#Assassin's Creed fic

[sweetcocopowder]

"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.

-

;)

[my-soliloquy-chamber]

If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

The story follows Kassandra and Brasidas through the events of the game and beyond.

[fascinatedscrawls]

Three Times Is Enemy Action

The first time it happened, Desmond thought it was a coincidence.

Out in the wilds of sixteenth or seventeenth century (time traveling was still a little mind breaking even after the amount of it Desmond did, in fact it was probably worse these days now that he knew he could impact the past instead of being a silent, unknowable observer) Europe everything kind of looked the same and being so focused on tracking down another Piece of Eden, well, seeing some farmer trip in a field while Desmond passed by unseen wasn't uncommon okay?

Instead of paying it any attention he moved on, easily stepping between that road and the one he intended to be on as he utilized another of the 'gifts' using the Eye gave him.

Well, alright, that one really did feel like a gift these days now that he saw just how annoying having only time travel could be. Not that he saw it like that when it first happened.

Back then it all felt like a punishment or some kind of strange purgatory. The ability to travel across the centuries, but never further than he'd seen in life. Free to travel the world with a thought, but never to where he'd make a difference. Able to see everything he wanted, to use Eagle vision with improved clarity, but unable to use it to benefit anyone, not even himself.

In the quiet times, the ones where he now had nothing to do but wait (and how novel was that? Needing to wait after an unknowable amount of time being able to stop or jump around at will?), Desmond wondered why he was prevented from helping out in all the ways he wanted.

Why he couldn't speed up the search for the power sources, why he couldn't travel to specific places at key times, why he couldn't save Kadar, the Auditores, the people of Kanatahséton, Clay, Lucy, himself when he now held the power to do so?

Sure, it would mess up the timeline that got him here, but surely the things he was doing the Pieces of Eden - the slow process of shutting Juno out of an ever increasing number of artifacts - wasn't that doing even more to mess up the timeline? Hell, that wasn't even touching on the unintentional changes he kicked off back in the Levant.

(How was he supposed to know that some of the restrictions on anyone seeing him went out the window sometimes? It only happened the once! Desmond wasn't a man of science, he'd never be on the level of Lucy, Rebecca, or even Shawn, but even he knew that it was nearly impossible to have any sort of pattern with only one example to pull on.)

Talking with Altair was unexpected to say the least, but helpful for Desmond's sense of purpose. It opened a whole new set of doors for him. (Or maybe it was more accurate to say that it showed him which doors he could slam shut.)

Slowly drawing out Altair's Isu heritage at the same time? Totally unintentional.

Of course, that wasn't without it's own benefits and drawbacks for both of them. On one hand Desmond was happy to have a travel buddy, on the other, while Altair seemed attached to Desmond's timeline, neither of them could figure out how he could hop around the world with him at the same time nor how he could phase just out of everyone else's reality to join Desmond unseen to travel longer distances unnoticed.

So, time travel buddy or not, they frequently found themselves traveling separately to pin down more Pieces of Eden before Juno could hoard or forcibly unlock those Desmond already 'fixed'.

Which meant the second time it happened, dragging him back a handful of hours to that same field where the farmer was having a bad day, Desmond assumed it was something Altair initiated.

Now that it wasn't just Desmond's hand on the wheel time travel got a lot more interesting. Before he could play however he wanted, but now he usually tried to leave the jumps forward and back to Altair's best judgement unless they previously planned it. As Altair was the one who couldn't travel with the blink of an eye, it wasn't impossible that he might be aboard a ship or, in their few jumps to what Desmond considered more 'modern' times, on a plane which could have catastrophic results if he were unexpectedly moved to a time where those vehicles were no longer under his feet.

Full stops were still game of course as they didn't always carry those same risks, but they learned their lesson after an incident with a horse something like a week into their travels and while Desmond was thankful it only resulted in bruises, he didn't want to see if anything worse could happen.

Not when he'd surely have three lectures waiting for him about human mortality not long after.

