#assassin's creed 3 fanfic

[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.

-

;)

[thou-babbling-brook]

Sanctuary

AO3

Rating: T

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationship(s): Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe

Word Count: 6344

Tags: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, Maria Thorpe, Al Mualim, Original Characters, Assassin's Creed I, Masyaf, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Crusades, Implied Happy Ending

Summary: After stumbling upon a small caravanserai during a narrow escape, Maria has questions about Altaïr's past - particularly, his defining scar.

This fic is based on some of @nebulacrum's thoughts and headcanons about Altaïr's relationship with Al Mualim, along with his lip scar.

You can click here to see @ramshackledtrickster's accompanying pieces!

I hope you guys enjoy!!!

“Baba, we have customers!”

Fahmi glanced up from his ledger, brow furrowed and eyes squinted as the setting sun squeezed through the cracks in the sandstone walls. His son bounced before him while gesturing wildly to the door. His words blended together with the constant ringing present in Fahmi’s ears. Setting his hands against the desk, he rose, groaning as the aches in his joints cried in protest.

“Ameen,” he murmured, hunched as he shuffled to the gnarled wooden door, sand seeping onto the floorboards as the evening gusts of wind swept the hot sand inside. Maryam wiped her hands on her tattered apron before laying them on Ameen’s shoulders. 

“Come, it is late, and your father is tired,” she whispered, kissing her son’s head while guiding him away from the door. Fahmi nodded his thanks, shuffling to the window and shielding his eyes from the golden glare of the sun as it sank into the horizon. 

“But Mama!” Ameen protested. Maryam shushed him, her words inaudible as she and her son walked through the narrow doorway. Fahmi groaned as he reached down to the floor. Grabbing a few wooden panels, he straightened his back and placed them against the open window. His wrinkled hands trembled with each movement. Each knuckle ached as he flexed his hands and flattened his palms against the wood.

A resounding thud against the door disturbed the sand and dirt gathered by the entrance. Squinting, Fahmi poked an eye through the minuscule cracks in the wood panels. Two camels knelt before the water trough. Their backs were still covered with blankets and saddles. Yet, aside from the rushing winds of sand, the quiet hissing of nearby snakes, and the low chuffs of the camels, Fahmi found no sign of visitors.

Ameen rushed to his side, much to the protest of his mother as he tugged at his father’s robes. “I told you!”

Fahmi quieted the child, hobbling to the door as he pressed his ear against the wood. Another resounding set of knocks, this one more desperate than the first, echoed in the sandstone room. Broken Arabic shattered the silence. A woman, her voice high and exhausted, shouted through the door. Her accent was foreign, reminding them of the soldiers that had marched through the desert not long ago. Maryam tightened her hold on Ameen, pressing him against her front with wide eyes.

Maryam turned to her husband. “We were not expecting any caravans for another week.”

“I know,”  he replied, voice barely above a whisper. Ameen curled against his mother as the pounding continued.

The voice begged and pleaded behind the door. Her pronunciations were muddled and awkward, but the desperation caused Fahmi to move his knobby hand. Slowly, he unlatched the door, prying it open enough to peer an eye through the crack. Immediately, he gasped, hobbling back and slamming open the door. The voice (a Frankish woman, it seemed. Though, it was nearly impossible to differentiate between their accents) was not alone. The pale woman stumbled forward, thanking Fahmi in her jumbled Arabic while Maryam covered her mouth.

“Help,” the woman pleaded, her eyes wide as she looked at her companion. Arm slung over her shoulder, a hooded man collapsed against the woman’s frame. An arrow stuck from his side, covered in gore. His linen robes were coated in dark liquids, sand, and dirt, a few notable slashes still seeping blood into the cloth. Maryam rushed to his side, shouting over her shoulder for Ameen to grab freshly drawn bandages, wine, and washcloths. The boy scrambled backward before turning and sprinting through the doorway. Fahmi knelt before the strangers, eyes darting to his wife as they shared a fleeting, anxious look.

“What has happened?!” Fahmi demanded, still breathless as Ameen returned, arms full of supplies as he tripped and stumbled into Maryam. The foreign woman could only stare with furrowed brows in return, her eyes jerking over Fahmi’s face.

“Mercenaries,” the wounded companion spat. It was clear that he was from the region. If not, a traveler passing through to his home. His face remained hidden beneath his cowl, eyes toward the ground while Maryam gestured for the woman to help her. The two laid the man on his back, flat against the cool floorboard. With the glaring sun hidden behind vast mounds of sand, Fahmi reached for two candles, placing them by his wife’s feet once they were lit. “We barely escaped.”

“God has willed it,” Maryam praised. Ameen sat awkwardly by his father’s side, face growing pale as Maryam and the strange woman attempted to treat the man’s wounds. Fahmi laid his hand on Ameen’s back, rubbing it soothingly. 

“Ready a room for them,” Fahmi instructed his son. “They will need somewhere to rest if he survives, God willing.” Ameen nodded and rushed off down the side corridor. In the meanwhile, Fahmi came to his wife’s side, his hands laying on the strange man’s stomach while Maryam surveyed the entrance wound. 

“It is shallow, praise be,” Maryam explained. The man grimaced, clenching his jaw and nodding. He turned his face to the woman, trading Arabic for a language Fahmi could not quite identify. French? German? It had been so long since he had served in the sultan’s army. He could not recall the languages of their adversaries. The woman shouted frantically back, to which the man turned to Fahmi and Maryam.

“Can you pull it out?” the man asked through gritted teeth. Maryam and Fahmi exchanged glances. 

“It would be unwise.”

“I did not ask if it would be wise. I asked if you could.”

The foreign woman seemed to understand enough of their conversation to slap his shoulder, grasping his chin and forcing him to look at her. She shouted again, her voice choking while her eyes glistened. The man squeezed her forearm, groaning and murmuring something that managed to calm her enough for him to return his attention back to Fahmi.

“You were a soldier. Have you dealt with this before?” the man asked.

“How can you tell?” Fahmi redirected. 

“You avoid resting on your knees.”

“You are right, but I have not seen this in decades.”

The man hissed as Maryam accidentally brushed her hand against the arrow. “Please, sir. My… my wife can help, but I will not be able to translate while you pull it out. I need someone with experience to help your wife.”

Fahmi, for the sake of the man, ignored his own, visceral reaction to such information that the strangers were married. Instead, he nodded, motioning for the woman to join him and Maryam by the arrow. Maryam handed the woman a cloth damp with wine, offering a weak smile as Fahmi placed his hand on the man’s stomach and the end of the arrow.

