#Haytham Kenway fanfic

[gococogo]

A Fool's Life | Shaytham

Synopsis: Desmond has to dive back into Haytham to find out where a power source is for the temple. But the last thing he expects is something akin to when the Templar first met Ziio. But these emotions run something deeper, crueler.

Word Count: 3.8K

Pairing: Shay Cormac / Haytham Kenway

Warnings: Internalized homophobia

“We need you to dive back into Haytham.”

A few simple words that Desmond wished he would never have to hear. Desmond stares at his father with a scowl upon his lips waiting for the punch line. He glances to Shaun and Rebecca. Yet, they stay quiet and that is just saying a thousand words as is. It’s not some joke.

“Why?” Desmond asks as he looks to his father once more.

“Because Haytham came in contact with a power source for this Temple,” William explains monotonously. “We need to know where he put it.”

He tries to not put any hint of emotion in his words. Desmond knows what he’s doing. But it only makes him feel that itch of anger inside and he tries not to let it show.

“Can’t you just track this one like the others?” Desmond asks with bitterness in his tone.

So much for keeping it hidden. It can’t help it when it comes around his father. Almost everything he says makes Desmond want to retaliate in a frustrated manner.

This has William scowling. “It will only be for a moment, son,” he firmly says.

It’s not like Desmond has a choice at this point of time. His father will just tell him to do it until he does. They probably won’t continue on with Connor until he goes back into Haytham’s mind. Desmond throws up his hands and lays back down into the Animus with a grunt.

“Fine, but let’s get his over and done with.”

-

It’s the first day of Fall in Boston and the cool breeze is an ease on Haytham’s skin. But with Desmond being in Haytham’s mind again, it’s almost criminal. He can feel the anticipation on his mind, the quickening of his heart as he spots red sails coming onto port. There’s a man on that ship that Haytham knows, and it has the man itching. Which is something Desmond has only felt when Haytham was around Ziio.

Haytham may be blind to his emotions, someone that sees too much but doesn’t focus on himself, but Desmond knows this feeling. This breathlessness at the mere thought of someone.

The worn ship docks, her crew shouting out at each other, pulling ropes and bringing in sails. The Morrigan her name is and she’s seen her years for sure. Her once yellow paint is chipped and faded from years at sea. She’s an older ship, not up to date like the ones now. And she has people looking upon her that stand on the dock. Haytham only sees beauty, a fine ship that has lasted so long. But one could say that she’s only as strong as her captain. Working hand in hand.

The captain, Haytham sees him straight away and Desmond takes him in. He’s a tall, broad shouldered man with salt and pepper hair. It’s tied back into a short ponytail, one thing that hasn’t changed with him. But he now sports a brown leather coat with blue clothing. It makes him look older and wiser. Nothing like the young man Haytham knew almost twenty years ago.

All these emotions that Desmond feels nearly overwhelms him. The animus glitches for only a moment but Desmond retains himself. Haytham may present himself as a stern, serious man but by god can this man feel. And is he ignorant to his own emotions.

The man, Shay Cormac, smiles as he spots Haytham standing on the dock. Haytham had received a letter from Shay a week ago, telling him of his arrival soon in Boston. Said note is currently tucked away in Haytham’s breast pocket, just in case he got the dates wrong. Something that Shay will never know about.

A plank is drawn between the Morrigan and the dock and Haytham stands at the end of it as he watches Shay walk down. Desmond has never seen Haytham look upon a man like this as of right now. Haytham looks upon a much older version of the image he has in his head of Shay, but he still finds himself marvelling at the captain.

The two of them clasp hands in a firm handshake that feels like neither of them want to let go. But Haytham contains himself.

“It’s been a long time, Shay,” Haytham is first to speak.

Shay’s smile is something the Grandmaster has missed. It’s the exact same, just with added lines and wrinkles.

“Oh, it has been,” Shay speaks as if all those years away are now playing on his mind.

Where he’s been, who he’s met and the time he’s spent away. All something Haytham wants to know of.

“And you’ve retrieved it?”

With a soft nod, “Yes,” is what Shay replies with.

Haytham gestures out a hand. “I’ll lead you to the Green Dragon, it’s not far.” He begins. “I’d love to hear of your ventures away.”

Course you would, Desmond snaps out.

The simulation suddenly glitches and everything begins melting away into a blue, glitchy effect. Desmond groans in pain as he begins desynchronizing from the animus. This hasn’t happened since he first began with Altair. He’s aware he dislikes Haytham but not enough to desynchronize to this extent.

“Desmond. You need to follow Haytham,” Shaun’s voice comes through the animus.

It’s very hard to when it’s Haytham, Desmond snaps back.

“Just calm down. It’ll only be for a short while,” Shaun inquires again, trying to get Desmond to sync back up.

Desmond can suddenly feel his beating heart, thumping in his chest like a jack rabbit. He slows his breathing and calms his mind. The animus begins to flow again, the simulation changing from the docks to a tavern area. They’re at the Green Dragon.

It’s just Haytham and Shay sitting at the table that the Templars like to use for their get togethers. The very same that Desmond found out who Haytham truly aligned himself with.

Shay takes a long, slow drink of his ale. Haytham hasn’t touched his, still full in its cup. He watches Shay’s Adam’s apple bob up and down with each gulp before pulling his gaze away. Shay exhales loudly as he sets the cup on the table.

“I will have to say,” Shay admits. “I have missed American ale.”

Haytham looks to the other again to only find him staring at him already. He knows he shouldn’t be so sheepish around Shay. Even though they haven’t seen one another in nearly two decades, it shouldn’t be this awkward on Haytham’s end. Nowhere as near.

“Did you find you didn’t partake in the delicacies overseas?” Haytham asks.

“I don’t think that’s it, sir. I think it’s just something about this that speaks home,” the Irishman smirks.

That gets a short chuckle out of Haytham. Something that makes Shay’s brows lift ever so slightly. A warmth spreads to Haytham’s chest that has Desmond second guessing everything. He hasn’t felt this since Ziio. A longing, a want. But this runs deeper. Much crueller in its wake that Haytham wants gone. But he can’t help himself looking at Shay with a eyes that speak a thousand words.

The two mingle and talk about their lives some more. Something that Desmond finds himself getting lost in. Shay is so open with Haytham that it’s almost scary. But Haytham finds it so comforting and like Desmond, he almost gets lost in the Irishman’s tales and his way of words. He’s been everywhere and anywhere in these sixteen years away. He’ll be speaking on one thing and it’ll remind him of another story that has him talking for another thirty minutes.

But Haytham doesn’t stop him. Not once. Not even when he grabs another round of ale for them, he keeps listening. And this is so rare of Haytham. The warmth in his chest is something the British man rarely allows himself to indulge in.

-

As the night grows old, the two men move from the tavern to Haytham’s home. And as far as Desmond is concerned, not even Charles Lee comes around to Haytham’s in worry of disrupting the man’s privacy. In which Haytham is very grateful for. Yet with Shay, he’s more than welcome to bring him around.

The entire walk, Shay doesn’t stop talking. It isn’t an annoying chatter. It’s something so welcoming to Haytham’s ears since he has not heard that Irish accent in nearly two decades.

Shay finishes a story as they enter Haytham’s house and he doesn’t pick up another once, being self-aware to know when to stop. The host guides Shay to the living room which is something that Haytham has tried to replicate of his old home. The one where everything was right and just in the world before everything terrible and malicious that could happen in the world, happened. It isn’t the best, but the lounges are from Britian, the floral patterning hand woven instead of machine made. Bookshelves line the walls that are made from a walnut stained oak, made here in America. Each book that lines the shelves is something that Haytham holds dear to his heart, but he would never say such a thing out loud. The coffee table is also oak but stained with something darker that Haytham can’t remember at this given moment.

Not when Shay, - before he gets himself comfortable and rids himself of his coat- places the precursor box on the coffee table next to the empty fruit bowl.

The small wooden box seems to hum, and it has an energy to it. Something that Haytham doesn’t know if he’s imagining or if he can feel it. Could also be the blood rushing past his ears as his heart skips a beat or two within his chest.

Desmond has never seen anything like it, but Shay seems very familiar with it. He sits down in the lounge across from Haytham with his coat in his lap and looks to his Grandmaster with a raised, scarred brow.

Haytham, unlike Shay, doesn’t seem to be pleased with it. From where he stands, somehow on the other side of the room, he walks over and picks it up with a gingerly touch. The box is still and firm in his hand, but warm. He has to hold the shiver that threatens to run down his spine and over his arms.

“You actually found it,” Haytham finds himself muttering before he can stop himself.

Shay is a little taken a back but, he gives a heavy nod. “It took me longer than it should have, sir, but I found it,” he answers firmly, that casualness that he once possessed him gone and replaced by a formality found in soldiers.

Haytham sets it down before he drops the damn box. Such a small thing that has kept Shay away from the Order. Haytham could count how many times he could have used such a man like Shay for jobs here in America. He wishes he never sent him away after such a stupid little box. But both would argue on how important such a thing is. To keep out of Assassin hand.

Without even thinking, something that Shay catches, Haytham rubs the hand that touched the box on his coat.

“Thank you, Shay. This means a lot for the Order,” Haytham says, raising his chin a bit higher.

But Desmond hears the unsaid words. This means so much to me.

A softness comes to Shay’s hardened features that has Haytham turning his gaze away. He wonders over to one of the bookshelves and takes out one of his old journals from five years back now. Dust has settled upon it and the pages have begun to fox. He flips through to the middle and takes out a piece of loose paper. He slams the book shut before sliding it back into its place smoothly.

“I have something for you,” he says as his eyes quickly flick over the document.

Haytham turns back to Shay, who has been watching him the entire time with dark eyes. Instead of pausing or acknowledging the way Shay tracks his every movement, Haytham holds out of the piece of paper to him.

“This is your next task for me,” Haytham instructs.

Shay looks to him before down at the piece of paper as he takes it. Something shifts within his eyes, as if a flicker of hope was just snapped out like a candle snuffer. Haytham moves around the coffee table to the lounge that sits across of the Shay and sits down with his hat being placed next to him. He, in return, watches Shay’s dark brown eyes dart back and forth on the paper. Said paper is a rough sketch of an artifact that is rumoured to be a power source for a precursor sight. There’s little information and it’s outdated since said information is five years old now.

Haytham knows this could take another decade to find. And he’s very self-aware on what he’s doing. As much as Haytham enjoys Shay’s company and wishes him to stick around. As much as Haytham wishes to listen to Shay speak about his journeys across seas and in Europe. As much as Haytham would love to just be in the company of Shay, the Irishman is loyal to the course -loyal to Haytham- and is the only man the Grandmaster can trust to retrieve said items.

There were at times that Haytham thought Shay had given up, but a letter from the man would come not even a month later. It would only speak of how he is still on the trail of the box and that his loyalty to the Order has not wavered. How he misses New York and how he has missed many other things. How he’s missed the blue flowers that grow in Fort Arsenal and how they only bloomed in spring. He had said they remind Shay of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He’d write in the next letter if he remembered but the next letter it seemed like he had forgotten entirely. Oh well…

Haytham had kept every single one of those letters, but Shay doesn’t need to know that. And never will.

The look that Haytham receives from Shay is one of hurt and sorrow. A long exhale escapes through Shay’s nose that has his shoulders sagging slightly. He seems to melt back into the lounge.

“This could take me another lifetime to find with this outdated information,” Shay comments what Haytham already knows.

Desmond can hear the plea.

 “I know,” Haytham nods. “But there is no other man that I would trust to find these artifacts.”

Shay’s jaw clenches. “Is there no one else to find this, sir? Someone that is familiar with these rumours and whomever has given you this information.”

Another plea that goes unheard. Haytham is set in his ways, and he will not listen to reason.

“I can give you the contacts on who gave me that information. But I have been holding onto it in hopes you would return back with the box. This, I need for my further research into the precursor site I have been after,” Haytham tells Shay firmly but, softly.

A defeated look comes over Shay. He looks over the single piece of paper again with a deeper set frown. He lets out a sigh.

“I’ll do it, sir” Shay agrees. Only because it’s you asking.

And with that, Shay says his farewells and is off before Haytham can blink. A deep ache settles in his cold heart that has him inhaling deeply to try and rid himself of it. It only worsens and he curses to himself for having such feelings towards such a man he has only known for such a little time.

