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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AN: I've been wrestling with the idea of genderflipping the whole damn cast, but decided against it.

Idk where the journal entries are coming from.
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18th of February 1756

Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like, had Ziio and I stayed together. It’s been over eight months and yet, he still plagues my mind. Even as I try to immerse myself in the workings of my Order, at times, his face still registers in my memory and distracts me from my task at hand. Had we thrown our differences and ultimately, our responsibilities, to the side, how would that have panned out? Would we have gotten married? Settled down and raised a family together in his village or in the city? Could we have truly worked together as lovers or was our affair ill-fated from its origins?

…It does me no good to dwell on what could have been.
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She'd never told him about the child.

Around the time their relationship ended, he'd learned of her true allegiances in the world; of her being a Templar. He'd found out what she’d been after while they were working together and decided that, for the benefit of his people, it was best that they split ways. Reluctantly, she’d agreed with him and he pulled her into his arms for one last time to kiss her senseless. He promised to never contact her again afterwards, to which she only nodded, and then they broke off into their separate ways on their separate paths. Her heart was sad to see him go but her dedication to the Templar Order triumphed over all.

At the time she herself hadn't known that she was with child, for she didn't suffer from the sickness her mother had told her pregnant women got when she was younger. It came as a surprise when she started noticing her clothing getting tighter with every passing day. It was Charles who suggested she go see a physician one day after she'd asked him to make her a peculiar sandwich of fish, jam, and butter.

The most surprising thing was how well the rest of her group took the news. Johnson had congratulated her with a smile, Pitcairn had jokingly begun to come up with war strategy training schedules for the unborn tyke, Hickey smirked and spoke something perverted to her, and Church had offered to be her physician throughout the pregnancy. Charles had taken it the hardest of the bunch. Once Heather told him who the father was, the ugliest look of disgust flashed across his face before giving way to a softer expression. That day, he'd committed himself to doting on her every want and need, and she found herself giving in to him.

No matter how much Charles hated it, Heather would never forget the time she spent with Ziio. The life she now carried inside her would be a permanent reminder of her relationship with him.
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It had been over 8 months since she ended her relationship with Ziio. She rubbed her bulging belly, her womb swollen with the weight of a child. As the days dragged on, she began to grow tired of the weight in her lower abdomen and wished for the child to just come out already. It seemed her child was just as anxious as she was, for it moved and shifted around inside its warm and watery home whenever it could. It was a strange sensation to Heather, to feel something moving around inside her innards but the shock was starting to wear off and she wanted the damn thing out. None of her regular clothes could fit her anymore so she'd taken to wearing loose fitting blouses and trousers. Her breasts were sore and hurting, occasionally leaking what seemed to be milk, and her ankles were swollen. She acquired cravings of strange food combinations over the course of her pregnancy that she would have never even thought of beforehand.

A door creaking open brought Heather back to the present. "Madam Kenway?"

It was her faithful pupil. "Yes Charles?"

He'd walked into the room, moving closer to the desk she was seated at. "I was just coming to check up on you. We hadn't heard anything from you all morning."

She sat back in her chair and rubbed soothing circles over her bloated belly. The child was becoming restless and kicking at her stomach again. "I am fine Charles, although I can't say the same for the child inside me."

A worried expression furrowed Charles' brow. "Is something wrong? Shall I call your doctor to check?"

"No, it is just being active, is all." She moved her hand towards the spot where the child had shifted and elbowed her in the ribs.

Charles eyed her warily, not sure whether to believe her or not. "Are you sure? I can call him or your other doctor if you so wish."

"I assure you I am fine Charles. No need to worry yourself over the movement of a child within his mother's womb."

"If you say so, Madam Kenway." He sounded like he didn't believe her. "Is there anything you need?"

She sat forward in her chair, the motion rocking the child inside her. Now that she thought about it, she was hungry, her light breakfast of oats and biscuits wearing off from earlier in the day. “Yes there is, actually. Do you mind fetching me more of those oats that we were served for breakfast this morning? I am famished.”

Charles nodded and headed towards the door, looking back over his shoulder at her. “Would you like anything in it?”

“A few bits of fish, if there is any.”

"Yes Madam Kenway." He bowed his head and left, closing the door behind him. Her weird cravings were no longer having any effect on him.
After she made sure he left, Heather turned around in her seat, facing her desk. She pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook from a drawer and flipped through the pages. Her journal; the one place where she could collect her thoughts in peace besides her head. She picked up a fresh quill and began to write.

25th of February, 1756

Ziio’s child grows strong within me.
With each passing day, the joyous burden of motherhood grows ever so close. It is a shame that my child shall never know its father, as I knew my own. I believe Ziio and I could have raised a nice family, had we the chance.

There he is again, ruining my thoughts…

I have always wanted children but I do not think myself yet ready to fulfill the title of ‘mother’. There is so much work to be done in the name of the Order, so many things to do that I believe I would not have time to properly give my child the attention it deserves. I only want to be best mother I can, how my mother was with me. Oh my child, my little surprise, you are the right thing thrown at me at the wrong time.

Life is funny that way, I suppose.

After she finished writing, she placed her quill on the desk and read over her words. As she read, she sat back in her chair and started massaging her breasts. They'd started leaking again, leaving wet spots on the front of her shirt. She moved her hands under her shirt to her nipples, since that was the part that was hurting the most, and rubbed them tenderly. It helped.