There was a silence before the man’s screams echoed off the sandstone walls, Fahmi quickly ripping the arrow out of the man’s body. The foreign woman slammed her hands down against his side, the damp cloth preventing blood from pouring out. While the woman kept pressure on the wound, Fahmi helped Maryam wrap the bandages around the arrow wound. They bound the cloth snugly around the man’s muscular torso, then turned their attention to the other slashes on his body. To the mysterious man’s credit, his screams only lasted as long as it took for the arrow to come out. Instead, he huffed through his nose, turning on his side and retching as nausea struck him all at once. His wife stroked his hair beneath his cowl, shushing him in their shared language until he fainted from the pain.  

“We need to examine his body for more wounds,” Maryam explained. She turned to the man’s wife, hesitating before gesturing to her own eyes, then the rest of the man’s body. It was enough for the foreign woman to understand as she crawled to the other side of the man, raising his robes high enough on his chest to view his other wounds. The trio worked diligently, trading supplies as they wrapped the wounded man’s body. 

“How is his face?” Fahmi wondered. He pointed to his own face, and the foreign woman nodded in understanding. However, she paused at the cowl still covering her husband’s head, as though debating whether to look. Her brows knit while her lips formed a pout. Maryam scooted closer, offering to help. The woman hesitated, but finally gestured for Maryam to continue. Fahmi thought nothing of it until Maryam gasped. 

“My God! What happened to him?!” she demanded. Fahmi hurried to her side while the woman tilted her head, squinting her eyes. His eyes widened at the scar adorning the man’s chapped lips. A man younger than what his eldest son would be now, God rest his soul. He laid his fingers against the scarred tissue, twisted and stretched from his chin to his cheekbone. A scar several years old, yet poked and prodded at judging by the abnormal healing.

“God help him,” Fahmi murmured, bowing his head and murmuring a prayer. “This is no sword slash.”

“And these are no normal wounds. Who is this man?” Maryam replied quietly. She raised the cowl once more. The man’s wife glanced between the two with a puzzled expression. Ameen returned with the commotion now ended, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot by the corridor.

“The room is made, Baba,” he spoke. Fahmi nodded, groaning as his knees protested as he stood. The foreign woman stood alongside him, glancing between him and Ameen.

“Room,” Fahmi spoke to the woman, gesturing to his son. “He will take you to your room.” He spoke slowly, overly annunciating his words. The woman nodded along, reaching inside her pockets. She handed him a heavy bag of coins. When Fahmi poked inside, his eyes widened. It was nearly a month’s revenue inside the bag. He protested, shaking his head and shoving the bag back into her hands.

“Too much,” he protested. The woman chuckled tiredly, laying it on the desk regardless of his protests. She knelt down to her husband, slinging his arm around her shoulder and heaving him onto her back. Her muscles strained beneath her tunic and trousers. Fahmi had to admit his astonishment at the woman’s strength, knowing he would be of little help. Regardless, he did loop the man’s other arm around his own shoulder, helping the woman carry her husband to their room. Together, they laid the man down on the bed. Maryam laid a fresh set of bandages, linen cloths, and a bottle of wine by the bed.

“For the wounds,” she explained. The woman nodded, eyes downcast to her husband.

Ameen scampered forward, offering a small bucket. “He might be sick,” he mumbled, cheeks flushed with color. The foreign woman managed a smile, mustering her best Arabic as she murmured her thanks. Fahmi and Maryam bowed their heads in respect, ushering Ameen out of the room and closing the door behind them. The couple shared fearful looks.

Just what kind of man had arrived at their doorstep? Worse – who had this man angered that dared mutilate his face before God?

.~.~.

“I have questions.”

Altaïr retched into the bucket, coughing and sputtering while nausea overcame him. He gagged, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before turning to Maria. “Right now?”

“Yes, but I will give you the courtesy of finishing,” Maria decided, scooting closer to the Assassin. Her palm rubbed his back as he heaved. 

“How kind,” Altaïr muttered.

“I rather thought so.”

Altaïr heaved into the bucket again. This time, Maria slid her hands to Altaïr’s chest, holding him up while he kept the bucket close to his frame. Freshly changed bandages demonstrated that Altaïr’s wounds were healing appropriately, but they did little to dissuade the nausea. She laid her cheek against his toned back. 

“You called me your wife.”

Altaïr panted, setting the bucket down by the bed. “What?”

“Your wife. You called me your wife when you spoke to the couple,” Maria murmured. 

Altaïr said nothing. He laid back against the pillows, eyes closed as he steadied his breathing. Maria propped her elbow on the pillow next to him, cheek resting on her palm.

“You were a fool for taking that arrow to your side,” she chastised. 

“You would have done the same for me,” Altaïr replied. His eyes remained shut, brows furrowed as beads of sweat cascaded down his face and chest, his robes long abandoned as they sat folded neatly in a nearby chair. The sweating was good, Maria reminded herself, though it was harder and harder to do so with how pale her companion was becoming.

“It does not make you any less a fool,” Maria murmured. She laid her hand on his chest, fingers splayed over his torso. Altaïr laid his hand over hers, his heart thumping against her palm. 

“I thought you had questions,” Altaïr whispered. He opened an eye, peering down at Maria. She hummed.

“I do. You ignored my first one,” Maria replied.

“It was not a question.”

Maria huffed, pushing on Altaïr’s chest. “Fine. Why did you call me your wife?”

“To avoid suspicion.”

“You could have called me your sister.”

Altaïr paused. “Would you have preferred as such?”

Maria pursed her lips. After a moment, she answered. “No.”

“Then I see no reason for concern,” Altaïr responded tersely. He grimaced as he shifted on the bed, holding his side. Maria sat up, easing Altaïr into a more comfortable position.

“I did not mind it,” Maria clarified. “You know I did not. I… I was just curious.”

Altaïr nodded, though Maria could not tell if he agreed. She fidgeted next to her friend, eyes falling to his lips. His familiar, plump lips, marked by his most defining feature. She leaned forward, reaching up to his lips and pressing her fingertips against his scar. Altaïr stilled. She could feel his body tense under her simple touch.

“They seemed horrified when they saw this,” Maria explained. “I did not understand why. They spoke too fast.” She repeated the few Arabic words she remembered, but they felt clunky and heavy on her tongue. Altaïr’s lips parted slightly, dry and chapped from their journey through the arid dunes. He avoided her eyes, tilting his face to the side as he reached for the goblet of water.

“Your Arabic is improving,” Altaïr complimented. 

Maria frowned. “You are avoiding the question.”

“You did not ask a question.”

“You know damn well what I meant.”

Altaïr shot her a look. Maria gulped. Yet, she held her chin high, too proud to back down from her words now. “I thought your scar was a battle wound, like mine. The man seemed to think otherwise.”

“It is, in its own way,” Altaïr muttered.

