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

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assassin's creed

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
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Oh but I'm so glad you did write it, that angst filled sword battle was amazing, and that part with Connors beads ... Wow

Thanks! :) Glad you enjoyed it! :D

One more (short) part, I think, but haven't quite figured out what to do with lil Haytham yet. He's tricky...

OP once again !

I love your writing style, the description of the character's environnement is fabulous, detailed but not boring, just enough to picture correctly the scene. I really liked the atmosphere in the beginning, and the cute scene with the younger children ! D'awww !

Altaïr is so tired, poor guy, he is only fifteen and already he has to take care of his siblings. I wonder how it affects his live outside the house, does he even go to school ? And Ezio wants to help and seems so mature for his age !

I appreciate that their lifestyle is "realist". Wow, this is so interesting, I wonder where this is going, I'm so curious and excited !I'm going to read the second chapter right away.

Unf, I love you author anon !

OP still here!

Altaïr and Ezio's meeting ! I don't know why, but I'm so happy that you wrote about others characters like Vieri. I don't even know if I'm clear about this feeling, but oh well, I'm happy.

“Because I don’t want to be babysitting, that’s why.” I wonder what's going to cause the change, because Altaïr, sweety, you're going to take care of three more kids. They're going in a quest to fing Ezio's sibling ? Interesting ! I guess that's how they are going to meet the others ?

Oh, I'm so curious about the benefactor involvement and also the mysterious diary and its purpose, and the fact that Ezio remembered the symbol from somewhere...Are you going to introduce the Assassins and Templars' dynamics in the story ???

Can't wait for more !

Holy Juno on a Desmond ! (Quote from anon above). I want this.

Definitely ended up somewhat Kill Bill. Oh well.

Chasing Revenge

The Future

For a moment, man and boy stood staring at each other in shock.

And in that time, George noticed small details about the boy.

His hand was still clutching the doorknob, his eyes were fixed upon his father’s body and on the blade that George had used to slit the man’s throat, his body shook with small tremors and his face, open, expressive, finely boned just like Connor was twisted in fear and horror.

George imagined the boy must have wandered upon the scene just as he finished Lee.

He swallowed and remembered when Connor had told him of his mother’s death. The look on his face was much the same.

It seemed he would always be responsible for pain to those who least deserved it.

Briefly, he entertained the notion of killing the boy. It would be a mercy and an ending to the tragedy that took over all of their lives.

And it would be so, so easy.

The boy was still transfixed on his father’s corpse, and intuition told George that the boy was untrained, young and innocent.

Just like Connor had been when his mother perished.

He never got the opportunity to reveal the truth to Connor or even to make amends, but he would make sure that did not happen with Connor’s son, even if the boy was also Lee’s.

He owed him that much and so much more.

He sheathed his blade. The boy started, wide eyes flicking over to him.

“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I am sorry that it came to this. I know I must have hurt you, but it had to be done. Your father was not a good man.”

He paused, looking over the boy.

Long shoulder length hair dark hair, light tan to skin, resentment boiling away in his eyes...This was indeed Connor’s son.

“Your caretakers will be here momentarily. They will likely leave you with your father’s relatives for your safety.”

And there would likely be attempts on the young prince’s life. Such was the way of royalty.

George would make sure none of them succeeded and that his allies, few as they were, would watch over the boy.

They, too, had bonds to the boy’s mother.

“What is your name?” the boy asked, and George wasn’t surprised to see hate begin to mix with the fear in the boy’s eyes.

“George Washington. Why do you want to know?”

The boy glared at him.

“So I can find you and kill you one day.”

He smiled. That was what he thought.

Connor’s son, through and through.

He bowed.

“Then, I wish you luck, little prince. And I look forward to when we’ll meet again.”

It would be...fitting, that he die by this child’s hand.

His final amends to his beautiful wolf.

Wait for me, Connor.

Finis.

Something is burning his face.

Blearily, he opens one eye, and winces. He's in his cell. He's cold; his shirt is missing, and at some point he had kicked the heavy blankets off. The arrow slit of a window has been stuffed with rags to help ward off winter's chill, but there is a slight gap at the top, and a spot of sunlight falls directly on his face. It's morning. He groans, flings a thin arm over his eyes, and rolls his head away.

There's a rustle below him and to the left. He freezes. He's not alone. His eyes snap back open.

The boy.

He'd made a nest of rags and blankets on the stone floor next to the pallet. He uncurls and props himself up on one elbow.

“Haytham? How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice is weary but full of genuine concern. He looks like hell. His eyes are red-rimmed and dark-circled, and there are mottled bruises on his face, faded to a blotchy yellow-green pallor. His lip had been split not long ago, and still looks swollen and tender.

Haytham. Yes. He's Haytham. His tongue darts out to wet cracked, dry lips. His voice is rough, and sounds like a stranger's to his ears.

“Connor.”

The man's eyes go wide and his mouth falls open briefly, and then he smiles wide, white teeth flashing, eyes glinting. He scrambles closer on hands and knees, his large hand gripping Haytham's shoulder, his face a mere foot away.

“Yes!” he exclaims, and then again, “Yes—Do you remember me?”

Yes. Oh, yes, he most assuredly does. He remembers everything.

The slap connects with the sharp report of a gunshot—Connor reels back, hand to his face, eyes wide, shocked, baffled. Haytham tries to get to his feet but his legs won't cooperate and they splay out as if he's a newborn calf. He collapses to his knees with a gasp of pain. Connor reaches out to grasp an arm but Haytham slaps that as well, scrabbling away from the man.

“Don't touch me!” he shouts.

“Haytham! Please, what—?”

“What in hell have you done to me?” His voice sounds high, almost hysterical to his own ears, almost a shriek, and the echo of it bounces off the brick walls and carries down the long hall. Connor's eyes are wide with alarm and shock.

“Quiet! Do you wish to bring the guards down on us?” He hisses, “I was trying to help you!”

“Why?” demands Haytham. Connor stares at his father, open-mouthed, aghast, as if Haytham is the crazy, unreasonable one.

“'Why?' Because you were being...” Connor blushes beneath the bruises and looks at the floor, clearly dismayed. Ah. Yes, that. Connor shakes his head. “Because there is a madman with an army of unthinking slaves who has styled himself a king! Because we need to rally support, we must find a way to defeat him! Because we need to get out of here!”

“And how will 'we' manage that?” is Haytham's terse demand.

Connor's brow beetles and he stammers, “I had thought that—you are by his side, almost every day—you must have some idea as to how—”

“Fool boy—he has a Piece of Eden.” He manages to stagger to his feet, though he still leans against the wall for support. The effort leaves him slightly breathless. “He's unstoppable. It's hopeless to even think—”

“It is not hopeless,” snaps Connor, “nothing is hopeless, not while you and I are still in control of ourselves.”

