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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✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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:D thank you! I'm glad that you like Ziitham - it is sorely missed. I'll have to write some more when an appropriate prompt pops up...

Yes because Templar!Anon writes everything that has Templars in it fml. That other fic is being updated today or tomorrow btw.

ASDFGHJKL; Good because I'm the OP of that prompt and I'm in love with it.

Just to let you know, I am working on the next part (it's about halfway done), and I haven't forgotten about this! Between RL being rather horrible work-wise, and catching gastroenteritis... no excuse, I know, but I just wanted to let you guys know THIS FILL IS NOT ABANDONED! THERE WILL BE NEW THINGS SOON!

Oh, Haytham's head is in such an interesting place with his thoughts on Charles and Connor. Now that the Templars have accepted his death or are using the funeral as a trap, wonder what Haytham plans on doing next.

This was so hot! Thank you for filling /goes back to reread/

One day, he has a headache.

It's a minor thing, just an irritating tingle behind his right eye, but he doesn't remember ever experiencing the sensation before, and the ache makes him slightly anxious and confused. When His Majesty and a guest have their way with him in the throne room that afternoon, the pain worsens, but not too intolerably.

When he is returned to his cell in the evening, there is a native waiting for him. The eyes look familiar. He has seen him before, he thinks. “Clean up His Majesty's pet, savage,” instructs the guard before he locks the door and leaves. The native looks at the slave with dismay. The cell is not completely without comfort; there's a small wash basin. The native tells him to sit on the pallet he does so, albeit gingerly, still tender.

“I'm going to touch you,” says the native carefully, “but I do not want you to touch me. At all. Understood?” The slave nods warily. When the native runs a wet cloth over his face and neck, he shivers in delight. When the young man asks tells him to take off his shirt and pants that he might wash beneath, he does so without hesitation. The man gasps and asks what they did to his back, tells him that it's crisscrossed in scars, and the slave doesn't know what to tell him; he hadn't known.

“And your fingers?”

His fingers? He stares at his hands knotted in his lap and realizes with a start that he only has eight fingers. The ring finger on his right hand has been reduced to the first joint, and the smallest finger next to it is missing entirely. The scar tissue is thick, but well healed; an old trauma, then. Even more disturbing, though, is he realizes that he doesn't remember why he's missing his fingers. How had it happened? One doesn't just loose fingers. Try as he might, though, all he can remember of the incident is a flash of searing pain, and eyes that are the color of fresh spring grass.

“I don't know,” he admits, quietly. The young man looks sad. Further down, the native's face flushes and bids the slave to do the rest himself. When dinner comes, there are two trays. The native takes both, only permitting the slave his meal after he removes some sort of vegetable from his tray and wastefully dumps his tea out the window. Later, they both climb onto the pallet, which is just large enough for two, and the slave thinks that perhaps the man will want to touch him, but native wraps himself tightly in one of the blankets and turns his face to the wall.

The next day, the ache is worse, has spread to the side of his head. Disjointed thoughts assault him out of no where, flashes that pound at his brain but then vanish again so quickly that he can't make any sense of them. A ship at sea. A painted cave. A circle of strange metal with a hole in the middle. The eyes of the boy in someone else's face. When he is brought back to his cell, this time he is not surprised to see the native boy there. When the two are alone, the native asks him how he is feeling. The slave has a notion that the native has asked him this before. He confesses to nothing; not his growing unease, nor the first stirrings of panic, nor the constant throb of pain in his skull. When dinner comes, the man takes his tea and vegetables, and then throws them out the window.

The day after that, he knows there is something very wrong. He kneels to the right of His Majesty's throne. The collar around his neck feels very heavy, the chain seeming to weigh him down, a long snake of dead iron resting between his shoulder blades and down his spine. He feels miserable. He sweats even though there is a chill in the air and shivers uncontrollably. The pounding behind his eyes is relentless.

He looks around, tries to find a distraction from the pain. He regards his surroundings; it has been a long time since he has had any interest. He thinks that maybe, at some point, the great room was some sort of banquet hall. His Majesty's throne sits upon a large dais flanked by large, sweeping staircases. The walls that are not occupied by large paintings are adorned with muskets, pistols, sabers and swords of all different vintages and qualities, arranged in patterns and juxtapositions that are both menacing and disorienting. Long tables that could easily sit twenty men have been turned over on their sides in the center of the room, arranged in a circle, legs pointing outwards.

A crowd has gathered, mainly soldiers but there are a few gentlemen in powdered wigs as well. They cheer and curse at two men in the center of the ring of tables, passing money back and forth and shouting out what he assumes are gambling odds. The two men are both naked to the waist. One is the native boy that was in his cell when he was roused that morning, the other is a white man. They circle each other, grappling and punching. He thinks he can hear the boy's voice, hears something echo off the high ceiling that sounds like a plea. Is he trying to reason with the man he was fighting? If so, he may as well yell at stone for all the good it would do.

There's something he doesn't like about the boy. He doesn't trust him. The boy... did something. He doesn't know what, or when, but something had happened between them that had not ended well for the slave. The sight of the boy makes him uneasy. Improbably, he thinks of the colors white, red, and blue. But the boy is wearing brown, his skin is brown, his eyes are brown. Only his teeth are white. And when did he start thinking of him as “the boy,” anyway? Clearly, he is a man. Young, yes, but very obviously a grown man.