Was it amongst the letters from Shay he realized the origin of the warm feeling whenever he was around said man? Or was it when that Morrigan had disappeared over the horizon when Shay first set out for the precursor box that the first real ache came to his heart. Or maybe when he first saw the broken man at the other end of the table to pledge himself to the cause. He saw a man willing to lay down his life for something greater and for a better future.

Maybe that’s why Haytham has always had an eye watching the Irishman when his back is turned. Or reading the letters he had sent over and over again when he feels the need. It’s such childish behaviour. He can admit that to himself.

But even so, he still finds himself staring and watching the back of Shay disappear around the corner of the room with a longing. He could speak. Say something. Say such few words that he knows would change everything. His tongue feels so heavy. Even when he hears the front door click open and shut, his tongue doesn’t even know how to form words.

Even if Shay had stopped and turned, what would have Haytham had said? For once, he’s speechless with himself. He doesn’t know how long he sits on the lounge for, staring at the empty space that once had Shay. He knows this is foolish of himself, but whom is to judge him? Such a sad man in a foolish world.

-

The animus skips time for Desmond, and he quickly realizes that it had only taken Shay Cormac two years to find the artifact. He was good. Too good for what he does. Took him much less time to find this artifact than the box.

This time, there was no grand entrance at the dock. No long-lost lover type movie thing coming back.

Three sharp knocks come to Haytham’s door, and he looks up from his newspaper. He wasn’t planning anyone coming over at this time of day and he had planned to stay inside for the rest. He wills himself to stand off his lounge and wonders over to the front door in nothing but his white, laced collared shirt. He’s rid himself of his heavy coat and cloak, not needing it in his private home.

He opens the door, expecting someone like Charles Lee or one of his own hired men to come and spill some nonsense to him. He’s all ready to wave them away to tell them to not bother him until later. But Desmond can feel all irritation melt away as Shay Cormac stands at the front door with his back turned.

As soon as the door has opened, Shay turns to greet Haytham with a wide smile. Something that instantly reddens Haytham’s ears.

“Back already, Shay?” Haytham asks with the slightest of cockiness in his tone.

This has Shay scoffing a light chuckle. He unclicks something on his belt, something wrapped up in cloth and hands it out to Haytham. The Grandmaster takes it with a nod and unwraps a bit of it to unveil what’s inside.

“Despite with what little you gave me,” Shay says. “It didn’t take me long to track it down since this thing was actively being hidden away from me.”

Haytham peers down at the unknown artifact. It’s a steely grey with lines that run over that, glowing a bright blue like glow worms. The shape is odd and cube like.

Desmond recognises instantly as the power source for their current precursor sight. So, it was Shay that brought it into Templar hands. Now they just need to pinpoint what modern Templar base has it and they’ll be able to find it.

“I’m going to pull you out now,” Rebecca’s voice sounds over the scene laying out before Desmond.

No! Wait a moment. Desmond quickly shouts out. I want to see where this goes.

“Uuhhh. Okay?”

Haytham folds the cloth back over the power source and looks to Shay again.

“Would you like to come in?” He asks Shay, side stepping a tad with an outstretched hand.

Shay’s brown eyes look into the doorway with a longing, but he shakes his head with a, “I’m sorry,” on his lips.

“I do apologize for this quick meeting, Haytham.” Shay speaks with regret heavy on his tongue. “But I must be heading back to New York to find out what has truly become of my estate.”

Haytham can’t help the silent, “Oh,” the comes from him as he stands fully in the doorway again. He wished to speak more with Shay about all of this. To just, sit with Shay would be a pleasure.

“Is such a matter so urgent?” Haytham asks, his tone stern and rough to hide the neediness behind its meaning.

Shay bows his head, “I’m afraid so.”

“I see.”

“Are there any other artifacts you would like me to look into before I leave?” Shay asks, his voice becoming soft.

Haytham looks to the wrapped artifact in his hand. He doesn’t have any other leads he would like chased up his sleeve. But he wishes he did. He wishes he could make Shay stay a little bit longer.

“No,” Haytham all but mumbles out.

He meets Shay’s soft gaze, one that Desmond recognises as disappointment. Why fall for someone like Haytham? Desmond is real curious on what goes inside Shay’s head. He wishes to know more about him despite being a Templar. In wanting to know more, to see if Shay’s look of disappointment comes with an ache in his heart similar to Haytham’s. Both must be feeling such similar things, yet neither of them wanting to say such out loud.

Shay nods with a sniff. “I’ll be off then, sir. I’ll still be at the ready if you need be,” he says before he turns to leave.

Haytham isn’t sure what he’s doing, but he reaches out and grabs onto Shay’s wrist. He’s curious in his own mind on why he’s done such a thing. But he meets Shay’s eyes once more and sees hope. Shay doesn’t say a word, waiting for Haytham to say something. His crow’s feet furrow together as Shay’s eyes narrow onto him.

Haytham wishes. But not now. He recoils his hand away and places it behind his back. He juts out his chin and straightens his back. The Grandmaster of the American Colonial Rite stands before Shay Cormac, and that is the last person the captain wanted to see.

“I will still want those reports of your contribution to the Templar course, Shay,” Haytham says instead of all the things on his mind.

Shay’s shoulder slouch and he smiles with hurt on his features. He looks Haytham up and down before giving a slow nod.

Haytham you stupid old man.

“Of course, sir.” Shay says. “I expected nothing more.”

Haytham gives a nod back with a frown upon his features.

“Goodbye, Haytham.”

And with that, Shay leaves. He all but disappears into the crowd on the Boston street, his assassin upbringing never truly leaving his blood. Haytham lets out a shaky breath and returns to his home, the door once again clicking softly behind him with Shay on the other side.

Did they ever see each other again?

There’s silence in Rebecca’s end before a sorrow filled, “No.”

[konnisart]

"𝕴𝖓𝖙𝖔 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖘 𝖆 𝖁𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊"

-𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝔂 𝓑𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓴-

A little gift for @wyyvernn 🥰. I FREAKING LOVE YOUR VAMPIRE HAYTHAM FANFICTION !

Just so you know everyone,there is more vampire Haytham coming and no one can stop me 🫠🫡😈I AM OBSESSED!

I have a second version where the other character has hair ,well for reasons 🫢😏 and few extra,like process thingies I remembered to record lol.

[writingsofanobsessedwoman]

How the Assassins (and some Templars) would be on your birthday:

Ezio Auditore

He'd likely wake you up with some morning "exercises", and take you on a stroll/ride through your favorite places

A candlelit dinner atop a building overlooking the sunset to finish the day with some fancy wine

Would give you anything you'd wanted, including but not limited to a portrait of the two of you done by Leonardo (you'd thank the little artist later)

Rose petals leading up to your room

Leonardo Da Vinci

Honestly, he's the type to just let you lead the day. Shopping? He's there with you paying for what he can. A boat ride? Of course!

Would be sweet the whole day, holding your hand with a dopey little grin as he followed you

Flowers, your favorite chocolates, art supplies if you're that way inclined

Connor Kenway

You're very special to him, and he makes you feel it on your birthday

He'd get someone to make you a cake (he tried and nearly burnt the house down in the process)

Flowers by your bedside as he woke you up with sweet kisses

He'd go to town with you if you really wanted to go

Or ride around the homestead all day and show you some beautiful places he's found

Wouldn't let you do any work for the day

He'd end it all by holding you close as he gifted you a little carved animal (your favorite), and a necklace he'd bought one day with your favorite stone set in it

Edward Kenway

Would also wake you up with "exercise"

He'd sail around with you, letting you tell him where to go

He may even let you steer the Jackdaw for a bit

You'll likely not remember much, as you'll be drunk for most of the night

Would give you all kinds of jewelry the he's obtained on his voyages

James Kidd/Mary Read

They're a romantic through and through. And extravagant

Would wake you up sweetly, but it'd turn spicy

Down to do whatever you want, be it a picnic or drinking at a pub, they're happy

Gifts would be thoughtful, plus some jewelry and the like

Shay Patrick Cormac

See morning "exercise"

A romantic, Shay would have the whole day planned out for you

He'd sail you somewhere nice, and have a home-cooked meal awaiting somewhere quiet

Would take you back to the fort for a surprise party with a small band of folk playing music

Liam O'Brien

Assuming he isn't gone off on a mission, he'd likely take you shooting with him

He'd buy you sweets and just be sweet the whole day

Would dance with you in a clearing somewhere

His gifts would probably be practical, like some new gloves or something

Haytham Kenway

Prepare to feel like royalty for a day

He'd spare no expense for your birthday

The best food, the finest imported wine, best clothing he could find, all of it's yours

Don't think about lifting a finger, either

Breakfast in bed, followed by an extravagant ball in your honor

Jacob Frye

CHAOS from the moment your eyes opened

Tried to make you breakfast, set it on fire

Takes you around London

A surprise dinner (the Rooks set it up for him) on top of Big Ben

Would get Evie to help him with some flowers

You'd end up drunk, laughing, and happy

My birthday is the 28th this month (December), so this is my gift to myself. If you want anyone added, let me know. These are all kinda short, sorry. I've got a heck of a migraine at the moment. Probably doing some for the Red Dead boys next. And yes, I used gender neutral pronouns for James/Mary. Sue me

[demigoddessqueens]

Hi my favorite author, would you write about Haytham again?

Maybe he's home and drunk and trying to alienate the love of his life. Afraid something would happen to her if she stayed near him. Even if she stays with him no matter what he would do or say.

As always, I can hardly wait 😍

I’m gonna make him the sloppiest, most wet sad cat drunk 😈

He had gone out with the rest for what you thought was a meeting, but then Church, Pitcairn and Charles are banging at the door with a resigned look on their faces. And a drunk Haytham in tow that’s now your problem

You try to lead him to the bed but he’s always lounging on you, a big muscle frame just wearing you down

Let’s just say drunk Haytham has no filter 🤪

Says a bunch of things like how you’re the best, thanks you for all that you do, everything imaginable in his own Haytham-esque way

Of course you try to brush it off but you see how the liquid courage has left behind no fake feelings on his part, eyes telling it all

He doesn’t want you to leave him alone, just stay with him as long as he wills

But the more he talks, then he gets deep into his own mind. Lost to his thoughts

“You remind me of them, always you’re own person, doing as you please…maybe it’s for the best, for you to leave before this trail of death follows you

Sighing heavily, you just let him alone, try to sleep it off once he has his mind cleared tomorrow’s morning

Once it’s morning, Haytham sees no trace of you. Hair loose and clothes disheveled, he feels so exposed and his mind races back to what he said last night, a crushing realization of what he said

Hand held in his hands, Haytham sees the faces of those from before: Edward, Jenny, Birch, Tessa and Ziio. How he’s fallen so far and has lost so much. Eyes squeezing shut, maybe he’ll forget it all

Maybe his one and last act of kindness is to set you free…

Before he gets too lost again, you’re coming back from the market in tow with other produce

Back you come in, and offer a smile sad smile to the Templar leader you were in charge of

“I’m not leaving, no matter what you say.”

Deep down, he’s relieved but also offers you a smile in return. Good, he’s lost one too many already

[rogue-centric]

I'm trying to get back into a fanfic that I've been majorly stumped on, and brother it has not been going so well. I want to use my emergency call-a-friend line to ask y'all what you think

vote on your phones now! (and pls feel free to message about it )

[missy235]

Another little Haytham stuff:

"Come on darling, you promised the kids!" Tenderly, Elena touched the shoulder of the Templar Grandmaster, who made no move to get up on his day off.

"How about we spend some time together first," Haytham whispered with an amused smile on his lips and effortlessly pulled the petite black-haired girl into bed. With playful protest, she slapped her husband's muscular chest.

"Yet again ?"

Her lips touched his, demanding, the sweet taste of last night hadn't left his lips yet. Her hand ran deeper over his pronounced abdominal muscles - deeper. A satisfied sigh escaped his lips.

"Oh Elena....."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Haytham???"

"Thank God you woke up - we were worried!" With a slightly sore head and a little dazed, Haytham met the green eyes of the person who haunted his dreams straight away.

"What...?"