“In control? Look at me, boy!” He's a ruin of the man he used to be. Muscles that had rippled with a lifetime of training and hard work had been withered to practically nothing. He spreads his mangled hands, indicates the badly healed ribs that show through drum-taut skin, crisscrossed with scars. “What good am I to anyone like this?”

Well. Obviously Washington still finds a use for me, he thinks, and the violent shudder that racks his body has nothing to do with the chill of the cell.

Connor frowns deeper. Obviously, this was not the reunion he had been expecting. What had he wanted? An effusion of praise? That Haytham would fall into his arms and weep for joy? Thank the lord for his delivery and reveal a meticulous, carefully reasoned and dashing plan for escape?

“What would you have had me do, then?” he asks, a raw, frustrated edge to his voice. “Leave you insensate and enslaved?”

“And now I am cognizant and enslaved. Believe me, it's not an improvement. It would have been a far kinder mercy to have just killed me.”

Connor's face is solemn. “You cannot mean that.”

He throws up his hands. “It's over, boy. I lost. I have nothing left. May as well be by your hand, rather than... the inevitable.”

“I cannot kill you,” he says, dark eyes mournful and brimming with reproach.

Haytham's mouth twists into an unpleasant thing somewhere between a wry, mirthless smile and a pained grimace.

“No? You managed well enough once before!”

Connor's face contorts and he looks torn between agony and rage. “That was a different time—a different world! And you were trying to kill me!”

Had he tried to kill the boy? He wasn't sure. The incident had happened a lifetime ago, and the night had been a total chaos of bombs, fire and blood. He could remember being blinded by rage and pain, blinking blood out of his eyes from where his bastard son had cut open his brow with a broken bottle. Every labored breath had brought an agony of protest from his all-but-certainly broken ribs and his useless left hand had been slick with his own blood. He remembered wanting the boy to stop—to just stop. To stop struggling, to stop resisting fate, to stop being so willfully ignorant of human nature, to stop being so full of goddamned hope—

Still, Haytham denies, “Like hell I was, if I had wanted you dead—”

“So you were only pretending to kill me? You had your hands around my neck! I could not breathe!”

The boy has him there. Facts are facts. Regardless, Haytham glares at him. “Well. I suppose none of that really matters now, does it? As you say, it was different world.”

Connor's face contorts. “Does not matter—!” He stops himself, gives an irritated huff. “Fine. We should be planning our escape. I thought that you would be more thankful that you were no longer senseless,” says Connor darkly. Haytham's lip lifts in a snarl.

“'Thankful?' The things they've done, what I was forced to do—I was oblivious to it! Do you know what—” he hesitates, can't bring himself to say the man's name, damn him, “—what he'll do to me, once he finds out? Do you have even the slightest notion as to what you've done to me?”

“You. It has always been about you, has it not, father?” the word is hurled like a curse. He thumps his chest. “What about me? Do you even care about what they are making me do? Your son?”

His startled mind casts about for a moment. Notes the yellowing bruises on Connor's face, the fresh and tender scar tissue of the man's sharp knuckles. Vaguely, he recalls the fights, the impromptu ring in the middle of the throne room, the smell of stale sweat and fresh blood, screams and howls of the combatants echoing over the excited chatter and hoots of the gamblers and spectators. His Majesty's other special hobby.

“I'm so sorry. I forgot how violence makes you wilt like a lily in the sun.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “You are the most hateful, selfish prick I have ever known—”

“Oh, the pot calls the kettle black, boy! You tried to 'help' me? I can see right though your so-called concern. You're only trying to help yourself after you were foolish enough to be taken alive—if you had ever given a damn about me, you would have come before I'd been reduced to this!”

“I did not even know you were here! Kaniehtí:io said that you were dead!” Of course Ziio would say that. He can see her reasoning; better Connor to think his father rotting in the ground than alive and His Majesy's most exalted whore. It does not, however, make her omission any less painful. “Washington has misused you, yes, made you do unspeakable things, but your own suffering pales beside his other crimes. Do you even know what he has done—what he is still doing to people? Do you even care?”

“I cared enough to lead the goddamned Colonial resistance, you ignorant little shit,” he seethes.

Haytham can see that he's found the limit of boy's patience. Connor's hands pull into fists, jaw clenches, and for a moment Haytham thinks that perhaps the boy will do some throttling of his own, but instead he releases a long breath through flared nostrils, forces his fingers to straighten, palms flat against his thighs.

“Tell me what happened.” It's a command, not a request.

“Go to hell,” Haytham suggests.

“We are already in hell!” is Connor's outraged response.

Connor makes to continue his abuse but the sound of footfalls echoing down the hall gives him pause. Haytham's blood turns cold. If there was any color left in his pale face, it vanished. The cell faces a blank wall. Connor stalks up to the bars and presses the side of his face against them to sight down the long passage. He holds up three fingers to Haytham. Idiot. Haytham could have told him how many there were by ear alone. Two of the men are booted, judging by the heavy tread, the third has the sharper snap of shoes.

Haytham sits down heavily on the pallet, clamps his hands between his knees so no one can see how badly they tremble. He doesn't look up when he men come to stand outside. Connor stands near the bars, defiant, and does not even flinch when one of the men clangs the bars with the butt of a musket.

“Well. His Majesty's pet looks much improved.” Benjamin Church. The man who was twice a traitor. Rage sang through his veins, tempered with an equal amount of fear. He forces his eyes to the ground. If the king's physician even suspected something was off about Haytham's demeanor, that he had been restored to his cognitive faculties...

“No thanks to you,” says Connor. Church merely shrugs.

“He was either to improve, or he was not. I adjusted his medications and left you instructions, and it seems that that worked well enough. He's no longer sweating, at least.” He tilts his head slightly. “Though he looks pale yet. You've been feeding him?”

Connor's head jerks up in affirmation.

“He'll be fine, then. Or not. I suppose it matters little.”

“He is your patient,” snaps Connor. “I thought doctors swore oaths to help those in need.”

Church chuckles. “He's of little consequence; he ceased to be amusing long ago. Healthy or sick, fair or foul, I suspect I'll not need attend him much longer.” Haytham commands himself to keep breathing evenly, to not make any indication that he had heard anything of note. What was Church getting at?

“But he was your master!” Connor sounds shocked by Church's indifference.

“'Was' being the operative word. He ceased to be worthy of that title the day he lost his mind.” Church shakes his head. “Delusional fool. How he expected to keep this country from His Majesty's glorious influence, I can't even begin to imagine.”