He looks away. He's seen these sorts of bouts before; sometimes they are fought bare-fisted, like today, other times with knifes, clubs, swords and spears. No matter what weapons are used, the outcome is always the same: one man walks away, the other does not. Although something about the boy troubles him, he does not want to watch the boy beaten to the ground, to watch the light fade in his eyes and his face and body go slack on the floor.

A hand trails lazily across his cheek and his breath hitches in his throat.

The burn is still there, but it's a reduced sensation, not as intense or urgent, and when he shudders it is more from revulsion than pleasure. He tries to ignore it, but there's a tightness coiling in his guts, and what's left of his hands clench in the rough material of his pants. His head pounds as loud and insistent as a warning bell. Not again. This is wrong, shameful. His Majesty's hand continues to wander, pressing against his lips, and the slave has no choice other than to open his mouth, admitting the fingers. They taste like butter and salt, probably from His Majesty's luncheon. He sucks on them obediently, lapping at them with his tongue as the king thrusts them in and out of his mouth.

In short order, a hand grabs his collar and he is jerked roughly upwards. He gets to his feet, unsteady; it feels as if the ground is shifting beneath his feet. He comes to stand before the king.

“Breeches off,” the king commands and his throat goes dry. That's the last thing he wants to do, the room is thronged with people, and this is shameful, what they're doing, but the worst thing he can do is disobey. Clumsy fingers undo the drawstring at his navel and the garment falls to the floor. He kicks it aside.

“What's this?” His Majesty pushes aside the frayed hem of the shirt and grips his slave's flaccid cock in his spit-soaked fingers. Normally, he'd be half on his way to an erection by now, simply from the caress of bare flesh against his skin. “Are we feeling neglected, pet?” His words are amused, but there's an irritated edge to them; he's displeased.

He doesn't respond, but his master gives his cock a few firm pumps and he moans helplessly, bucking into his fist. There's the burn, the skin to skin contact that he desperately needs, and his cock twitches to life. Traitor, he thinks. The king's member is already hard; he can see the bulge in His Majesty's breeches. He wonders what prompted it; was it watching two men attempt to beat each other bloody? The thought makes him nauseous. The king frees himself with his other hand, gives that a few strokes as well, and eases his own breeches further down his hips. The slave doesn't dare look him in the face, but he can see the other man's smirk in his periphery. He can feel the flush spreading over his face, spreading down his chest, his breathing is uneven and has a harsh edge to it. The pounding of his heart is as hard as the pounding in his head.

“Up with you,” His Majesty commands, and the slave resists the urge to cringe, knowing what's to come next. Can't his master see that he's unwell? Can he not detect the tremor in his limbs, see the beads of perspiration on his brow, how ragged his breathing has become? Perhaps he had somehow mistook the signs for lust. Or maybe he simply didn't notice at all—that was more likely. Even as the slave clumsily mounts the broad seat of the throne, his knees to either side of his master's hips, his hands gripping the back of the gilded throne, his master's attention is focused beyond his slave's shoulder, on the combatants.

Two fingers probe his entrance—they're slicked with something, oil or grease, perhaps from the plate of sweet meats half consumed at the king's right hand. He knows he has to bare down, but his mind is panicking and his body isn't cooperating, and he gasps as His Majesty's fingers enter him, fingernails grazing the sensitive flesh.

“Relax!” he growls, but the tone has the opposite effect, and when another finger is added, the three of them thrust upward, a little cry of pain and fear escapes. A slap—the cheek of his ass smarts with pain.

“What's wrong with you?” His Majesty hisses. Dizzily, the slave wonders the same thing, his mouth bowing unhappily. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with YOU? The hand that had so roughly entered him withdraws and clasps his chin, forces him to meet his master's gaze. His bright cornflower blue eyes are narrowed in displeasure. His Majesty sees his sweat, his fever-bright eyes, his drawn and pained expression—sees and apparently does not care.

“Fuck yourself,” he commands. Trembling, the slave reaches beneath himself, finds His Majesty's cock and places the head against his asshole. Holding his breath, he lowers himself, feels the fat head of it part that tight ring of muscle, and can't tell if the burn is from pleasure or pain. He hesitates, lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes squeezed shut.

Hands grip hard enough to bruise, slam him down, and he can't choke back his scream.

It's been a long time since he's been treated so roughly. He tries to take slow, deep breaths, to elevate himself above pain, but as soon as the king sheaths himself, he lifts his slave and slams him back down again—stabbing him, flesh in flesh—and then a third time for good measure. The king groans low in his throat, rolling his hips.

“Is this how you want it?” he asks. The slave fervently shakes his head. “Then do as I demand.”

He does, limbs trembling, flexing the muscles of his thighs. The hands relax on his hips, and one goes to his diminished erection, and he grits his teeth. He doesn’t want this, he does not, but his body betrays him and with a few pumps, he's hard again, bucking up into his master's hand as much as he's forcing his hips down on King Washington's cock. He hates the reaction, the way his body automatically shifts, churns his hips, looking for the place inside him that makes him moan and shudder and lights him up from the inside out. Some part of him wants it—no, needs it. Loves the way he impales himself until he's uncomfortably full, delights in the way his body stretches to accommodate his master, muscles fluttering eagerly around that column of hard, invading flesh—but his mind is panicking. The more aroused he becomes, the sicker he feels, the higher his fever climbs, and the throbbing in his head is pure agony.

