asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Yes.

YES!!!

Honestly I'm very busy at the moment with college, work and three other fills, but if no one fills this, I just might take a spin on a modern au ficlet.

Captcha: Charles' name is?

GODAMMIT CAPTCHA!

My first fill ever! I hope you like it, OP!

***

Haytham had heard Connor’s approach from a mile away, thanks to a loud skirmish with some redcoats along the snowy paths of the Frontier. One of the soldiers had yelled “Assass-” only to be silenced, the only clue to his fate a wet gurgle.

Haytham sneered to himself. So much for the Assassins’ legendary stealth. He had deduced that his son was after the traitor, Church, same as he was. In that case, he’d be coming this way. Haytham climbed up to the one of the overhanging wooden struts in the nearby church and waited for his estranged son to arrive.

Connor arrived in much the same fashion as Haytham expected, charging into the small dilapidated church with no thought for stealth or caution. Some Assassin Davenport’s trained Haytham smirked to himself, preparing for the ambush.

As Connor sauntered in through the narrow doorway, Haytham tensed his muscles and pounced, as a cat pounces on a mouse.

Connor was knocked down by the force of his weight and Haytham quickly pressed his advantage, pinning his son to the hard wooden floor and releasing his hidden blade. The assassin scowled up at him.

“Father,” he stated flatly.

Haytham smirked down at him. “Connor. Any last words?”

Connor seethed. “Wait.”

“A poor choice,” Haytham replied mockingly, left hand flashing forward with his hidden blade.

Connor shoved him backwards, kicking him away for good measure, before springing to his feet, accusing Haytham of conspiring with Church and the Loyalists.

Haytham rolled his eyes, frustrated with his son’s inability to see the true situation. His goals were more or less aligned with that of the Assassins after all, and he said so; freedom, justice and independence.

Connor retorted that his Templar brothers Johnson, Pitcairn and Hickey surely had no such aspirations, considering they “sought to steal land, sack towns and murder George Washington.”

Haytham sighed, annoyed at the other man’s naiveté. He explained they were not stealing the land so much as protecting it, and encouraging diplomacy – no thanks to Connor ruining his plans. As for Washington, well. They were better off without him and his miserable leadership skills.

It had been his criticism of Washington that had set Connor off. Before he could so much as draw his sword, Haytham found himself slammed against the church’s wooden wall, Connor’s own hidden blade pressed against his jugular.

“George Washington is a better leader than you could ever dream to be,” Connor hissed, dark eyes flashing with rage. It was at that moment that Haytham couldn’t help noticing his likeness to Ziio. Especially that dark look of fury. That was very Ziio. He pushed such thoughts aside in favour of slamming his knee into his son’s gut. As Connor doubled over in pain, Haytham sidestepped and suddenly Connor was the one who found himself with his back against the wall.

He winced in discomfort as the rough timber dug into his spine but forced himself to ignore it, still breathing heavily and clutching his stomach. Haytham crowded him, pressing closer so he had no room to manoeuvre. “You’re aware that I’ve killed for less,” he said softly.

“I’d expect no less from a Templar,” Connor spat, skin rankling unpleasantly from his father’s proximity.

Haytham laughed at that, a quiet, dark chuckle. “Hypocrite,” he breathed.

He regarded his son silently, sharp eyes taking in his discomfort. It almost verged on fear. He was even shivering. Surely Connor was not such a coward that he’d shake at the first sign of danger? After all, Haytham had no intention of actually killing his son – not yet, anyway.

“Are you afraid?” he asked curiously.

Connor glared at him and raised his chin defiantly. “No.”

“Then why do you shiver so?”

Connor had not even realised he was shaking until then. He held his large frame still, suppressing his discomfort, even as his father drew closer. “I dislike people touching me,” he informed him. Surely there was no harm in telling him that? It was not exactly a secret after all.

“Even when they mean you no harm?” Haytham found himself asking. It was not such an odd thing of course, but judging by Connor’s behaviour it was not so much a mere dislike as an abhorrence that spoke of a deeper trauma.

“Do you expect me to believe you mean me no harm?” Connor replied sceptically.

Haytham laughed shortly. “No! Never that! But in general, do you allow no one to touch you?”

Connor looked miffed. “Not that it’s any of your affair, father, but why should I? There’s no reason for people to touch me.”

The Father of Understanding damn him he looked disturbingly like his mother in that moment, all riled up and defensive.