“...So sorry, Kenway. But I always back the winning horse...”

“Well, I've other duties. Good day, savage. Master Kenway.” His voice drips with mockery. He turns and leaves. The two guards linger. One comes forward with a trays in either hand. He slides them though the gap beneath the bars.

“Best not get too comfortable,” the man advises, “His Majesty will be wanting the both of you soon enough.”

Haytham can barely hear their retreat over the throb of blood singing in his ears. He clenches his fists in the loose fabric of his trousers and resists the urge to scream. Goddamned traitorous, cowardly bastard... He barely notices when Connor takes both trays, sets one down on the floor, but he does note when the boy begins to remove the rags from the window.

“What are doing?” Haytham demands.

“Helping you by disposing of your poisons,” says Connor coldly, “whether you accept it or no.”

“What poisons?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” says Connor, and points to the greens, “is what they've been using to control you. Achilles spoke of it. The Haitian witch-doctors use it to bend victims to their will, to make them their 'zombies.' And this tea is a... I do not know the word in English. Afra-something...”

“Aphrodisiac,” supplies Haytham, frowning. So, that's what had induced his apathetic state, reduced him to little more than an animal reacting to external stimuli.

“Yes, as you say. You should feel honored; this is very expensive. The kings of China use it on their slave-women, I hear.” He picks up the cup.

“Wait!” he commands sharply.

Connor looks at him. “What?”

“Give me the tea.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “No,” he says.

“I need it,” he says with rising urgency, and feels a surge of panic when he begins to tip the hollow gourd. “I'll scream, call the guards!” he warns him. Connor cocks a dark eyebrow.

“Then scream,” he suggests, sardonic, but there's a steel edge to his tone and his eyes glitter dangerously. “Let the guards know what I have done and that you are fully aware and wish to die. I'm sure they will oblige you. That is what you want, is it not?”

Yes. No... he's not sure. He crimps his lips together in a thin, bloodless line. Haytham has nothing to live for, sees the days stretch out before him, a series of tortures, trials and humiliations that will certainly end in death—or, worse, his submission, mind shattered—and despairs. But does he want to kill his son as well? That's what would surely happen, if they were to discover Connor's interference. Or worse, they might do to him what they had done to Haytham, a punishment he wouldn't have wished on even his most hated enemies.

“You heard the guard, boy. We'll be at court today, and I'm not a young man anymore. If I can't...” he shivers. “If I don't preform as expected... they'll know. And then we'll both be dead men.” Or worse, he could have said.

The boy frowns, taking his meaning, he sets the cup back on the tray. “You cannot have the other,” he says, and takes a fist full of the greens to shove under the bed, presumably because his actions would be noticed in the daylight. “It is too dangerous.”

“And what gives you the right to make that decision for me?” demands Haytham acidly.

“You are in no position to stop me,” says the boy coolly. Well, that's apparent. The two men had been of a similar size and build once, but Haytham is but a shadow of his former self, and his son is very clearly in the prime of his physical abilities.

“Very well. You'll have to sleep eventually,” Haytham reminds him darkly. For an instant, there is a flicker of doubt, of fear, but it's gone again, and the boy looks almost smug.

“Even if you had the strength to kill me, you would not,” he says in a matter-of-fact way that makes Haytham bristle further.

“Oh?”

“Because they would know it was you.” He slides Haytham's tray across the pallet. “Better eat. I suspect Washington has missed us. It will be a long day.”

He's hungry, but the thought of what's to come turns Haytham's stomach to knots.

Another beautiful fill and so, so tragic with Washington becoming Haythams silent guardian as Haytham will grow up to avenge his father (though he might have a hard time tracking George who is dead to the world)

Firstly, I hope your computer troubles are behind you! :) secondly, AHHH-MAZING AS ALWAYS. The vitriolic back and forth between Haytham and Connor is spot on. The detail in the description of how thin Haytham has become is heartbreaking but also very true. Washington is going to have to let Connor train if he doesn't want to lose his prize fighter. And Haytham has a point - he's going to need the aphrodisiac if they expect to survive longer.

I do hope this isn't the last fill for the series... I don't think I'll stop crying if it was... And if you're looking for plot bunnies to adopt... I have dozens pawing at my brain but still need to finish up Honeymoon and Shattered Glass (which I will finish after these flashbacks)

WHERE IS CHARLES LEE!? I mean, uh. Enjoy. 8D Much love, as always, from your very slow writer!anon. ♥

***

Day One Hundred and Seventy-Eight
The remainder of their journey aboard the ship passed in a flurry of talks and discussions, plans hatched and refined. There was no time for precious sentiment, and Haytham was blessedly not given the opportunity to dwell on things like feelings and emotions. New York City would greet them with sunny skies, and after hitting the shore, all was proceeding as expected--better than expected, actually.

Really, the only missing piece was Charles, but Haytham was not exactly surprised that the general was not here. While Templar influence in Bridewell Prison was strong, they did not technically--legally--have possession of the facility, and even if they did, there was no reason for Charles to be here, disgraced as he was in the public’s eye.

No, their hunt for the man would take them elsewhere. For now, though, his attention needed to be on what was to come in a few moment’s time.

The gallows were mere feet away from them, and father and son were both armed to the teeth beneath their cloaks: pistols, knives, darts, and swords. Hoods pulled low over their eyes, they waited, attention directed toward the short train of prisoners being marched forward; around them, the crowd shouted and jeered, anticipation--excitement--filling the air around them.

It was a touch sickening, Haytham thought, to see humans delight in the death of strangers; his son likely would’ve commented on the irony of such a thought if he’d voiced it though.

The prison guards marched four individuals onto the platform: three men and one woman. At first, Haytham thought nothing of it; he was here for one purpose and one purpose only: to save those two men whom his son called brothers. The spares? Well, it was a shame that they got caught for whatever it was that they’d done, but this was their just reward for upsetting the peace.

The roar of the crowd increased in volume as the nooses were looped around the prisoners’ necks and burlap bags placed over their heads, the sound becoming deafening as the announcer stepped onto the platform to list their crimes. It was difficult to hear anything above the din of the crowd, and Haytham watched impassively, eyes shifting from one Assassin to the next, as their names and offenses were ticked off in a dull, droning voice.

What came next, however, caught both his attention and Connor’s.

“Zenger, Henrik. Guilty of attacking a military officer and disrupting the peace.” The boy’s elbow jabbed him in the ribs, and Haytham merely brushed him off; he needed no prompting to know what was going on here. “Zenger, Wilhemina. Aiding in the attack of a military officer and disrupting the peace.”