The slap of thighs against ass rings off the walls. He hears snickers and laughing behind him, tries to ignore it, but the words fall like blows. Whore. Slut. Bitch. His face burns with shame, but he can't stop the downwards thrust of his hips, not when he's so close, not when his master's hand circles his shaft, milking the head with brisk jerks, kneads his heavy balls, making him moan with want.

But his mind interferes. His guts threaten him, though, make him aware that in no uncertain terms that if he continues things are going to end badly. Bile rises in his throat as well as panic. His movements become uncoordinated, hesitant, sloppy, and his master grunts in annoyance, grasps him by the hips and slams him down again, mercilessly. He struggles for air—it feels like he can't get enough, like he's trying to breathe through a reed, and his body writhes uselessly, limbs trembling. He can't help but wonder why, why is this happening?

And then a thought bubbles to the surface of his tortured mind: all of this—his missing fingers, the scars, the cock rudely forcing his body to suit his master, even the boy in the ring of tables fighting for his life, the throne beneath his bruised knees and the crown upon His Majesty's head—all of it is somehow his fault, that it's a fact that's as immutable and undeniable as the sky is blue, water is wet, and fire burns.

His Majesty groans, jerking his property down, burring himself to the hilt, and the slave can feel the man's cock pulse, feel the wetness—and his body spasms as well, but for an entirely different reason. He scrambles back, fist clenched over his mouth. His Majesty makes some angry word of protest, but he's already unseating himself, feels the king's cock slide free with a sickening pop, feels the hot mess run down his thighs and onto the plush, velvet seat. A hand grabs his wrist but he wrenches away with all the strength he has left to him, climbs off the throne, collapses on the ground on his hands and knees, and vomits.

Sorry about the wait and this chapter in general. The idea for this just kind of popped into my head and I ran with it. I promise there will be some action soon!

------

Connor wakes in an unfamiliar bed to the sight of an unfamiliar room and unfamiliar dogs licking him awake. He’s tense for a few moments. His head is still foggy with sleep and he’s having trouble remembering anything aside from his exhaustion. Slowly—slowly, the sleep-fog starts to clear from his head and he rolls onto his stomach to bury his head in the pillows. They smell like a mix of Charles and his dogs. It’s not a particularly good smell, but the scent is comforting and helps relieve some of the tension he’d been feeling just a moment ago. Said dogs bark in protest of his movement, falling off when Connor rolls over, but they’re right back on him when he stops, though the barking doesn’t cease.

“Be quiet.”

It comes out as more of a growl thanks to the rasp from the exhaustion that still lingers in every part of his body and he frowns. It’s times like this when he thinks he might hate sleep more than he likes it. With the way his life is, he rarely gets a moment to sleep peacefully and on the rare occasion he does get some amount of sleep, it’s never enough and his exhaustion just becomes more noticeable.

While he’s thinking about his exhaustion and desire for more sleep, he doesn’t notice the door open or the sound of footsteps approaching the bed. It’s only when one of the dogs is lifted off of him that he realizes someone else is in the room and he turns his head just enough to see Charles from the corner of his eye.

“They won’t stop until you let them have their spot on the bed.”

Connor’s response is an actual growl this time. They’re dogs. It shouldn’t matter where they lay down and it really shouldn’t matter if they have to lie on a slightly different spot on the bed than they might usually.

“They can sleep in your spot, then. I am not moving.”

Charles puts the dog he’d been holding—Spado, he’s guessing, from the black fur—back on the bed next to Connor, but the little beast just hops right back onto him. Charles doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t have to. The dogs keep barking until, finally, Connor gives in and drags himself to where Charles had been sleeping next to him earlier. His whole body feels heavier than usual and even that small action feels like a struggle.

“Don’t you think you’ve slept enough? It’s been over twelve hours already and you have to return to your homestead.”

It’s true. Technically, if they’re going to try and keep things as similar as possible to the way they were before, he shouldn’t have spent the night. He should have just gone back once they’d discussed how things would go, but Charles tended to have a way with words that usually got him exactly what he wanted. In last night’s case, what Charles wanted was Connor. He groans and shuts his eyes again, burying his face into the pillow, only really meaning to stay like that for a moment, but that moment is enough for sleep to start pulling at him again. The pull is seductive, about as seductive as Charles had been the night before and he can feel consciousness slipping away from him again.

“Connor!”

Charles rips the sheets and pillows away from him and forces Connor to turn so that he’s facing him.
“Haytham is going to be here any minute and you cannot be here while he is. Just having him see you in this house could cause the change that ruins any chance we have of stopping Washington before he goes mad, imagine what could happen if he were to see you naked in my bed.”

Connor rolls his eyes at that, but sits up slowly, scanning the room for his clothes.

“It could also be what leads to a truce between the Assassins and Templars. Would it not be better for him to see that we are able to get along?”

Charles throws his clothes to him with a bit more force than necessary and Connor glares at him. He can’t understand why it would be so terrible if they were to explain everything to their respective orders? If they were to see that Connor and Charles of all people could learn to work together and even have a functional relationship, maybe they would agree that they’d all be better off working together. He gets out of bed and starts redressing. Charles doesn’t respond to his question and Connor has to wonder how it is that Charles is so much older than he is when he’s the one acting like a child. Connor doesn’t look at him while he gets dressed. If Charles is going to act like a stubborn child, than he can too.

“Why would you bring him to your room in the first place?”