A knock came from the door and Heather looked up, only to see Charles poking his head inside. He cocked an eyebrow at her but she just answered with a curt, "Sore breasts." and anything he had to say died on his tongue.

He looked away shyly, "I was coming to get you for a meeting with the others, Madam Kenway. Your food is out here as well."

Heather nodded and stood up, following him out of the room. It was early evening on a cold February day in the Green Dragon, and the place was as lively as it always was. A few of the tavern’s regulars, a group of four burly dockworkers, were at their usual table by the front door, having drinks over a friendly game of checkers. On the side of the room opposite of the dockworkers, a checkers game between two friends was getting out of hand. At the bar, a merchant was chatting quietly with his mistress about their next rendezvous. The small band in front played a catchy tune that made a few of the drunken men brave enough to stand in the middle of the room and do a jig, to which their friends whooped and hollered and egged them on. Catherine shook her head from behind the bar and continued filling orders.

Charles led Heather to the secluded meeting space in the tavern that they always used. Johnson, Pitcairn, and Hickey were all seated in their usual spots; the only one missing was Church.

"Where is Benjamin? Surely he knew we were meeting tonight?" She said, as Charles pulled out her chair for her at the head of the table. She thanked him as he walked to his own seat.

Pitcairn was the first to reply. "He said he needed to check up on something back at his old home."

Heather nodded. "Then we'll begin without him, for the time being. Start us off, William." Her stomach growled, so she started on her bowl of oats and fish chunks.

The businessman cleared his throat. "Ever since we rescued those captives, we've been garnering more attention from the natives these past few months. I've been meeting with the Iroquois Nation leaders about wanting to buy their land from them."

"And what do they say to that?" Charles asked.

"They're completely against the idea."

"Of course they are." Heather added. "They take us as loyal to the crown, that to which they are surely mistaken."

There was a strange look on William's face that Heather couldn't identify, "Then what do you suppose we do, madam?"

The child had begun to shift and roll in her womb, the motions disrupting her thoughts. She'd placed a hand on her swollen stomach to quell the movement, and felt a small foot push against her flesh. “In order to bring peace and order upon this land, we need the support of the people. We need to gain the trust of the tribes before we offer to buy any of their land."

"Wot about that Iri-Nation, or wotevah it's called." Hickey asked, a feather rolled between his hands. "Wot are we gonna do 'bout them?"
"They shall be consulted in due time, but for now we shall focus on the different tribes. If we gain the favor of the individual tribes, the collective board of nation representatives will have no choice but to hear us out."

"Sidestepping the Nation? That’ll give us more trouble than we want." Pitcairn added, poking at something on the table.

“Not if William heads the operation isn’t that right?” She looked to Johnson, who nodded in her direction. “As long as we don’t give them a reason to fight us, they won’t.”

"Wot ya keep doin' that for?" Hickey asked, breaking the short silence that had fallen over them. He pointed the feather at Heather's belly and the other men’s gazes followed.

"My child has become very active as of late," she changed her speed so that she was rubbing her whole belly, "and it is a very unpleasant feeling."

"You’ve grown tremendously over these past few months," Johnson remarked, "the child must be a heavy one."

Thomas scoffed and twirled the feather lightly, dusting it over the tabletop. "Ain't nofin heavy 'bout no baby."

Heather wanted to reach over the table and smack Thomas in his face. He just didn't know. "Oh you'd be surprised at how something so small could weigh so much. I’m sure you’d be complaining if you had to carry around and sustain a small being within your innards for nine months, but since you are anatomically incapable of doing so, I'll take your words concerning the matter with a grain of salt." She finished her bowl and pushed it away, wiping her mouth with a handkerchief.

Hickey snorted but said nothing else.

OP here: I don't have it bookmarked, but I'll try to look for it :)

OP here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=818377#t818377 Here it is, darling! Hope you enjoy :)

oh man, this just keeps getting better and better! i really like that this one is from Charles's point of view! it's nice to see the progression from his usual self to Washington's pet and some of how it went down in his eyes. and i really love the ending! the way Charles is so content with everything and the way Washington asks him about any siblings just makes it seem so normal and sweet in an odd sort of way despite how twisted it all is.

His Mother’s Son

Journal of Haytham Lee, aged 12

I have a confession to make. I’m very, very mad at Father. And Mother, too.

I shouldn’t be. I know.

But...

I thought things would get better. They used to be.

Father used to spend time with us, and he and Mother weren’t always happy, but there was no yelling.

But ever since Father hit Mother that time, he’s been angrier and angrier.

He got better at first, but then he just went back. He didn’t hit Mother again, but he’s not the Father I remember.

It’s not his fault, I know. Grandfather explained the difficulties at court. He said that it took too long to get something called standardized money. All the different states had their own money, but some states didn’t make things that anyone wanted and some states made things that everyone wanted. So everyone was getting confused when they wanted to buy things because there was too many different kinds of money around and no one knew how much it was all worth.

I’m not really sure I understand it, but Mother said he’d help me understand more later. Grandfather said that Mother really understands economics, whatever that is, so I guess I’ll have to wait for Mother to explain.

Grandfather said that because everyone was confused, a lot of people had to do bad things to live. He said that there were rebellions and uprisings because people were afraid. He said that those people didn’t really understand what was going on, but that some people who did had lied to them and took advantage of their confusion.

I asked why Father didn’t just make a single type of money, and Grandfather said it was because the country was still young and new, and that they didn’t have the power to force the states to do it yet, but that all the senators would vote on it.

I wonder how Grandfather will vote.