The two of them didn't get to see Altair's family and friends often enough for either of them even if their travels never seemed to take any time at all from Maria and Malik's perspective. Desmond appreciated the short breaks they took there even if he was still largely invisible to the contemporaries, but one set of sharp reminders on how to keep Altair safe was enough for him.

Sure, they were technically a bit off when they called Altair 'human' these days, but the level of detail in their calmly worded threats more than made up for the error.

Either way, deja vu? Not Desmond's fault this time, so probably a maneuver from Altair that needed a few attempts to get right. A bit odd, but only in that it took him three attempts - usually a second go was more than enough for a master assassin like him.

The third time it happened - the fourth time Desmond watched that poor farmer trip over his own rake - made him pause.

Something was definitely wrong here.

Putting a mental pin in the last location he narrowed his most recent Piece of Eden to (it felt close before this last reset, but he wasn't sure if that instinct was something he could rely on or just hope), Desmond jumped back to where he last met up with Altair.

The shores of the Mediterranean were chilly, but not yet a biting cold of deep winter. November perhaps? Desmond would need to check a church or bank office while tracking down Altair's path to be sure.

Turning north, truly, one of the only directions available, Desmond blinked into town to see if he could find any trace of his ancestor-turned-time-travel-buddy. It'd take time, but they both had plenty of that on their hands these days.

─────────────────────────

Hoo boy I was not expecting the prompt to spark the Who Did This muse back to life, but it was fun playing there again! Maybe some of the upcoming prompt polls will bring us further into part 2 of the series!

Another poll is live now if you'd like to help decide!

[awriterlivinginaconstantdream]

You told me sweet lies

And I trusted you because you’re the only one left alive

Sam, don’t do that again

[peridot-tears]

Time Travel AU: Be Gay, Solve Crimes

"Oi, is it true what they say? That you Frenchies are always raring for a good murder mystery?"

Time travel!AU where after Jacob kills Maxwell Roth, he blacks out from sheer exhaustion and smoke inhalation, only to wake up during the French Revolution. He quickly tags along with one Arno Victor Dorian, who's hot on the trail of whoever killed Jean Paul Marat, and he can't keep away even after Charlotte Corday is behind bars. In fact, he especially wants to stay when Arno teams up with Elise De La Serre -- "She doesn't want you as much as you want her, Arnie!"

After a revolution ends and a new era begins under Napoleon, Arno finds himself turning to Jacob as his closest confidante. "Though you may be boorish and reckless, there must be a reason that you're somehow still miraculously alive to bother me."

("This coming from the man who killed a bunch of men just for wine," Jacob scoffs.)

After a long and tumultuous courtship that they try to label as "frenemies," except in 19th-century French, they become dual Master Assassins who serve the people of France -- and the people of England, because fuck Napoleon and fuck the King too -- and make their relationship official.

And they were dual Master Assassins. Oh my God, they were dual Master Assassins.

They spend the rest of their lives sneaking and assassinating, trying to bridge the gap between Assassins and Templars, and though they ultimately fail, their attempts were so influential, even the biggest fanatics of both sides speak their names with respect.

Once they've retired to the Alps as old men, they spend their days in leisure, until the day they go to bed holding hands, and never wake up.

Except Jacob does wake up.

Evie is at his bedside, scolding him for his recklessness, and it's 1860s London again.

He recovers quickly, considering the tragedy that just befell him. Maxwell Roth is dead. That's a pity. Jacob has known better love and a better man than Maxwell Roth.

Even if that man was just a dream.

Until the day he breaks into the rest of Twopenny's personal collection, where he sees several original portraits of the French Revolution. A sharp-eyed painter from that time had managed to spot two men in the crowd -- Jacob finds himself staring at his own face, hiding in plain sight, and though the head of the man beside him is turned, he would recognize that scar anywhere.