Maria laid her hand on Altaïr’s cheek, turning his face toward hers. She studied his scar, eyes narrowed as her fingers returned to trace the sensitive flesh. His upper lip split into his scar, providing a small slit into his mouth and exposing a sliver of his teeth and gums. It was barely noticeable from afar, and rarely had any man reached Altaïr’s face long enough to observe how his scar melded into his face. But for Maria, it had been the first feature she noticed, the cool metal of his hidden blade nicking her throat while she sneered. Admittedly, it had terrified her upon their first meeting. No man’s lips should form such a gruesome tear, after all. She was surprised it took the older couple so long to notice it. 

Maria was no doctor, but she had experienced more agonizing pains and wounds than the average man could dream of. The scar marked just above her left eyebrow proved it, nicked by a Saracen sword in a battle alongside Richard I. For years, Maria wore such a wound with honor. It was her first permanent scar since she had traded a wedding ring for a sword. A sign that no man, nor woman, could confine her. An affront to the English nobility that once trapped her. Such scars were not becoming of a woman, so Maria puffed her chest and bore hers with pride. Her scar was not a trap, but an escape from desirability as she wandered to the ends of the Earth. Her scars were gnarled and twisted and deep, but they had healed.

Altaïr’s most prominent scar differed in this regard. It was gnarled and twisted and deep like her own, but the flesh had not healed as hers had. Her eyebrow scar healed over a decade ago. Altaïr’s lip scar looked nearly as old, but the flesh had not healed. Not until recently, at least. The outer edges of his scar were light, contrasting against his deep tan and dark hair. The edges were fully healed. His lower lip and chin had been spared as well, the scar a faint pale against his skin. But whereas these areas were faint and light, the rest of the scar remained an irritated red. Not infected, but irritated, as though prodded at constantly. The dark shade of his upper lip failed to conceal the redness of his scar. Only in the last month or so had it begun to heal, slowly fading into a pinkish red.

Even as Maria trailed her fingers along his scar, Altaïr sat eerily still. Too still, as though he was bracing for impact. His jaw was clenched. His biceps tensed as Maria moved closer, her face lingering by his. She guided her fingertips to his jaw, brushing her thumb against his jawline. 

“You should shave,” Maria hummed, eyes glancing up. “Your face is growing scraggly.”

Altaïr cocked a brow. “Is that a question?”

Maria shook her head and pursed her lips, brows raised. “No. A suggestion.”

Altaïr stared at her. Those piercing, golden eyes that made even Maria shift under his gaze. She remained so close, barely a breath away from his lips. The puff of air from his nose as he exhaled tickled her own. 

“I can do it for you,” Maria suggested.

Altaïr almost smiled. “This feels like a demand rather than a suggestion.”

Maria rolled her eyes, huffing as she stood and walked to their things. Searching his bag, Maria located a small razor amongst his barren things. Throughout their time together, he always packed lightly. Truth be told, she was surprised he even possessed a razor. She returned to the bed, guiding Altaïr to sit up further with a candle in hand. She set the candle down on the bedside table, then unsheathed his razor. Carefully, Maria raised the blade to the Assassin’s jaw and scraped away a few wrily strands of curly, dark hair. 

“No water?” Altaïr asked.

“You will be fine,” Maria remarked, eyes focused on her work as she brought the blade closer to her thumb. “Besides, it is a trim. I rather like your facial hair. You should let it grow out.”

It did not escape Maria’s notice how Altaïr tensed at her words. For his sake, Maria paid it no mind and continued her work, trimming his coarse hair. A moment of comfortable silence passed, interrupted only by the scraping of the razor against Altaïr’s sharp jaw and the snoring of their camels just outside the minuscule caravanserai. Much to Maria’s surprise, it was Altaïr who broke the silence. 

“You said they were shocked to see my face?” Altaïr spoke. His words were uncharacteristically soft.

Maria frowned. “Not your face, your scar.”

“Is it not one and the same?”

Maria stopped in her tracks. She leaned back, narrowing her eyes as she tracked Altaïr’s movements. His golden gaze avoided hers, cast down upon the scratchy sheets. His lips were parted ever so slightly, Maria watching as he quickly swiped his tongue over them. Her eyes flicked to his hands, which lay awkwardly in his lap. Once again, his body was tense, muscles straining and breath shallow.

“What makes you say that?” Maria questioned, tone harsher than intended.

Altaïr’s throat bobbed as he shifted his gaze back to hers. “What makes you ask?”

“No, no,” Maria argued, setting the razor down against the bed. “We are not starting this. Altaïr, what makes you say that?”

There was a long pause. In the past, Maria would have dropped the subject entirely, writing it off as some sort of Assassin trick to dig into the deepest pits of her heart and mind. Now, however, Maria held her chin high as she forced Altaïr to keep her gaze, her heart thumping against her chest.

“How did the scar upon your brow form?” Altaïr asked. 

Maria closed her eyes and inhaled sharply. “Altaïr, I am not going to–”

“Do you want to know or not?” He snapped. Maria’s brow furrowed, and Altaïr quickly cleared his throat. He repeated his question, his voice much softer and weaker than before.

Maria stared incredulously, but ultimately decided to play along. “My first battle. One of Salāh ad-Dīn’s men slashed my brow.”

Altaïr nodded. “Were you shamed for it?”

Maria shrugged. “A few soldiers from my infantry joked here and there, but no.” She squinted her eyes and furrowed her brow. “What are you getting at?”

“In Islam,” Altaïr explained, “it is believed God places all of our senses and beauty into our faces. It is why Muslims avoid striking the face.”

Maria scoffed. “My scar begs to differ.” 

Altaïr did not laugh, though she did see the corners of his lips tug up in a phantom smile. “It is taboo to do so. It can leave the face… disfigured,” he explained. “It is not so easy to conceal as a scar on one’s arm or leg.”

Maria’s expression fell. She hesitated before she finally asked her burning question. “Where did you get your scar?”

“Who do you think?” Altaïr all but answered.

Maria should not have been surprised. She only knew of Altaïr’s master through his stories and his codex (Maria could not help it – his journal had been left wide open). Despite Altaïr’s almost nostalgic tone toward a man who had betrayed him time and time again, each story left a sour taste upon her tongue. Now, her tongue tasted bile and copper in disgust. 

“How old were you?” she demanded, her words eerily still. Her blood boiled. 

“Old enough to know better,” Altaïr replied, quiet. 

“Horseshit. How old were you?” 

“Thirteen winters.”

Maria stood from the bed, pacing back and forth by the side. “You were a boy. A boy!” She rustled her dark locks from their meticulously braided bun as she grasped and tugged at her hair.