He hadn’t really meant to ask, but the words were out of his mouth before he could think to stop himself. It’d only been a fleeting thought that for Haytham to see Connor naked in Charles’s bed he’d have to be in the room and what reason would Haytham have to be in Charles’s bedroom? Office, maybe, but bedroom? It seemed a bit odd.

“What?”

Charles looks up from the book he’d been scanning while Connor got dressed, the anger suddenly gone from his features. Instead, he looks nervous and that makes Connor suspicious. It was a simple question, one he hadn’t originally even cared about the answer to, but Charles is fidgeting with his ring and his sneer has softened into a worried frown. He’s hiding something and not even bothering to hide that he’s hiding whatever it is.

“My father. The only way he could see me naked in your bed is if you were to bring him here. What reason would you have for bringing him to your room?”

The room is suddenly filled with a suffocating tension. Charles’s posture stiffens and rather than looking at Connor, he’s looking towards the window facing the front of the house. A carriage pulls up and Connor knows who it is immediately. He can’t see a face, but the hat, the clothes—they belong to his father, he knows it.

He’s still waiting for an answer he has a feeling he’s never going to get. It would be easy for Charles to say the right thing; he’s good at doing that. He knows that Charles and his father had more of a relationship than just mentor and student, second in command and Grand Master. He knows they’d been friends, best friends even. He remembers the way Charles looked at Haytham’s funeral. Charles had cared a great deal about Haytham, but knowing Charles as he does now, he knows that friendship wouldn’t be enough to compel him to bring Haytham to his room. Charles would sooner bring a friend out back to play with the dogs than he would bring them into his room.

Finally, Charles sighs.

“Surely you didn’t think you were my first.”

The response catches Connor off guard at first and he just stares blankly at Charles for a moment. Charles, in turn, rolls his eyes and motions towards one of the windows. All traces of nervousness are gone now, replaced by annoyance once again.

“Well? Are you going to leave or will I have to force you out?”

Connor doesn’t respond to that as his expression changes to one of disgust as Charles’s previous words sink in.

“You and my father? My father?”

He feels sick. Charles and his father? In the beginning, with the way his father had been so insistent on protecting Charles, Connor had had his suspicions, but he’d thrown them out when he and Charles started their relationship. It seemed so wrong to think that the man he’s been with all this time was with his father before. But here was the confirmation of his previous suspicions and everything feels wrong. Was he just a replacement for his father then? Did Charles picture Haytham whenever he’s with Connor? And if the relationship only ended with Haytham’s death then—.A knock at the door brings him out of his thoughts and both of them turn towards it when a servant’s voice comes from the other side.

“Master Lee? Master Kenway is here for you.”

Connor moves to walk out the door, to leave, to confront his father, to do something, but Charles takes his arm with an iron grip and turns him so that they’re face to face again, with very little space in between.

“You will not ruin this. Here we have another chance to stop Washington and you will not destroy it because you cannot handle the truth.”

Connor would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little nervous at that. He feels his shoulders tense in response, can feel himself baring his teeth like a dog about to snap. There was something threatening in Charles’s tone and it brings out the worst in Connor. He knows this feeling. It’s the one he’d get whenever he’d see Charles in the beginning. A touch of sadness hits him with that thought. Is that what they’re going back to? Will everything go back to the way it was just because their former allies are alive and Charles seems unwilling to adjust anything to fit their current relationship?

“Master Lee?”

Charles doesn’t seem to acknowledge the servant, choosing to keep his grip on Connor and continue glaring at him for another thirty seconds instead.

“I will be right there.” He shoves Connor in the direction of the window, walking towards the door when Connor is out of the way. He pauses just before leaving and turns towards Connor once again. “Leave through there. I will write to you once I have dealt with William.”

He doesn’t give Connor a chance to respond, to ask what it is that Charles intends. It would be easy to chase after him, to walk out the door, and demand answers, but Connor stays where he is for another minute at least and by the time he does walk out the door, the sight from the balcony is enough to make him turn back. He can see Charles and his father standing closer than appropriate for a purely platonic relationship from there. He can see their smiles and the way his father rubs his thumb over Charles’s cheek affectionately. The same way Connor does. The same smile Connor gives Charles. It’s like looking at an older, slightly smaller, whiter version of himself.

Connor finds he can’t climb out the window fast enough with that image in his mind.

lol nah. I ship a lot of things, but Connor/Dobby the house elf is not one of them.

/Hugs Connor/ Does Charles have any idea what he's doing to him? This was so well worth the wait, writer!anon - I'm dying to know what happens next.

Oh my gosh no don't apologize this is amazing! How incredibly awkward for Connor and I feel so bad for him but I love that you've included this what an awesome plot twist! Your writing is amazing and you're amazing and I can't wait for the next update! <3

an update!! woohoo!! you don't know how happy i am! *goes to read*

Link to fill chapter 2:

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9076259/2/The-Exception

Glad you all are enjoying. :) Please keep commenting and feeding me your firstborns :OOO
They are yummiez.

Op here!

Ah, here's where things get tricky. I'm really scared that Washington is going to take another finger, or worse, as punishment for not performing. He doesn't seem like he'd care of Haytham was ill or not - he'd just punish Haytham anyway. And if he cottons onto Connor helping...well. Connor could lose a lot more than a finger.

The tension, dear lovely writer, is palpable. I love it. Thank you for another wonderful chapter.

I WANT THIS LIKE MAD ! Errr, yes, i mean, seconding.