And what sharp eyes that painter had. Jacob sees himself in this painting. That painting. Several paintings throughout the years, given away by small tells that only Jacob himself would recognize: The familiar swoop of Arno's frame as he sidestepped a guard. Jacob's godawful sans-culottes disguise. In the blurry distance, Arno performing a leap of faith, given away only by a gold and blue plumage unusual for a bird in Paris.

I'm here, he thinks. I'm really here.

Familiar steps sound the hall behind him.

Jacob ducks behind the painting; it's merely a worker in the building, coming to make sure the collection is as untouched as it has always been. He looks bored. He looks like Arno.

His hair may be cropped, and his scar may be gone -- the sign, perhaps, of a life that's dealt him a kinder hand -- but that bored look has not changed. It's Arno. He's been reborn, somehow.

That can't be it. Arno's gone. Jacob died with him. But Jacob is here, Jacob thinks to himself.

It's too much. And besides, Twopenny's paintings are rubbish, anyway. But Arno-not-Arno won't leave. He's lingering at the paintings, eyeing the details of the brushstrokes with light interest. He always was incorrigible when it came to purveying the arts.

Jacob tries to sneak past him -- Arno-not-Arno's ears practically prick, sharp as the man Jacob married, and Jacob finds himself grabbing him from behind, knocking him out gently.

He lingers just long enough to prop him up by the painting, smoothing out his hair, tucking him in with a nearby tarp because it's winter, Arno will get cold. He can practically hear Arno scolding him for his poor choice of fabric. "That barely insulates anything," he would say.

"It's the thought that counts," Jacob says.

He tips his hat, and escapes the building.

[ssantisheep]

NEW FIC

hey there. Since I'm insane I have written a eight chapter fic of Desmond into LOTR and because I have no self-control you can find it HERE.

At this point I don't even know what to say just... I needed to post something, that fic as been in my docs for so long... needed it out!

En joy I guess??

[freezingwhitefire]

This is honestly just a random thing I put together after thinking about Altair and how he changed between the first memory in Revelations and the first game. It is also a nod of sorts at the book the Secret Crusade which I have not actually read in it's entirety yet. Also the dialogue at the end was from memory and may not be entirely correct but was from the memory in Revelations.

-

What makes a thoughtful man a proud arrogant one? Praise? Admiration? Something else?

Altair knew what it took. It was none of those things, it was pain. An anguished betrayal. A loss so deep and profound that nothing could fill the gaping hole except that haughty veneer and yet despite that he remembered how desperately he had craved for someone to notice and to reach out to him. It hadn't happened though. Altair had pulled himself from that darkness and agony. Perhaps someone would have helped if they hadn't had the total disconnect of that time he spent hunting.

As it stood Altair had been bleeding to death internally, emotionally, and no one had truly seen. Rauf had noticed something, that was something Altair noticed later, but at the time one friendly face and hand was only just enough to keep him from drowning. If he could change anything it would have been that the one person actually trying to draw him from his own darkness would not have died as a result of that shade. Kadar deserved better.

Now, sitting in a chair so far from his true home, Altair wondered if perhaps he should have tried to open up to the Da'i and Rafique that had tried to help and guide him. Darim would possibly have his mother and brother still, Malik would be berating Altair himself for being driven from his home, and Altair himself would be… better perhaps. Not as worn and broken down as he felt. Not as haunted by so many dead, his parents, Adha, Maria, Sef, Malik, Rauf, and so so many others. Golden eyes closed in grief, in silent guilt for more than just taking possession of the Apple of Eden.

Darim walked into the room, Sef's wife behind him looking anxiously at him. It was almost ludicrous how the two of them seemed uneasy around him, an old man who was past the age where he could truly have stood against them. Seeing his son shift nervously Altair smiled softly and stood.

"You wish to seek those who remained behind."

"Yes." Darim replied, squaring his shoulders, a gesture that echoed Maria so strongly Altair saw her there instead for a moment.