“I knew better than to speak out of turn,” Altaïr replied, his voice raised almost defensively. “I owed everything to him. My progress, my training, my life. He cared for me, in some twisted way, after my father’s death.”

Maria flocked to his side, kneeling before him on the bed as she cupped his cheek. Her thumb grazed over his scar. She tried not to gag imagining a small boy, voice yet to crack, begging the one guardian in his life for mercy. Apologizing desperately for words that should not have offended an allegedly wise leader so greatly. 

“That is one thing,” she managed once her voice was composed enough. “But it should be healed. It should be healed by now. For God’s sake, Altaïr, you are twenty-seven! Why is it only now healing?!”

Altaïr caught his lip between his teeth. “I have never been good at staying my tongue. I needed reminders.” His jaw clenched as his throat bobbed. Maria nearly choked as he spoke. “If I would not close my mouth, he would pry it closed for me.”

Maria stared. What else were she to do? She stood, pinching the bridge of her nose while Altaïr silently stared – no, glared – down at his own hands. 

“Your master would mutilate you before God,” Maria murmured, her head spinning, “and you would defend him?”

“He was an ordinary man,” Altaïr replied softly, “in control of illusions.”

“This is no illusion, Altaïr.”

“I know.”

Maria tossed her hands in the air before setting them on her head, pacing once more. She inhaled, standing and placing her hands on her hips. She gestured to Altaïr, speechless as she attempted to form words on her heavy tongue. “For thirteen years, Al Mualim slit and prodded your mouth to silence you, on top of his manipulation. As a boy, I understand your hesitance, but you never once fought back?”

Altaïr stood, hand clasping his side while he straightened his back. Maria took a step back, eyes wide but jaw tensed. “How do you fight a man who thinks himself God?” he questioned with narrowed eyes. “What would I have gained? Where would I have gone?” Altaïr winced and sat back down, eyes cast down shamefully. Maria sighed, sitting next to him on the sheets.

“Assassins are not always required to hide their faces,” Altaïr confessed quietly. He tenderly rubbed his stub of a ring finger, thumb brushing over the seared and scarred skin. “Most lower their hoods in Masyaf if they are not patrolling. There is no reason to hide amongst brothers.”

“And you?” Maria dared ask.

Altaïr shook his head, running a hand through his coarse curls. “I was no brother. I was his personal weapon.” His throat bobbed, and Maria tore her face away when she noticed his golden eyes begin to glisten in the flickering candlelight. “He created me. He could mold me into whatever he pleased. He could slice and strike my face. He could shave my beard and treat me not just as a boy, but a dog. He could isolate me. He could tear my name from me and make me the son of no one, loved by nobody. He could do whatever he pleased.” He turned to Maria, voice wavering as he spoke. “Where would I have run to? Who would I have hidden behind that would not whisper my arrogance to Al Mualim?”

There was silence as both Altaïr and Maria turned to stare at the cracked sandstone before them. “My face was unsightly, he told me,” Altaïr whispered. “Disrespectful, even.” He bent forward, elbows digging into his knees while he craned his head and rubbed his eyes. “Better kept hidden beneath a cowl, even in the arms of my brothers.” Altaïr swallowed. “He was correct.”

“No,” Maria opposed. “Your scar is not unsightly. It is not disgusting, or disrespectful, or anything that blabbering fool would have you believe. Your face is not unsightly. You are not unsightly.”

Altaïr chuckled, though it nearly sounded like a sob. “You do not have to lie, Maria.”

“I am not!” Maria all but shouted, coming in front of Altaïr and bending her knees slightly, stopping when she was level with him.

“I am nothing.”

“You are everything,” she pleaded. Maria cupped each of his cheeks, thumbs brushing the heavy, dark bags beneath his kohl-covered eyes. “You are kind and good and curious and wise and beautiful.”

It was Altaïr’s turn to scoff. “Beautiful? I hoped in our time together, you would have some respect for me, even if minute.”

Maria bit back an argument. Instead, she reached for his hands, squatting on the ground while she squeezed them. “You are not some ‘ugly, old Assassin’ beneath your hood,” she murmured, briefly lowering her voice and swapping her accent to mimic his words from Cyprus. Once she had seen his face in Cyprus for the first time, she had thought he was joking during their initial meeting with his Cypriot allies. Now, staring into his piercing eyes, Maria’s heart shattered knowing he had truly not lied. At least, he did not believe so.

She held his hand to her lips and kissed each knuckle. “You are so beautiful. Strikingly so. In fact, it is embarrassing to admit,” she managed a soft laugh. “You are not some broken, shattered weapon. You are the Mentor of the Assassins. You are a scholar. You are a man. You are Altaïr. And Altaïr is more than enough.” 

Altaïr was quiet. Maria did not press for an answer. His tear-stained cheeks, illuminated by the candlelight, were enough to signal the power of her words. Her heart pounded as she imagined the utter agony one man could carry. Maria had little autonomy under Robert’s control amongst the Templars, but Altaïr had possessed none under Al Mualim since the age of eleven. His name was stripped from him. His masculinity was torn away in favor of a boy to manipulate. His face was mutilated simply because Al Mualim could. To be at the mercy of a man with none, who believed himself worthy of the powers of God… Maria choked back her tears, instead burying her face in his hands and kissing each palm. 

“Altaïr,” she murmured, gazing up into his tearful eyes, “you are everything to me.” She cupped his cheek, ignoring her own hot tears as she smiled solemnly. “You have given me a fresh start. You have given me compassion, wisdom, love.” She swallowed a sob, standing before repositioning herself on the bed. Altaïr still said nothing, his eyes simply following Maria with every movement.

“Please,” Maria begged softly. She cupped her hands around Altaïr’s. “We are more than the instruments people would craft us to be.” Shuffling forward, Maria laid his hands over her heart, her own hands keeping them flat against her chest. “You are Altaïr. I am Maria. That is all we need be.”

Maria could not recall what resulted in Altaïr’s lips melding perfectly against her own. Perhaps it was the thump of her heartbeat. Perhaps it was their matching tears and snotty noses. Perhaps it was Altaïr’s released anguish. Or perhaps, it was merely Altaïr distracting himself from his nausea. Whatever the case, Maria gladly opened her mouth, finding Altaïr’s mouth absolutely delectable as her fingers combed through his curly locks. It was not the first time their lips had met so fervently. It was not even the first time their lips had met with so much love. But it was the first time their lips had met so unencumbered. There was no hesitance as Altaïr deepened their kiss, no weariness behind his lips. Nothing but relief and love and catharsis.