Where is all the cuteness ? (Inspired by a fanart of Lyricalt).

Altaïr, Ezio, Connor, Aveline and Desmond are orphans, but they consider themselves as siblings.

They live alone in a big flat/House rented by Haytham. The man is a mob, and he never visits. The kids are not even aware that he is involved (except maybe Altaïr) but the money for the children never miss.

Somehow the social workers never bother with them, even when worried neighboors call for them. (Is it because Haytham is powerful, rich, and not above killing them ?)

The "siblings" are taking care of themselves. Altaïr is around 14-16, Ezio is 10-13, Connor and Aveline are 7-9 (they are sort of "twins"), and Desmond is around 5 or less.

That's all folks ! Just their life taking care of each others. You can involve any other character, Malik, Shaun, Lucy, Charles Lee, Achilles, Kanen...And please, no "incest".

Haytham and his associates are very powerful men, operating outside the law. They kick ass, make money, and engage in rather morally questionable activities. The police know better than to interfere with them, and it could be argued that life is better for the impoverished and vulnerable with them around.

Everything is going rather swimmingly, until a new cop shows up in town. One who's not afraid to ignore the warnings of his superiors. One who will stop at nothing to get justice. One who has a vendetta against Charles Lee. Of course, it takes about half an hour hacking Google to figure out this new cop is none other than Haytham's son and his ragtag bunch of misfit cops are all unfortunate victims of the less lovely side to their criminal activities.

Bonuses:

- The mafia are very affable in their 'management style'. "No, sir, you must be kinder to your dancers. We own this club, and unless you wish to be found disembowelled in the river at sunrise, we suggest you treat them better."

- When Connor and Haytham's relation is revealed, they argue a lot. Very loudly. In front of their allies, who are trying rather desperately to become one with the background and not make eye contact with their very obviously uncomfortable enemies.

- Keep it relatively light-hearted? Or at least not really depressing.

Charles is furious yes, but I think he might surprise you. In both a positive and a negative way. :) Although we already expect the worst of him so not sure how it can be more negative...

Lil Haytham is very angry, but like all children, he has the ability to come to some really interesting and unique conclusions without adult interference. It's too bad that he has to grow up... ):

No worries anon. :)

Gastroenteritis is terrible and anon fully understands how work can swamp your life. Hope you feel better soon!

Been running into some writer's block recently, so I've been trying to pull myself out of it by writing some other random things for a change of pace. Sadly, though, cranking out this chapter was still akin to pulling teeth. e_e As such, I apologize if this is a little more lackluster and uninspired than usual or... uh... something. /flops around

Oh yeah, there are a few nods to AC: Forsaken here, but it's nothing huge if you've never read the novel before. Anyway, thank you all, as always, for reading! ♥

***

Day One Hundred and Seventy-One
Haytham had long considered writing to be his favorite way of unwinding.

Since boyhood, he’d confided in the pages of his journals, leaving his most private thoughts and darkest secrets between their leather bindings. As he grew older, he did wonder about the safety and security of doing so, considering that he’d never bothered to really hide the things, but by the time his journals contained more than the ramblings of a child, the habit was too ingrained into his being to stop--and the number of people he could trust, truly trust, had dwindled. There simply was no one that he could speak to anymore.

Even so, though, the words would not come easily today.

Immediately upon returning to the Kenway residence the night before, Haytham had one of his servants book passage on the next ship to leave for New York City at Connor’s insistence, but he could not fault his son’s need to depart as soon as possible--really, he’d been expecting it. Rogers had again faded into fevered delirium by the time they had come home, so there was no way to know when the execution date was.

It was raining when they left the docks, and it was still raining now, several hours into their journey. Despite the weather, though, Connor had taken his leave to wander the deck; Haytham could only assume that he’d left to gather his thoughts and try to formulate a plan--something he should be doing as well. With the city under Charles’ control, what could the two of them accomplish alone? Oh, he did not doubt their skills, but even so, ability could only counteract the weight of numbers to a certain degree when the odds were stacked so heavily against them.

He could not come up with anything though; his mind was too clouded with other thoughts. Despite that, Haytham stared at the journal opened before him, unsure of how to progress and unable to put anything to paper--unable to clear his mind. He’d written the date and his son’s name at the top of the page before stopping; he knew of the root of his problem at least. Haytham had already written extensively about his son in previous entries, but he had not touched upon the subject of father and son as a unit--or rather, together in this... this... partnership that they had.

Was it some sort of subconscious disgust? Doubtful. Considering all that he had done to the boy thus far, Haytham was of the mind that if he was going to lose sleep over it, then it would have happened long ago. Then maybe it was a fear that others would find his writings and assume things? Again, he doubted that that was the problem: Haytham was the sort of individual who took into account the opinions of others, but he would never be ruled by them.

No, he suspected that his hesitancy to write about them being them stemmed from a feeling he’d once felt in the presence of Ziio--a most unusual sensation of confusion and indecision. He’d recognized the possibility back then of having something more, something incredibly intimate, but Haytham had opted not to act on it until it was too late, until she’d slipped right out of his grasp.

That same hesitancy lingered with him to this day. Time had taught him to be all too cautious about bringing people into his inner circle and past his emotional walls; it was almost like he’d been cursed. On one too many occasions had those he cared for, cherished, loved, left his side: his father, his mother, Reginald, Ziio, Holden, Charles...

