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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Desmond tried to wipe away the incriminating evidence with his bandaged hand--bad, bad, very bad, terrible, horrible, no good idea. As he was waving his hand around and cursing, Connor entered the infirmary and strode grimly to him, hoisting him into the air by the front of what was left of his hoodie, and practically growled, "While you are a guest on my ship, you will treat my crew with respect. They are all honest, hard working men, no matter the color of their skin or the accent of their speech."

Desmond nodded quickly. Connor continued.

"You will not fight with them. You will not injure them in any fashion. You will not allow them to see your hidden blade or your tattoo. You will not ask them for anything. If you need anything, you will request it of me or my father. We can afford to spare whatever you need; they cannot." He dropped Desmond painfully on the bed and practically shoved an armful of clothing in his face. "My father and I are giving you some more appropriate clothing taken from our own. I was not prepared for a sudden houseguest in the middle of the ocean. I see that your strange, flimsy Assassin robes were mostly destroyed by the fire, and though of course the mere ownership of Assassin trappings such as blades and robes means not that you are of the Brotherhood--"

"I know the Creed--" Desmond interjected.

Connor waved that away like a fly. "As does my father, yet he is the Templar Grand Master." There was really no answer to that. Connor continued, "I will allow you to wear my coat while we are aboard the ship, since you have no robes or jacket of your own. Come with me. And bring this jar of salve."

Desmond hustled after him, trying to carry his bundle of clothing and the salve in one arm. Connor was certainly a lot nicer seen from inside his mind--although Desmond had to admit he had plenty of reason for suspicion and standoffishness. If he hadn't been so familiar with Connor and Haytham from his time in the Animus, Desmond would have felt quite literally lost at sea. He still had no idea why Haytham had accepted him so easily and known of his 'torture', and to be honest, that was kind of creepy.

Lost in thought, he nearly faceplanted right into Connor's enormous back (how was he supposed to wear Connor's hand-me-downs? The man was built like a tank!) as his ancestor stopped suddenly. "Here is your cabin. It is next to Father's, and mine is right there. Once your hand has healed, you will need to find some way to make yourself useful. There is only room for one useless layabout on this ship." He jerked his chin towards Haytham's cabin, then actually looked less unfriendly and more disappointed. "Since he seems to feel rather paternal towards you, make him help with your bandages."

Haytham called through the open door, "Connor, do you have that water I asked for? For my ink?"

Connor gritted his teeth. "No, this is the Captain, delivering your other bastard son for fetching and carrying." With a sardonic smile, he folded his left hand ring finger and gave Desmond a salute that was not quite overly mocking. "Enjoy, Brother Altaïr."

Desmond brought his bandaged hand to his forehead to return the salute. "I sure will, Brother Ratonhnhake:ton." Without a word, Connor pivoted on his heel and returned to the deck.

Haytham looked out, his smirk better suited for a nosy housewife overhearing juicy gossip than for a middle-aged man bearing the enormous responsibility of the Templar Colonial Rite. "You should probably tell him your actual name, or he'll continue calling you Altaïr just to get under your skin. And I've seen a lot, but not your name."

Desmond hesitated a minute. What were the chances that Ezio had mentioned him by name in detailed memoirs that had been made available to Haytham at any point, either as an Assassin or a Templar? "Desmond. Desmond Miles. Because it would, um, remind me of the, uh, torture to call me Altaïr." That was true enough. He felt like his sanity was approximately as sturdy as the toilet paper that he really, really missed in this century.

Haytham frowned thoughtfully. "Hmm... that sounds familiar somehow... Maybe something I've read... " Desmond silently cursed Ezio. Haytham seemed to give up after a moment of digging through his brain. "Maybe I'm imagining things. Well, go on, get settled. I'm right here if you need me, Desmond." He smiled like he was stretching muscles that hadn't been used in decades.

"Uh, can you open the door for me?" Desmond gestured vaguely with his bandaged hand.

As it turned out, Desmond was only able to undress one-handed. By holding his hoodie in his teeth, he could unzip it with his good hand, and he could manage his jeans and boxers just fine. He could even struggle into Connor's huge shirt just fine. The problem was the 18th century idea of undergarments. (He was trying not to think about the bit where his borrowed smallclothes were usually worn by his great-great-great-whatever grandfather. Really, really trying not to think about that.) His admiration for his ancestors' literal testicular fortitude increased immensely once he tried to pull them up. And then there were the buttons he simply couldn't manage. Lots and lots of them.

Man up, Des, all you've got to do is ask for a little help. Taking a deep breath, he managed to pull on Connor's jacket and tried to hold it closed with his forearm as he leaned out of the doorway. "Haytham! Pssst, Haytham!! Haytham fucking Kenway already!!!"

After what seemed like an eternity, Haytham leaned out his own door, looking amused. "Hmm?"

"Yeah, so, I need a little help here." The damn jacket was worse than a hospital gown. "Please!"