"You fell down with your horse - it looked really horrible!" Carefully, Young Birch brushed a strand of hair out of his face.

"I was told that you called me in your fever dream...?"

A little embarrassed, young Kenway looked away. Jesus Christ, what was that dream? "That can be possible."

"Anyway, it's very pleasant to wake up and see your pretty face first."

[kiatheinsomniac]

Heyaa Kiaaaa (its wyy btw <3) just wanna ask if you're up for some Haytham headcanons with what he'd be like as a yandere or just some romantic things he'd do (or both) for his s/o. Just ignore this if you're not up for it haha ^^

☾ ⋆ﾟ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: ok I've had some writing juice (aka: a whole bottle of vodka and lemonade to myself ♡. 18 to drink here btw before anyone comes at me) and sooooo here we go with some headcanons hehe

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒: Haytham Kenway

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: canon-typical violence, yandere-typical content

｡･:*˚:✧｡haytham kenway

♡ Haytham was raised to be a gentleman and so this is exactly how he presents himself to you: he's courteous and kind, always ready to protect or defend you whether that be with his sharp sword or his even sharper tongue.

♡ he insists on offering you his arm to hold when you walk around together, will give you his cloak no matter how much you protest when it's cold and he'll always leave the carriage first to offer you a hand getting out or his hands are around your waist to help you dismount your horse, even if you don't need the assistance.

♡ he'll speak out against anyone who speaks ill of you and there have been times where he's challenged a man to a duel to defend your honour (of course, knowing that he would come out the victor)

♡ you're spoiled rotten by him at every opportunity too. If you so much as look at something in a shop for too long, he's buying it for you. It makes him satisfied to know he can provide these things for you.

♡ now, it's because he was raised a gentleman that all of these chivalrous actions are so important to him, especially considering the shameful, shameful thoughts he has about you.

♡ the duels weren't just out of gentlemanly duty but because no one should ever speak to you or of you in such a manner. They didn't deserve to keep their tongues, let alone their lives. You were a precious being and, even if you're capable of defending yourself, Haytham wants to protect you from any evil that this terrible, terrible world holds, no matter how great or small.

♡ more often than he could ever bring himself to voice aloud, he's thought of just taking you away, keeping you locked up from this awful world. You make him strive to be a better man and he's sure he could give you everything you could ever need. He wants your world to revolve around him as much as his revolves around yours because this must be love, right?

♡ he relishes in every interaction between the two of you: the feeling of your fingers squeezing his arm as you walk around town together, the way you once snuggled up to him to chase away the cold when you had to camp outdoors while travelling and he spent the night intoxicated by your scent, the times your touch has been so tender while patching up his injuries.

♡ he begins to realise that he's no longer working because the Order's ideology says so but because if he can control the masses with the apple then he can keep everyone away from you and have you all to himself.

♡ oddly, you also terrify him. He's lost nearly every independent part of himself to you. Sure, he can make his way in the world but he could never live without you, only exist.

♡ Haytham's a very intelligent man and he learns how to lure you in closer to him. You sleep in his bed now and carding his hair through your hair puts the finest silks from the east the shame. Your smile outshines the sun, the moon and her stars. Your laughter is a melody that composers aspire to craft but never could. Maybe these gods from a previous civilisation do exist and, if so, you must be one of them because you are far superior to any creature he has ever seen.

♡ He won't need to take you away in the end and that relieves the part of him that knows he should never think of such things and he should always treat you like a princess. Why would he ever need to kidnap you when he knows how to orchestrate every event in your life to make you depend on him?

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[thecosmickight]

Can anyone recommend any Selkie Assassin's creed fanfic?

I don't care platform.

[young-eagle-1725]

It's been a while... Nearly 3 years! Chapter 17 is now up on Archive of Our Own for your enjoyment, Eaglets ❤️🦅

[balancoire]

Title: Truth Fandom: Assassin's Creed III Characters: Haytham Kenway, Charles Lee

Dead. Murdered.

Connor’s words tore at him, clawing open a hole in his chest that he hadn’t acknowledged in years. Haytham put a hand there, like he might actually feel its ragged edges under his fingers. 

Ziio is dead.

He savored the pain, lingered on it. It was deserved.

If only he’d paid more attention to what was happening outside the Templar Order. If only he dedicated more of his focus to the village. 

If only, if only. 

Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything.

But he was still curious.

Haytham met with Charles some time after he spoke with Connor. His son seemed convinced that the Templars ordered the attack on his village, but Haytham knew for a fact that this wasn’t true – he had said as much, but Connor didn’t care. It is done, and I am all out of forgiveness.

Haytham still needed to know the truth.

(click the link above to read the rest!)

[turnupswritessometimes]

Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types Relationships: Haytham Kenway & Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor Summary:

Lee answered, with a hand on his holster, staring past Haytham for danger. “Kenway, what the blazes—” Haytham pushed his way inside. “I have a son!” “I beg your pardon?” Lee was still huffing. He closed the door. “A son. I found my son.” There was a moment’s pause. Lee’s eyebrows shifted from baffled to concerned. “I am not sure what you were taught, Kenway, but one does not simply find a son.” “I know that,” Haytham snapped. “But this boy is mine. He’s my son.” *** Haytham Kenway comes across a boy practising archery outside of the city. He releases it's his son. And he cannot allow his son to be trained to kill him. So the alternative is raising him himself.

Chapter One

Haytham enjoyed a morning ride.

It was the smell of the hay; the quiet of him and the horse as he bridled it himself; that made him feel nostalgic. The simplicity of it all. The crips morning air; the pale blue sky; the empty streets; which were peaceful. It was easy, in the mornings, to forget about assassins and templars and the stakes that came with it.

He rode out of the city, often. And riding out of the city made him think of her. Ziio. Where she was now, and if she thought of him. She must think of him. Thinking of her always circled back round to thinking of The Apple, which was a pit of despair he forced his mind away from.

He heard the arrow before he saw it. It shot across the path, and thudded into a nearby tree trunk. The feathers on the end quivered.

Still the horse reared, and he had to yank the reins to keep it under control. It hardly seemed like an ambush, or a planned attack, but still, his guard rose. No allies knew he was out here – he was vulnerable. Though armed, at least. He stopped, ears straining to hear.

There was a thud from the trees. Haytham’s mind imagined someone dragging a body. Perhaps there were bandits out here. His muscles tensed.

A muffled voice came from the same direction as the arrow. Cursing, in a foreign language. But Haytham relaxed: it was a child’s voice. Unlikely to be a bandit, but curious, that one was out alone in the woods – shooting arrows, no less.

Haytham slipped form the saddle, looping the reins over a tree branch by way to telling his horse to stay put.

“It’s no use, osthó:seri, I’ll never hit the target.”

The voice said, with a soft accent familiar to Haytham. He crept towards the noise. After so many years sneaking round cities, it was irritating to think about twigs and dead leaves giving him away.

He heard a cluck. A sigh.

Haytham stood in the trees on the edge of an estate. The grand house sat on the opposite hill. The surrounding buildings were half-fallen down, half-taken over by nature. Everything was so overgrown it was a wonder anyone still called it home. He must have ridden further than he thought.

Just beyond the trees was an archery range with targets bleeding hay onto the dusty ground. A boy, no older than twelve, stood fiddling with a bow. The boy was a native. Like her. Very much like her, with his warm, brown skin and mess of dark hair. The odd braid swung haphazardly at the line of his jaw. Though he wasn’t dressed like a native; he wore a shirt and trousers two sizes too big, at least.

He faced a chicken that had been placed unceremoniously on a dead tree stump.

It gave another series of clucks, trying to step from its throne.

“No. You stay here.” The boy grabbed the chicken, pressing it back into place. “You are better company than Achilles.”

It must have been the peaceful morning, because Haytham couldn’t help smiling. Especially as the chicken went to run again.

He didn’t realise he shifted his weight until he heard the crack under his boot. A twig. It was a stupid, careless mistake.

The boy heard. Reacted quickly, his head snapping round like a dog’s, an arrow already notched into place and aimed vaguely at the trees.

“Who’s there?!” He was more angry than fearful.

He’d been discovered, but there was no danger from a child and a chicken. Haytham raised his hands in mock-surrender. “From the way you were shooting, I doubt you’ll hit me with that.”

The boy’s dark eyes were full of fire; full of rage. And yet the stubborn frown of his mouth made him look all the younger. He was endearing – Haytham must be getting soft.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Haytham added, but the smirk was still on his face.

The boy slowly relaxed the string of the bow, bringing the arrow down.

“How long were you there?” he demanded.

“Only a few moments, I swear.” “I was not talking to chicken.”

“Of course not.” And Haytham finally managed to stop smiling, and attempt to look serious.

The boy didn’t stop scowling though. His shoulders were hunched, as though he was ready for a fight. “Who are you?”

“I could ask you the same.”

It seemed to fluster the boy. He paused, glancing to the chicken, like he needed a second opinion. It only hopped from its perch, clucking as it made its way through the makeshift archery range.

The silence stretched on.

Haytham should go. He had no interest in children. But this one intrigued him; maybe simply because he reminded him of her, maybe because he was talking to a chicken on an abandoned estate.

“Do you live here?”

The boy hesitated. He nodded, once.

“With your family?”

He watched the boy’s hands tighten on the bow. That could be Haytham’s excuse – he was concerned for the boy. He tried to sound light, and conversational. “I only ask because I believed natives lived in the plains.”

The boy spoke slowly, staring at the floor. “Istá’s gone.”

“Your father?” Haytham asked. He got a furious headshake and a grunt of frustration, as though Haytham should understand the boy even when he mixed two languages. “Your mother?”

The boy nodded. He swallowed heavily, his knuckles white on the bow. “Men like you came. And now she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.” And Haytham meant it, if only because of his own history with the natives. “And now you live here?”

Again, the boy paused, like he was considering how much to say, then nodded.

“Why?”

He looked Haytham up and down, as though he was able to see through him. Haytham stayed in the shadows. Between the bright morning sun and his hat, there was little chance the boy would see his face.

Eventually, he realised he was not getting an answer.

“What’s your name?”

“Ratonh—” The boy bit his tongue. “Connor.”

So he’d had another name before. He had changed it. It wasn’t completely unusual, but it fed that concern. The excuse for staying this long.

“Connor who?”

The boy shrugged. “Maybe Kenway.”

It would have been better if the boy had punched Haytham in the stomach. He couldn’t breathe. A native boy with the last name of Kenway. It was too much of a coincidence. It was impossible. And yet—

“Who told you?” he demanded, the words coming out taut as a bowstring. “Who told you that?”

The boy blinked, seemingly astounded by the sudden change. “Achilles.”

Achilles. Haytham should have thought of it before – should have connected it before – it wasn’t that common a name, after all.

“Not your mother?” he pressed.

The boy shook his head, half-raising the bow, though the arrow stayed slack in his other hand.

"Your mother – what was her name?”

The boy’s chest rose and fell quickly. He was nervous, looking over Haytham again, surely calculating how much he could say. What the harm in the questions was. His own curiosity – own want to talk about his mother – won out, “Kaniehtí:io.”

Haytham knew that name – at least, he knew the version of that name he could say. That was Ziio. This was Ziio’s son.

This could be Haytham’s son.

The boy stared, the bow raised like a shield, waiting to be attacked. But Haytham was frozen like a deer. He couldn’t breathe. The timeline would match up. This boy said his last name was Kenway. This was his son.

Ziio had a son and kept him hidden.

Because she had died. He had lost Ziio. The news was a shock, and he thought it should hurt more than it did. But it was a numb pain. She seemed like a stranger, all these years later. Now he knew what had happened: ‘men like him’ had killed her. But not this boy. His boy.

Who was on this Achilles’ estate. Achilles Davenport. It must be. Shay Cormac had told all about him. An assassin. Who was teaching his boy how to shoot a boy. His son was in training. Being trained to be an assassin. To kill him.

It was surely the plot of a melodrama.

“Connor.” Haytham said it without thinking about it. His son’s name. “I want you to promise me something.”

“Why?” Connor was still full of flames, practically sneering. Haytham understood that; why should he promise a nosy, white man anything?

“Because I could have killed you ten minutes ago, but I didn’t.” It was harsh, but he had to say it. He let his sword catch the light, though it only made the boy look angrier. “All I ask is that you will not mention this.”