So Charles had found them, but instead of treating them with respect, he’d jailed them. And now? Now he would see them hanged. Beside him, Connor tensed, hands bunching into fists at his sides, and Haytham placed a calming hand on his shoulder, stopping him from bolting and putting all of their plans to waste. Leaning toward his son, he whispered, “You help your men. I’ll get the other two.”

There was a slight nod of confirmation, and then they both turned their attention to the executioner, whose fingers slowly closed around the lever that would send all four individuals to their deaths. Hands stole beneath cloaks, readying knives; bodies tensed, ready to strike at the best moment. This was it. This was their moment of action, and--

Gunshot rang out over the rooftops, and as one, all of those in the square turned to stare at the source of the noise. A woman with a white hood scampered across the rooftops, a number of militia members struggling to climb up after her. When she paused to grab the musket hefted over her shoulder, Haytham cursed beneath his breath.

Time slowing to a crawl, the Assassin pulled the trigger, her shot grazing one of the ropes, and then someone in the crowd screamed--high-pitched and filled with terror. The world erupted into chaos as another shot was fired from the rooftops, this time by a man, and Haytham twisted back toward the gallows in time to see the executioner pull the lever, shouting in pain as his free hand went to clasp at the red blossoming across his chest.

Instinct moved him, two daggers flying out of his hands before his aim was compromised by fleeing civilians jostling him about and obscuring his view. Beside him, he knew the boy had managed to loose at least one blade, but the other...

Something silver flew skywards, glinting in the sunlight, before sinking into the wooden frame of the gallows, and while three ropes were severed, one remained intact, strung taut by the weight of a body on the other end. A strangled cry erupted from somewhere to his left, and Connor burst forth from the suffocating press of civilians, rushing toward the platform.

He’d be too late.

Haytham cast one final look at the battle unfolding on the rooftops before hurrying over to the gallows, ducking under the wooden beams to check on the individuals they’d managed to rescue. That French-speaking Assassin was muttering something to his son, desperately trying to pull him away from the body of their second brother; the mother and her son were huddled in another corner, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

“Connor!” he shouted, and when the boy didn’t budge, Haytham came over and shook him by the shoulders. “Connor, let him go. We have to get out of here unless you want all of us to die.”

The sorrowful look his son gave him sent a chill lancing down his spine, making him suddenly hesitant. Still, he pulled himself together, and when the other Assassin tried to remove his hands from his son, Haytham gave him such a look that he stopped, fingers quickly drawing away.

“Please, son. Let us go. Now.” One hand still gripped tightly around the boy’s shoulder, he turned his attention to the other man, gesturing toward the Zengers. “You’ll find four horses tied up at the back of the building on the other side of the street. Protect them and ride for the Homestead.”

“You cannot tell me what--”

“Do as I say.” With an easy movement of the wrist, the hidden blade engaged, and he shifted to press it close against the Assassin’s throat, allowing the sharp edge to dig ever so slightly into skin. Connor had already lost one of his brothers, and while Haytham would prefer not to take the life of another--not here, not now--he would if he had to. This entire operation had been shot to hell, and he wasn’t going to allow for himself or his son to die here because of the Brotherhood’s stupidity. “Am I clear?”

Chin lifted to avoid cutting himself on the hidden blade, the man could only manage the slightest of nods, eyes betraying the anger that he did not voice. Haytham lowered his hand, and the Assassin moved away, grabbing the mother and son and hauling them off; within seconds, they’d vanished into the panicking crowd.

When he turned to look back at his son, Connor was still kneeling by the body of his fallen brother, head bent and arms tightly circling the lifeless frame. Haytham sighed and folded his hand around the boy’s wrist. His voice was quiet when he spoke, barely audible above the sounds of screams all around them. “Let it go, son. You did all that you could.”

“I cannot leave him here.”

For a moment, Haytham thought he had misheard, but then, his son was repeating it again, louder and with more conviction. “I cannot leave him here.”

He should have known something like this would happen; it was so very... Connor.

Sighing, Haytham glanced at the mess all around them and grudgingly gave thanks to the Assassins for creating such a commotion; the guards were so distracted with trying to calm the crowd or chasing after the two individuals on the rooftops that they didn’t bother to pay attention to the two people still situated beneath the gallows. “Carry him. I’ll protect you, if it becomes necessary.”

Connor gathered the body in his arms and started toward the fray, pausing briefly to give him a look over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Two simple words should not have filled him with warmth--not when there was pandemonium all around him, not when his son was carrying a dead man from the gallows--but they did. Haytham gave the boy a fleeting smile and pressed a hand to his shoulder, a wordless gesture of sympathy.

“Later. You can thank me later.”

The pneumonia passed, the strangling infection dying. Haytham was not upset at putting the laudanum bottle away; he'd seen too many good men and women addicted to the influence with the foolhardy idea that it would bring sweetness to their lives. Ratonhnhaké:ton could sit up in bed now without launching into a fit of shaking coughs. Sometimes, he'd sit in the cushioned armchair that Haytham had brought from one of his finer estates, a tartan over his lap, book in hands.

It shouldn't have surprised Haytham that Ratonhnhaké:ton was an avid reader, but it had. The young man devoured as many texts as he could, bedridden as he was for the first week and a half. Finance accounts, legislation, tenancy contracts, and business correspondence were as natural to Ratonhnhaké:ton as his personal pleasures found in Shakespeare, John Gay, Voltaire, and an assortment of others. There was a theme somewhere - Haytham suspected it had to do with satire and the downfall of aristocracy - and he wasn't sure whether to be concerned or to find more books. Perhaps both.

So when Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn't focus on his book, restlessly shifting about in his seat, Haytham knew it was time to teach him how to heal. Such a strong desire to be outside couldn't easily be crushed. It was only natural for Ratonhnhaké:ton to want to be active once more.

"Put your book away, please," Haytham said.

Shuffling over to the bookshelf, Ratonhnhaké:ton did as he was asked and tilted his head questioningly at his father. Haytham scooped up a hammer, seemed to measure it against his arm and then offered it to Ratonhnhaké:ton.

"Break my wrist."

"Pardon?" Ratonhnhaké:ton was taken aback, shocked. "I will not."

"You will. I need a proper broken wrist to show you what to do."

"But Rake'níha-"

Haytham raised a hand to silence Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Break it. I swear it will be as good as it was before. Maybe even better. Make it a clean break."