Eyes fluttering, Maria dug her fingers into Altaïr’s coarse hair. The warmth of their breaths mingled with each kiss. She sank her teeth into Altaïr’s lower lip, tugging it and slipping her tongue into his mouth. All the while, Altaïr pressed fervently in return, deepening their kiss as he tugged her forward. Maria’s head spun as her lips lingered by Altaïr’s long after they parted for air. His breath was hot and ragged on her cool skin. She tilted her head up, squinting her eyes as she analyzed his face. Tears stained his sharp cheeks. His eyes were red and puffy. Even with his mouth shut, Maria could see his teeth and gums through the exposed sliver of his scar.

Maria cupped both of his cheeks, her thumbs swiping the stray tears from his skin. She watched as his eyes crinkled and his lips tugged into an awkward hint of a smile. His curved nose, slightly crooked from Maria’s boot to his face only a few months prior, bounced the candlelight off his face. The flickering light highlighted his strong, sharp cheekbones. His eyes, a piercing swirl of gold and amber, were only emphasized by the kohl beneath them. Every inch and crevice of his face captivated her. The longer she stared, the more he strained against her palms as if tugging away from the attention. Tears welled in his eyes as her hold left him utterly exposed. But she could not let him tear away. His dark curls and his striking gaze and his full lips and his winding scar and his scruffy beard and his tan skin enchanted her very being. 

She had never seen anything so beautiful in her life. 

“Say something,” Altaïr croaked.

Maria did not. Instead, she leaned forward, peppering gentle kisses to his scar. Maria was careful not to irritate the slit in his upper lip any more than it already was. Rather, she gingerly trailed her velvet lips up along his scar, leaving small caresses along the trail. His facial hair – not quite a beard, but not quite stubble – tickled her cheeks. She smiled. 

“My first demand as your wife,” Maria murmured between kisses to his scar, “is that you must grow your beard out. I am fond of it.”

The world spun still with her words. Beneath her gentle touch, Maria could feel Altaïr’s body stiffen. “What?”

“Oh honestly, Altaïr, you cannot just stop listening to me immediately!” Maria huffed. “You have to wait at least a year.”

“I do not understand.” His voice shook – perhaps from nausea, perhaps from nerves, or perhaps from both.  Maria laid a hand on his bandaged chest. His heart threatened to thump out onto the floor. She grinned.

“We have been like this for many months,” she explained. “Stumbling around our feelings like some prepubescent children. One might think us virgins the way we stammer about.”

“Aside from insulting our maturity,” Altaïr spoke, his face contorted in confusion, “I am assuming you have a point to this.”

Maria waved her hand in dismissal. “Hush, let me get there.” The Englishwoman grasped Altaïr’s hands in her own, her thumbs stroking his calloused palms. “But tonight… something… it is difficult to explain.” She inhaled and squeezed his hands. Her pale, cerulean eyes met his amber stare. “I love you. I think you and I know that intimately by now. But it was not until tonight, with the mercenaries, the arrow, your scar… that I understood the extent of my love.”

Altaïr furrowed his brow. “I still do not understand. Why now?”

“Because for the first time,” Maria breathed, “I thought I would lose you.”

“This is not my first arrow. This is not even our first battle.”

“No, but I have never seen you so injured or ill. I have never seen you, the great Altaïr, retching over a bucket with bandages covering your entire torso.”

“If you do not make a point soon, I fear you may again.”

Cautiously, Maria handed Altaïr the water-filled chalice, waiting until he had drunk his fill to continue. Her throat swelled with tears as she gulped down her pride. “You have been so truly and utterly vulnerable tonight. You have shared with me the deepest parts of your pain. You have let me care for you and stay by your side.” She smiled through her tears, rolling her eyes as she wiped a few away and scoffed at herself. “Oh good God, this is humiliating.”

Altaïr managed a smile. A true smile. Not the phantom of a smile, or a mildly amused look. A small, bright smile that tugged his lips into his cheeks and formed a pair of dimples. Good God, Maria had never even noticed that before, and the revelation was not aiding her poor attempt at an explanation. “No, it is not,” he assured quietly. It was his turn to cup her pale cheeks. He swiped a tear from her eye, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead. Maria inhaled sharply, praying that God would not see her break into some weeping wildflower.

Mustering the courage and dignity that remained, Maria tightened her jaw and stared up at Altaïr. “I would walk with you to the ends of time, Altaïr. To our glory, to our doom, I do not care. As long as I walk beside you and chastise you for your foolish decisions to put yourself in front of arrows for the rest of my life, I will be content.”

Altaïr hesitated. “How can you make such a decision so hastily?”

Maria laughed. “My life is nothing but hasty decisions, Assassin.” She crawled beside him from the edge of the bed, wiggling by his side to find a more comfortable position. “But this is not one of them.”

Altaïr laid his head against the creaking headboard, closing his eyes. “So, you have decided that you are my wife now? I have no say in the matter?”

“Is that a question?”

“Maria.”

“No,” Maria answered plainly. “Not yet. But I will be.”

“What makes you so sure?” Altaïr taunted.

“I am a stubborn woman. You are a hot-tempered man. One will wear the other down eventually,” she teased.

“What if I said no?”

“You would not have called me your wife, then.”

Altaïr grinned. “That is true.” He opened his eyes and turned toward Maria, who quickly shot out her hand to ease the pain in his side. “Then you will need to learn more Arabic. It was horrendous before.”

Maria feigned a gasp. “You said I was improving!”

“Both can be true,” Altaïr countered.

“Fine. Next time, I will leave you to die amongst the vipers and vultures in the dunes.”

“You would not.”

“I will stab the arrow back into your side, Altaïr.”

“Now that, you would do.”

The two glared at one another, squinting their eyes and puffing their chests, until finally, Altaïr began to gag. Maria swooped for the bucket, lifting it to her lover’s face before he heaved into it. He murmured apologies, but Maria merely shushed him, her fingers stroking his curly hair. 

“You are still a fool for taking that arrow,” she reminded.

“You still would do the same,” Altaïr grumbled, panting into the bucket before wiping his mouth and gulping down what water remained inside the goblet. Maria kissed the top of his head, grabbing the nearest rag and wiping the beads of sweat from his face.

“You are not a weapon, Altaïr,” she reminded, careful as she dabbed around his scar. “You are a man. You do not need to earn my love or any other through reckless acts. You are a man, and that is enough.” 

Altaïr nodded, and Maria prayed he believed her.

[tkwritesdumbassassins]

Chapter 4: Blood and Moonlight

Not me pulling a typical AO3 writer move and updating in a fancy airport lounge while coming back home from vacation. :D

Now pardon me, but I'm going to snag a tasty drink from the bar. Please enjoy dear readers!

[aiza-luna]

WATCH DOGS UNDERWORLD: The Fox and the Hound.