“People only say that when they have a reason to hide.”

“Please.”

“No.”

It called his bluff. He was not going to hurt a child. Not this one. Haytham drew himself to full height – at least the boy couldn’t identify him. He could see from the boy’s clenched fists and stare that he was just as stubborn as his mother.

Fine. Haytham turned away, and picked a path back to his horse. All the boy could say was that a man came around asking questions. At most, that it was a white man. That was no information at all.

He began riding back home. Achilles would hear about this visit, and still suspect it was a templar. Which meant he had to act quickly.

He had been determined not to have children. To remove the Kenway line from the chessboard. A scrawny, native child made things even more complicated. Was he to bring him back to England? To quiet mansions in the city? A boarding school?

But he couldn’t leave him in the hands of assassins. Could not let his son be trained to hate and hunt him.

He had a duty, as a father. Especially now Ziio was gone. He was a father, and his son spoke to chickens and fired a ferocious, if inaccurate bow.

He had to get his son back. Ziio would surely want him to be raised by one of his parents. He told himself that. This was his responsibility.

It was all he could think about as the horse galloped back into the city. He would have ridden through the front door if the horse could fit. As such, he managed to get off just in time – fingers fumbling as he tied the reins to the fence. He hammered on the door.

Lee answered, with a hand on his holster, staring past Haytham for danger. “Kenway, what the blazes—”

Haytham pushed his way inside. “I have a son!”

“I beg your pardon?” Lee was still huffing. He closed the door.

“A son. I found my son.”

There was a moment’s pause. Lee’s eyebrows shifted from baffled to concerned. “I am not sure what you were taught, Kenway, but one does not simply find a son.”

“I know that,” Haytham snapped. “But this boy is mine. He’s my son.”

He couldn’t stop saying it.

Lee still stood by the door, still frowning, but at least his hand wasn’t on his gun anymore.

Haytham pinched the bridge of his nose to gather his thoughts. Took a breath, and leant against Lee’s bannisters.

“When I first arrived, a woman helped me search for the arteact. We – our relationship developed.” Haytham swallowed. It still felt surreal. “She must have had a son. I found a boy in the woods, whose name is Kenway.”

Lee folded his arms, his brow furrowed. “A boy? Out in the woods?”

“He’s a native.”

That concerned, almost pitying look returned, as though Lee really believed Haytham was losing his wits. “His mother was. She never said she was – I didn’t know—”

Lee spoke as slowly as he would have to a child. “You had a son with an Indian woman?”

Perhaps that should have been a shameful secret. “Yes,” he snapped. “That’s not the point—”

“You say you found him in the woods?”

“Yes.”

“What about his mother?”

“She’s—” It felt much more real, now that he had seen her son. “Passed. What’s more important is that he’s staying with Achilles.”

Back to surprise. Perhaps even mild interest. This was certainly the stuff of stories. “Achilles Davenport?”

“How many Achilles do you know with estates?” “Well—” A slight shrug. “Didn’t Cormac leave him a cripple?”

“He’s training him. My son. He’s training my son to be an assassin.”

Lee leant back against the door. Certainly mildly interested now, perhaps even amused at Haytham’s position.

“So, what do you plan to do?”

“Bring him back.” There was no other option. It had to be done.

“An assassin?” Lee was incredulous. “An Indian boy?”

As if Haytham was out of his mind. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he should think this through. But he knew that sleeping on it would not change his resolve. He closed his eyes, thinking of the boy who spoke to chickens.

“He’s my son.”

*

Connor was only half-asleep. He rolled over, wanting to burrow deeper in the sheets. But he could hear noises. It must have been Achilles waking up and starting his day. He bumbled around just as dawn was breaking and would no doubt barge in on Connor in a few minutes. Even though mornings were for snoozing.

It was still dark. Connor peeked at his room. He would use the excuse that whilst it was still so dark, he would snooze.

There was another noise. A shifting of weight. The sound was very close.

It was in Connor’s room.

His mind abandoned the thought of sleeping entirely. It stood alert, like a listening rabbit. There was someone in his room. If it was Achilles, this was a test. If it wasn’t, it was an intruder.

Perhaps the man from yesterday morning.

He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. But the stranger’s voice had been soft. He had sounded amused. White men usually weren’t like that. Connor hadn’t thought there would be any harm in saying his name. He had weighed every answer, but hadn’t seen any harm in them. He was a fool.

He reached a hand under his pillow and curled his fingers around the handle of the knife he hid there. His ears were pricked for more movements. The floorboards shifted again and he could hear steps.  There were two, maybe three.

Connor lay still, keeping his breathing even and his eyes closed. He could hear the strangers approaching. His heart was pounding. He could feel it in every part of his body. This was what he trained for.

There was someone over him. He could feel that. His fingers twitched on the knife. He forced himself to wait. There would be the perfect moment.

“Asleep,” a man’s voice whispered.

This was the moment.

Connor thrust his arm upwards, the pillow flinging aside as he twisted around to stab at his attacker. He could see three lurking shapes in his room.

A fist tightened around his wrist, keeping the dagger from its mark with frustrating ease. Connor flung his other arm at the meat of the man, kicking his legs and shifting himself upright. His fist found a stomach and he yelled as he kept punching at it, the dagger handle slipping in his hand.

The figure yanked him from the bed by his wrist. The two other figures closed in.

“For God’s sake, shut him up!” someone hissed, so Connor yelled louder, struggling in the vice like grip. More hands caught his ankles. His knuckles connected with a face.

Panic burst in his chest – now he was a rabbit in a snare. He twisted – yanked his wrist, so it was free for a moment. He plunged the dagger into one of the shadows. There was a moment resistance, before the blade burst through the man’s clothes and then it was strangely soft.

The man he had just stabbed bellowed. His other arm was released. He lashed out with his fist, aiming for the first man’s groin and receiving a satisfying grunt.

He freed his ankles, screaming Achilles’ name, only to find himself pinned to the floor by his shoulders. His attacker was stronger, his arms too short to punch or stab the man and the grip on his ankles had been renewed. It made him feel very small, very weak.

“Connor – calm down – Connor!” a voice – a soft voice hissed at him. He tried to shout more, but he was out of breath. It wouldn’t come. He’d dropped the knife in the scuffle.

He could hear more voices. A mess of swearing and the word ‘opium.’ That was what Achilles took for the pain in his leg. Connor had knocked the man out for an entire afternoon when he had put too much in his tea.

Panic flared through him like lightning.

His struggle was in vain. Something wet was pressed over his mouth. He gagged on the cloth, his shouts replaced by coughs and the overpowering smell. It felt like a fog; invading his mind. It made it hard to think – hard to fight.

“That’s it, Connor, that’s it.”

He heard the voice once more, a few more garbled swears, and then everything was black.

*

There was blood on Connor’s hand.

He stared at it. It had dried to a dark brown and crusted under his nails. Another man’s blood stained his hand. Maybe he had killed him.

He had woken a while ago. The room was dark. There was a window at the top of the wall, but it was much too high to climb to. Much too small for him to wiggle through. It only let in a weak, winter sunlight.

The room had an iron bedstead that creaked when he had sat on it. One of the rods was loose, and he had spent ten minutes weakening it. He could pull it straight off from the headboard if needed. That was a weapon. The other furniture in the room was a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The back of the wardrobe was wobbly, but it had been set against the wall. The chest of drawers held a candle, but no matches, a thimble and a spool of thread. He could work with the thread, he supposed.

The door was, of course, locked. He put an eye to it, but he couldn’t see anything in the room beyond. He couldn’t feel a breeze.

He tried ramming it. It didn’t even wobble; all Connor achieved was an aching shoulder.

Achilles had been teaching him how to lockpick, but there weren’t the right tools here. He usually hid a pick in pockets, but he not in his nightshirt. It was all he had.

So, he sat back down and waited. That was when he noticed the blood. But there was only so much he could stare at the blood on his hand until he got bored, and there was only so long he could sit cross legged on the floor.

He lay on his back, watching a spider in the corner of the room as it fiddled with a fly. He was so absorbed that he jumped when the door opened.

Connor scrambled to his feet. Tried to look menacing, though his  hair hung in his eyes.

A man stood in the doorway. He recognised the hulking silhouette from the woods.

“Connor,” the newcomer sounded faintly surprised. “I hope you haven’t been awake too long.”

Connor didn’t say anything. He clenched his fists, the way Achilles taught him, thumbs out, knuckles pressed together.

“I know how you feel,” the man continued. It was that voice; the kind, understanding voice, from yesterday. The one that had put him at ease. “I know exactly how you feel.”

“You know nothing,” Connor spat. It wasn’t difficult to be angry, he was furious.

“Do you know who I am?”

The man was calm, unbelievably calm, and it made the rage spark inside of Connor. He hated this man. This made had taken him from Achilles. This man had kidnapped him. He didn’t want to admit it, but it scared him. He was scared and confused, but that would make him seem weak. He wouldn’t let them see he was scared; he would stay angry.

The man still waited for an answer. Connor didn’t think he would be able to dodge round him and escape; at least, not right now. So, he answered, “The man in the woods.”

“Yes. That’s good,” the man said. He was treating him like a foolish child; maybe he was. “My name is Haytham Kenway.”

“You’re a templar,” Connor growled. He tried to be menacing, like a wolf, but he didn’t think he was very menacing.

The man didn’t deny it. He stayed calm and understanding. “I am not your enemy, Connor.”

“You are,” Connor tried to keep growling. “You’re the reason Achilles is hurt. You’re the reason istá is gone. Templars are bad.”

It wasn’t a strong enough word, but his mind didn’t feel up to anything more in English. It was difficult enough to translate when he still felt fuddled and his heart was racing.

The man – Kenway – knelt down in front of Connor. So he had to meet his gaze; his eyes were colourless, but not cold. They didn’t seem suited for warmth, either.

“There is a lot more going on than you understand,” he said. Gently. Like he was talking to a wild animal.

“I understand more than you think.”

“Do you understand why you’re here?”

“I’m not stupid!” Connor snapped. But he didn’t really know the reason; not any further than this was business between assassins and templars.  He frowned at the man in front of him. Haytham Kenway. He knew the name if not the face. He knew what Achilles had told him. “You’re think you’re my father.”

“That’s right,” the man still had that gentle tone of voice that made Connor trust him yesterday. Now it made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. It was much easier to think of his father as a cold, ruthless killer, than the very real, very normal man in front of him.  “I was sure, once I heard your mother’s name. I called her Ziio.”

He paused. It seemed like he was waiting for a reaction from Connor. He was hardly going to rejoice, but it was oddly worse not knowing how to react. He clenched his fists, and his jaw, and glared. Being angry seemed safer.

His mother had never mentioned this man; never really spoke about his father, other than to say he was an outsider. But it wasn’t impossible that he would call her that. None of this was impossible.

“You have to understand, I couldn’t leave you there with that man, learning all sorts of—"

“The truth.”

Connor stared. It was all the truth. The man stared back at him, the lines around his mouth deepening. But he didn’t argue that point.

“You are my son, and you should be at my side,” Kenway said, instead finality. As though it was simple. His tone was firm – fitting for the image he had in his head. But there was still that gentleness from before. Underneath it all, though, there was a flicker of fear.

Why should this man be afraid of anything?

“Should I be locked in a room all alone?” Connor asked.

He must have been imagining the look of embarrassment that flickered across Kenway’s face. It must have been a trick of the light. Surely this man wouldn’t be embarrassed about anything.

“It’s so you don’t hurt yourself,” he said. “Or, anyone else. Lee is still with the surgeon because of the wound you gave him.”

He could not feel sorry for that. “Good.”

Kenway’s mouth twisted. As if, for a moment, he was going to smile. But then it remained stern. Connor still glared. He would not show weakness.

“I am to stay here?” he asked.

“With me, yes,” Kenway said. “When I can trust you not to stab me, you’ll find yourself with more freedom.”

Connor glanced around the room. Fury pounded at his skull, but he’d learnt enough from Achilles, by now. He knew that throwing a tantrum wasn’t going to get him back to the Davenport homestead. He would have to be patient. And as manipulative as he could be.

“Achilles gave me a better room,” he said, folding his arms.

