your bday...

THANK YOU FOR NOT ANTAGONISING MARIA OMFG I LOVE YOU FOR THAT. <3

Awesome prompt.

YES, A MILLION YESES

Malik and Altair are dating and have been for a while but often Kadar feels like Altair doesn't like him. He doesn't make much conversation when Kadar attempts it with him, not to mention the killer looks Altair gives him if he accidentally cock blocks him. Basically i want something to happen that makes Kadar realise Altair doesn't hate him, in fact he feels that because Malik cares for Kadar deeply then he must also care for and protect him (Altair's just not very good at getting to know Kadar is all!)

Can be au or set in canon

I'd love something where Desmond gets to protect Shaun from ..whatever and he feels all great and heroic.
Shaun is ...less happy about it.

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Page 23 of 234

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

Re: Damn it Dad!

Written in Stone (4/?)

Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 5/?

Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 5a/?

Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 5a/?

Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 5a/?

Mermaid AU. Haytham/Ziio

Re: Damn it Dad!

Re: Mermaid AU. Haytham/Ziio

Re: FILL: Short Change Heroes, Part 5a/?

Edward, Meet Your Grandson, Connor - Edward Kenway Time Travel

Fill: Midnight Blue (With Threads of Moonlight) 1/?

Re: Damn it Dad!

Re: Fill: Midnight Blue (With Threads of Moonlight) 1/?

Re: Edward, Meet Your Grandson, Connor - Edward Kenway Time Travel

Re: Altair/Malik dancing

Re: Genderbent altmal

Written in Stone 5/?

Re: Fill: Midnight Blue (With Threads of Moonlight) 1/?

Re: Fill: Midnight Blue (With Threads of Moonlight) 1/?

Re: Birthday Smut!

Re: Altair/Malik + Maria, mpreg, Abbas!Shenanigans

Re: Altair/Malik dancing

Altair/Malik +Kadar, Kadar thinks Altair doesn't like him

Shaun/Desmond