He also said there were other problems. A lot of the rich people at court wanted Father to send troops to protect their lands. The poor people were sneaking onto their land and using it to grow food for themselves or make stuff that they could sell later for food. The rich people didn’t like that their land was being stolen and made not pretty anymore, so they want Father to do something about the poor people.

Father had tried that, but the poor kept sneaking back on, and it was hard to keep them off. Grandfather said that it was because people weren’t always good and didn’t always obey order.

I’m not sure what I think about that.

But it’s enough to give me a headache, and I don’t even deal with it. If Father’s worrying about all of this, it’s no wonder that he’s mad all the time.

I really shouldn’t be mad at him. I really, really shouldn’t.

But I am.

It’s other people making him mad. Why is he coming home and yelling at Mother?

And Mother.

I just don’t understand him. Father’s always yelling at him, and he never seems to care!

I wanted to yell back at Father, but Mother wouldn’t let me.

He told me to go to my room.

I’m mad at Mother, too.

I really, really shouldn’t be, but...

At least the twins will be born soon. Doctor White said that there were only around 3 or 4 months left, and soon, I’ll have a baby brother or sister.

Father didn’t use to be this way. He always spent time with me before. He used to smile and laugh. He didn’t yell at Mother so much. Things will be better once the baby is born. Then things can go back to the way they were.

//Bites Nails//

Everything is going to hell, and Charles might be an asshole right now but I kind of pity the position he's in. Being King and having control isn't what it's cracked up to be. Wonder why he's yelling at Connor all the time. Maybe Connor refuses to bed with him being pregnant and all, or maybe he sees Connor is planning on leaving the moment he cracks from the pressure.

Simpler reason actually. Charles is under a lot of stress, and it's bringing all his insecurities to the forefront. He sees Connor with Haytham and notes how close they are and how relaxed Connor is with his son.

He sees the way Connor interacts with him, and it's a lot more guarded. And he's under a huge amount of stress. The rebellions are basically people telling him he's a shit King and that they can't wait to be free of him, and they actually elected him freely. Unlike Connor who he forced into the relationship.

So his insecurities are festering in his mind, and he's lashing out. Ironically, he even knows he's being stupid, but he can't help himself. He lashes out, gets angry that he lashed out, and then lashes out again 'cause he's angry that he has so little control over his temper.

Vicious cycle that Haytham doesn't really understand the half of. Older Haytham doesn't think much of emotional abuse (pretty sure the concept didn't exist back then), so he won't step in until things get physical.

Eep I hope this is satisfactory, OP! I’ve never written this particular kink before, so I hope it’s to your liking!

The elk lay dead on the white ground. Ratonhnhaké:ton could no longer hear its heartbeat strumming in his ears and the smell of its blood stung the air. He backed away from the kill, tense, dark eyes scouring. The elk was not his to eat. It belonged to the pack. He had killed it for them by the cold fang of his wrist and there it lay dead for them, its red blood dissolving into the white floor as it drained from the creature’s neck.

The pack moved as a silent creature. Ratonhnhaké:ton did not hear their footsteps padding against the white world until they were right behind him and one of their pelts brushed against his leg. They passed by him without and glance and trotted up to the elk, inspecting the dead beast with dark eyes, nearly black. One of them sniffed at the elk’s throat and lapped up blood that was spilling from the fresh wound. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn’t move from where he stood and he panted quietly with effort.

Though he made no noise, the wolves’ heads all raised as though they had thought one unified thought. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt scrutinized under their gaze. But their faces broke out into peaceable smiles as they panted and their tails wagged back and forth. One of them, they seemed to be saying. The elk lay dead from Ratonhnhaké:ton’s fang. He was one of them. He was a member of the pack.

The small wolf broke away from the other two to trot towards Ratonhnhaké:ton. Ratonhnhaké:ton had been standing on his hind legs and dropped to all fours as the first wolf approached. Its white and grey tail was wagging gently. Happy. Welcoming. Still Ratonhnhaké:ton ducked his head submissively as the wolf drew close. The wolf smelled of pine and the scent of blood faded away as the wolf’s cold nose nudged against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s cheek. It began to lick at his mouth and when Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled back his lips in surprise the wolf licked along his exposed teeth. The wolf drew away and walked around to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s side where it rested its head on the curve of his back. Its tail stopped beating and it gave a soft whimper. Happy whimper? Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn’t tell. His packmate was speaking to him. Ratonhnhaké:ton strained his ears but couldn’t hear the words within the small wolf’s whine.

But the wolf moved on in a moment, circling around behind him. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s attention swung back to the two other packmates – one sitting and watching him right back, and the other still sniffing curiously at the elk corpse – until he felt the wolf’s weight on top of him. Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a surprised yelp. The small wolf’s breath was already hot against his neck and its front legs were locked tightly around his torso as his new packmate began to rut its hips against his rear. Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered as he felt the wolf’s hips thrust up against him and its member rubbed against the fabric of his breeches. This was what the wolf wanted. Ratonhnhaké:ton was one of the pack.

His surprise faded into pleasurable ease and Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself growling gently underneath the small wolf’s possessive hold. He felt heat surging upwards in him. An animalistic instinct gripped his mind as he started to grind himself back against the wolf’s uneven thrusts. There was an issue of his breeches – why had he worn breeches? – and Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a disgruntled growl. He couldn’t discard them with the small wolf clinging onto him and the wolf was paying him no heed, panting happily against him, satisfied with the friction against Ratonhnhaké:ton’s pants.