"You have my blessing to go." Altair reached forward and set his hands on his son’s shoulders giving an affectionate squeeze.

"Come with me."

"I-"

"Father," Sef's wife interrupted, "please, do not waste away here. It is not what Sef would have wanted."

Altair sighed and closed his eyes once more. He wanted to but could he? Could he face those ghosts again? Malik would have laughed at him letting something like that stop him. Rauf's voice speaking in support of him seemed to echo from his memory too and Altair's shoulders… they relaxed as he reopened his eyes, an easing of tension he had not even noticed lingering there.

"I will need my blades if we are to go."

Relief lit Darim's face, his blue eyes filled with tears, prompting Altair to pull his son into a hug. If Darim's hands clung to his robes Altair would never admit to it, and if he clung to his son too then that was their secret too.

"I have them ready for you father. I also have some clothes for you to wear so we are less conspicuous."

"Good, very good."

Pain lingered but looking at the two children, his children now, Altair thought that perhaps pain could do more than drive to darkness and perhaps sympathy and kindness could lead to greater places still. Smiling grimly he decided to try and see. Even Abbas deserved some kindness despite the agony he had dealt to others. Unbidden words he had spoken with one whom he had loved and been betrayed by came to mind, this time without the grief that they typically carried and Altair resolved to follow through on his own words once again.

'You gave him a chance to reclaim his honor.'

'No man should pass from this life without knowing some kindness.'

'Yet he rejected your grace.'

'As was his right.'

[buckymcbuckbarnes]

I feel like one day I will find a fic that has a Cross over of Assassins Creed and The Avengers, like Assassin reader that follows the creed and just casually fuckin with the avengers? With it being Bucky x reader? Yeah I'd die for that.

[redhairedmuses]

so i wrote another thing. and it's a fic. oops?

ya girl has had this idea for many, many moons and it has finally taken shape. i blame @tkwritesdumbassassins for this one. this is all her fault.

basis is this: ac: syndicate meets steampunk.

enjoy!

[sammylikesyaoi]

Fic inspirata dalla canzone Tango di Tananai

Dal testo:

"- I sentimenti o l'amore più in generale sono il più spaventoso dei salti della fede. Ed io non ho avuto il coraggio di lanciarmi. Lo faccio adesso, nel buio di questa caverna, con il peso del mio destino che mi preme sul collo. -"

[thou-babbling-brook]

Even little revolutionaries get sleepy 🌙💤

[sweetcocopowder]

Shaytham + " please" for the milestone prompt? 🙏 👀 and congrats!! I absolutely adore your fics!!!

Prompt 7 | Shaytham

Synopsis: Haytham enjoys seeing the Captain of the Morrigan come undone

Word Count: 2.3K

Warnings: Violence. Roughness. Biting. Marking. Grinding. Begging.

Note: This is the last fic of the Lil Milestone Event!! Thank you everyone for sending in requests and I do apologize just how long it took me to spit all these out. Life has been very stressful and this year has taken quite a turn haha. I hope you enjoy this last fic!!!

The Morrigan groans as mortar fire crashes down around her like shooting stars falling from the heavens. One tears through the main sails and ropes snap apart like thunder, slashing across men’s chest and face. Some come out unharmed while some others are less fortunate and thrown backwards into the churning, cold sea. Shay Cormac grinds his teeth as he veers the Morrigan to port so that her cannons are facing the fort. The one that bears it teeth at them with its mortars and cannons.

“FIRE!” Shay cries out above all the chaos.

The boom of the cannons rings in his ear as the ship groans under the pressure. She’ll take it. She always does. The cannon balls hit their mark and a fort tower falls, crumbling into the sea below in a foam of white and blue. The satisfied swell that rises in him is quickly shut down as the destroyed stone reminds him of an all too familiar memory. He looks away, pushing it down and locking it away. He can’t get distracted, not now. Now while his men need him.