Haytham was less than eager to add one more to the list.

Connor had changed him for the better when it came to thinking about the relationship between Assassins and Templars--the things that they shared, the ways in which they differed, the possibilities that could open before him if their forces combined. For this, he was thankful, and for this, he approved of keeping the boy beside him.

When it came to a personal level, though, Haytham was again unsure of where he stood, if his gains outweighed his losses. With each supposed victory, he wondered what he had given to attain it--wondered if he had, in fact, lost to the boy instead. He had never intended to become so attached to his son; the idea had been for the clinging need to be one-sided, so as best to make use of Connor’s skills and abilities--not for the feeling to be mutual, or worse yet, to be one-sided on his part.

Haytham was supposed to be above the mess of emotions that ran between them. So where had his plans gone so wrong? When had he fallen for his own trap? He was falling madly, deeply in--

The sound of approaching footsteps had Haytham jerking his head up and instinctively shutting his journal, and a moment later, Connor stepped into their shared cabin without so much as a word of warning or greeting. The boy’s gaze swept over the notebook in front of his father and the quill in his hands before sweeping away; a faint rustle of fabric told Haytham that he was removing his soaked cloak and coat, and the slap of wet clothing against wood signaled that he’d tossed it away somewhere.

“You shouldn’t have gone out in such weather,” he said quietly, carefully stowing away his writing materials. “Are you trying to catch a cold? I hope you realize that I won’t be rescuing your men on my own.” Connor grunted behind him in answer, and Haytham sighed.

So, the awkwardness between them lingered.

He still felt rather ashamed about his own behavior, the desperation that he’d allowed to bubble to the surface, and to add to his displeasure, Haytham felt some residual anger toward Connor for having bolted like that, especially after all of the liberties that he’d granted the boy. It left a rather bitter taste in his mouth, and if he allowed himself to dwell on the matter, he would have recognized the feeling as jealousy--jealousy over the fact that, even now, his son cared for his men so much that he’d tear after anyone who would do them harm while armed with nothing but his fists.

--A matter that he had to resolve when they reached port.

It would have been easier to just return the boy’s equipment to him, but a part of him did not want to. Like his Assassin robes, those tools were reminders of things that Haytham did not like, did not approve of, so it made sense, did it not? It made sense to want to gift him with new things--things that would remind Connor of him. Oh, he knew all too well that his son was not the type to be won with trinkets, but it would make Haytham feel better at least.

“Have you thought of what you want to do upon our arrival?” he eventually asked, turning in his chair to get a better look at the boy. Connor had taken a seat on a barrel, arms folded loosely across his chest, and he calmly met his gaze, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.

“I will save my brothers. It is that simple.”

Haytham had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, that much is obvious. I assume that you have some idea of what to do before and after as well? Or have you already forgotten that your friends are being held at Bridewell Prison?”

“You do not need to come with me, if you are finding this to be troublesome. This is not your battle, nor is it your problem,” Connor replied, biting the words out with a low growl, and Haytham wished that he could say that it wasn’t, that he could ignore the two prisoners they’d come for; they were, at worst, his sworn enemies, and at best, irritants in his side. The only reason why he cared (if this vaguely annoyed emotion could even be called that) was because the boy did, and, well, he was here to make sure that his son didn’t accidentally get himself killed during the rescue attempt.

“You have made it my problem,” he muttered under his breath. Haytham drummed his fingers against the table and sighed. “Look, even if the other Assassins appear, you’ll be outnumbered, and I doubt you’ll have much time to coordinate anything with them. Blending with the crowd can get us in, but what is your exit strategy? Where do you intend to hide them?

“And before you suggest it, we are not taking them to my residence. I’ve enough trouble with just one Assassin under my roof, thank you very much.”

“I do not think they would accept your hospitality, even if you offered,” Connor replied, the faintest hint of a wry smile pulling at his lips. “The frontier is vast. They can take refuge there for the time being, but their final destination should be the Homestead. They will be safe there.”

“They?” Haytham lifted his eyebrows. “You do not intend to go with them?”

At that, the boy gave his father a puzzled look before shaking his head. “I am staying with you. You said that we would hunt for Lee together.”

It was difficult to not cringe a little with the boy’s wording, but he nodded his head in agreement. “Yes, I... I suppose I did.”

If Connor picked up on his discomfort, he did not act upon it, instead plowing onwards, as if suddenly taken by inspiration. Perhaps his trip up to the deck had cleared his thoughts some, the rain washing away his agitation and replacing it with crisp and clear focus. Haytham’s own preoccupations continued to gnaw at him, but it helped a little that he could turn his attention to something else for the time being.

“We will need horses to reach the outskirts of the city and a means of taking out the hangman’s noose.”

“Throwing knives work better than a fired shot,” Haytham added idly, and when the boy gave him that inquisitive look of his, he merely smiled. As realization dawned upon him, Connor lifted a hand, touching it to his throat. For a moment, it looked as if his son would ask him additional questions, but Haytham cut him off before another word could slip out of his mouth. “They’re easier to conceal than a musket in any case, and they’ll no doubt be keeping a close watch on the rooftops after what happened at your execution.”

His son gave him one last curious look before nodding his head. “We have a plan.”

“The bare bones of one. I’d prefer to have something a little more detailed to go off of.”

“Then let us work.” Connor dragged his barrel over to the table and took a seat, and in that moment, Haytham knew that he wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep that night. He’d brought it upon himself, but it was necessary to save the Assassins--necessary to make sure his self-sacrificing son didn’t get himself killed in the process.