“Never?” Haytham asked, tone dropping to a suggestive lilt before he could stop it. He cursed himself inwardly, what was he doing?

Connor simply looked puzzled, unsure at what his father was getting at. “Yes. Never,” he confirmed. He moved then, making to shove Haytham away, but Haytham grabbed his wrist firmly and pinned it against the wall above his head.

“What if you wished to pursue relations of a more... intimate nature,” Haytham asked, voice low. His body was pressed rather indecently against Connor now, but he found he was caring less and less.

It seemed the Assassin had finally caught on, a dark blush spreading across his features. He turned his head away from Haytham so he had more room to breathe, baring his throat in the process.

Haytham found himself wanting to mark that throat, displayed before him as it was. He inwardly recoiled from the thought and gave himself a good mental shake. This was his SON. Not to mention an Assassin!

However the seeds of such thoughts had already been sown. When Haytham Kenway wanted something, he took it, consequences be damned.

Connor could sense that the air of threat surrounding his father had passed, though he was still unsure as to his intentions. Nevertheless, he allowed himself to relax somewhat, forcibly ignoring the Templar’s proximity and his own rather compromising position. “I have yet to find someone I would wish to be with in... such a way,” he answered, hesitant but honest.

“Is that so?” Haytham replied. Before Connor could answer, his father’s mouth was at his throat, kissing and nipping at his bare flesh.

Connor made to pull away in shock, but his father had a good grip on him and held him firm, using the weight of his body to press him more securely against the wall.

“Father, you should not-” Connor broke off as Haytham growled hungrily and silenced him, claiming his mouth with his own.

Feeling crowded, overwhelmed and outright invaded, Connor bit down savagely on his father’s bottom lip until he felt his teeth pierce the soft flesh and the blood flow.

Haytham swore viciously, touching a finger to his lip and glaring at Connor as it came away bloody. Connor remained silent, licking his lips free of his father’s blood.

“Now was that wise?” Haytham intoned, raising his hand to Connor’s throat. He had no intention of actually choking him, in fact he meant only to trace the marks he had left earlier, but Connor’s reaction was instantaneous. He practically folded in on himself, flinching away from the hand and shoulders hunching defensively.

Haytham removed the hand at once. “Easy boy, I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

Connor just stared at him, almost unseeing, his eyes glazed with remembered fear.

Haytham released him and backed off. “Are you alright, Connor?”

Connor muttered something under his breath.

“What was that?”

Connor straightened up again, feeling better now that he had his personal space back. He looked Haytham in the eye, his gaze sharp and accusing. “Charles Lee. When I was very young he hurt me.”

Haytham’s immediate thought was to deny such allegations, but he paused. Charles had always had a distinct air of disapproval surrounding him whenever talk of Ziio or her people arose. He assumed it was because the other man worried he was being distracted from the cause, but perhaps it was their race he took issue with. After all, many of the colonists held prejudices against the native people. For what reason, Haytham could not really fathom – they had been there first after all. But alas, the human race had always been more easily given to hate than love for itself.

“What did he do?” Haytham found himself asking.

Connor looked down. “He choked me and said things about my people. Terrible things.”

Well no wonder he was so touchy about his throat then. While not quite ready to believe the young Assassin’s words, he meant to have a word with Charles about it later. It would not do to have his brothers terrorising children after all.

“This is why you wish no one to touch you then,” Haytham commented, more as a statement than a question. Connor nodded anyway, jerkily.

“Well that is unfortunate,” Haytham sighed. More regretfully than he should have perhaps.

Connor fidgeted uncomfortably, lacing his fingers together. Surely his father wasn’t actually interested in him? Such a thing was unheard of.

Haytham was looking out at the snow covered wilderness. “We had better set off after Church,” he said finally. He paused. “Connor, I – I apologise for making you relive such... unpleasantness.” He started walking.

“Wait,” Connor demanded. Haytham stopped.

“Yes?”

“Why were you touching me, if not to harm me?” Connor asked.

“Forgive me, Connor,” Haytham replied uneasily. “A moment’s madness, nothing more.” The guilt was slipping through now, as much as he tried to block it out.

Suddenly Connor was right in front of him, stance uncompromising, voice insistent. “Explain.”

Haytham swallowed a venomous retort and instead said simply “Why do you think?”