It’s not until now, snapping out of the trance he gets lost into that he notices Haytham. The Grandmaster is crouched down behind the railing, holding on for dear life all while holding onto his hat. It’s almost a humorous sight if it wasn’t for Haytham glaring daggers his way. It’s an expression that brings Shay back to himself. Reminding him of why he’s here. Why they’ve travelled so far up the River Valley to take on the fort with the foreshadow of losing men or even themselves.

Shay brings the Morrigan around again, facing her starboard side this time to the fort. Another volley of cannon balls are fired out with the sound of his booming voice shouting the order to do so. This time, only half of them hit their mark. Some strike the mountainous rock behind the fort and others in the water. Shay curses, shouting out to his men once more to reload the cannons as quick as possible. They’ll get this done. The fort will fall today!

With four more rounds of cannon fire and some quick thinking on Shay’s part, the fort groans in ache as the last of her mortars are destroyed. But the fight is far from over. Shay knows that all too well. Docking the Morrigan is a difficult challenge. Survivors of the fort fire their rifles and muskets toward the Morrigan as she docks. They hide behind the rubble of the fort, ducking in and out like groundhogs when they come out to yip before disappearing again.

Before Shay can race into battle, Haytham is quick to grab at his shoulder and drag him to face is intense stare. “We’ll go around the side of the fort! Up to the top!” He bellow over the retuning gunfire of Shy’s crew. “It’ll be quicker to get to the war room that way!”

Shay’s dark brown eyes dart up to the fort, quickly accessing the way up. “Lead the way,” he grins.

Shay doesn’t hesitate to follow his Grandmaster up and over the side of the Morrigan. Gist is quick to clear the way for the two, a bullet shooting one man clean through the eye. Shay praises his first mate under his breath, but doesn’t let himself get too distracted as he follows Haytham up the side of the fort.

The stone walls would normally be impossible to scale up. But with half of the tone tumbled and destroyed, it’s easy to get a grip on stone and bricks that jut out. Haytham rises to the top first and offers a hand down to Shay. He takes it eagerly, letting Haytham help him up over the ledge.

Shay spots the war room easily. It’s just a hop and skip away to their left. The only thing in the way is a guard staring down his rifle at the two in his watch tower. Shay pushes Haytham away as the rifle cracks. The bullet pierces through the collar of Shay’s coat. Too close to call.

The Irishman is quick to pull is own gun on the guard. He can see the fear in the white’s of the man’s eyes before Shay pulls the trigger. He dead before he even hits the ground. Shay swallows thickly as he sets his gun back into it’s holster. He stares at the guard tower, where the man lays dead. Haytham brushes a hand over his elbow, snapping him from his oncoming thoughts.

“On with it,” Haytham snaps.

Getting to the war room is easy enough. It’s the man inside that has both Templars stopping just inside the door. A man armed with two swords grins at them. Shay draws his own, ready for the fight.

But Haytham rolls his eyes. And as the man charges with a vicious shout. He clashes swords with Shay quicker than either Templar would have liked. Shay is pushed back against the door, a fist smashing against his mouth. More taunting than anything else. Shay’s eyes widen with a fierceness akin to bloodlust. But he doesn’t get the sweet taste of killing the man or even hurting him a little.

The man barks out a choked cry as Haytham’s sword is thrust through his back. The tip sticks out of his chest, glinting at Shay. The Grandmaster doesn’t waste time to push the man off of his sword and down onto the ground. He has better things to do than to bother about a man that he doesn’t even know.  

“I do hate the theatrics some men possess,” Haytham drawls out as he reloads his gun.

“What about mine?” Shay asks.

His Grandmaster quirks an eyebrow his way with a frown on his lips. He points his bloody sword towards him. “I tolerate you on good days,” he quips out darkly.

But Shay grins at that as he sheathes his sword. Haytham returns his antics with the slightest of a smile before turning towards the war room’s desk. He’s quick to look over the many papers and reports spread out on the wooden table. He plucks up three pieces of paper before rolling them up in his hand. Tucking them under his arm, he deems this mission a success with a curt nod of his head.