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"This is who we are, you and I. Two wounded animals. Who, in the mids of the hurt, managed to crawl to each other..."

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PEOPLE LOOK AT THIS!!! LOOK!! LOOK AT THIS DRAWING MADE BY MY HOMIE "Anonyamato" ON INSTAGRAM!! 🥹🫶🏽

The link to her account, go check her out: https://www.instagram.com/anonyamato?igsh=MjhzcjFpbW5ta2Vw

SHE DREW MY BELOVED SHIP AIDROWA!! (Aiden x Morowa) our favorite Irish Vigilante from Chicago and his Ghanaian Hitwoman partner (soon lover) from New York City!! 🦊🐶

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Yes I'm a pathetic fangirl for them bc I love, love, LOVE their romance!! They live in my mind rant free!! Look at how gorgeous they are together!! 🥹🥹🥹

There is nothing much to add except: THEM YOUR HONOR, ONLY THEM!! 😭😭😭🩵🩵🩵

I couldn't help but post this drawing, hope you guys enjoy it! 🙏🏽🩵

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[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 )

[legitalicat]

Hi everyone!

This post is to let you guys know my requests are open!

I was very happy (and surprised) to find that people were interested in making requests for my work!

Right now, I will be writing for

House of the Dragon

Games of Thrones

White Collar (if anyone is interested)

Gilmore Girls

Fallout 3, New Vegas, and 4 (probably will add the show once I've seen it)

Skyrim

The Assassin's Creed Universe

The Last Kingdom

I will not be writing for

Real living people! (I used to but no longer feel comfy)

Harry Potter

Underage characters (as love interests)

Pre-Season 4 Gilmore Girls characters (that's when I am confident they are adults)

Sexually explicit violence!!!!

Everything else as of now would be depending on the ask!

Just include the character, the format of the fic (social media au/standard form), and what you would like to see!

[fawnofanxiety]

Cursed fic idea

Okay look, Ezio Auditore is literally everything. There are times I've asked myself #whatwouldeziodo and then do the exact opposite because it'd probably involve murder.

James fucking Buchanan Barnes and The Winter Soldier have taken up residence in my brain and heart and are 100% there to stay.

Please tell me you see where this is going and have begun crying like I have been for the past 2 god damned months.

My brain decided that my favorite murder baby needed competent help in the form of the best assassin to ever exist. #fightme

SO! So *cries* I started sketching out a fic where Ezio gets yeeted into the MCU a la Isu Bullshit at some point during WW2. There's developing friend/mentorship when my favorite murder birb stumbles on Azzano bc you best believe he'd help the Italian Resistance and dismantle any and every scrap of Nazi supply line he can get his hands on. Like I can see Ezio rolling his eyes at Steve because ho boy does this blonde-haired blue-eyed innocent and idealistic child remind him of himself before- well before he became an assassin. Bucky? Well, Bucky is the man he became after taking his first leap of faith in Venice and his skills as a sniper are breathtaking. Can't really find fault in passing on intelligence to the SSR when he learns of Hydra and pointing the Howlies at this repulsive entity(they are absolutely adorable but he doesn't have the time to focus on giving them more than the bare minimum of time to pass on some of his skills and good lord do the ridiculous duo pick up skills fast. Though Steve frowns on the sneaky sneaky, whatever, they've saved his life more than once). Now, Ezio is the one to give them the info on the train and the soul-crushing guilt he feels when his favorite doesn't come back? When they don't even send a single person to try and recover his body?! That's not gonna fly. Unfortunately, he learns of this too late and well. We all know what happened to Bucky.

I can see Ezio getting to know Howard, understanding but ultimately disapproving of his obsession with finding Steve. After all, Ezio knows just how isolating that obsession can be. But, a sort of friendship? develops? Because Ezio is 100% a hypocrite. He spends every second of his free time trying to track down Bucky. There was no body but he found where he should have been.

Ezio being Ezio cultivates a... hm comfortable amount of wealth over the years and valiantly ducks questions about why tf he isn't aging. Isu Bullshit is my favorite excuse in the AC 'verse. I can see him talking about this to Howard and Peggy when he trusts them enough. Maybe. Maybe, he talks Howard down from building weapons, just a little, but can't completely stop his fall into alcoholism and being a shit father. Maybe, he falls completely under Tiny Tony's spell and becomes Uncle Ezio. Who 100% teaches Tony how to fight back and escape after his first kidnapping. Swapping out with Peggy when he's off searching for Bucky (who he's figured out is the WS but can't fucking track him down) but always always shows up for holidays, birthdays, graduations, science fairs, and silent support at the stuffy galas. Listens to this little boy, who reminds him of Petriccio, trip over himself talking about what he's learned and learning, his never-ending ideas and frustrations. (Jarvis fucking loves this wonderful Italian who also occasionally scares the shit out of him but ignorance is bliss and it's no skin off his back to wash the occasional blood stain out of Ezio's clothing and administer first aid.)

Maybe, he stops the WS from assassinating the Starks. Maybe, he helps Bucky find himself even if he can't do anything about the trigger words. Maybe he becomes a little more blood-thirsty, a little more ruthless when going after any and every Hydra outpost he can. Maybe he sits there and holds Bucky as he cries when Ezio finds the book. Stands behind him, in pride and grief with a hand on his shoulder as Bucky and Tony burn the damn thing. Maybe he whole-heartedly approves of Rhodes, even as Bucky gives the poor child the stink-eye. Is the one to give Tony the shovel talk when he notices the beginnings of attraction between these two idiots. The fact that Bucky proceeded to leave a whole host of bruises when he found out just makes Ezio laugh with pride.

Maybe, just maybe, Ezio finds himself sitting on the balcony of his villa on the outskirts of Florence watching the sunset over his sprawling vineyard with a glass of wine in his hand, his heartache over the family he left behind so very long ago on that bench in the middle of the summer market no longer suffocating. The faint sounds of his bright-eyed and brilliant nephew bickering with the haunted but hopeful man he proudly considers to be his son bring him a sense of peace he never thought he would have again.

[demigoddessqueens]

I love haytham so much. Please could I request a oneshot of the reader being shays sister and inducted into the Templar at the order at the same time and used to be an assassin as well. As soon as she meets haytham she starts to have a crush but doesn’t think he’ll be interested in her romantically ever but a few meetings later he all of a sudden asks her to go to ball with him as he finds her intriguing. Please could it be quite fluffy, thank you and have a great day 💙

Sure thing!

Oh Haytham, how you deny your feelings

He had been watching you for the time, keeping a keen interest in your tactical skills and knowledge of the Brotherhood. At least, that’s what Haytham kept rationalizing to himself.