Connor was thinking very fast but everything he knew seemed to contradict itself. Two people only touched each other in such a way when they desired each other, but for a father to touch his son in such a way was called incest and that was taboo. Surely Haytham knew that? Perhaps he was so depraved he didn’t care. Was such a man truly his father?

“Do you desire me?” Connor asked finally. “Or is this just another intricate Templar scheme?”

Haytham snorted. “Do you actually believe the Templars would stoop to such methods?”

Connor’s unwavering gaze said it all.

The Templar sighed, “No, it is me. For a moment there you looked rather a lot like your mother.”

Connor hissed in a breath at such an admission. How dare he bring his mother into this?

For the second time that day, Haytham found himself with his back against the wall. “You disrespect my mother’s memory,” Connor snapped.

Haytham would have questioned his phrasing – it was not until later that he learned of Ziio’s fate after all – but for the sudden insistent mouth angrily ravaging his own.

The cut on Haytham’s bottom lip soon reopened under the force of Connor’s mouth, but Connor paid it no heed. Rather it seemed to fuel his sudden bloodlust as he swiped a tongue over the wound, tasting copper.

“What are you doing?” Haytham demanded, regaining his senses.

Connor paused, as if to consider. “Teaching you a lesson,” he decided.

That made as little sense to Haytham as anything the boy did, but he found himself quite enjoying the “lesson.” Presumably, Connor was just making it up as he went along, not so much kissing him as ravishing his mouth first with his lips and later with teeth and tongue added to the mix.

Haytham responded tentatively at first, not wanting to frighten Connor off. That seemed less and less likely however, especially once he felt dexterous fingers fiddling with his clothing fastenings.

This is unwise, this is unwise, this is very, very, unwise, Haytham’s conscience chided him. He ignored it in favour of thrusting his tongue down his son’s throat.

Connor made a noise of surprise, but recovered quickly, his own tongue coming back into play as he successfully untied the fastening on Haytham’s cloak and let it fall from his shoulders to the floor. He moved onto the heavy coat without pause.

Haytham pulled Connor’s hood down to tangle a hand in his son’s unruly hair, his other hand dropping to struggle with his assassin robes.

Connor pulled back out of the kiss, slapping Haytham’s hand away so he could begin unfastening the robes. Haytham simply watched for a few moments, before beginning to undress himself.

Connor undressed much more efficiently than his father – Haytham was wearing rather more layers and had folded them in a neat pile rather than scattered all over the floor. Once Haytham was down to his breeches and undershirt he looked up and found his son in nothing but his thigh high boots. His already frayed control snapped. He had to have him.

“Have you any oil, Connor?” he asked, voice rough with want.

“Oil?” Connor repeated, puzzled. “For what?”

Haytham was fossicking through his clothes and armaments and soon found a smallish bottle of weapon oil. Bringing it back over to Connor, he guided him closer to the wall, this time with noticeably less fear involved.

Connor wasn’t sure when his father had taken control again but he was secretly glad of it, being unskilled in such matters. If the wooden wall had been uncomfortable before, it was doubly so now, the rough timber chafing at his bare back. He leaned lightly against it, waiting apprehensively to see what would happen next.

Oiling up his fingers, Haytham carefully placed the bottle on the floor. “Are you ready?” he asked, his dark eyes gleaming.

“Yes,” Connor confirmed, though he wished he knew what it was he was ready for. He was shivering in the cold air and noted with mild annoyance that Haytham was still more or less clothed.

“Now listen,” Haytham ordered, stepping closer. “These,” he showed Connor his glistening fingers, “are going up here,” he pressed a finger gently against Connor’s rear.

“What?” Connor all but squawked, jumping at the cold finger.

Haytham smiled slightly. “My fingers will stretch you so you can properly take me,” he explained.

Connor thought about that. It was the use of fingers that had confused him – he knew how sex worked, he saw animals reproducing in the Frontier all the time. It made sense. He nodded consent.

It was an odd sensation, feeling a finger enter him. He shifted uncomfortably, willing his body to accommodate the intrusion.

“Relax, Connor,” Haytham said softly, kissing him. Connor loosened his muscles and at once he felt a bit more comfortable, his entrance widening around the finger. Haytham warned him before inserting a second, and later, a third finger.

When Haytham felt that Connor was nice and loose, he carefully curled his fingers, seeking the boy’s prostate. After some careful exploration, Connor suddenly arched with a surprised moan, tensing around the fingers in pleasure.