Ratonhnhaké:ton gave a more urgent growl, twisting his lower half from side to side. His brother would not relent until Ratonhnhaké:ton finally rotated and shoved hard at the wolf’s shoulder, forcing the wolf to release him and stumble off with a confused whimper. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hand groped for the edge of his breeches and he yanked them down awkwardly with only his right hand, his left holding him upright. He could hear the small wolf pacing behind him, its whimpers needy. His packmate’s yearning noises sent another shiver down his spine and Ratonhnhaké:ton panted ragged against the white ground beneath him.

He managed to get his breeches down to his knees and spread his legs as far as he was able. As soon as he planted his right hand on the ground again, the small wolf was back and mounting him, this time its soft fur brushing against his bare skin. Ratonhnhaké:ton trembled as he felt the wolf’s member rubbing up against him, desperately seeking. Finally the small wolf slid into him and Ratonhnhaké:ton groaned loudly at the feeling of something inside of him. His back arched beneath the wolf’s weight and he squeezed his eyes shut. The small wolf was thrusting in and out of him vigorously and Ratonhnhaké:ton could practically hear the wolf’s smile in its heavy breaths.

The haze was torn by a snarl directly in front of him. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s body jolted and his eyes snapped open. The white world was bright and past him strode the second wolf, the she-wolf’s nose pressed close to his majestic haunches. Without a thought Ratonhnhaké:ton knew that the wolf was the alpha, his alpha. The alpha was scolding, snapping at the small wolf gripped to Ratonhnhaké:ton’s back. The small wolf’s thrusts had slowed and Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself trembling with need. The movement stopped all together as the alpha snarled again and there was a snap of teeth against air. The small wolf whined, its warmth sliding from Ratonhnhaké:ton as it scrambled off his back.

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn’t hide his disappointment at the emptiness. The air felt cold on his bare skin and he managed a disgruntled growl. His brother had teased him, leaving him with an unsatisfied warmth that burned in the pit of his stomach.

Before he could move, a much heavier weight mounted him. His arms gave out and he collapsed onto his elbows with a gasp. His alpha. Its growls were loud and uttered in his ear, only for him. The alpha’s legs were hooked around his torso. With his rear melded against his alpha’s hips, the heat within him only swelled. The throbbing between his legs was becoming unbearable. As the alpha began to gyrate against him, Ratonhnhaké:ton dug his fingers against the white, desperately trying to keep his hips still. He moaned against the ground when the alpha found his entrance, the sound deep and strange sounding as the alpha panted its hot breath in his ear.

The alpha began to thrust into him immediately, rocking Ratonhnhaké:ton forward and back. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s cheek was pressed against the white floor and he stared outwards into nothing. He could hear the small wolf still whimpering and pacing somewhere behind him but the noise was distant compared to the possessive growls of the alpha and his own needy whines. Above him the alpha’s teeth snapped at his shoulder as it growled, thrusting wildly in its own untamed rhythm. Its snarls became muffled as it clamped down on a mouthful of the thick fabric of Ratonhnhaké:ton’s clothing. Ratonhnhaké:ton gasped and twisted but the alpha had taken care not to nip any of his skin. The alpha was welcoming. It was taking Ratonhnhaké:ton into the pack and making sure he heard its heartbeat against his back and smelled the scent of forest around them.

The alpha was pushing him closer and the wolf’s steadying growls could not stop Ratonhnhaké:ton from writhing beneath him as the heat within him skirted close to the brink. He was a wolf, burning with the heat of his alpha’s growls above him. Then he felt something much larger stretching his entrance. The alpha’s breathing had become short and his thrusts were less erratic. The pressure incited the first sparks of pain and Ratonhnhaké:ton clawed at the ground, giving a shuddering moan as the alpha’s entire girth was pushed within him.

And then the alpha came, filling Ratonhnhaké:ton with an overwhelming warmth that leaked out past the knot and ran down the insides of his thighs. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat as the alpha’s climax drove him to completion. He whimpered as he came all over the ground, rutting against the air until his whimpers dissolved into contented pants. He could hear the small wolf still whining and its cold nose nudged at his thigh as the she-wolf licked sweat from his neck. The alpha, still embedded deep within him, breathed heavily against his shoulder. They were his pack and his brothers. Ratonhnhaké:ton’s eyes flitted shut and his trembling knees gave way beneath the alpha’s weight.

As he collapsed completely into the white, the ground below him suddenly softened. The smell of pine was overwhelming. His body still felt boneless but Ratonhnhaké:ton became aware of how empty and cold he was. He blinked his eyes open, lifting his head from the dirt. His breeches were still down at his knees but his pack had vanished into the void of white. Ratonhnhaké:ton pulled his trembling body into a sitting position. He breathed in the cold air, and all around him the wild breathed back.

I don't know about you but I would love to see Desmond dealing with a customer like this - http://notalwaysright.com/why-barkeeps-should-rule-the-world-part-2/2319 - and handeling it like a total badass.

Oh goodness that was wonderful anon! Thank you so much for the fast delivery!!
*Goes to re-read*

I LOVE this!

SECONDED WITH THE FIRE OF A THOUSAND SUNS.

omg bless you writer!anon. This was perfect and I loved it so much asdfghjkl; Super mega kudos to you for delivering such a quality fic so fast. I really can't express how much I enjoyed reading this, especially because I didn't expect anyone to fill at all.