“And Achilles most likely trusted you to not stab in his sleep,” Kenway rose abruptly, his voice suddenly an angry snap. He had one hand on the door handle when he turned back, his eyes glistening. “I notice he didn’t stop us. It was pathetic, really.”

Connor thought about rushing forward and attacking, but he knew it wouldn’t help his situation. He would likely be pushed aside.

“It wasn’t fair!” Connor bellowed, instead, as Kenway slammed the door.

No, he had to be smarter. He thought back on the conversation, examining any weakness that this templar might have. Achilles had taught him that much. He was going to find his way out of this. Prove to Achilles that he could.

This Kenway did seem to have some kind of concern for him. It seemed to go further than just feeling entitled to his son. He’d trapped him here, but seemed strangely guilty all the same.

Connor could work with guilty.

He pulled the sheet off from the bed and crouched under the bed with it. Kenway wanted to feel guilty? Connor would make him feel guilty.

It was more boring waiting for someone to return than he had thought. He hadn’t actually meant to fall asleep. He had meant to lie there and stew in his own anger and fury. He hated that he was brought here and that he was too weak to fight off the men and hated that Achilles was left alone. He was a grumpy old man, that was for sure, but that didn’t mean that he should get hurt. Not for helping Connor. Never for helping Connor. Not when he had forced Achilles into teaching him in the first place.  Now, maybe he thought Connor had run away.

He missed the Homestead. He missed his comfortable room with a small, but growing collection of things he could call his own. The chickens would miss him, and probably would get hungry. Not to mention the few pigs, and his horse. He missed his horse.

Thinking of the homestead lulled him to sleep.

The door unlatched.

The click made Connor’s eyes snap open. He knew where he was, but it took him a moment to remember all the details. His father and the uncomfortable feeling that settled in his chest with the knowledge. Especially why he was lying on the floor in a sheet soaked with his own sweat.

He peered up from under the bedstead to see Kenway standing over him again. This time with a large loaf of bread and a steaming bowl. He could smell chicken and despite himself, his stomach grumbled for it.

“Really?” Kenway raised an unimpressed eyebrow, his almost black eyes piercing through to Connor’s soul. He seemed almost disappointed.

Disappointed hadn’t been what Connor was going for.

“Really,” he said, ignoring the aching of his stomach and burying himself in the sheets. “If you are going to treat me like wild animal, I shall behave like one.”

“You’ve already behaved like one.”

“I am,” Connor popped his head out from the sheet, glaring at Kenway anew. “I am akohs—” He stopped suddenly, trying to find the right word and cursing his brain for forgetting it now, when it was so crucial. It made him look even more foolish. “Boy – boy horse.”

“A stallion?”

“No.”

“A colt?”

“A colt. You cannot trap me with any fence.”

Kenway stared at him for a long moment and Connor struggled to read the expression on his face. He shouldn’t have feelings; he was a templar master. He shouldn’t look as if he was about to smile, or liked Connor in any way. He leant down and placed the bowl on the ground. Slowly, he sat on the floor opposite him and held out the bread. Connor stared.

“You must be hungry.”

“I’m not,” Connor snapped, snatching the bread. He tore the top off, glaring as best as he could when his mouth was full and his stomach grumbling. He hated the spark of amusement in Haytham’s eye – he didn’t want to be amusing. He wanted to be fierce. He didn’t want to see this man as human.

“Who taught you English?” Kenway asked.

Connor stayed quiet, still chewing on the huge mouthful of bread. It seemed to be expanding in his mouth.

“Istá,” he said, thickly.

“Your mother.”

He swallowed. It hurt his throat as it went down and seemed to sit heavily in his stomach.

"You going to teach me?” he said, taking another large bite.

“You speak it well, but I can if you let me.”

“No.”

Kenway sighed and leant backwards. More slightly annoyed than truly irritated, which hadn’t been Connor’s plan.

“You’re here, now, Connor,” he said, at length. “You might as well make the most of it.”

Connor stuck his tongue out. He would not make the most of it. He would fight at every opportunity, he decided. He would never give in. That was what Achilles would have wanted.

Achilles. Had they hurt him, too? Connor hoped they hadn’t. Hoped that the man could carry on coping with his homestead, even with his injury. Kenway gave a long sigh through his nose and stared at Connor. Connor stared back, chewing slowly. He would not look away.

Kenway broke first.

And Connor felt a flicker of satisfaction. It actually made him want to keep talking. "You're going to make me a templar.”

Haytham didn't reply immediately. He ran a hand over his jaw. Then, "No."

Connor blinked. That wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected that he would be converted to the other side, and set on Achilles instead, like he was a trained dog. That he wouldn’t have any choice in the matter.

"No. Your mother didn't teach you about Templars or Assassins." Those dark eyes turned on him, and were serious. "She didn't want you to be part of either world. I’ll honour her wishes."

He continued staring. For so long that Connor felt self-conscious; though he didn’t care about his messy hair, or the blood still on his hand. He shifted, dipping the soup in the bread and gulping more of it down. What did this white man think of him. Why should it matter?

"I will drop ears on you." He would still be an assassin, even if he was trapped here. If it was the only defiance he could have.

"You can eavesdrop, but I don't know who you'll speak to."

"I'll escape."

"Alright." The look on his face said he didn't believe Connor could do it. "I wasn't planning to have you stay in the city. I thought about sending you to school."

Connor stopped. He put down the bread, and looked at Haytham. His heart banged against his ribcage like it wanted to be let out. School was much scarier, suddenly, than templars. A nightmare.

"What do you think they'll call me at school?" he asked. "How you do you think they will act?"

That knocked Kenway back. He blinked, his mouth working, as he thought about that. Connor could have grinned; it felt like he had won.  Kenway sat back on his heels, his brows drawing together.

"What do you think they'll call you anywhere?"

"I know what they call me." He wasn’t being treated like a child anymore; he was being spoken to like an adult. It numbed the anger, when it shouldn’t. "Will you let them do that?”

"I'm not going to be the over-protective father,” Kenway said. Paused, and it was Connor’s turn to doubt him. He raised his eyebrows. Kenway sighed. “I didn't even want to be a father."

"Then why am I here?"

"Because I cannot have the alternative of you staying with Achilles.” Again, he paused, looking him over, and Conor wondered what he saw. A savage native boy, like most white men thought? “I won't have you becoming a killer."

"You are."

"Exactly.” Haytham drew himself up, as though trying to gain any kind of authority when he was also sat on the floor. “You are going to be a nice, normal little boy and grow into nice, normal young man."

"But I'm not normal." He was a native. Conor found himself smiling. He shifted, picking up the bowl of soup. "You think your enemies will let me live? That no assassin or templar will hurt me?"

Haytham’s eye twitched. "I'll teach you to defend yourself."

And Connor was enjoying the feeling of winning an argument. "So, you will train me?"

"You—" Haytham Kenway pointed a finger at him. Frowning, but there was a smile threatening to tug the corner of his mouth. "Are just like your mother."

And it shouldn't matter. That really shouldn't matter. His mother was not a magic word. But being like her felt like it was. Made him smile, despite everything, despite the fire raging inside him and that this man was the enemy. Because he missed his mother, still, and his chest still hurt to think about her.

Here was a man who also claimed to love her. "You loved Istá."

"I did."

Conor shrugged. He drunk some of the soup; it was thick and warm and numbed the pain of thinking about his mother. It was because of that pain – because this man thought he knew anything about her – that he said. "She did not mention you."

"She did not mention you.” Another very long gaze, and he didn’t meet it this time. He was very aware of how different they were. He did not and would never look like this man – not that he would want to. It was a strange feeling, one that had been creeping up on him since he joined Achilles. He had left his people, and he missed them greatly. Whilst he was away from them, he would never fit in with these people. He could talk their language, and wear their clothes, but the colour of his skin would always make him stand out.

He didn’t look anything like his father.

“Will you not escape for one day, please?" Kenway asked. Somewhat soft.

Connor finished chewing the bread and soup. "I'll think about it."

[gococogo]

"I've missed your touch" Haytham x Reader? 👉👈

Prompt 3 | Haytham Kenway x Male Reader

Synopsis: You've been away for far too long and you come back realizing that Haytham wants you more than you realize.

Word Count: 2.2K

Warnings: Le smut. Blowjob. Hand job. Slight manhandling. Marking.

Notes: Thank you for the request!! I hope you don't mind that i chose to go with a male reader, was just easier to write with. Please enjoy!!

Thomas Hickey’s bark of a laugh makes you visibly wince. Even though you try your best not to, the sound is horrific. It’s more on the lines of a hack with mucus stuck in the back of his throat than anything else and you find it revolting. You can’t help it but your lip curls up ever so slightly as your eyes drift over to him. He swings back on his chair before coming back with the legs coming down with a loud clash. It’s as if the Green Dragon goes silent for a moment before the choir of voices arise up again.

Hickey points at you with a finger while still holding his ale in hand, “You got chased by dogs!?” He shouts out a little too loudly.

“Singular,” you correct. “It was one dog.”

“Mate,” Hickey grins wickedly, “I don’t think that makes it any better.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help but catch the Grandmaster’s dark blue gaze appointed to you. He has his hands clasped together in front of his mouth and his tricorn sits low over his face. But you can still see his gaze fixed upon you.

Lazy like, he looks away and gestures a hand out to Hickey, “And what have you done in the month while my tracker has been on his trek these past six months?”

That cuts Hickey short. He’s the only one at this table with you and Haytham and you don’t understand why? Well, you do to some degree. He’s here for the women and the ale fifty percent of the time. The other fifty? You have no clue what he does for Haytham’s cause or how he keeps his worth but he obviously does something right.

You’ve met Gist once and as much as you wouldn’t put them in the same category, that man is a drinker himself. Yet, he’s still able to keep his worth clearly to any passerby. Goes about travelling with that Irishman most of his days now. Haven’t seen him in a good few years.

Hickey tries to defend him, “I’ve been-“

“I know what you’ve done,” Haytham says with a raised hand. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Hickey looks to you up and down with a scowl and sets his ale aside. He stands from his chair, making it scratch against the floorboards loudly before dismissing himself to the Grandmaster. You’re quite surprised that no one else has showed up yet for your arrival back. Maybe most have forgotten about you. Or they’re away.

You can’t truly blame them though. You’re not a true part of the Templar cause. You’re a messenger, an information collector that gets paid by how important the job is. You wouldn’t compare yourself to that voyager Captain Cormac but the others have. But only by the way that both of you skip and hop around the place like a rabid dog. Unable to stick to one place for too long.

But it’s what you get paid for. Heading all the way out west and south to retrieve information for Haytham. It can be tiresome some months but most days it’s worth it. Seeing all the sights that America has to give.

But all of Haytham’s attention is on you now. He stands up slowly before looking you over. Something he’s been doing all day ever since you jumped off your horse coming back into Boston. You had to come all the way from Lower Louisiana with important French intel. Something Cormac wasn’t able to do since he’s up north. Probably still is since he’s not currently present.

You don’t want to hold a grudge against the poor man but it’s very hard when you’ve barely seen Haytham. The urge to reach out and touch is an itch that won’t go away. But, for the sake of Haytham’s reputation, you keep to yourself. The last thing Haytham wants is someone to see him with a man. You adjust your specks, pushing them up your nose. Maybe one day things will change.

The Grandmaster holds out a hand, gesturing towards the stairs. “Walk with me?” He asks with a small hint of amusement.

You nod your head gently, “Of course.”

Leading the way down the stairs and out the door, you can’t help but let your shoulders ease with relief. A brief touch on your upper arm has you looking to Haytham with a solum expression, even though you feel your chest constrict within you. It’s been too long since you’ve seen him. He hasn’t changed a bit but you may say the lines around his eyes have gotten a bit more prominent. But it suits him.  

“Come,” is all Haytham says before making his way down the street.

Blunt as always. That’s something you haven’t missed. With your hands behind your back, you walk after him. You keep your tongue still, not wanting to overstep or speak out of turn. Despite him telling you that he’s a high society man in the past, you’ve seen him break into too many places to count, kill without remorse and cause chaos in the middle of the street. Something that has you rolling your eyes every time.