There were a few moments of contemplation before Ratonhnhaké:ton lifted the hammer and brought it down. But at the last moment, he stopped it, glancing it sideways. This was ridiculous - he wasn't going to hurt his father while they were on neutral ground.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, if you break it, you'll be able to go home. Your pack has been lurking at the edge of my territory for days now," sighed Haytham.

That was the only incentive Ratonhnhaké:ton needed. Haytham couldn't hold back a cry of pain as his wrist broke. Cradling it gently, he held it out for Ratonhnhaké:ton to see. His pup looked fascinated and upset at the same time.

"I'm going to concentrate very carefully on mending the bones - how they shift and connect to each other," explained Haytham. "Using the same power that occurs during a controlled shift, I will funnel it into a feeling of healing - fusion of bone and tissue, something goodhealingbonesoftblue."

The last words, garbled and describing things that had to be experienced rather than felt, made Ratonhnhaké:ton lift his chin to point accusingly. Haytham shrugged. The wolf language didn't always translate properly.

"Take my good hand and you'll feel it pulse under my skin."

He closed his eyes, focusing not on the sensation of his pup's hand in his (although he did take a moment to enjoy it) but on the pain that was radiating through his left wrist. First, he cooled it, sighing in relief, and Ratonhnhaké:ton shivered. Then Haytham slowly allowed the bones to grasp at each other, picturing a working wrist and letting his body intuitively know which bone went where. It was a good thing that ribs were easier to heal than a wrist - it was a good first healing project. After a few moments, Haytham slowly rolled his wrist around, letting the bones settle and muscle cover the edges once more.

When Haytham looked at Ratonhnhaké:ton, exhaling, his pup took it as a sign that he could examine the wrist, prodding and poking until he was satisfied.

"Why didn't you tell me about this earlier?" he asked accusingly.

"You were sick, and we cannot heal sicknesses as easily, strange as that sounds. Now you try."

Nodding, Ratonhnhaké:ton followed his actions and seemed to be doing well until it came to the fusing of bone. His energy was all wrong - it was still shift energy not healing. Haytham opened his mouth to gently correct Ratonhnhaké:ton when his son tugged his hand away, eyes snapping open, ears flattened and tail between his legs.

"Ah," said Haytham, realising exactly what was wrong with flattened ears and a tail.

They weren't healed bones. And now, due to the embarrassed fluster Ratonhnhaké:ton had put himself in (he had turned away and was valiantly not making eye contact with Haytham - that was flustered in Ratonhnhaké:ton's body language), he couldn't get himself under enough control to make them disappear.

"I did exactly the same thing on my first attempts as well," comforted Haytham.

Ears flicked up and tail swayed hesitantly. Brief eye contact. Head still bowed. Afraid of an upset Alpha.

Afraid.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton, I am not angry," said Rake'níha, putting his hand on his pup's shoulder.

No reply. A surge of energy. Haytham's eyes widened - he was trying again, much too fast, skin crackling, triggering his own wolf to stretch and push its way up. He could feel a shift, the energy bubbling but just before Haytham growled and dropped to all fours as a wolf, it stopped.

Ratonhnhaké:ton opened his eyes, a frown across his brow. The healing hadn't worked, but nothing had changed about him. Then he felt his father's hand still on his shoulder and gave the older man a sweeping look over his body.

"Ah," echoed Ratonhnhaké:ton. "Well, at least we can signal to the other wolves that we're fun and perky Alphas."

Haytham gave him a withering glare, ears folded back and tail stiff.

"Of all the stupid things you've done, I believe that ranks highly."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shrugged, tail wagging. He was laughing at him.

"I healed though, feel!"

Haytham didn't know whether to hug him out of pride or knock him down and tussle with him on the floor for being reckless. He did both.

A bit hard to track down a dead guy, yes, but George'll be waiting for him, so...

It's partly why George doesn't mind so much. It's fitting, after what he did to Connor. And he has very little left at this point. Everyone thinks he's dead (his plantation would've been sold already), he lost Connor, and Connor's son is Charles Lee's.

And it's a sense of irony since, in the original series, Haytham grew up to resurrect the dead Assassins. In this AU, he grows up to resurrect the Templars. :)

Um...lol? :)

Glad you like it! :D You've really helped inspire me further with Honeymoon and Shattered Glass, and I can safely say that it wouldn't have been bigger than 1 story if it hadn't been for you. :)

Not sure about future stories for this series. Currently flirting with a modern version, where they're all reincarnated. Or maybe a rebirth and second chance version, where Charles Lee wakes up the day he meets Connor for the very first time.

Jamie... Jamie is dead...? Ouch.

I will (guiltily) admit, though, that I thought Jacob had died and had to go back and re-read part 9 to make sure, and... well, Jamie was the recruit I interacted with the least... so I'm *almost* relieved but oh man it's still painful.

And now Stephane knows that Connor and Haytham are working together and Connor's still alive after all... shit's about to hit the fan, huh? Oh man, I thought this update would relieve some of the tension but you are a master of keeping us on the edge of our seats! Eagerly awaiting the next instalment, as always! <3

My headcanon is that the very first hookblade was made for Malik, clamped and strapped onto his injured arm so he can climb again. I'd love to see even a drabble of him enjoying his regained freedom.

Aw, OP, I'm glad that my silly fic helped to relieve a bit of tension. *smuggles* The next part is up - I'm not sure how many parts will be left after this, since I kinda rushed the healing, but there's still another thing I want to address.

Dogs make the best hot water bottles, yessir they do. :) hopefully the squees will continue? :)

This will get rougher in later chapters, I promise! In the meantime, have some slightly-more-serious-than-I-intended buildup to the smut.

By the time he walked out of the convenience store, clutching his purchases (which now included some chocolate, chewing gum, apple juice, a ladies' gossip magazine, a bag of potatoes, two cans of Pepsi and some watch batteries; all of which had been on sale so clearly had been money well-spent), Haytham was having second thoughts. And third thoughts. And fourth, fifth and sixth thoughts.

Jesus, this was a shitty idea. Charles' creepy tendencies were nothing more than the unfortunate side-effect of being completely fucking mental. Sex wouldn't fix it, what on earth had made him think that? It must have been the caffeine deprivation. Or the nine hours he'd spent in that bloody office, trying to figure out both the identity of The Sellout and a way to get back at Washington. Or the suspicious mushroom noodles William had offered him for lunch.

…Bugger. He should have known those weren't really shiitake mushrooms. Damn William and his illegal lunches!

Haytham sighed. He'd spent almost thirty dollars on lubricant (There were two kinds? Why? He'd bought some of each type to be safe.) and condoms and a half-price cock ring he'd thought for three whole minutes might come in handy. The cashier's face had been a picture. He hadn't been able to look Haytham in the eyes, and had looked terrified when Haytham addressed him by name, Leonardo, apparently forgetting he wore a name badge.