Stroking him a few more times, indulging him, Haytham withdrew his fingers, reaching down to pick up the oil once again and unlace his breeches. Swiftly oiling up his erection, the Templar pressed his knee against his son and rubbed slowly, teasing him. Connor’s hips jerked forward of their own accord, rubbing sensitive flesh against clothed knee.

Haytham slowly pushed under Connor to rest his knee against the wall behind, his foot up on a raised plank of a wood so his knee was at a right angle. Pulling Connor closer, he pulled his hips towards him, Connor wrapping his booted legs around Haytham’s waist and his arms around his shoulders. Now Connor was more or less sitting on his father’s knee, his back resting against the wall. He could feel Haytham pressing at his entrance, and gasped as he slowly pushed into him. He was quite a bit larger than his fingers had been.

Haytham pulled back out, and then thrust back in, starting off slow but gradually gathering pace. Connor forced himself to relax, concentrating on his own erection pressing against his father’s firm stomach muscles, making them glisten with his own precome.

His position wasn’t the most comfortable, his back digging into the wall as it was, but all that was forgotten as soon as Haytham hit that spot inside him again. He cried out in pleasure, one hand pulling at his father’s silvered ebon hair.

Haytham had reached a solid rhythm and now concentrated on hitting Connor’s prostate. The glorious picture of rapture his son made each time he managed to hit it was worth his concentration. Soon he found himself reaching his peak and his thrusts grew uneven and less accurate, as Connor rode him to ecstasy.

He came with a muffled shout, breathing heavily against the Assassin’s sweat-slicked skin. Connor panted, watching through half-lidded eyes as some of his father’s seed trickled from between his legs onto Haytham’s clothed thigh.

Still catching his breath, Haytham pulled out from Connor, but kept him balanced on his raised knee as he was. Keeping one hand grasping his hip, he used the other to take his son in hand, slicking him up with own precome.

Connor thrust wantonly into his experienced hand, a needy whine escaping his throat.

“Hush, Connor,” Haytham whispered, drawing him into a hungry kiss. He swallowed his cry of pleasure as Connor reached his own climax in his father’s fist.

Connor stiffly climbed down from his perch upon Haytham’s knee – much to Haytham’s relief; the boy was heavy after all. Haytham straightened his leg, wincing a little at its stiffness from being held in one position for so long.

Cleaning themselves up, they dressed in silence, the icy wind whistling through the old church.

The reality of the situation suddenly struck Haytham and he laughed quietly to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Connor demanded, looking over from where he was tying his robes.

“I just buggered my own son in a church,” Haytham forced out, shoulders shaking with black humour.

To be fair, it was only the structure of a church, there was not even an altar present, but still, the sheer wrongness of the situation was not lost on Connor.

“I... am sorry,” he began, unsure of whether his father regretted his actions or not.

“Oh no, Connor. I am sorry. But,” he plucked his bottle of oil from the floorboards and tucked into his coat somewhere before straightening “what’s done is done. A need was satisfied. For both of us, it would seem...” he glanced appraisingly over at Connor.

Connor looked down, but nodded slightly. It may have been wrong, but it had been good. He found he did not particularly regret it.

“Well now,” Haytham dusted himself off as he strode towards the doorway. “Let’s be off.”

Ah, I know who you are! :D I'm really pleased you like it, your fics are awesome!

Well I'm glad you found it interesting. Charles was planning on being gentle with Connor before he started yelling, cursing, and insulting him in front of the servants on their way to the master bedroom. But before he could punish him, he needed Connor to have a clear head so he could learn his lesson.

AHHH I'M SO HAPPY YOU LIKE IT! Working on it~!

Look here, curious anon: http://fanlore.org/wiki/Alpha/Beta/Omega

Part five of the kinkmeme did suddenly take off with the A/B/O, didn't it? Ah well, no complaints from me. I must second for Omega!Haytham.

DELIGHTFUL

FFFFF I LOVE YOU THIS IS AMAZING.

oh.. oh my
I really hope to see more fills from you! Holy shit

Come here, you! You're making me blush! If the quality and awesomeness of above is what we're to expect from you in the future, well, I am your enthusiastic cheerleader! *shakes pom poms* Ra-ra-ra! You are a superstar!

<33333 I loved this, thank you!