But something you did not expect is for Haytham to step down the way of his own estate. You’ve only been here once and that was a good few years ago now. All your other little inquiries with Haytham have been held… elsewhere. It should leave a sour taste in your mouth but with each passing travel, you find yourself yearning for the man more. Even though sometimes he feels so far away when he’s right beside you.

Haytham Kenway’s estate is a two storey building on the outskirts of Boston. You can only guess to keep away from everyone else. But with the rate this place is growing he soon might be surrounded by other houses and properties. Most likely outshining Haytham’s in every way possible. But that’s the future.

You bring your eyes down to Haytham opening the door for you. His tricorn is off his head and he gesture inwards with it for you to enter first. You hum softly as you enter into Haytham’s home. And instantly, the smell of foxing books and tea leaves invades your nose. It’s almost overpowering but it’s almost familiar. The door clicks behind you softly.

“So, what matters did you want to discuss, sir?” You ask as you loosen your cravat from your neck.

A hand presses into the small of your back and you can’t help but stiffen up. You look to Haytham as he comes to your front, feeling around your waist until he stops on your stomach.

“There are no, important matters,” Haytham slurs out. “Only you.”

You can’t help but stifle out a laugh as you place a hand over his. He raises a brow to you, that concerned look coming over his features. This is not the man that you met earlier today. His eyes are too soft now, not the hard dark blue that could stop anyone in their tracks.

“You haven’t missed me that much have you?” You asks with a lilt of cockiness in your voice. It’s hard not to have it there, not with the way that Haytham looks to you now.

“Hmm, I would say as much,” Haytham hums out.

With nimble fingers, the hand on your stomach comes up and plucks your specs off your nose. You watch intensely as he folds them up in one hand before putting them off aside. You truly hate it when he does that because everything becomes a little fuzzy around the edges. But the way he looks at you is something that’s worth the minor inconvenience.

You finally reach out and unclasp the clip to his coat. It falls heavily to the ground with a heavy thud. Your hand touches his neck before caressing up his cheek. He grips your hand and pulls it away to kiss your palm. What a sweet man.

“Do you wish to-“ before you can even finish your sentence, Haytham brings you closer for a desperate kiss. One fill with teeth and tongue. But, you return it all the same with a hand gripping into his dark hair undoing that red bow he always has tied in it. He groans into the touch, a sound you savour all the same.

He pushes you backwards into the wall, almost knocking a painting off its hook. Haytham never parts from you though as his hands waver and venture down your chest, undoing every button on your vest in his path. The vest is discarded with your shirt coming next. You suddenly feel very exposed as his dark eyes look over you.

“This ain’t fair, Haytham,” you push him backwards with a hand on his chest. He complies, taking small steps backwards into the living room. Inches away from the fancy lounge he has, he grabs your hand and takes it from his chest.

“Many things aren’t fair, dear,” Haytham says.

You can’t help but scowl as he turns you around and pushes you backwards onto the lounge instead. You land with an oof onto the soft couches. You should be upset but the way that Haytham grips onto the back of the lounge as he leans over you with that look, it’s very hard to feel that way. Especially when everything you’re feeling is travelling down below, filling out in your pants.

Haytham comes down onto the couch, a leg coming between your own and pressing against your crouch. You can’t help the hiss that escapes from mouth. It’s been a while since you’ve let anyone touch you. And when a large hand kneads you through your pants, the groan that comes from your throat is savoury.

“What have your thoughts have me been? Since I’ve been away all this time?” You ask with a grin.

Haytham looks to you and you can see so many thoughts run behind his eyes. He leans down and kisses your neck, your jaw and then your lips.

“Many things,” he whispers deeply.

You lightly grab his face, making him look at you. “Show me,” you whisper back before kissing him deeply.

Clothes are striped off at an alarming rate and Haytham’s actions become desperate. His calloused hands run over your frame as soon as you’re free of your clothing. And the shivers that run down your spine has goosebumps littering your skin. He kisses you again deeply, biting at your bottom lip and sucking. His bites and kisses venture to your neck where it almost feels like as if he’s tasting you.

You grab onto the back of his neck and drag him down further onto the couch. He has to hold onto the back of the lounge to stop himself from falling over you. You bid yourself to think and open your eyes to take in the view in front of you. The muscles on his back twitch and move as his hands feel every inch of you. You take him in the best you can as he sucks and latches himself onto your neck. A hand wraps itself around your aching cock and your eyes roll up to the ceiling.

“Haytham,” you breathe out. “Please.”

He comes up and latches onto your lips again, deep and wet. His mind is probably a blur right now because yours is too. You get lost in the pure pleasure swirling in your gut and fogging your head. You grip onto his sides, your nails digging in as the hand that’s on your cock quickens it’s pace. Your back arches slightly off the couch as he squeezes at the base before stroking back up and flicking the bead of precum that’s leaking from you. It has you panting and holding onto him as if your life depended on it.

Haytham breaks off, breathing heavily into your cheek. He grinds down onto you and you can feel his own excitement rub up against your own.

“I’ve missed you,” you breathe out into his skin. “I’ve missed your touch, Haytham.”

Haytham returns that with another kiss as if he can’t get enough of you. You grip onto his hair, tugging at his locks that earn you a deep growl. Being like this, you miss it so damn much it hurts. You earn for him too much when you’re off on your little expeditions that it’s becoming a problem. You just hope that Haytham doesn’t send you away again on another six month journey. Because you don’t think you’ll survive this one with the way he makes you feel.

And seeing him like this, desperate to touch you. Desperate to taste you. Oh, it does so many things to you. And with him moving off the couch and guiding your hips with him, your heart does a flip. He sits on his knees in front of you, the Grandmaster of the Templar Order with your cock a breath away from his kiss swollen lips. The sight is something that no one will ever get to see but you.

“This is what I’ve wanted, dear,” Haytham almost whispers. “I’ve missed this too much for my own good.”

Only you.

You grip a hand into his hair again and guide him down onto your cock. He takes you beautifully and you grind your teeth, hoping to hold out for a few minutes more. But the way that Haytham sucks and bobs his head at your bidding is almost too much. His hands grip into your thighs painfully and you know there will be bruises there later. But it’ll be a reminder to today. Something you love to see in the mirror.

All for you. And only you.

-

;)

[konnisart]

I have something in work 😌🫠👐 inspired by @wyyvernn fan fictions!

Didn’t know how much I needed vampire Haytham in my life until I stumbled upon their amazing work.I would love to see more of this fanfictions for sure.Anyway can’t wait to finish what I am making and share it with you all!✌️✨

[helpyourselfwithcherrywine]

Masterlist Of Works.

Announcement: 10-1/ sorry I lost my glasses and I can't see shit. I finally got the energy to start writing and I can't see crap. This is why the letters on the masterlist are this big

Please don't steal my shit.

Knight in Templar Armor (Series) Modern!Haytham Kenway x Reader. Assassin's Creed

The Characters

* Chapter 1

* Chapter 2

Miscellaneous.

The Beginning of the End - Haytham Kenway x Reader

The Madonna of the Carnation.

Haytham's Journal Entry

Currently only Assassin's Creed but, I'll probably put more fics up. I still have an unfinished Loki series fic as well as OC x OC stories. Ones a noir the other is a romance-mafia POC xPOC story.

Writing Ideas (Feel free to use them)

My YouTube Channel of Music Playlist

Support a struggling weirdo on my Ko-Fi

[demigoddessqueens]

eden

Summary: Adam and Eve were inseparable, and they were always stronger together. Until they weren’t.

A/N - for July’s monthly codex prompt/ finally I post something 😅 on the last day of July

Every Adam had his Eve, and they bright out the best of each other. But like all good things, it comes to an end with a hefty price.

Bayek created the Order in his grief, and though Aya was the closest to him in this matter, he never truly had her. She was never just his wife anymore after that day, and nights felt colder without her.

Altair thought he would have that semblance of a peaceful life with Adha, but that dream slipped away when she left his arms. At least it was a life he got to have with Maria and his beloved sons before it was taken away in just one day.

Ezio was young and reckless before his tragedy struck. With a family gone and the memories of sweet Christina shattered, the remaining Auditore son tried to pick up the pieces. For the longest time, he always felt the need to constantly look over his shoulder after one too many betrayals. He never realized it stopped when he was with Sofia.

Edward and Haytham thought their directions in life would lead them to better futures, but it felt so alone in the end. At least there was the sense of bittersweet relief for Connor as he remade the Brotherhood.

Desmond felt a kinship with Lucy, but it be-grieved him to let her go. But it was for the greater good, right? All just to save the world?

[rogue-centric]

A Banquet of Consequences

Cross-posted from AO3. 

No warnings or suggested maturity levels.

Summary:

Shay and Ratonhnhake:ton are entrenched in a vicious prank war, with attacks now up in the double digits. The pranks were quickly becoming more elaborate and complex, with traps laid out all over Fort Arsenal to try and catch the other. What will happen to the two after they discover one of their traps was triggered by the worst possible target: Haytham Kenway.

Words: 5,761

       It was a rather beautiful day in New York. The sun was shining and blanketing the city in the warmth of the early summer days. Gulls floated over Fort Arsenal, cawing and trilling away as ships drifted in and out of the harbour. Haytham had seated himself outside in the gardens, enjoying a much-needed break from the endless Templar meetings he had lining his schedule. He felt as though he hadn't properly seen the sun in weeks, so on this beautiful day, he decided to take his afternoon tea outside in the flourishing garden that the manor staff kept well-maintained.

       Haytham sipped at his tea, sitting back on the bench and feeling the breeze softly brush his cheeks. Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the warm touch of the sun on his shoulders and the gentle scent of the flowers surrounding him. He never realized how peaceful the garden could be, perhaps he'll take his tea out here more often.

CRASH

       The sound of something shattering and the distinct yelling of Captain Cormac echoed across the estate had made Haytham snap his eyes open. He turned on the bench just in time to watch his son bolt past him at the speed of a flying hawk, passing Haytham in a fury of limbs before disappearing around another outcropping of shrubbery. Haytham merely sighs and takes another long swill of his tea.

       This...behaviour had been going on for weeks. It seems as though mischief had taken up root here at the Fort, and Haytham had grown all too weary of trying to quell it. It started with small, rather inconspicuous tricks here and there - inconveniences at most - but they had begun to grow with grandeur over time.

       At one point, every Templar was guilty of some act of mischief, but the two main culprits were undoubtedly Captain Shay Cormac and Haytham's own son, Connor. The two had quickly seen each other as a prime target for their shenanigans and increased the risk of the trick to try and out-compete the other. Haytham had attempted to reprimand the two of them, but that only resulted in the two carrying on in secret. Eventually, they wore him down, and he made a compromise that so long as their devilry didn't affect their responsibilities and Order business or inconvenience himself or his duties as Grandmaster, they could continue their foolish game.

And so they did.

       Immediately after that conversation, the complexity of their tricks rose. What started as simple misplaced objects or elementary traps became something much more. Haytham almost longed for the days when the main attraction was fooling Shay into pouring salt into his tea instead of sugar or leaving out bitter-tasting treats for unassuming Templars. For the most part, the jokes they played were still jovial and in good taste, but they were most definitely becoming more complex.

       A few weeks ago while he and Shay were in Boston, the captain had excused himself before their departure and disappeared for the better half of the morning. The younger man returned with not one, not two, but five different hats, all in slightly varying sizes but otherwise indistinguishable from one another. After they returned to Fort Arsenal, Haytham had immediately noticed the rude moustache drawn on Master Cormac's portrait in the dining hall, but the man in question remained blissfully unaware for the time being. Connor, on the other hand, immediately noticed that his hat didn't quite fit right, but didn't yet think to incriminate Shay.

       The first truly dastardly joke was played on Shay. Last week, the younger Templar had entered Haytham's office to deliver a report, only to slowly stop his ramble at the look on the Grandmaster's face.

"Dear gods, man. What in the hell is wrong with your mouth?" Haytham's face was contorted in shock,

"My-my mouth?" Shay replied, equally surprised as he sought a surface to see his reflection.

       It had turned out that Connor has slipped a few drops of ink into Shay's coffee that morning, which stained his teeth and parts of his lips for days. Shay immediately retaliated by hiding Connor's most used belongings in difficult-to-reach places all around the Fort, definitely getting quite creative with some of the placements. That day Connor returned from his training to find his coat blowing from one of the masts of the Morrigan.