He trudged wearily onwards. Thirty dollars wasted. He'd only end up shoving the damn things into his bedside table until either Connor or Charles started poking around and got the wrong idea, or until he got too depressed about his non-existent sex life and threw them away.

Charles in the kitchen when Haytham entered the apartment.

"Connor's gone to Desmond's house," Charles called, his voice still a little rough. Haytham rounded the corner and sure enough, the man was sitting at the table, nursing some tea. He was wrapped in a fluffy dressing-gown, hair still damp from bathing. He was, at least, freshly shaven and wearing a different pair of pyjamas than he had been that morning.

"Oh?"

"Something about pasta. Or pizza. Italian things, at any rate." Haytham prayed to gods he did not believe in that Charles would stop there. No such luck.

"Delicious Italian things," Charles added, in a manner that could have made "the vicar's coming to tea, grandmother" sound incredibly perverted.

Damn him! Damn him to hell! How the hell had he even made that innuendo? Why the hell had he made that innuendo?!

"Did you get the bananas, like I asked?" Charles said, innocently.

Oh. Oh, that was it.

Fuck everything. His earlier plan was back in action.

Haytham strode to the table, and slammed the bag on the table as best he could. It was, after all, a plastic bag, and thus rather difficult to slam. He took out the bananas, and put them in front of Charles.

"Thank you," Charles said, reaching out to take one. Haytham slapped his hand away. Bastard.

"Not yet," he snapped. He tossed the condoms next to the fruit, and then the lubricants and the cock ring as well and oh shit Charles had that look oh his face, the look that meant he knew what was going to happen and he liked it.

"Oh," Charles began, a wicked grin blossoming across his face. "Well, Hay--"

"This is what's going to happen," Haytham interrupted. "I'm going to fuck you until you literally can't stand, and you are never, ever going to eat a banana in front of me again."

Charles frowned at the last part.

"I don't understand. Why can't I eat bananas in front of you?"

"Just take your trousers off," Haytham said.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Charles looked slightly worried. Good. He should be.

"I googled it," Haytham replied, crossing his arms.

"I'm not sure this is going to go well," Charles said. "Why don't I do the fucking, and you--"

"I'm not going to offer this twice, Charles."

Charles looked like a deer caught in headlights. On one hand, having sex with Haytham. On the other, quite probably getting fairly severely injured whilst having sex with Haytham.

Charles couldn't discard his dressing-gown fast enough, and Haytham gave him a biting kiss in return. One turned into another and even though Charles mostly tasted of medicine and his facial hair was scratchy against his skin, it felt far too good to do something. He pressed Charles against the table, and Charles obediently clambered up, pushing his pants down. Haytham shucked his coat off, and helped Charles free his legs from the bunched-up fabric. And paused.

Oh god, Charles was half-hard already. What the fuck had he been thinking? This was a terrible idea, an absolutely awful idea, a-- oh shit, he was staring wasn't he? Well, it'd been a long time! It wasn't as though he had much experience with erections that didn't belong to him. Actually, he didn't have any experience with erections that didn't belong to him. It was perfectly understandable if he was a little nerv-- no, no, he was still staring. Fuck.

Charles cleared his throat loudly. Haytham glanced up, to meet his eyes. There was just a tinge of red colouring Charles' cheeks, and he looked… not displeased, but certainly somewhat disappointed.

"Second thoughts?" Charles asked, quietly. Haytham let out a tiny laugh, a horribly manic, tiny laugh. He had no idea what he was doing, and Charles would never let him live it down if he admitted it. Keep calm and carry on.

"Fuck, no!" he managed, sounding utterly unconvincing.

…All right, then, carry on at least.

He tugged the fabric over Charles' ankles and leant in for another kiss, only for Charles to turn his head away and press a hand against his chest.

"What brought this on?" Charles asked, looking serious. "You've never shown any interest in this sort of thing before."

"Does it matter?" Haytham replied.

"Yes," Charles answered, simply.

"Well, I don't think it does," Haytham said. He picked up the water-based lube, and started to unscrew the lid.

"It matters to me," Charles snapped. "And you need to use something silicon-based unless you want to do me permanent damage."

Haytham glared at him. He picked up the other tube of lubricant instead, and started opening that instead.

"Charles, you can interrogate me all you like once we're finished. In the meantime, please shut up before I decide to shove those bananas so far up your arse you'll choke on them."

Charles raised an eyebrow. He was clearly weighing up his options again. To be fucked immediately and possibly not get answers, or to get answers immediately and possibly not be fucked?

He chose the former.

Oooh modern versions are interesting to. I did have an AU plot bunny I wanted to share, and I might try and tackle if I finish Shattered and get where I need to be to end Honeymoon (I have an ending in mind... I just need to write towards before my muse starts hurling more filler scenes at me). So remember when Connor wakes up and asks "What if I did disappear?" and Lee rants about what he would do... that actually happens.

Where, what if Haytham had not known the significance of the feather. Connor wakes up but he and Clipper pretends that he is still asleep and they manage to slip away. The Aquila bombs Fort George and liberates Stephane and Deborah, and they high tail it to the seven seas.

Started writing parts at work where 5 years after giving birth, Connor gives himself up when cornered by Biddle in order to buy his crew and family time to escape. Connor makes Faulkner swear an oath to him, to tell his son that he had passed away and for the Aquila to not return to American in order to reclaim him. So Connor's son grows up being raised by the crew and recruits to become the ultimate Pirate Assassin: /drum rolls/ Edward Kenway (and just to spite Charles, his middle name might be George) who finds out on Faulkner's death bed, his mother is indeed still alive.

Sorry my brain is a plot bunny farm

OMG! The cuteness!

Connor had met Ezio when he'd been six hundred years old, and they had all been sent to Briarwood. At the time, Connor hadn't understood what Briarwood was, or why he was being sent there. He didn't understand why the 'doctors' looked at him as if he were pitiable, or why the strange men and women came around and leered at him through the bars of his cell. He didn't understand until he met Ezio, who had been twice his age and ready to take on the world. He and his brothers, Altair and Desmond had shared a cell, and out of all of them, Ezio was the biggest threat at the time. Altair was a quiet soul, and Desmond was like Connor - young, too young to understand the hows or whys of Briarwood's influence. He only knew that they'd been sent there for some reason, and that the doctors came in four times a day to give them little pills that made them groggy and obedient.