Haytham had saved the boy at Bridewell once before; he prayed that he wouldn’t have to do it again.

Thank you! :)

OMG please tell me this fill isn't dead! Come back writer-anon!

Could anon get a cute father son story where Haytham gives Connor "The Talk" in vivid detail and Connor is incredibly embarrassed by it all.

(Short prompt is short)

I just want some awkward, adorable father son times, pleaaaaaaase <3

Connor woke to the sensation of a warm wet tongue lapping at his cheek and groaned. His face wrinkled in disgust. Really, he had hoped his husband's appetite would be sated for at least after dinner. His stomach twisted at the stench. Charles' morning breath smelled awful, and somehow overnight his mustache had become a full grown beard.

Wait...

With great effort, sleepy amber-brown eyes open expecting and dreading to meet with blue ones that were clouded with lust. Instead, he finds himself staring up into the round beady black orbs of a small dog with golden fur. One of his husband's prized Pomeranians no doubt. But what was one of them even doing in his room?

Wait...

That's right, this was not in his assigned room. Charles had found out he was in heat and tossed the Omega over his shoulder and carried him back to his own chambers. After a few rounds, he had fallen asleep. But why was he still here? Wouldn't Charles want him out and back under the lock and key of his cell?

Where was his husband anyway?

Connor tilted his head to stare passed the dog and did not see the older man laying in the spot he had been the previous night. Quietly, he rubbed his eyes and sat up while briefly ignoring the Pomeranian pup that was staring at him in rapt attention. From the look outside the windows - that were open to let in fresh air - he knew he had overslept again. Oh well, it wasn't as if he had duties to perform in this house with the exception of his wifely ones, he thought with disdain.

Turning his head, he sees Charles - fully dressed - standing by the exit with his back turned to him. His alpha was not alone. The Templar Edwards, that henchmen Connor had attacked the day before, was standing in the door way and they were talking in low voices. Frowning, the Assassin leaned forward a bit and used his sensitive hearing to catch parts of the conversation.

"Ain't nothin' much there. Searched the 'oole damn 'ouse from top ta bottom. Boss came ta poke around. Didn't find nothin' either."

Charles seemed anxious.

"What about the rest of the land? The mines, caves, anything?"

"Found a cave near the mines, all collapsed tho'.."

Connor felt his insides twist with anxiety as he realized they were talking about Davenport Homestead. Apparently the Templars were not finished picking the manor apart and taking what they wanted. It seemed they were still looking for something important if the Grandmaster himself had involved himself in the search.

But what? His mind thought frantically as he began to pet the Pomeranian's golden fur - fingers moving on their own accord, remembering how Gavin loved to be scratched behind the ears, chin, and having his belly rubbed - in an attempt to keep the pup quiet.

Lee already had his ledgers and journals. If Templar found the secret basement room to retrieve the Inner Circle member portraits, then they must have found the old books imported by John de la Tour - founder of the Colonial Brotherhood - himself. Books, all translated in English and French, that contained the history of some of the Assassin Brotherhood's prominent and influential members.

Quite a number of these Assassins had been Connor's - and by default, his father's - ancestors. He did not see why his enemies would find them significant. Surely knowledge was power, but not the kind that the Templars were seeking from their toppled enemy's stronghold. No, the Grandmaster sought something else.

It was only when the Pomeranian licked the ring finger of his right hand did Connor stiffen upon realization.

Swallowing hard, he looked away from Charles and Edwards who were still talking at the door, and glanced down at his bare hand. Upon activating his second sight, he saw a band of glowing gold wrapped around his ring finger. Upon it, numbers and symbols sparkled and shined as they emit bright rays of light only his eagle vision could see.

The Assassin had completely forgotten he still possessed Captain Kidd's ultimate treasure that he and Faulkner recovered from Oak Island. The band appeared large and heavy, but in fact it was weightless and had adjusted to his finger before disappearing from normal sight. It was not always effective, but the Shard had saved his life countless times in battle. Erupting an unseen shield that would stop musket balls in midair or bend bayonets and sword blades with ease.

Achilles had confirmed that the Shard must have been one of the precursor artifacts left behind by the Ones Who Came Before. Artifacts, his mother had told him, that his father had sought to find upon his arrival to America and had enlisted her help. The Shard had been a closely kept secret between him and his mentor, as they both knew it would be devastating to the Brotherhood if the enemy had it in their possession.

But with the Brotherhood in shambles as it was now... perhaps he had the bargaining chip he needed to buy his friends and George their freedom. Perhaps...

He swallowed hard and winced at how parched his throat felt. Looking over, he the welcoming pot of tea sitting on a table... all the way across the room. With his aching backside, the teapot might as well have been all the way across the Frontier. The Assassin frowned at himself in disgust as he wrapped the sheet around his waist and quietly climbed out of bed.

The Pomeranian jumped off the bed and followed him, yipping for attention which quickly drew the unwanted ones of the two Templars as they broke off their conversation to stare at him.

"Mornin' Missus Lee. Ya sure slept in late, 'ad a rough night?"

Edwards's face, despite being bruised from their encounter the other day, lit up with a large lecherous grin. Oh how the Assassin wished he had managed to knock out a couple of the man's teeth. Perhaps he would have another opportunity when his husband wasn't around. Connor glared back at he took a seat by the window and poured himself some tea.