       This back-and-forth between the two persisted, and at times they even convinced some of the other Templars to aid them in setting up the next prank. Haytham was far too busy with his own matters to get too involved with their scheming, and so long as they kept that business to themselves, it was no longer a concern of his.

       Being pulled back from his thoughts, Haytham took another sip of tea as he heard the manor door slam shut and Shay's trudging footfalls echo against the stone pathway. The younger man could be heard cursing under his breath as he approached where Haytham was seated.

"What was it this time?" The Grandmaster asked nonchalantly.

       Shay rounded the shrubs and came to a stop in front of the older Templar. Haytham nearly choked on his tea at the sight of the Captain, snorting and sputtering into his teacup. Shay was covered head to toe in white baking flour, looking as pale as a bedsheet.

Shay's face remained as solid as a stone, "Glad to see you're enjoying yourself, sir."

Haytham composed himself, "I was until my afternoon tea was disrupted by all of the shouting and vulgarity coming from the manor."

"I'd say you won't hear any more of it, but I can't make any promises for when I get ahold of that boy."

Haytham nodded. "Very well. Do try and keep the noise down, though. I have no desire to speak to the regulars about screams of torture today."

"Understood, sir."

       Shay turned on his heel, dustings of flour following him in a cloud as he strode off. Haytham leaned back against the bench and admired the serene garden. Moments later, he could hear shouting off in the distance and tried his hardest to ignore the noise.

       The days that followed were quiet. Almost too quiet, in fact. Haytham had expected revenge to be enacted, a grand show to top what Connor had done, but the Grandmaster wasn't aware of anything yet, which undoubtedly meant the pair of them were scheming something heinous. Haytham, though, continued to go about his business and try not to worry too much about what those two were getting into. He felt it was only a matter of time before the pranks get too complex and something goes wrong, but that's a problem to deal with another day.

       Haytham exits the manor, closing the door behind him and stepping into the warm sunlight. Today was a particularly long day pent up inside the meeting room and squinting over papers, so the cool breeze coming off the ocean was refreshing against his weary face.

       Haytham had a book in hand, hoping to enjoy some leisure reading in the garden that he's grown so terribly fond of. He walks slowly down the pathway and through the shrubbery, taking in the scents of the flowers as he goes. His eyes drift closed briefly to just...enjoy the moment he finds himself in.

       His foot catches on something and his eyes shoot open. Before he's able to look down though, shuffling from the bushes behind him makes him spin around. He looks to where the noise was heard and watches a series of contraptions moving, and follows the path of it across the garden, up a tree and-

ZIIIIP

       Haytham's ankle is snatched out from underneath him and he's pulled far up into the branches of an overhanging cottonwood tree. His book had gone flying to the side as he found himself hanging upside down from the branches, helplessly out of reach from anything he could have hoped to get his hands on.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." he mumbled in frustration.

       Unfortunately for the Grandmaster, he was not dressed with his usual weapons or blades as finding himself in any threatening situation in a fort crawling with Templars was not a major concern of his. Call him complacent or reckless, but he's getting older and having to constantly jump at every noise in the underbrush is just a bit tiring. At a certain point in a Templar's career, stepping into the occasional trap was just an occupational hazard.

       Which is exactly what Haytham did, and is now hanging upside down from a tree in the middle of the courtyard. He looks around to assess his options. Too far away from the trunk to try and grab it, and not close to anything else that would be of use. He could try swinging himself over to the tree. He moves back and forth slightly, testing the ropes holding him. The rope twists and creaks under the weight of his movement.

       The branch he's attached to also sways heavily, and Haytham immediately seized his movement, not wanting to put too much stress on the branch so that it snapped. There wasn't enough height for Haytham to be able to recover from the fall without injury. This trap, of course, was designed with that intention - designed to keep a highly skilled Templar hanging in the air and loathe as Haytham is to admit, it does its job accordingly.

       So he sits - or...hangs...more accurately - waiting until someone comes along. The birds chirp happily around him, and for once Haytham can't quite find the enjoyment in their songs. Slowly, the rope twists, rotating Haytham around in place. He stews in his mind, already formulating the most satisfying way to bring unholy retribution down on the Templar responsible.

He's pulled from his thoughts to the faint boot scuffs approaching the trap he's currently caught in

"Well, well, would you look at what-" Shay's smug voice stopped abruptly as he stood and looked on in horror at who he had caught, "S-Sir!"

Haytham didn't move as the rope slowly rotated him to face Shay. "Care to explain yourself, Master Cormac?"

"Sir I'm so, SO sorry! I'll get you down right away!" Shay's terrified face disappeared from Haytham's view, and he felt the rope jolt as the younger Templar worked to free him.

"Sir, I'm going to release you gently, but just-just be ready, alright?" Shay's voice called from somewhere behind him.

       Haytham grunted as he braced himself, but the journey down was slow and true to his word, Shay made sure he reached the ground gently. He unwound himself from the rope and stood, dusting himself off. Shay appeared from the shrubs in a whirlwind, giving Haytham a look over to make sure he was alright.

"Sir I am so incredibly sorry for that. It-it was meant for Ratonhnhake:ton!"

"What did I say before, Shay? Hmm?" Haytham's voice was level, but Shay could sense the underlying warning of being within reach of immense and indescribable harm. "I asked for two things. Two things! One, that these little games of yours don't interfere with your responsibilities to the Order, and two-" Haytham spun on Shay, bringing his face inches away from the other man and lowering his voice dangerously, "that these games did not include me."

Shay swallowed thickly, his face losing a tinge of colour. "I-I swear, sir, these games will cease. I'll-I'll talk with Ratonhnhake:ton and we'll end this for good! No more tricks, no more of these pranks. You won't have to worry about anything like this happening again."

Haytham's hardened glare digs into Shay's wide eyes. "I would certainly hope not, Master Cormac. It would do you good to watch yourself in the future."

       Haytham stepped back, turning on his heel and storming off down the garden path. He swooped down to snatch up his discarded book before disappearing down the garden. Shay remained stock still, still reeling from the last few minutes of events.

       It wasn't until Haytham was long gone, and Shay bent over to begin collecting up the remains of his trap that Haytham's words finally sunk in and clicked: Haytham Kenway just threatened me. Shay's face paled further at that, and he hurriedly collected the material before rushing off. There was a certain Templar recruit he needed to find.

        For the remainder of the day, Shay constantly had an eye over his should for the young Ratonhnhake:ton. He's set out to try and find the lad before Haytham does - or more accurately - before Haytham finds another trap. The two younger Templars were relatively cautious when it came to their plans and where they laid out their trap for the other, but Shay had to admit, with all this new excitement and competition they had created the sea captain had begun to get a bit too careless.

"C'mon Ratonhnhake:ton," Shay mumbled out, "Where are you hiding?"

       Captain Cormac had already searched the entire south side of the fort and also found another trap with his name written on it. The heel of his boot was now covered in tar and collecting a rather unsightly lump of debris as he searched for the younger Templar. Halfway through this fort and still no sight nor sound. There's one last place on his list to check before he puts a damned bounty on the boy's head. Fortunately, none of that is necessary as Shay approaches the docks and spots Ratonhnhake:ton's silhouette by his quartermaster.

He approaches the pair and looks meaningfully at the younger Templar, "I need to speak with you, lad."

Christopher nods his head, pushing himself off the crate and stretching his arms, "I should probably see how things are going in the kitchen anyhow, surely it's almost time for supper. I know I could eat." He pats Ratonhnhake:ton's shoulder.

The young lad grins as Gist passes him, "You can always eat, Chris." He turns his attention to Shay, a smile still playing on his lips, "What did you need?"

Shay's face doesn't hold an ounce of mirth in it, "We're, uh, we're going to need to call a truce."

Ratonhnhake:ton quirks an eyebrow and looks at him smugly, "Giving up, are you Cormac? I didn't think it was possible."

Shay points a finger at him, "I said truce, not surrender." He steps a bit closer, "We need to put an end to the traps."

"It was just getting interesting! You and I had finally found common ground."

"That's the problem! It's not just our ground we're using."

Ratonhnhake:ton looked at Shay quizzically, "Did something happen?"

"I, uh, might have caught someone that wasn't you." Shay's eyes wandered the landscape.

Ratonhnhake:ton's eyes light up in excitement, "Oh, please tell me it was Lee."

Shay cleared his throat. "It...was not Lee."

"Who, then? Hickey? He seems likely to walk into a trap - or stumble - I should say." Ratonhnhake:ton chuckled. Shay didn't look at him. Didn't look anywhere but far, far away and into the horizon - as if trying to escape there right now.

Then, a quiet mumbling, "It was your father."

       Ratonhnhake:ton's jaw dropped open slightly in shock, the grim hands of fear clutching at his insides before slowly slinking away as he realized the greater scale of the situation. It was not Ratonhnhake:ton's trap that Haytham had stepped into, no, it was Shay's. He was safe for the time being, and so, he laughed.

Shay crossed his arms at the lad, "This is not funny."

Ratonhnhake:ton's shoulders shook with laughter, "I can't believe you caught my father. Tell me, how did he react?"

"Badly." Shay scoffed at him. "What do you think?"

"May I ask which trap?"

Shay deadpanned. "Tree snare."

Ratonhnhake:ton laughed heartily at the imagery his mind was creating for him. "Shay Cormac, you are a man that wishes for death."

"Yeah, and I just about met him earlier." He snides, "Now, can we please just agree on a truce so that I can keep my head attached to my shoulders?"

"I don't know, this is far more entertaining than what trouble I could come up with." he teased

"Ratonhnhake:ton, I am asking for your mercy here." Shay's pleads are coated in a thick layer of sarcasm, "I'm aware that my death wish is a running joke with the crew, but rest assured - I quite like living, and I'd like to keep doing so."

"And you are willing to beg me?"

Shay's sarcastic tone drops and instead he looks at the lad blankly, "Or, perhaps the next trap that catches an uninvolved Templar will be yours." The underlying threat floats through the air between them.

The younger man narrows his eyes at Shay, knowing full well what the other is capable of. They stare at each other in calculation for a moment before Shay sticks out his hand, "So...truce?"

Ratonhnhake:ton looks down at it for a moment before clasping in a firm handshake, "Truce."

Shay's features lift their seriousness and the lightness that usually graces the older man returns tenfold. "Great! Now, Gist mentioned that supper should almost be ready, shall we go and see, lad?"

       Entering the manor, the pair make their way through the foyer to the dining room. Haytham is already seated, conversing with Charles who sits at his side, and Gist is shrugging off his jacket to place on the hanging rack by the door. There was hot tea on the table already.

       Dinner in the manor was always a rotating cast of characters depending on who had business on this side of the city. Of course, any of the Templars were welcome to join, but Haytham and Charles were the only consistent members, aside from when the Morrigan was docked. Tonight was a rather quiet night, with most of the inner circle called off for business in other areas of the city or in the river valley.

       The dinner itself was rather uneventful. Decent food and the regular conversation about mission updates and other small-talk. There was, however, mischief brewing in the air and Shay could smell it as he looked across the table over at Ratonhnhake:ton. The younger man held a certain glint in his eye and Shay couldn't help but spend the rest of the meal uncomfortably awaiting what the lad had in mind.

Time ticked on, and then finally, the perfect opportunity for Ratonhnhake:ton presented itself when his father turned to ask him a question for general conversation.

"And you, Connor, how faired your mission today?"

"Routine and uneventful. I received intel from the Greggory boys and finished the collection for the report this afternoon." Ratonhnhake:ton paused, looking up from his plate to his father. "I heard you had quite an eventful afternoon, though." he said pointedly, before taking another bite.

The entire room fell into a thick silence. Shay glared at him from across the table, but Ratonhnhake:ton only returned the faintest of smiles.

Haytham eyes his son, any emotion on his face carefully guarded. "I suppose it could be described as such."

Shay uncomfortably cleared his throat, "I do want to apologize for that, sir. I know-"

Haytham held up a hand, "You already apologized, Master Cormac. It's a thing of the past - water under the bridge."

       Shay gave a sideways glance to Gist, confused and unsure about the open forgiveness. Chris only shrugged his shoulders at the captain. Shay opened his mouth, paused, and then promptly shut it again before he made any larger mess of things.