Connor had been raised by Haytham for most of his life, but when Haytham had gone off to court, he'd been left by himself. The only relatives he had left to take him in were his cousin's family, and they didn't like him. They said he was strange, that his ways were unholy and he needed to stop. They said HE was unholy, and they needed to cast him from the house because he was the one causing all the mayhem. It was because of him that his cousin got beat up, that his father lost his job, and his mother caught a hard-to-cure disease and nearly died. Connor didn't understand how all of that could be his fault, but he wanted to be helpful, so he let them send him away with nothing but the clothes on his back and the locket his father had given him for his last birthday.

Briarwood was a pretty poison; it slowly sucked the life out of him the longer he stayed. He was molded to be whatever the doctors wanted him to be, although in his more lucid moments he tried to fight off the little white pills, tried to stay sane and less obedient. The doctors chastised him for his rude behavior, saying that the pills would make him better, that he would be cured of his problems. Connor had responded that he didn't want to be cured, and that was when the first bad man came, and Connor met Ezio.

Back then, Connor had just finished his Birthright Ceremony, and received his first Jewel. It wasn't very strong, but it was pretty and it sparkled in the light, and its power felt nice, so Connor hung on to it. His father had said it was an Opal Jewel; the dividing line between light and dark Jewels and it could be considered either. Connor didn't understand that either, and hadn't had a chance to ask his father more about it. The only thing he remembered about the Jewel besides it being the dividing line was that when his father had touched it, something inside of him had warmed and purred, like a contented cat. His father had said he had felt the same thing when Connor had touched his Birthright Jewel (his father wore the Sapphire, which was also very pretty) and it meant that the person was good. If someone touched the Jewel and it felt like a growl, then it meant the person was bad, and he needed to tap into the Jewel's power and use it to get away, no matter what it took. If it meant blood being spilled, then that was fine.

Connor hadn't liked the idea of killing someone just to free himself, but he had nervously agreed with his father's words. Later that evening after he refused his medication though, he began to realize that his father had not said it to be cruel, but as a wake up call to what the world was like. A man had come into his cell - Charles Lee, Connor recalled, and had grinned at him in a way that hadn't been nice. It had been the same sort of grin the other men and women that came near his cell had given him, the ones that made him feel tingles up and down his spine. Lee had ordered him on his hands and knees, and when Connor had refused, he had attacked him and tried to rape him. Connor had screamed, his Jewel blazing, and lashed out. But instead of striking the man like he'd seen his father do, he'd hit a 'wall'. Lee had informed him that he wore the darker Jewels, which meant that any attempts to defend himself on Connor's end would result in pain. Connor hadn't cared, and kept attacking. But the more he attacked, the more he began to panic and realize that his father wasn't going to save him, and he didn't know anyone who could stop Lee. The doctors wouldn't - they had let the man in. So Connor had gathered up the last of his energy in one defiant ball and let it loose in the loudest scream for help he could possibly make.

And Ezio, who had been right down the hall from him, had roared back.

Ezio had called it an Eryien war cry, and told him that it was what the adult males did before going into battle. Sometime between Lee getting his hand between Connor's legs and Connor breaking down in fear, Ezio had kicked the door in and slaughtered Lee where he sat. The warm caress of blood had made Connor open his eyes, and he had met the impossibly emotionless, utterly cold gaze of the young Warlord Prince who would later become his clan brother. He had trembled, believing that Ezio would kill him, but warmth and love had seeped into the other's eyes so quickly it made him dizzy, and before Connor could say a word Ezio had scooped him up and carried him back to the 'nest/den' where Altair and Desmond were and burrowed in after him.

It turned out the three brothers had been put in Briarwood by their mother, who believed Warlord Princes were demons that needed to either be perfectly obedient or put away. They had all been older than him, and had gone through their Birthright Ceremonies as well as training in what it meant to be a Warlord Prince. They had explained Briarwood to him, told him what those men and women were looking at him like that for, and taught him what it meant to be a Warlord Prince. Because of Ezio, he had remained intact both inside and out, and grown to become one of the most deadly males walking the Realms. Eventually Haytham and William (Altair, Ezio and Desmond's father) had gotten word of where their boys were and pulled them out. Connor knew for a fact that they'd all gotten out - which is why it didn't make any sense to hear that Desmond had been forced to go back.

Seeing his brother on the floor, weaving a seduction spell while Death whispered in his ear had finally driven it home. Watching the spell breaking and everyone going wild around him, the cacophony of sounds emerging as the women began to fuck the person nearest them and the men assaulted the women... it was horrible. But it made him realize that when Altair had told him one dark quiet night that the Council had forced William to make Desmond go back... it had turned Desmond into a predator among predators. He walked, acted and spoke like he did because he was twice as dangerous as any of them. He knew the games that were being played before even the Queens did, and he had a counter available for every single one. It was a terrifying realization, and it made Connor wish he had known sooner.

The worst part was that when he had asked, "Why did they make him go back?" Ezio and Altair had looked at each other, as if debating whether or not to tell him. They must have agreed on it, because they told him why.

"He's Father's heir. Father wears the Black, and is one of the most influential existences out there among the Realms. The Council can't beat him - but they can stop another one from growing. That's why they sent him back," Altair had told him, completely stone faced. "I wear the Black as well, but I don't have the talent Desmond does to handle people. I can't do what he and Father do. So instead, I protect him, keep him sane in other ways. We keep him grounded, so that he can do what he does."

Connor felt sick as he watched Desmond pick himself up off the ground and dust himself off before smiling at them and gesturing to the door. But he followed, understanding just how much of a mistake the Council had made when they had sent Desmond back. They had wanted to keep him from becoming a threat, but in the process they had created a monster. And now that monster was heading straight for them, like a dark storm cloud overhead. He would eradicate them, Connor knew, and then he'd go back home and play with Altair and Ezio's kids like he wasn't a nightmare wandering around the Realms.

"Walk softly when you walk among us..." Connor murmured as they took the Red Wind towards Kaeleer, where William and Haytham were waiting. "I always wondered what that meant."

And now, he knew.

I don't know how it happened, but this part turned out really squicky. It even has a surprise ending that the OP didn't request. Soooo I'll just leave this here and hope I didn't do too bad a job of filling this, it was really an awesome prompt. :)

The sword tore so easily into his body...

Connor's vision was growing blurry. In the span of what only seemed to be a second, he felt the sword extricate from his side, only to feel a different one plunge deep inside.

Connor coughed wetly, spitting up blood. The Hessians seemed amused, taking turns cutting him open in the same spot over and over again. He could hear multiple men snickering sadistically as they tortured the once-threatening Assassin, who was no more than a dog's feeble chew toy now. Or, in this case, a whole nation's play toy. They wanted to make quite a show of the Assassin's rebellion.