Thank you!!!

brb doing a charles/haytham fill

I love you, WriterAnon! Can't wait to read more. :D

....That's pretty much the entire prompt. Use any character(s) you want, though I'd prefer an ACIII man. Go crazy!

This is the kind of thing that needs multiple fills. <3

SECONDING FOR GREAT JUSTICE.

~~And contemplating the merits of filling for Desmond.~~

Charles grins, and sinks down slowly.

"Why is it I always end up doing all the hard work?" he asks, mock-irritated, as he gradually settles on his knees.

"Because you're young and spritely and you love me." Haytham pats his cheek, fondly. "My legs simply aren't what they used to be, my dear."

"Your legs are divine," Charles replies. "You're going to give me arthritis, you know."

"It'll be worth it," Haytham chuckles.

"Oh, I'm sure it will," Charles says, finally resting on Haytham's hips. He waits a few moments, breathing deeply. He gives a tentative grind, and Haytham hisses in pleasure.

"You are such a tease," Haytham sighs. "You can hurry up, you know."

Charles shakes his head, grinding down again.

"You're forgetting something. We have all night. The house is empty, save us. I fully intend to make you scream. It's not often we have an opportunity like this."

Oh, won't the assassins under the bed just love hearing that?

Haytham gives Charles a wicked smile.

"I suppose you have a point. Get on with it, then."

And Charles does. He rolls his hips down in an irregular rhythm, mixing fast and hard with tantalisingly slow. He relishes in the groans and moans that escape Haytham's throat, and lets out a few gasps and cries himself.

"That's cheating, Haytham," Charles chastises, breathlessly, as Haytham's hips jerk involuntarily.

"If you weren't so damned slow, perhaps I wouldn't need to resort to cheating," Haytham manages to snap, between gasps. Charles laughs, the vibrations feeling divine around him.

"Is that so?"

Without warning, Charles moves at a breakneck pace, apparently seeking to push Haytham over the edge as fast as he can. Haytham throws his head back, grips Charles' hips as hard as he can, can't stop himself from thrusting, can't stop the sounds tearing their way from his mouth. It takes less than a minute for him to reach his limit, for the tightening in his balls and stomach to become unbearable, for him to be about-- about to--

Charles stops, abruptly, and Haytham lets out a frustrated noise.

"Cheaters can't be winners," he says, panting. It takes Haytham too long to remember how talking works, for Charles' words to sink in.

"You bastard…" he moans, weakly.

"Beg," Charles smiles sweetly. He rocks teasingly.

"Please continue," Haytham gasps. "Please."

Charles reaches down and traces his lips with a cool finger. Hums in indecision.

"I suppose that's good enough," he says, and starts to move again.

It takes only a few moments for Haytham to shatter with a desperate groan, and he's vaguely aware of Charles climbing off him. When he opens his eyes, Charles is pressing a clean handkerchief into his hand.

"Th'nk you," he mumbles, and wipes the grease and semen from his skin with clumsy hands. He can hear Charles shifting beside him, presumable also cleaning himself up. His ears pick up the muffled noise of someone's erratic breathing, a faint rustling of fabric, the slight wet sounds of people mouthing words to each other.

He smirks.

"Let me finish you off, Charles," he says, after another few moments' recovery. He begins sitting up slowly.

"I was hoping you'd offer, Haytham," Charles answers.

He’d heard talk of Charles’s temper. He’d seen Charles lash out at Thomas for relatively minor things. Haytham had never taken any of it seriously; at least, not where he was concerned. Perhaps he should have been, but Charles made it hard for Haytham to be concerned about any such temper. Charles practically worshipped the ground he walked on, would likely lick his boot and take a bayonet through the throat of it pleased Haytham, what reason would Charles ever have to lose his cool around Haytham?

Haytham still isn’t quite sure of the reason, even as it happens. All he is sure of is that others were right to fear this temper, to walk on egg shells more often than not around this man.

It isn’t the hands at his throat or the words he says or the torn up clothes that terrify him—it’s the way it all happens. It’s the way the hands at his throat barely graze his skin, the way they tickle more than torture, and the way they’re so gentle that if Haytham hadn’t known any better, he would have thought they were just another way that Charles worshipped him. It’s the way the words are said—so soft and sweet and kind in tone, almost enough to make him forget that Charles is really saying things like “you should have never gone off with that woman” and “you should have listened” and “if you’d only realized sooner, perhaps it wouldn’t have come to this”. It’s the way the threats are so comforting, so respectful, that it’s enough to make him fear for his life while sparking a desire to hear more just to have someone speak to him in that way. It’s the way that the words and the touch were enough to make him want to tear his own clothes away at Charles’s command, the way it all makes him want to get this over with so that the torture might be over sooner while, at the same time, making him genuinely want the whole thing to be prolonged. It’s the way Charles has this ability to propel him into doing what he wants through the fear, the way Charles knows exactly how to get even the strongest of men to do what he wants no matter how much it might terrify them. And then it’s the way that all of that gentleness, all of that false respect and sweetness disappears in an instant.

When Charles decides that Haytham’s shaking fingers are taking too long, that he’s tired of waiting to take what he wants Charles’s feather light grip around his throat tightens, just enough to cause pain without choking him just yet. When Charles loses his patience, his eyes open from their half lidded state and Haytham can see the desire in them, he can see the spark of energy that grows and grows when he sees the fear in Haytham’s own eyes. Haytham stops his own shaking then, though not from some sort of misplaced confidence. He stops the shaking in his hands because Charles wants him to, because if Haytham doesn’t the promise in Charles’s eyes—the promise that Haytham will be his own demise—will become more than just a promise.