"Continuing on," Haytham said, dabbing his mouth his a napkin before leaning back in the chair, "I have an appointment with a harbourmaster in the valley. I've been notified that after many months of delay, our supply shipment from New Orleans has finally arrived." He turned towards Shay and Chris, "I will need the Morrigan set for sail in two days' time."

Shay nodded, "Aye, sir. We'll be ready."

"And feel free to bring your apprentice, Captain." Haytham said, turning his gaze over to Ratonhnhake:ton, "I'm sure there will be plenty of work available on the trip."

~~~~

       The morning of the trip Haytham emerged from his chamber, luggage in hand, to hear the main foyer bustling already. Shay, it seems, has already been awake and preparing for the departure. He walked out into the main room and immediately Shay straightened and approached.

"Morning, Sir. I trust you slept well?" Shay held out a hand to take the luggage from the Grandmaster.

Haytham handed his belongings off without a second thought. "Delightfully so." There was a glint of something in his eye as he glanced past the Captain. A glint of something Shay didn't necessarily like, but prayed it was not aimed at him.

Brushing off the glance, Shay continued. "We're ready for departure whenever you are." He paused, looking around the room slightly, his voice turning to annoyance, "And whenever our apprentice decides to join us."

"Very well. I will see you on deck, then." Haytham nodded his head before making for the door.

"Aye, Sir. I shouldn't be much longer." Shay called after him.

He passed off the Grandmaster's luggage to another crew member before making his way down the side hallway to the bedrooms. He rapped his knuckled against Ratonhnhake:ton's door. "We're ready to leave lad. If you're not on deck in ten minutes, we're leaving without you." There was a muffled reply, but Shay didn't linger to listen to any protests.

       Making his way across the dock with the last bit of the crew, he boarded the Morrigan to find Haytham and Chris sharing a conversation to the side of the deck. Looking around at some of the crew on deck, he noticed a few new faces among them. His brows drew together in confusion before he called over to his Quartermaster.

"We get some new crew members, Gist?" Shay asked, an eyebrow quirked.

Chris smiled, "Aye, forgot to mention it. Some of our boys weren't able to make it, got a few new lads."

       Shay's eyes narrowed, but he brushed it off. Usually, Gist ran this type of news past him, but perhaps the short notice hindered that. At any rate, Shay trusted Gist's decisions wholeheartedly, so he knew whatever choice his Quartermaster made would be sound. Besides, this is a routine supply run - he shouldn't need his full regular crew for a day trip anyhow.

       Stepping into his cabin, he froze before the door could even fully open. His jaw dropped and he gawked at the sight before him, the grip on his satchel loosening until the leather bag dropped to the floor with a dull thud. His entire cabin has been rearranged.

       Quite literally anything that wasn't nailed to the ground had been moved to the opposite side of the room. His captain's desk was no longer at the rear of the cabin, but to the side and on an angle. His charting table has been moved back to where his desk used to be, and his books have all been rearranged. His storage chests have also been moved to the other side of the room, and his weapons now sat tucked at the end of his bed. Speaking of which, his bed - which was nailed to the ground - has a completely different set of sheets on it, and his pillows are at the foot of his bed instead of the head.

He turns around to look at his companions, speechless.

Haytham looks over to him, "Something the matter, Captain?"

Shay turns back to his cabin, gesturing wildly with his arms at the setting before him and making a few incomprehensible noises.

Haytham took a few steps over to see what the Captain was so taken with. His eyes looked over the flipped state of the cabin. "Ah. I see." he turned to look at Shay, "Will you be able to sail in these conditions?"

Shay sputters for a moment, still reeling from the shock, "I-I mean, yes. Yes, I can sail....but-but-" he gestures again to the cabin. A few different emotions filter over his face before settling on anger. "I am going to wring that boy's neck." The captain huffs in frustration before reaching down and snatching up his satchel.

Just when Haytham was to turn back towards Gist, he heard the angry footfalls of Ratonhnhake:ton storming up the gangplank. He looked over to see his son appear on the main deck, in a pair of breeches about two sizes too small, a jacket that barely fit, and a hat that kept sliding down his forehead.

"Where's the Captain?" he demanded to the pair. Gist pointed over to the open cabin door, and Haytham very nearly breaks the stone-cold mask he's been wearing so very carefully.

Before the lad could move, Shay emerges from the cabin, his arms spread wide, "If it isn't just who I wanted to see!" his voice was raised in annoyance.

Ratonhnhake:ton rounded on him, "I thought you said we had a truce!"

Confused for a moment, Shay takes a step back to look at the lad, "What in the hell are you wearing?!"

"That's a good question, Shay. What am I wearing?" The younger lad spat.

"I don't bloody well know! Not like I dressed ya this mornin'!" Shay replied with equal vitriol

"Oh, so you're saying you had nothing to do with the state of my clothes?" he shot back, accusingly.

"No, I didn't!" Shay paused, "Well, maybe the hat, but that's a different story. The rest of it, I don't know nothin' about. Perhaps you coulda caught the culprit if you weren't rearranging my damn cabin all night!"

Ratonhnhake:ton opened his mouth to argue, but then paused, "What?"

Shay's annoyance flared up again, "Oh, don't you play coy now, boy. You think this is funny?" Shay stepped aside to wave his hands at the drastically different cabin.

"And you think I did that? I was too busy taking down all the traps I had set for you since I had thought we had come to some type of understanding." his gaze hardened, "But now I see it was all for nothing."

"I was busy doing the exact same thing! Cleanin' up around the fort!" Shay protested, "You what? Think I just up and decided to give myself a change of scenery, did ya?"

"If you're so certain I'm guilty, why not ask your Quartermaster if he's seen anything?"

       The two both swing their heads to look at Gist expectantly. Gist's eyes widen in surprise at the sudden attention, clearly not thinking they would ask him anything about this whole ordeal. He glances quickly over to Haytham, only to receive a deep and steady glare in return - a warning. He sputters a little, not wanting to be on the receiving end of the Grandmaster's wrath, but also not having anything prepared for this specific scenario.

"I-I simply couldn't tell you. I was off deck for the night, out drinking with some of the lads." He chuckled nervously, "I mean we are docked in a private port, didn't think any trouble would come this way."

Shay looks at him peculiarly. Gist is lying, but why? He looks over to the Grandmaster and Haytham is...well, Haytham is somehow completely uninterested in this conversation and looking out across the deck, away from them. Shay narrows his eyes.

"Grandmaster, Sir." Shay says in a level tone. Haytham turns his head to look at him, his face carefully guarded. Too guarded for Shay's liking, so he presses. "Would you happen to know anything about this?"

"I haven't the faintest idea, Captain." he replies, cooly.

"You wouldn't, hmm?" Shay asks again, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Ratonhnhake:ton's mind starts to piece things together and he turned to look at his father, "You were missing from your study last night. Not like you, if you ask me."

"Are you attempting to pry into my private affairs?" Haytham raised an eyebrow.

Shay took a step toward the Grandmaster, "Only if your private affairs happened to take place on my ship without permission, sir."

Haytham's eyes narrowed at the two of them. He would not go down so easily, but that choice isn't in his hands. Christopher's resolve is not nearly as hardy as his own, and Shay is much better at reading his Quartermaster.

"Chris, what about you? Where were you last night?" Shay's posture relaxes, easing into the new game that Haytham is insisting on playing.

"Well, I already told you." Chris chuckles again, "I went out with the lads."

"So you're telling me that you didn't complete the pre-departure checks that you always do the night before departure? That you went out with the lads instead?"

Chris was cracking, "A-Aye sir. Had to finish up early this morning."

"Yet still had time to sit down for a full breakfast, hmm?" Shay pressed.

"Alright" Haytham called out, drawing everyone's attention. "You can stop pestering Master Gist. What is it you want Captain Cormac? A confession? An apology?"

"Well," Shay considered, crossing his arms in the process, but remaining relaxed at the turn of events, "I was hoping for something more along the lines of an explanation."

Letting out a slight huff, Haytham clasps his hands behind his back and walks over to stand in front of Shay. "The two of you should be flattered, really. You see, I had quite a bit of time to think while I was hanging upside down in the courtyard the other day. The only problem was that I didn't yet know which of you would be the culprit, so I simply devised something for each of you."

Shay's brows rose in amusement and a smile was playing on his lips, "You've spent some time planning this, then?"

"As soon as I was released, I set to work." Haytham began, "Connor's punishment was difficult, yet still, straightforward. I sent a missive to our tailor to come by the manor as soon as possible. I, of course, had to ensure that Connor would be kept busy during this time. At dinner that night, I suggested he come along on this sailing, knowing that you'd be sure to set him to work preparing the vessel and that he'd be at the docks all day. That allowed the tailor to work uninterrupted on altering Connor's clothes, making them uncomfortable, yet still completely functional."

Shay and Ratonhnhake:ton shared a brief shocked glance at each other before the Captian spoke, "But what about my cabin? You couldn't have done it alone."

"You're right, Shay, I didn't." Haytham's face remained neutral, but he was fighting back a smug grin as he continued, looking over at Christopher, "I enlisted the help of Master Gist, and a handful of your crew for your punishment. From the beginning, I knew exactly what I wanted to do, but I was having trouble figuring out how to pull it off in such a short time. I approached Gist after dinner and asked him if he would be interested in helping me accomplish the task. Not only did he willingly volunteer, but also brought his own ideas into the fold. I thought the bedsheets were a nice touch."

Chris broke into a smile, stepping forward to join in the explanation, "That's why there are new faces aboard today. Jamie, Tom, Duncan, and Smitty helped us to rearrange everything. Took the boys nearly all night to get it done. I knew they'd be in no shape for sailing today, so I made sure to fill their posts beforehand."

Shay looked at his Quartermaster in mock betrayal, but his eyes held a hint of pride at his friend, "Chris, you helped?"

"I couldn't possibly turn down the opportunity to get back at you for the biscuits." Chris chuckled, continuing in joking exasperation, "You know how much I love biscuits and you used that knowledge against me. It's only fair."

Ratonhnhake:ton's eyesbrows were halfway up his forehead. "All of this was done yesterday?"

"Indeed." Try as he might, Haytham was beginning to look like a cat who ate the cream. "You have Captain Cormac to thank for your new attire."

Ratonhnhake:ton shook his surprise as he turned an annoyed glance to Shay, his voice lowering, "All because of your trap?"

Shay shrugged his shoulders, "Guess you shouldn'tve laughed about it before."

"I hope you're ready to hand over the coin it will cost to replace these." Ratonhnhake:ton replied easily, gesturing to the sleeve cuffs that end a few inches too far up his arms.

Shay let out a short laugh, "Replace? Hardly. But I'll ask the tailor back to re-mend his work. I'm not going out and buying you a brand-new wardrobe. Nice try, though."

"Let me remind you, that it was your handiwork that got us here." Ratonhnhake:ton said.

They laughed heartily for a while before bringing the tone back to a more serious one. Shay turned towards Haytham, eyeing the other man. The Grandmaster looked rather content on deck, and was surely satisfied with his work over the last couple of days.

So, Sir," Shay said, "No hard feelings, then?"

"As I said before, Captain Cormac, it is water under the bridge." Haytham replied.

"Does this mean that we can continue the pranks?" Shay pressed, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

Haytham's eyes narrowed. "I would much rather you not, but I suppose you've both had a taste of the consequences now."

Shay stepped closer, nudging Haytham with his arm, "Does this mean you're participating?"

"Absolutely not!" Haytham scoffed. "This was an exception. A mere trifle."

"Hm. I'm not so sure, sir. It almost seems as if you enjoyed yourself. Perhaps it's time to add another party to this game of ours?" Shay looked over at Ratonhnhake:ton, who was already smirking deviously.

"I have responsibilities as the Grandmaster and can't be caught up in childish games and tricks. My previous ruling on the matter continues to stand." Haytham stated, matter-of-factly.

"Maybe so. Perhaps Ratonhnhake:ton and I will just have to reacquaint ourselves with the consequences, shall we?" There was a glint in Shay's eyes, and as much as Haytham wanted to hate it, he found himself anticipating what was to come.

"Ready yourself, then, Master Cormac." Haytham said, turning away and towards the upper deck, "For I have only scratched the surface."