Always the ever cold and calculating man, Haytham was dedicated to his life’s work for the Templar Order. There was a time when he let those ivory walls down for one, but clearly something as precious was never meant to be his again.

Yet how could he have been so blind?? And by curiosity no less!! Yes, he knew you were Cormac’s sister. Found abandoned and inducted into the Templars the same night as Shay was, and he was so drawn to you. Just as similar as your brother, yet a scathing personality of your own. The quick glances shot his way were not lost on Haytham.

He couldn’t deny the budding interest for you, but you thought otherwise. Any moment you wanted to spend with him was met with the basic cold politeness that was given to everyone. It wouldn’t hurt so much if you didn’t have this longing within your heart. Still, it seemed better to just let it go unsaid.

That all changed one evening with Haytham’s proposition. It was an assignment for you to track down a target that used to be allied with the Brotherhood, and to your surprise, he insisted it be you two. Just you two.

You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks as you hung onto every word and instruction he gave you.

“For the record, Ms. Cormac, this will be strictly just for work—no distractions no matter how the scene, or people, might look for this ball.”

You scoffed lightly, inching close to his ear as you left to make the preparations for the evening.

“With all due respect to you, Haytham, I’d like to see you stand by that when I’m in the dress.”

[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 ❤️🦅

[gococogo]

Childlike Innocence | Shaytham | Pt. 6

Pt. 5 | Pt. 7

Synopsis: Haytham goes out looking for Shay and only finds trouble

Word Count: 1.8K

Genre: Coming of age/Young Love

Pairing: Haytham Kenway / Shay Cormac

Warnings: Violence

Notes: I am actually so sorry for not updating this series since goddamn November. It's just been wild since Christmas and I've been kicking myself for not finishing this series. I'm literally a couple of chapters from completing this series as well haha. I know this chapter is short, but there will be more shortly

The next morning on the hotel stairs, Haytham tells Birch of Shay and Liam. He doesn’t tell him of their nights out beforehand. But he also mentions the white robed figure he saw with Liam, not thinking twice of it. Only because he’s afraid that if Birch finds out he’s lied to him, he won’t have free reign anymore.

Yet it wouldn’t exactly be lying per say. It would just be not telling stuff to Birch. Like the tin of tea he has stuffed in the back of his pants.

“That boy from the tavern?” Birch quickly as he puts two and two together.

Haytham swallows thickly. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright. And this robed man. Did he look dangerous?” Birch asks.

“I didn’t feel in danger,” he confesses.

“Hmm.” Birch thinks of it.

He walks up the stairs halfway before turning back to Haytham, as if reminding himself the boy is there. He looks at Haytham as if there’s a million things going on in his head. But he doesn’t speak a word of either of those thoughts. Haytham wonders to himself sometimes what truly goes on in his head. Then other times, he couldn’t give two shits what Birch thinks, it’s only what he says that matters.

“Go off. Just be careful is all,” Birch inquires before leaving, hiding his smirk from the boy.

But with that, Haytham is off successfully hiding the tin of tea in his pants. How? He doesn’t know. Maybe Birch noticed and didn’t say anything or maybe he got caught up thinking about the robed man. Maybe Haytham should keep an eye on him if Birch is interested. Or maybe he should mind his own business and worry about himself? Haytham moves on from those thoughts as quick as he makes his way out on the street.

He remembers the way Liam took him to Aunt Bridgette’s. She was a lovely woman and Haytham had found out she had used the last of her tea on the boys yesterday. So, being the gentleman Haytham is, he’s giving her his own supply. Birch won’t care. They have much more back home and can simply purchase more without a bat of their eye. Unlike Bridgette who has to keep a close watch on her spendings.

He gets to the small apartment no problem and doesn’t hesitate to go inside. He may have only been here once, but he shouldn’t be afraid to wonder around. Especially of one that looks like him. A little first class boy would be easy to rob.

Lightly, Haytham knocks on her door.

After a moment, similar to yesterday it opens and Bridgette stands there. She looks down to Haytham and it takes her a second to recognise him.

“Oh, Haytham my dear boy. What are you doing here?” Bridgette asks sweetly.

“Is Shay about?” He responds softly.

She shakes her head. “Oh. No sorry, dear. He’s at the docks with Liam and his father.”

“Thank you, miss.”

Haytham goes to run off but he stops at the top of the stairs and quickly turns around. He holds out the tin of tea for Bridgette.

“I noticed you ran out of tea yesterday. So, I brought you some more,” Haytham offers with a shy smile. “It’s from London.”

This gets a hearty laugh from the old woman. One that has Haytham’s heart swelling. She takes the tea and looks at the patterns on the tin. It’s a lovely pattern of flowers and plants. Something often seen in London in the high class stores.

“Oh, this is lovely. Thank you, Haytham,” she says with a wide smile. “You truly shouldn’t have.”

“I wanted to,” he interjects. “But I best be off now ma’am. I don’t want to be late to catch, Shay.”

“Be well!”

With the goodbye, Haytham is rushing down the stairs and out the building. Without even thinking he begins sprinting to the docks. He doesn’t want to miss Shay. His feet move quicker than his body at times and he almost slips over while weaving in between people on the street. Last thing he wants to do his get his fine clothes dirty.

When he arrives at the docks, he doesn’t spot the Irish boy straight away. There’s quite a crowd on the Greenwich docks today and it seems as if everyone has decided to be out. Haytham pushes and shoves through people to try and get a better look but, everywhere he goes there’s no sign of Shay nor Liam.

It begins to worry him. Last thing he wants is to get lost in a place like this. He must admit it isn’t entirely all that smart to come out here alone and he was hardly thinking. He blushes when he realizes all he was thinking of was Shay. He rubs a hand over his face, hoping to wash away the red.

Haytham grunts as he runs into a crate near the docks, his right arm now aching where the edges of the wood dug in. He rubs it as he glares at the crate, swearing it off in his head. But in the midst of his frustration, an idea comes along. He can get a better view from up there. With a huff, he pulls himself up on the crate and is looking about the docks from a new found height. Up here, he can see everyone. What they’re doing, who they’re talking with and much more.

He spots Liam first. Next to a small, docked ship that looks a bit battered around the edges. His bald head tall over others. Hard to miss such a man like him. If Liam is there, then Shay should be as well.

Haytham hops off the crate and begins pushing his way towards the direction of Liam. He just hopes that he doesn’t move on and such.

Yet, the closer Haytham gets, the louder yelling becomes.

“I TOLD YOU TO KEEP OFF OUR SIDE OF THE DOCK!” Liam bellows out.

“This ain’t your dock, O’Brien!” Another man shouts back.

“I know it ain’t mine but you’re interrupting our flow of traffic here!” The young irish man seethes back, his voice raising with each word.