Haytham has known from the beginning that Charles had a way about him that made others want to do as he said. It’s what made him a great general; it’s what made him the obvious choice to rule this country once that damned Washington is out of the way. Haytham hadn’t anticipated that Charles would ever use his gift in this way and certainly not that he would have ever used it on Haytham. Yet here he is, terrified of what’s to come and still practically offering himself of Charles because it’s what Charles wants. It doesn’t matter if Haytham really wants it. He’ll want it because Charles wants it and when Charles wants something, he gets it.

And then Charles truly gets tired of waiting and he forces Haytham against the wall so hard it truly knocks the air out of him—a tad problematic when Charles is quick to wrap one hand around his throat again, this time squeezing so hard that it does prevent any air getting to his lungs. The pain of that is nothing compared to the pain of Charles entering him, though. Charles does it dry and hard and fast and it rips a strangled sob from Haytham’s throat. There’s nothing satisfying about this. There’s nothing compelling about this. The time for compelling Haytham into doing what he wants is passed. Now is the time for Charles to take.

His thrusts only get harder and faster and deeper the longer this all goes and there’s a hand at his cock and it’s strange how his cock wants this all to continue while the rest of his body is screaming for him to force Charles away. But he can’t. He can’t. He deserves this doesn’t he? Charles told him so in that honey sweet way of his right before Haytham brought him to the end of his seemingly endless patience. Haytham has never truly appreciated Charles for all that he does for him. He never shows the gratitude that Charles deserves and now he’s paying for it. Now, Charles will get what he wants while Haytham acts like he wants it. Charles will force Haytham to experience the lack of appreciation that he’s been feeling all this time.

Charles deliberately misses that spot that will have Haytham writhing and moaning and begging for more. That would bring too much pleasure. The point of this is the pain and Charles knows exactly how to maximize it all. It’s the hand on Haytham’s cock, stroking hard and fast that brings him any pleasure at all and even that is minimal. Charles just wants Haytham’s body to turn against him, to continue to make him want the pain because of the little bit of pleasure he’s getting from this. Charles gets what he wants, of course.

Haytham’s vision is getting fuzzy. He’s feeling light headed and trying to hold on to any and all feeling he can grasp and it makes him almost grateful when his body betrays him and he comes in Charles hand. At least it’s some form of sensation. The lack of air is getting to him and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll manage to stay awake.

But suddenly it’s all over. The whole illusion that this was something Charles had forced him to do rather than something Haytham requested of him is shattered when Charles pulls out before he finishes. When Charles turns him around, it’s without the aggression that he’d pushed Haytham into the wall with and the glint of evil promises is gone from Charles eyes now. Haytham glares at him for that.

“Charles, what are you doing?”

Haytham sends a pointed look down to Charles’s erection. Strange for a rapist to stop what they’re doing before they’re done. Charles looks to the bruises on Haytham’s throat and Haytham knows Charles is listening far too closely to his breathing—making sure he is still breathing.

“Haytham…”

Charles’s voice is concerned and Haytham sighs, knowing there’s no way to bring back the illusion now. Charles is far too lost in his concern over Haytham’s well-being for that. Instead, Haytham takes a step closer, wraps his hand around Charles’s cock, and gives it a few well practiced strokes to bring Charles to completion.

Charles wraps his arms around Haytham and presses his nose to Haytham’s cheek. His voice has that gentle tone again, but this time there’s nothing false about it. It’s not meant to compel Haytham into doing anything now.

Haytham ignores Charles’s concerned whispers and leads them to his bed. They’ll have to work on this, though if Haytham were truly honest with himself, he’s surprised Charles even made it this far. Charles is far too attuned to Haytham’s well-being. Getting him to participate in this little fantasy of Haytham’s was likely the hardest thing Haytham has ever had to do. Likely, it’ll be even harder next time.

When they’re on the bed Charles presses light kisses to Haytham’s throat where the newly formed bruises are and curls up next to Haytham. Charles falls asleep that way and despite the much harsher end to the night that Haytham had envisioned, he can’t help but smile at the sight. He rubs a thumb affectionately across the younger man’s cheek and presses a kiss to his forehead. This isn’t how he wanted things to end tonight, but he would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy this, too.

If this has been prompted already, excuse me - I'm new here.
So there are tons of prompts about for father/son bonding with Haytham and Connor, not to mention the slash, but could I get something where Haytham tries to play the 'dad' card and at first Connor's like 'wow don't know how I feel about that but yay for family?' but pretty soon he comes to terms with the facts and realizes that Haytham may be his biological father, but didn't raise him, and doesn't love or respect him. He realizes that he doesn't need a father in his life to be a whole and complete person - Ziio raised him well enough for the both of them.
Yeah okay maybe a little bit of a pity prompt but single moms are my favorite moms so lots of Ziio mentions y/y?

An amazing fill! Your characterization of Connor was perfect. (and thank you for not making fem!connor ooc)

A/N: I hope no one minds a second fill! I had a dorky modern AU idea that wouldn't go away, haha.

Connor was pacing around his room when he finally heard the sound of pebbles being tossed at the window. Immediately he rushed to the sill, squinting out into the darkness. The porch lights were on and he could make out a young boy standing outside, stooped to grab more pebbles to toss at Connor’s second-story bedroom window.