His dark blue eyes land upon Shay’s lip and the cut that bleeds slowly. He steps around the desk and Shay stays where he is, watching Haytham with a curiosity. His Grandmaster swipes a thumb at the blood on his lip, pondering a thought to himself before wiping it on the front of Shay’s coat. Shay watches him intensely, leaning forward a bit as his chest tightens. But Haytham hums to himself, as if satisfied before passing Shay.

“Let’s get out of here,” Haytham concludes.

And Shay follows like some lost pup.

-

Shay unfolds the papers out over his fleet reports for Haytham, letting the Grandmaster look over them first. He hums in satisfaction, his eyes flicking over the coordinates and the set dates for each cargo ship. Shay sits down in his chair with a groan, his face aching every time he clicks his jaw. He tries to get that right spot, but no matter what he does nothing works. The pops of his jaw are loud in the quiet cabin and slowly, they draw the attention of the Grandmaster.

He stops immediately. Instead he leans over the table to pick up a half empty bottle of whiskey without a word. He flicks the top off and he draws over two glasses near him as well. Haytham watches with interest as both glasses are poured with the golden liquid. Shay pushes one glass over to Haytham before he leans back in the chair and nurses his own.

Haytham takes it as his gaze returns back to the reports. Shay tries to make sense of them, his eyes skimming over the words. But he has never been a strong reader having lived on the streets nearly his entire life. Liam tried to teach him, but it took forever to crack it into his brain. He can read per say, it’s just that Gist normally takes over to make things go quicker. It always brings a bound of shame within his chest that makes him angry and frustrated at no one but himself.

“So was all this worth it for the papers?” Shay asks.

“Yes,” Haytham quickly answers. “Routes of their trade and cargo. Supplies we can obtain to keep out of their hands.”

Why his Grandmaster needs these supplies? He won’t ask any further right now. He doesn’t feel all too chatty after having bellowed his throat raw on deck. He clears his throat, feeling the painful scratchiness that only the whiskey seems to smooth over for a few seconds. So he fills his glass once more for that few seconds of relief.

Shay looks to Haytham deep in thought. Wondering what plans and other whatnots are going on up in that head of his. Has he already thought of a plan to take the Morrigan out to intercept these ships? Does he know that they’ll have to stop somewhere to repair the old girl?

Haytham catches him staring, meeting Shay with a raised brow. The Irishman only smiles as he takes another swig of his drink. He pops his jaw again.

“Are you here to distract me?” Haytham asks.

Shay looks around dramatically, suddenly sitting up right in the chair. “Last time I checked this was my quarters,” he remarks cockily.

Suddenly, Haytham’s hand comes to Shay’s thigh, squeezing lightly. He leans over into the Irishman’s space, his eyes on his lips the entire time. Hooded, dark and filled with ill intent.

“And what makes you think I can’t just make you leave?” Haytham asks lowly.

Shay swallows deeply. The adrenaline of the battle hasn’t fully worn off yet and he will admit he is a bit riled up. Shay licks his dry lips and bites it lightly, not missing that Haytham’s gaze watch the action. His Grandmaster must be feeling the same.  

“Because you enjoy my charismatic comments too much,” Shay grins around the lip of the glass before he takes another swig.

Haytham takes the glass from Shay to down the rest of the amber liquid. He sets the glass aside, forgetting about the fleet report for the moment to capture the Irishman’s busted lip in a deep kiss. Shay’s hands are quick to grab a hold of Haytham, unclasping clips and buckles. He doesn’t hesitate to try and get these stupid bulky clothes off of the man. They always hide the Grandmaster’s body and it always annoys Shay to no end. His heavy cloak falls to the floor, his coat coming off shortly after.

Haytham breaks the kiss to bring Shay out of the chair to his feet roughly with his hands fisted into the front of his coat. Shay grins wildly as he’s spun around to be thrown atop of the table. Neither of them care about he many papers and reports that litter the table top. Some of them are pushed aside and they shower to the floor.