“Bah! We are merely using the dock as it’s intended to,” the other man exclaims as he gestures up and down the walkway with two hands. “We can dock our ship here because we paid for it!”

Liam swings and lands the first punch. The sound of fist striking jaw is loud enough that it has Haytham’s own jaw hurting. Then, chaos reigns. Men shout, more fists are thrown.

Haytham becomes caught in the middle of it as both sides of this fight come head on. The boy is pushed aside to the edge of the dock. His foot slips and he nearly falls ass over head. He flails his arms about like some blabbering chicken when someone grabs the front of his vest.

Shay holds onto with both hands, straining as he has to use his entire body weight to hold Haytham up. It always feels like this Irish boy pops out of nowhere. Haytham laughs out a smile as Shay gives a strained one back. It’s a balancing act and Haytham doesn’t know how much longer Shay can keep this up.

“What are you doing here?” Shay wheezes out.

“I came to find you,” Haytham says truthfully.

Shay’s eyes widen something soft, his ears turning a bright red. He tries to pull Haytham up, but from behind a sailor is pushed their way. The sailor knocks into Shay, tipping the balancing act and sending both boys into the drink. Shay lands on Haytham heavily in the water, his elbow digging into his hip.

Haytham gasps to the surface and Shay follows too long after. The fighting ensues up on the dock and Haytham can’t help but laugh. What on earth was Liam thinking. He looks to Shay who has the widest grin on his face. His hair sticks to his face, showing just how long it is.

“What was going on?” Haytham asks.

Shay flicks his hair from his face with a small grunt. “I’ll tell you when we get out.” He looks up to the dock. “And I guess once they’ve all settled down.”

“Okay,” Haytham nods as he begins swimming.

-

Once out of the water, soaking wet and dripping all over the docks, the boys watch from a far as red coats break up the fighting. Some red coats get punched in the process and dragged into the fight. A gun shot rings out, a bullet being fired into the air and the chaos stops. Men flee that aren’t in cuffs and some even dive into the water and begin swimming away.

On a dock across from the fighting, Haytham and Shay sit on the edge, dangling their feet over the water. Liam is nowhere to be seen within the crowd as sailors are arrested for public disturbance and violence on the street. He must of run off somewhere. Lucky bastard.  

“So, why was Liam fighting?” Haytham asks without taking his eyes off the crowd.

Shay wrings his shirt of water the best he can as he answers back, “Liam’s father, good man… I think. His crew like to pick fights for the crew that shares that dock. British. But like, stupid British if you get my meaning.”

Haytham nods, not being offended at the slightest.

 “I don’t see the fuss in it all when they can just move out of each other’s way. But Liam has become caught in the middle and for some reason, he shares the same hatred towards the other’s crew.”

“Oh. It’s a, ‘oh you hate him so I must hate him as well, even though I don’t know why,’ type of thing,” Haytham mocks.

Shay chuckles brightly, “Yeah!”

This has a laugh from Haytham has well. Something so innocent. But, after a few passing moments, Haytham groans into his hands.

“I can’t go home like this,” the British boy grumbles.

So much for his clothes.

“Like what?” Shay asks a little oblivious.

Haytham stands as he gestures to himself. “Like this. A soaked rat!”

Shay looks the other up and down with a little, “Ooh.”

“Can’t you sneak in?” Shay asks with a cocked eyebrow.

Haytham only shakes his head. “I won’t make it as far as the front desk.”

“What if, I try?” The irishboy grins from ear to ear.

He stands up as well as he pushes his long shaggy locks out of his face. Haytham only stares at him with furrowed brows. He doesn’t think that would work.

“You?” Haytham asks.

Shay nods. “I’m the sneakiest boy you’ve ever known!”

“I don’t know many people.”

Shay slaps his chest with a loud, “Exactly!”

[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!)

[daughterofthequeen]

I have an idea but it depends on how active the AC3 fandom is

[aiza-luna]

The Cotoner Family Aesthetic

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Aquellos que en el pasado lucharon contra la injusticia y abuso de poder. Un moro y su voluntad que perduró durante siglos... Un Asesino, un Caballero que luchó por la corona bajo la cual nacerá.

.

Un hombre de valentía y fe irreductibles. Fue gracias a él, y a otras vidas tan valiosas, que la Hermandad llegó a donde está... Y llegamos a donde estamos. Somos el legado vivo de su voluntad, y lo seguiremos siendo hasta que el último de nuestro linaje caiga en batalla.

The House of Cotoner is a Spanish Noblehouse known for it's services towards the crown and the army until the XX Century. A particular Family Branch, however, is composed solely of Assassins and their allies.

This Infamous Branch was said to be found when a Spanish Knight of Moorish Origins named "Samuel Asbat" married to the "Catalina Yolanda Cotoner y Ballester", younger sister of Bernado Luis Cotoner y Ballester, a member of the Spanish Rite of the Templar Order.

Unknown to Bernardo, Samuel was a member of the Spanish Brotherhood of Assassins, being the son of a Moroccan Assassin and a Spanish woman. Through the 16th and 17th Century, Samuel fought against the Inquisitors and Templars within his ranks, slowly opening path towards the influencial ranks of the Court.

It was Samuel's son, Renato Valentino Cotoner who assumed the role of Mentor of the Brotherhood in the 17th Century, holding it until his death in the begining of the 18th Century. He was responsible for modernizing the traditionalists methods of the Brotherhood, along with weakening the Templar Strenght though most of Spain (Catalonia, Aragon, Navarra, Andalusia, Castilla and Castilla -Leon).

For his services to the Spanish Crown, he was granted the title of "Conde de Tortosa" (Earl of Tortosa), to which his descendents would inheret. Since then, the blood of knightship and Assassinhood as been running in this family to this very day... And will still do it, no matter what...

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[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."

[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

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[demigoddessqueens]

snake in the garden

Word count: 200, here on ao3

Haytham and Ziio’s doomed love story

Haytham was an enigma to her. Cold and calculating, yet he made her feel warmer than the sun's rays did in spring or summer. They had given in to their feelings with one another in that cave, but only one came out the same he always was.

She was a force to be reckoned with when he first met her. Haytham knew that she was never one to be taken lightly, and he admired that smile that she gave to him. For once, it felt nice to be seen in high regard by someone who was not a Templar.

And by one such as pretty as herself.

They both knew it was real for them the day they separated. The pain in her voice betrayed the feelings that Haytham knew but couldn't accept yet. There was a part of him that wanted it to last, but he could never deny her.

"Was any of it real? Or was it just a ploy in your plans for Braddock?"

His back was turned to her. Haytham couldn't turn back to face her because he knew that it would break what was left of him.

"No. I truly did care for you, Ziio."