I love Haytham short little commands. Charles is certainly well-trained, heh. So looking forward to the next part. <3

Gaaah, I wish there was more of this, it's brilliant, Desmond slowly getting to be more trustful with Shaun. I also like William, he is much like in the game - ignorant to Desmond's needs and not very understanding, but at the same time also a dad.

Shaun barely sleeps, and when he does, it’s because he’s nodded off in his chair, his body refusing to take the exhaustion any longer. Every second spent awake is used for research.

Rebecca thinks he’s crazy – that too little sleep is making him confuse a strange dream with reality, but Shaun knows, is absolutely positive, it was real. Now to prove it.

It isn’t until the next night that he stumbles upon the beginnings of an answer.

There’s a rumor about something called the Midnight Channel originating in Japan. It’s slow going, as he has to rely heavily on translators that produce gibberish more often than not, but Shaun is determined, and eventually he has enough of a picture to base a theory on.

A series of kidnappings occurred in a town called Inaba in Japan just the year before that coincided with a rumor about people appearing on this Midnight Channel – a program that only comes on when the viewer is alone at midnight on a rainy night. The interesting thing, and what Shaun is hoping is relevant, is that each of the people reported missing appeared on the Midnight Channel.

If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he’d think it was nonsense.

Most importantly, it is nearly midnight, and as it had been the night before, it is raining.

Shaun stands in front of the blank TV, admittedly without a plan outside of confirming his theory, and waits. Right on schedule, the screen brightens, Desmond’s glowing eyes burning right through him.

“Holy shit!” he hears from the other room, but he doesn’t have time to gloat just now, as the dialogue is all the same, which means he has a time limit. For what, he’s not sure.

The image really does look disturbingly like Desmond apart from the eyes, though the expression is off enough to be alarming. Absently, he reaches out to touch the screen, as if tracing the likeness will tell him what he’s missing.

When his fingers sink into the image, Shaun takes a moment to consider he’s gone completely bonkers before he jerks back like he’s been bit. He adjusts his glasses with shaky hands and looks at his fingers. They don’t look or feel any different, and the Desmond on the screen continues on like nothing happened.

What else can he do? He reaches out and does it again.

His hand disappears to the wrist, and Shaun takes several deep breaths. He flexes his fingers, and though he can’t see them, he can still feel them, and they appear to be following his commands. It takes a moment of courage gathering, but he bites his lip, sends a prayer off to a God he knows doesn’t exist, and presses his face to the TV.

It goes right in, like pressing his face through lukewarm water only to find there’s air on the other side. He can’t see anything, though – it’s just a mass of gray in all directions.

He wonders what would happen if he climbed in.

He doesn’t, though, instead extracting himself from the inside of the TV just as ‘Desmond’ finishes his little speech. When the TV goes black, he touches it again lightly, and it ripples under his fingers.

He sets his jaw, returns to his desk, and starts to plan.

---

“You’re not real,” Desmond says, more for himself than for the carbon copy staring at him across the room.

“On the contrary. I am a Shadow; the true self. I am more real than you.” Desmond’s Shadow leers, unfolding from his perch on the Animus to stand straighter than Desmond ever does, staring down at him with amused malice. “After all, you can’t even think for yourself, can you?”

“You’re not real,” Desmond repeats, squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “You’ll disappear just like every other time. This is not happening.”

His shadow chuckles. “Afraid you’re going mad, me? Yes, we are quite mad, aren’t we? But do we do anything about it? No, we don’t. We get back into the Animus like the good boy that we are.” Desmond can hear his Shadow’s footsteps, but he doesn’t look, doesn’t acknowledge it, just wills it to go away. “We’re their savior, their little test tube of First Civ DNA, rendered unimportant as a person, because what are our thoughts and feelings when weighed against the whole world?”

Desmond opens his eyes and glares up at his Shadow. “This is my choice. I chose to do this.”

The bark of laughter makes Desmond jump, and he ineffectually tries to push himself up to stand but his legs won’t cooperate. “You didn’t choose shit. You tell yourself that to make yourself feel good, but I know better.” His Shadow crouches down in front of him, yellowed eyes boring through his brown ones. “You’re a coward.”

“I am not a coward,” Desmond spits, face contorting with rage. This is not real. This is not real. He tells himself over and over, but it feels real, it feels different from every other bleed he’s had, and underneath the rage grows a very real fear.