Finally he was here. Connor had called him nearly fifteen minutes ago and said it was an emergency and to bring all of the guns he could stuff into his bag. It’d taken a while to convince Clipper to sneak out of his house, since it was nearly 8:00 and both of their bedtimes. But after Connor had insisted it was an emergency over and over, Clipper had relented.

Connor shoved open the window and stuck his head outside. Clipper was lucky it wasn’t a super emergency, or the mission might have been compromised in the fifteen minutes it took him to get over here.

“Clipper!” he hissed down to the boy standing in the garden. “Get up here!”

Clipper dropped the pebbles in his hand and looked up as he heard Connor. He hesitated, shifting his weight, not sure whether to shout or whisper. “I can’t climb up that, Connor!” he finally hissed back. “Why can’t I just use the front door?”

Connor rolled his eyes and gave a loud sigh. Clipper was his best friend, but he didn’t seem to understand what it meant to be an Assassin no matter how many times Connor explained it to him. Assassins were stealthy and smart and perfectly capable of climbing up the side of a house. Connor climbed up the house all the time. Not that his father knew; he get grounded for sure if he ever found out. And then his father would tell his mother, and even though his mom let him sit on the roof with her and watch the city lights, she’d flip her lid and all in all his mother’s temper was something Connor would rather avoid.

Which is why scaling his father’s house was an Assassin secret. One that Clipper would obviously spoil if he went and rang the doorbell.

“Assassins don’t use front doors!” Connor reminded him for what could have been the millionth time.

“I’m not an assassin, I’m a...” He seemed to be struggling to remember what role Connor had given him. “I’m a sharpshooter!”

“An Assassin sharpshooter!” Connor leaned further out of the window. Clipper couldn’t seem to understand that he was both. Connor was an Assassin assassin, and Clipper was an Assassin sharpshooter. Not that hard to remember. “Come on, I’ll help you! It’s easy!”

Even in the dim light he could tell that Clipper wasn’t too convinced. That’s why he needed Connor to lead him, or else he’d probably get nothing done. But Clipper approached the side of the house and looked up at him expectantly.

“Okay, get on the electric box!” Connor directed, waving his hand at the green utility box covered with warning pictures of people getting zapped. Good thing it was dark and Clipper wouldn’t notice those. When Clipper climbed up onto the box dutifully, Connor pointed again. “Alright you gotta climb up the fence!”

It wasn’t a fence but a trellis, erected so his father’s vines and stupid boo-gan-vill-eas could grow up the side of the house. Either way, Connor found that its position right beneath his window made it easy to enter and exit the house without having to worry about running into his father or Charles Lee.

“I don’t think that’s safe—” Clipper started to whine, but Connor cut him off.

“I do it all the time! Trust me!”

Clipper sucked in a breath, gripping the fence beneath the foliage. He stuck his foot in one of the holes in the trellis and then slowly the other one. The flowers shook with his weight, but the trellis didn’t fall, as he’d half-expected.

He began to climb upwards, trying not to step on any of the flowers and also avoiding looking up or down. As he neared the top the entire trellis began to shake.

“Connor!” Clipper shouted and froze up, holding tight to the trellis.

“Put your foot on that brick right there!” Connor said as he leaned out of the window, reaching out for Clipper’s hand. He could hear Clipper shakily exhale but he put his weight on the loose brick and pushed upwards. It gave him the leverage needed for Connor to grab his hand. Clipper’s feet scraped against the side of the house as Connor pulled him inside. He dragged Clipper through the open window and both of them collapsed onto the rug.

“That was not easy,” Clipper pouted as soon as he caught his breath.

Connor ignored him. “You got the guns?” he asked, his voice deadly serious.

Clipper huffed, slipping the backpack off his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said, unzipping it. Clipper was Connor’s sharpshooter because he owned probably a thousand and one Nerf guns. Clipper had like fifty brothers and they kept all of their Nerf guns in the garage. Connor only had one Nerf gun that his father had bought him that time Connor had been dragged out to run errands with him and Charles. But it wasn’t as cool as Clipper’s Nerf guns.

Connor’s eyes lit up immediately and he began to paw through the backpack. His favorite was the big pistol that he could stick into his jeans pocket like a holster. Clipper always chose the Nerf sniper rifle, which was three feet long and could shoot up to twenty feet. Connor wasn’t sure exactly how far twenty feet was, but that’s what it had said on the box.

“Where’s your bow?” Clipper asked him, sitting back as Connor took his pick of the Nerf guns.

“It was confiscated,” Connor grumbled. Confiscated by his mother of all people. Apparently it was authentic and belonged to his great-grandfather, and the reason why it was sitting on the mantle was not so little boys could take it and try to shoot real flint-tipped arrows at the vegetables in their fathers’ gardens.

Clipper said nothing as Connor found his favorite gun (which actually belonged to Clipper’s brother Emory). The bottom of the backpack was filled with loose Nerf darts and Connor grabbed a handful, shoving them in his other pants pocket. It was always best to be prepared in case something went wrong on a mission. On the mission to assassinate Charles’s annoying dog Spado, they’d used up all of their ammo shooting at the Pomeranian from the kitchen window, and had none left for when Charles Lee appeared.

“So what’s the emergency?” Clipper finally asked.

Connor frowned as he jammed Nerf darts into his gun. “We gotta do some spy work.”

“I thought we were assassins.”