To Desmond's relief, Haytham was appropriately impersonal and methodical throughout the whole embarrassing process, and successfully suppressed any smirks until after Desmond was decent and trying to look over his shoulders to check out his own butt. "Damn, Haytham, I gotta get me a few pairs of these for my own! No wonder Ziio was willing to unbutton all those damn buttons to jump you! My ass looks fine!" Desmond tried hiking up the jacket tails for a better view, and completely missed Haytham's momentarily stricken look that smoothed over into a thoughtful frown. "I can even put up with the buttons to look this good. Where did you have these made?"

Haytham's frown deepened. "I don't know if that would be possible. The owner of the shop disappeared, and when I tried threatening her good-for-nothing husband for information, he shat himself as soon as he saw my hidden blade." The frown twisted into a half smirk. "I may have said a few things that implied that I was actually an Assassin. But usually that doesn't scare them that much."

"The tailor, was her name Ellen? Husband a drunk named, ah, Quincy or something."

"How did you know?"

Desmond grinned. "She's okay, but Connor might not be too happy if you go finding her."

Haytham frowned thoughtfully. "You know many things I would not expect you to know, yet you are charmingly naive and helpless about basic skills such as dressing yourself to the point of being like a child. No; don't try to explain yet. In the dreams I have had of you, you are in the machine which torments you, and then you come out of it and you sleep, and in your sleep you talk in different tongues. Different languages, different voices.... In my youth I thought you were simply well educated and knew Italian, Arabic, and so forth. But now, meeting you and finding out what you know about me, about Connor..."

"Yeah, see--"

"Wait, please. I have a theory, and once I've explained it, I would like you to tell me if I am anywhere close to the truth. You say you are from the future. I believe it may be true. I do not know how the machine torments you. But I think perhaps it shows you the lives of others and forces you to watch the horrors therein. I think perhaps you receive not only knowledge and skills, but also the most intimate personal information."

"Uh, yeah, you could say that."

"And the pain this produces is so intense that you relive it as nightmares. I know not if this is some sort of Precursor artifact capable of affecting the mind, nor do I understand why your captors chose you to be their victim, but I do know that it is a very dreadful device."

Desmond sat on the narrow bunk and gestured Haytham to sit on the stool bolted to the floor. "That's pretty much it. The reason Abstergo--that's the company the Templars run in my time--put me in it to begin with, is that I have famous Assassin ancestors, and the Animus can dig out the memories of a person's ancestors--from, from their blood or something, don't ask me how--and make the person relive them." He ran his uninjured hand through his short hair. "They were looking for something in Altaïr's memories." Haytham's eyes widened at the name, then narrowed. Desmond continued. "So to get to that memory, I had to go through all the ones leading up to it, and I had to get very good at being Altaïr , or else I'd keep dying, and the machine would stop, and I wouldn't be able to get to the next one and I'd stay a prisoner of Abstergo. And have to keep going back in the Animus." He shuddered.

"Was it very painful?"

"A little, not too bad. But it... it makes you forget who you are. You spend ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day being Altaïr ibn La'ahad the Assassin, you forget that you're Desmond Miles, the bartender who never wanted to be an Assassin, who ran away from the crazy Assassin Farm and the crazy Assassin families in it."

Haytham's eyebrows raised. "Indeed?"

Desmond nodded. "And then I'd remember things that I hadn't seen in the Animus. Like Altaïr and his wife fooling around at the top of a guard tower. It was like it opened a door in my brain that I couldn't close, to my ancestors' memories, and I got not just the things they wanted to know, but everything. Languages, skills, other memories, all kinds of random stuff. Like, did you know Altaïr saw his dad murdered in front of him when he was a kid?" Desmond's eyes unfocused, and he didn't see Haytham's jaw tightening. "Oh, but then the same thing happened to you, didn't--shit, see, this is what happens. I start being people and I can't stop. I don't know if I'm in Jerusalem talking to Malik, or I'm Ezio in Florence talking to Leonardo da Vinci, or here talking to you but I'm Connor, or what." He rubbed his eyes.

"And you only have these memories of... people who are your ancestors?"

"Yeah, so at some point Connor has to actually start talking to the ladies or I won't exist." Absently, he reached out to make a motion of taking something from thin air, then sighed. "See, I could have sworn that was a feather..."

Haytham looked at him for a minute, then suddenly smiled. "So you're my grandson?"

Desmond waved a hand dismissively. "Great great something or other grandson, yes. I'll be born a little over 200 years from now. So--ack!" I never would have figured Haytham for a bear-hug sort of grandfather... Connor is probably more used to squeezing the breath out of actual bears, though...

Oh, Desmond, you really need to work on getting on Connor's good side.

-OP

Connor's good side is not the side where he thinks you're the result of his father sleeping with Native women who aren't Ziio.

He's, um, a romantic at heart, I guess?

Also, he's pretty sure Desmond is lying and/or crazy.

-writer!anon

aaaawwwww!

I love your haytham, I really really do!

This gives me so many warm and fuzzies, it's ridiculous.

Eagerly waiting for more!

so good!

Sweet, funny, mildly cracky and just a pinch of angst.

Perfect!

I was hoping it wasn't too much boring exposition and not enough bodily fluid jokes.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

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