“Yes, you are. It’s why you ran away from the Farm all those years ago, and it’s why when they use you as their guinea pig for their Animus, you don’t say no. You’re terrified of going crazy, but you’re even more terrified that they’ll kill you if you prove to be useless.” His Shadow grins, shrugging nonchalantly. “And hey, maybe they will. It’s not like you actually matter. If it weren’t for your DNA no one would have even bothered looking for you. You’re that insignificant, and you know it.”

Desmond feels the color drain from his face, but before he can do more than sputter, his Shadow cocks his head to the side.

“That was fast.” He looks to a sealed door that Desmond hadn’t noticed before. “He’s coming.”

“Who is ‘he’?” Desmond asks tentatively, but the sinking feeling in his chest tells him he already knows the answer.

A dark sneer twists at his Shadow’s lips. “More proof of your cowardice. It looks like your unrequited love interest wants his lab rat back.”

Shaun. The thought of Shaun meeting his Shadow makes bile gather in the back of his throat. “No,” he says weakly. “This isn’t real.”

“Oh, I assure you, this is very real. Just sit back and relax, me, because the fun is just getting started.”

HOLY SHIT THIS IS AWESOME

CONTINUE PLEASE OKAY THANKS

DAMN IT YOU WRITE AWESOMELYYYYYY--------

Ahhh thank you! I'm definitely working on it!

asdfghjkl Another awesome update so soon?! I love you, anon! I love how Shaun is all 'well fuck this is creepy but I'm not going to be a bloody idiot like those guys in horror movies, I'm going to plan shit out and get shit done!'. And Desmond's fear, and his clinging to his disbelief is so realistic and so in-character, I just can't

Charles has to bite back his grin, and straddles Haytham's thighs eagerly. He works a slippery hand over Haytham's cock before moving up and then sinking down, one hand still gripping Haytham, guiding him inside.

The feeling, as always, is glorious. Charles' expression is one of concentration, mingled with a little discomfort. Haytham lets himself relax as he is slowly enveloped by wonderfully constricting heat.

He gives an appreciative hum when Charles is fully settled, half a smile and a sun-kissed hand caressing a pale hipbone as thanks. He waits until Charles' breath no longer shudders, and the man glances at him quizzically, as if to say 'what do you want me to do?'.

Oh, there are many things Haytham could command. 'Ride me' is one option he particularly likes the idea of. Sitting back, letting Charles do all the hard work… it certainly is tempting. However, that sort of thing is likely to cause a lot of noise, is best reserved for a longer, more romantic night. While Johnson and the others may be discreet and tight-lipped about that which does not concern them, they are in a busy tavern in the middle of Boston.

Haytham pulls himself into a sitting position, and cocks his head to one side as he thinks. He simply gazes at Charles, until Charles opens his mouth to speak, and Haytham lays a finger on his lips.

"Silence," he says. He twists his legs underneath Charles, grips his hips and shoulders, and flips them both over, eliciting a choked gasp from Charles at the sudden movement. Charles looks both surprised and mildly annoyed to find himself now on his back, with Haytham kneeling, holding Charles in place.

Charles raises an eyebrow, as if to ask 'what on earth are you doing?'. Haytham smirks.

"Silence," he repeats himself. Without warning, Haytham hoists one of Charles' legs up, onto his shoulder, and thrusts hard. Charles' eyes widen almost impossibly, his body tenses, and he inhales sharply.

Haytham gives him little time to recover, starting up a rapid rhythm meant to shatter them both as fast as possible. Seeing Charles' brow crease and mouth tighten and the sheen of sweat on his skin, feeling the way his body tries to arch, to clench, to do something… it's enough to make Haytham fear he won't last. It's all Haytham can do to keep his moans so quiet, he can't imagine how difficult complete silence must be for Charles.

To Charles' credit, only the faintest of whines escape his throat, and the harshest of breaths abscond his mouth. From the concentration on his face and the tightness in his muscles, he's barely holding himself together, very nearly at his limit.

He can still go just a little further.

"Touch yourself," Haytham orders, breathlessly. "Make yourself come. Now."

Charles obeys. His breaths are even harsher, more ragged than before, his back arching and hips grinding more urgently. His hand is near enough a blur, and Haytham is careful to muffle what little noise Charles cannot stop with rough kisses.