“Assassins do spy work!” Connor apparently had to write down exactly what Assassin’s did and tape it to Clipper’s forehead, because his friend kept on forgetting. In all actuality Assassins did pretty much whatever Connor wanted to do at the time, but he liked to pretend that there was an official Assassin’s Creed that everyone had to follow. “The Templars are in the drawing room—”

“What’s a drawing room?” Clipper interjected.

Connor scrunched up his face. He’d heard his father use the word once, but he couldn’t remember what room he was talking about. “It’s the room that adults draw pictures in and stuff. S’not important. What’s important is that the Templars are busy so we can do some looking around.”

“What’re we looking for?” Clipper asked, leaning forward to grab his Nerf rifle from the top of the bag.

“Anything.” Connor’s voice dropped to a whisper again as he became eager. “Something that tells us what they’re planning.”

“Are your dad and Charles Lee the only Templars?”

“No way. My dad’s just the leader of them,” Connor sniffed, as though he was a little proud of that fact. “There’s Templars everywhere. My dad’s work is just a cover for Templars.”

“Abstergo Industries?” Clipper clarified. Abstergo Industries’s local hub fueled the town economically and a lot of people worked there, Connor’s father and Charles Lee included.

“Yeah.” Connor stood, dusting off his pants. “All Templars.” His father would invite over work friends to have dinner from time to time. Most of them were mean or just ignored Connor, but one of his father’s friends was really nice and had a beard and spoke with a funny accent. He told Connor to call him William and brought Connor a stick of rock candy. Connor would’ve liked him if he didn’t work at Abstergo and wasn’t an evil Templar. But he was, so Connor had to throw the candy out and spend the entire evening spying on his father’s coworkers with his binoculars from the banister.

“What about your mom?”

Connor rolled his eyes as he zipped Clipper’s backpack back up. “She says she doesn’t want to get involved,” he replied. Which was ridiculous, because in the battle over the fate of mankind, one would think she’d want to be involved.

The only adult Connor knew was on his side was Grandpa Edward. Connor became convinced that Grandpa Edward was an Assassin the moment Grandpa Edward let him steer his boat when they were out at open sea. His father was completely against the idea, but Grandpa Edward had insisted it was fine, Connor was a Kenway. He’d clapped Connor on the back and called him “Captain Connor” and taught him which way was starboard and which way was port. When Grandpa Edward took the wheel back, he said he was going to have to get Connor a little sailor’s hat, because Connor was a natural-born seaman. Connor had decided there was no way someone as cool as Grandpa Edward could be a Templar.

So he’d told Grandpa Edward about the Templars and the Assassins and that he was sure his grandpa was an Assassin. Grandpa Edward had laughed and winked at him – Connor was a smart boy, he’d said. Connor shared his secret Assassin plans with him and told him about how his best friend Clipper was an Assassin too and he had a lot of Nerf guns. He told him how the Templars were still trying to take over the world and mind control people into doing things they didn’t want to do, like his first grade teacher Mr. Rodrigo who wouldn’t let him stay inside and read during recess or bring his stuffed turkey to school.

When Connor asked how his father had turned into a Templar, Grandpa Edward got really quiet and sad. Grandpa Edward said it wasn’t Haytham’s fault. Sometimes Assassins try really hard, he’d said, so hard that they end up forgetting what’s most important to them. He hoped that someday Haytham would become an Assassin again. Connor doubted it. His father couldn’t be an Assassin. He was about as Templar as they came.

“Okay,” Connor said as he hopped up. He shoved Clipper’s backpack underneath his bed with his foot – he couldn’t risk his father checking in on him and noticing the foreign backpack right in the middle of the floor. “We’ll write down everything we find in the mission log.”

The mission log was a bound notebook with Connor’s Assassin symbol on the front. Grandpa Edward had gotten it for him for his birthday, and Connor kept it in his underwear drawer so neither his father nor Charles would stumble across it. If they looked through the book and discovered all of his Assassin missions, everything would be compromised. Connor only shared the mission log with Grandpa Edward when they went to visit.

Mission log and pencil in his hoodie pocket and his hand brushing against his Nerf pistol, Connor turned back to Clipper, who was still sitting cross-legged on the ground and picking at a loose string on the carpet.

“Ready?” Connor urged.

Clipper glanced up and grudgingly got to his feet. He tilted the large Nerf gun against his shoulder. “Aye, captain,” he replied with a tired salute.

Connor preferred to be called grandmaster, but captain was going to be good enough. He grinned at Clipper as he crept over towards the bedroom door and turned the knob. “Let’s move,” he whispered, pulling the white hood of his Washington Elementary School sweatshirt up over his head and opening the door into the hallway.

Other author-anon here! Asdfghjkl this was is so cute and perfect so far, I can't even

Grandpa Edward! Mama Ziio! William Johnson! Spado! RODRIGO BORGIA EVEN MADE A BRIEF APPEARANCE OH MY GOD! I'm going to guess Haytham and Charles are married or something in this AU?

Anyway point is, ILU, and I need more of this like AIR because I'm dying of cute overload right now

TEMPLAR!ANON IS PISSED

BECAUSE YOU GUYS KEEP GIVING ME ALL THESE IDEAZ
I'M CURRENTLY WRITING A NICE ROBERT DE SABLE
AND SUDDENLY I GET IMAGES OF RAPETRUCK!ROBERT.

WHAT THE HELL OP.
Hnnnngggg!
Dude Imma step back and second this for any passing anons to fill because I have way too much on my plate. But if no one fills I might just jump on on this.

Heheh, while the HaythamCharles smut is hot, I do feel for the poor virgin Assassins under the bed.

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