None of them take notice as Shay’s groans fill the quarters as Haytham kneads a palm roughly to his groin. It’s a delicious sound that has Haytham palming more to milk them out of the man under him. Shay’s hip rut up into his hand, trying to get more friction than he’s being given. But Haytham stops all together.

“Please,” Shay breathes out.

Haytham hums at that, loving the view before him. Knowing he can have Shay like this at a simple touch. It’s almost intoxicating. He’s quick to undo Shay’s belt and throws it aside without a care. He pushes the man’s vest and shirt up his torso to reveal the body that’s been made with years of hard work and discipline. Haytham’s runs his hands over Shay’s hard stomach, earning him a shaky exhale from him. Beautiful.

“Hmm?” Haytham finally questions.

“Please, I need you,” Shay whines out.

That commanding Captain that was once on deck is gone for the moment. He looks to Haytham with only want and need. Begging for his Grandmaster to do something, anything.

So, Haytham gives him something. He leans forward to plant a kiss to the man’s stomach. His skin is salty with sweat and he can taste gunpowder on him as well. He kiss and laps at his skin all the same, sucking and biting lightly to hitch those noises from Shay’s busted lips. Haytham hooks his fingers into the hem of Shay’s pants as he ventures lower into the man’s snail trail. He bites lightly at the v of the man’s torso, Shay’s hips bucking up lightly with a groan from his throat.

Haytham grins into his pale skin before pulling his pants down to his knees in one swift movement. Shay’s cock is already hard and red. Haytham doesn’t mind it though, he stands up to lean over Shay. He towers over Shay to grab his face so that the man’s dark brown gaze is looking at him and only him. He wedges himself in between Shay’s thighs so that the only touch he’s receiving is the harsh friction of his closing.

He closes the gap to kiss Shay deeply, his tongue invading his mouth to taste the cheap whiskey. Shay moans into the kiss, his hips rutting upwards into Haytham’s crotch to try and earn himself some friction. But a firm hand on his hip holds him down, a thumb digging painfully into the soft skin.

Haytham breaks the kiss to only mouth at Shay’s prickly jaw. He ventures downwards, biting and kissing the Irishman’s neck, collarbones, chest and back down his stomach. Leaving purple and red marks of different shades. And with each one Shay whines and groans, his hooded eyes watching Haytham in a haze.

“Please,” Shay breathes out again, quieter this time.

Haytham smiles as he hovers over the man’s half hard cock. His deep blue eyes look to Shay with adoration. Only because Shay asked so nicely. He does love it when his best man begs like this. It just as delicious as he tastes.

-

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[my-soliloquy-chamber]

O my mountain hyacinth What shepherds trod upon you With clumsy, rustic foot? Now you are a broken seal:   A scarlet stain upon the earth

The story follows Kassandra and Brasidas through the events of the game and beyond.

[ethan-acfan]

Just your friendly reminder that during ac3, they had started leaving Desmond in the animus for up to 3 days at a time, possibly longer. They also didn't tell him he was going to be spending extended time in the animus until AFTER the time had already passed, and not only that, they told him in an email. Not even to his face, through a goddamn email.

[awriterlivinginaconstantdream]

A Piece of Eden

Teaser 1

Tears falling

Scars forming

How do I get out of this alive?

Images are found on Pinterest

[wolfofartblock]

"There are those frustrated with the results of the Animus project, and the last subject didn't make things any easier. Sorry Mister Miles, but we're not taking any chances this time around."

"This is a strain of the Blacklight Virus, recently obtained from the bright minds of one of our sister companies. Supposedly it's sapient, but it should at least be obedient. Play nice with it, okay?"

--------------------------------------

Seconds before disaster struck lmao. The virus was not supposed to be used in this way, and so we'll pretend Abstergo's building was ground zero for the outbreak rather than Penn Station