After a desperate-sounding gasp, Charles suddenly stiffens, even more so than before. His body trembles, and his mouth opens in a silent scream against Haytham's own. There is a sudden feeling of wet heat on Haytham's stomach, and he nearly comes right alongside Charles. The thoughts that he has made this happen, that Charles adores him so much, that he will follow any order given: they give Haytham a strange kind of pride, something that is very nearly a power trip.

He only needs a few more desperate thrusts to come, biting into Charles' shoulder to muffle his cry.

Charles is still limp, catching his breath when Haytham has recovered enough to pull out and start cleaning them both up. These sessions always exhaust Charles, and it's no wonder, considering that he always ends up doing all the hard work.

He wipes grease and semen from Charles' body, combs his hair out of his face, checks that he hasn't injured Charles in any way other than a couple of bite marks and a bruise or two.

"Well done," Haytham says, softly, fondly. "You were excellent. I'm proud of you."

He rearranges the sheets (which somehow escaped their obscene activities almost completely unscathed) around Charles, pushes his pillow beneath his head. Charles gives a low mumble of appreciation.

"I'm lucky to have you," Haytham says. "Thank you."

It's important to make sure Charles knows how important he is. How much this is appreciated, how much his compliance and obedience means. Before he settles in the narrow bed next to Charles, Haytham makes sure to pick up all their discarded garments and fold them neatly, the way Charles likes them to be.

Though Charles' eyes are closed Haytham knows he is not yet quite asleep. He runs a thumb along Charles' brow, then down to his jaw, finally running over his lips. He gives Charles another kiss, this one small and sweet and chaste as opposed to the wrecked, needy hunger of earlier.

Sorry I just have a thing for super-fluffy aftercare...

I'm so glad you like it! It's super fusion-y so I was hoping it wasn't too Persona-heavy. I'm glad it reads okay for someone who hasn't played it!

And YOU'RE awesome, OP, for making such an all-consuming awesome prompt that I literally could not say no to!

Who's afraid afraid of the big bad wolf? Well... Haytham isn't at first but when his comrades start being picked off by said wolf he starts to get nervous.

So! what this Anon would like is a Horror fic, perhaps Haytham is traveling through the frontier from New York to Boston, all the while Connor is following him, waiting for the moment to strike.

Bonus points:

+50 ~ Connor is wearing his DLC outfit >u>
+100 ~ Haytham knows Connor is following him, perhaps catching glances of said assassin every so often and is freaked out
+150 ~ Connor acting very much the part of the monster he is to portray.
+200 ~ Haytham keeps riding past dead red coats hanging from trees and lying on the ground. (I want him to be horrified :I)
+ All My Love ~ Sexy times! Can be dub-con or non-con (either works for me)

Whether Connor Kills or does anything to Haytham is up to the writer, I just want to see a scared Haytham.

~B

oh my goodness seconded with a burning passion

The first writer!anon is back and totally de-anoning. It takes too long to work out the italics and stuff on the kinkmeme so I just went ahead and posted the fill on ff.net lol. I'm not ashamed of this 'kink' and hopefully the mods don't mind. Fill is not complete yet, but am working on it.

Follow zhe link here for fill --> http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9076259/1/

OP and driveby!anons, I want to know what you think! Please leave any comments and thoughts on ff.net (anon reviews are accepted), or you can leave them here if you want. :)

I each time I update the fill, I will post a link to the new chapter here on the kinkmeme as a reply to this post.

Makes sense.

Poor Connor though...

//pets Connor//

YES. Good god, don't stop there!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 216 of 385

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

SECONDING!

Fill: A Lesson in Respect 1/2

Fill: A Lesson in Respect 2/2

Re: FILL ---------1 of ? -------Enthralled

Re: Second Fill - The Honey Moon - Part 18/?

Re: OP

Re: Omega!Haytham

Re: Fill: A Lesson in Respect 2/2

Re: FILL: Blind Trust 2/2

Re: Fill: A Lesson in Respect 2/2

Re: FILL ---------1 of ? -------Enthralled

Re: Ezio + Novices: Famiglia [2/2]

OP

Re: FILL: Blind Trust 2/2

Re: Wonderwall [2/?]

Re: Wonderwall [2/?]

Re: Wonderwall [2/?]

OP

Comply 3/3

Re: OP

The Big Bad Wolf

Re: Tattooed Connor

The Exception (1) [Link to fill]

Re: Second Fill - The Honey Moon - Part 18/?

Re: Where Did You Learn That? (2/?)