"Edwards," Charles frowned at his subordinate with dark disapproval. "We will speak of this matter later."

Charles then stepped away from the door before slamming it in the other man's face, then turned to face his wife.

"How much did you hear?"

Connor paused in mid-sip as he listened to the string of curses behind the door before focusing his attention to his Alpha as he approached. He tensed in fear, expecting to be pulled out of the chair and dragged back to bed for another round. Except Charles had stopped as the Pomeranian jumped up onto Connor's lap and began nudging his hand for more pets.

"Hmm... it seems Spado has taken a liking to you."

Spado?

He glanced down at the pup he was petting and felt himself relax a bit.

"He seems very affectionate," the Assassin commented as he scratched behind the pup's ears again and smiled slightly as Spado wagged his tail happily. "You obviously treat him better than you do your subordinates."

The Templar scoffed as he sat down in another chair and Spado quickly vacated Connor's lap for his master's.

"Unlike men, dogs are loyal, honest, and have a sense of duty," Charles explained as he stroked the soft fur beneath his hands with a warm smile. The sudden display of affection bewildered Connor who never knew such affection existed in his worst enemy. That did not make Connor hate him any less.

"There are many men who have those qualities..." he spoke while staring out the window, wishing he could leap out of it and fully enjoy the fresh air upon his skin and grass beneath his toes... while putting as much distance between himself and this mansion as possible.

"Are you referring to your beloved George?"

Connor did not need to look at his mate to know that he was sneering. He could practically feel the animosity radiating from the Alpha. He frowned and swallowed the rest of his tea. The Assassin thought he had understood the hatred Charles had for the other Alpha. Wasn't it always about the title and position Washington held in the Continental Army? He did not understand. Lee would soon have them both now that his rival was out of the way.

Charles had a high rank in his Order, only second to the Grandmaster. He had power. He had wealth (with the addition he was going to receive from this marriage). He had the respect of his servants, peers, and the masses of civilians (he was not as popular with Washington, but that would eventually change).

What else could George possibly have that Charles was jealous over?

A/N: Not sure why I decided to write in the Shard of Eden, had it on when I was replaying the mission where you had to chase Hickey around New York and decided to write it in... only realize that Connor didn't get the shard until much later in the game. Doh.

Lil Haytham is in a...messed up place right now. And it shows in his messed up evaluation of the situation and messed up feelings. Be warned for uncomfortable read.

His Mother’s Son

Journal of Haytham Lee, aged 12

Father’s furious with me. He’s never yelled at me before, but...

He said some...

I can’t bear to repeat it. He can’t have meant it, but...

That cup was one of the only gifts that Grandfather gave to me. He said it was because we shared similar qualities, and that I could appreciate a cup of fine tea better than Father or Mother could, Mother especially as he doesn’t like tea from the Indies.

It was a lovely little cup, made of porcelain and with very pretty pictures on it.

I am sorry that I broke it.

But I’m not sorry enough that I think Father is right to say what he said.

I didn’t mean it. He knows I didn’t mean it, but he still says those...

No, you don’t get to call me that, Father. You don’t get to say stuff like that, not with the way you’ve been acting.

You think I’m ungrateful and ignorant and selfish?

You think I can’t control myself and that I’m a danger to everyone?

And you insult Uncle in the same breath that you yell about my shortcomings?

Have you looked into a mirror recently, Father?

I am not the one who lost his temper so badly over nothing that Mother was unable to eat solid food.

I am not the one who blames his own son and wife over his own problems at Court and comes home only to make our lives miserable!

The servants used to love you, and now they tiptoe around you.

I’m really, really mad that Uncle and Grandfather are dead.

But you don’t care about Uncle, at all, do you? You only care about Grandfather because he’s a part of that group that you like so much, the one that always says bad things about Mother.

But I care about the both of them!

They’re my Uncle, my Grandfather.

If anyone’s angry, it’s me!

How dare you, Father?

If anyone should be yelling, it should be me!

And I did yell, and throw that cup, and I’m sorry for it.

But at least that’s better than how you’ve been treating us this entire time!

I was so mad, I cried. I couldn’t even say all that.

I wanted to, but I couldn’t.

Father is...

But then Mother tried to calm Father down.

He stepped between me and Father...

He reached out to Father and...

Father just got madder. He slapped Mother away, and Mother just stood there and didn’t do anything and...

Why didn’t Mother do anything?

What is wrong with Mother that he’d just take Father treating him like that?

Mother, are you, are you stupid?

I see you getting angry, but then you swallow it back down.

You never do anything.

I just...

This is so...

Argh!

Journal, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.

I’m really mad at Father because he’s always taking his anger out on Mother and treating us badly these days. He’s angry all the time, and things are getting worse.

I don’t want the twins in Mother’s stomach to be born into this. Things have to be better for them.

Father has to be a good Father, I’m going to be a good Big Brother, and Mother has to finally stand up for himself and be a good Mother.

I can’t respect Mother right now.

I can’t.

I’m angry at Father, but I think I’m beginning to hate Mother.

I know it’s wrong, Journal, to feel this way, but I really, really do.

Mother didn’t even feel angry at the mob for killing Uncle and Grandfather. He never seems to get angry at Father for all the yelling. He just...lets it all pass.

How can Mother protect the babies if he doesn’t even protect himself?

What kind of a mother is he?

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His Mother's Son 12