Then, of course, the way the soldiers reacted now seemed to scream something about more than being a playtoy they wanted of him.

They wanted a sex toy.

The last thing Connor remembers when his eyes roll up in the back of his head and he collapses, is a pair of boots appearing in front of his face. And another to his side. Then two more on his other side. Just too many... Redcoats.

Connor closes his eyes.

"H...e's no...t...d...ead!"

Connor slowly came to consciousness again, but only halfway. He could hear people speaking all around him, but it felt like everything was playing in slow motion. A dull migraine turned head-splitting when several boots kicked at his face; gently, cautiously.

"He's still alive! I can see he's breathing!"

"What kind of rebel is he? How is he still alive?"

Connor groaned weakly when he felt himself rolling over onto his side. He wasn't doing it on his own, no. His arms felt like lead, his legs crippled and unresponsive...

His body started shutting down, trying its hardest to keep him alive.

However, he would rather die than agonizingly survive with this insane amount of pain. He was way beyond his threshold and didn't think he'd ever recover. He felt... defeated. A part of him wanted to say goodbye to his Assasssin self and leave this world forever with his spirit, yet another part wanted Achilles to rescue him. But could he even hold out that long? Against whatever these Redcoats were planning for him?

Connor managed to open his eyes, only barely, and open his mouth to moan in pain as a few soldiers grabbed his arms and slowly flipped him onto his back. Connor could feel his own dried blood caking around the corners of his mouth and was nearly unable to process the sound of patronizing laughter and jeering.

Was it all directed at him...?

Connor sluggishly looked around himself, his eyelids feeling tired and heavy. His head was totally immobile, for reasons unknown. And he seemed to be sitting up now.

Weird.

He felt something dripping down his face, slowly drying and sticking to him. More laughter.

What was going on?

"No, it's my turn!"

"We already agreed, we are doing it by rank!"

"You remember, we just talked about it!"

"Stop being so impatient! Oh, what's this?"

Connor could finally see... somewhat clearly. There were three soldiers in front of him, wobbling around and becoming fuzzy, and then clear again.

Then fuzzy. Somehow, now his head was turned to the side. His ribs hurt and he felt like he was going to vomit.

One of his ribs was probably broken. All he could see was a black haze, as someone covered his eyes with something. His mouth was filled with something, harshly sliding in and out. His hand was wrapped around something, languidly stroking with the aid of of a crushing glove wrapped around his fingers.

Boot prints. He could feel them on his chest, on his knuckles. They stung like fire and agony. So they were the ones who broke one of his ribs, messed up a hand.

Connor could still see nothing, and slowly it dawned on him why. His trousers were bunched down around his ankles, which must mean his sash was...

Connor bit down. He knew he could taste blood; someone else's blood, this time. Then, he witnessed a blood-curdling yell and became very, very dizzy. He was now laying on his back, and many, many hands were upon him now, removing his remaining clothes, tearing some of it, scratching his skin and leaving red marks and welts. Even teeth marks.

On his neck. Followed by fingers clenching tightly, sucking all the air out of his throat. Connor realized that it was Charles Lee, choking him again.

Yet it was not. Someone was grabbing his chin, someone else's tongue forcing down his throat. Connor gagged and his body retched, lurching upward in revulsion. Someone lay their boot on top of his caved-in rib and steadily pressed down, adding more pressure.

Connor screamed, opening his mouth wider. The invading tongue was gone. And now there were two.

Two erections.

"Wait, stop. I think he's had enough. You don't really want him to die now, do you?"

"Of course not. This is way too fun."

"Hey, are you alright?"

Connor blinked, and his body twitched, becoming more alert. He'd just heard Achilles! He came to save-

"Ssh." A soothing voice said softly, comforting him. Connor's sash was being untied from around his eyes.

He felt like crying, if he even could at this point, when he was able to see again. This person was definitely not Achilles.

A small smile, reassuringly, and a blanket was wrapped around him. Connor was sitting with his back resting against a crate, and his rear was seated on something really scratchy.

Hay.

"Haytham..." Connor weakly called out, despite himself. Another smile.

"It seems I was too late to aid you properly in your plight, but I have resolved the situation rather nicely, nonetheless."

Connor looked at him with droopy eyes. It was night-time now, and everything that happened was one big incohesive mess. Had he really been out in this alley all day long? Doing...

"Unspeakable things? Yes, you did. But, I gave them all the greatest dose of vengeance they could receive. ...No one harms my son."

Connor looked at Haytham questioningly, surprised at what he admitted in an unguarded moment. Haytham didn't seem embarrassed by his feelings about this situation at all. Or what he had witnessed. He simply seemed furious, stricken by indignant anger at the injustice of what happened to his child as if he could not allow or abide such mortal sin to ever be committed in his presence.

"Connor, come with me. I wish to show you something."

Connor simply nodded. Haytham let his face soften somewhat, looking truly caring, and knelt down to help the boy to his feet. Connor tried to stand up but trembled and nearly collapsed had Haytham not helpfully flung his arms out to catch him from crashing down into the marbled asphault below. He already had enough bruises, broken bones and a broken heart as it was. Haytham carefully guided Connor's arm over a shoulder and wrapped one of his arms around Connor's front to support him. Connor's broken hand fell limply across Haytham's chest and his healthy hand grabbed at the blanket around him, clutching it together like a poncho. His clothes were somehow already redressed on him, though bloodstained and ratty. He didn't want any more attention from random people directed his way. He has had enough of that for a lifetime.

Haytham helped him hobble out from around the side of the large wooden box, and after a few minutes of guided walking and small words of encouragement from his father, a small glimmer of hope came into Connor's eyes, eyes that were once dulled and became lifeless from his prior encounters.

They were now in the middle of the Boston Harbor, and a heaping pile of gruesomely-disfigured dead bodies lay before them on a British ship. Redcoats, covered in red. Puddles of blood soaking into the wooden boards of the hull. What a sight.

What a damn beautiful sight. Connor smiled.

"Nia:wen, raké:ni."

Haytham turned his face to look at his son, enjoying the sight of him finding an amused humor and irony in this little turn of events. Haytham "Hmm'd" playfully, hinting coyly that he was up to something. He took his flintlock pistol out of its holster and handed it around to Connor.

"Want to dump the bodies?"

Connor let go of the blanket, dropping it to the ground and took the gun out of Haytham's hand with a genuine, thankful smile on his face.

"I would be most happy to."

He then aimed right at a barrel of explosives that Haytham conveniently placed on the ship next to the deceased evil-doers.

One perfectly-placed shot, and explosion of explosion wracked across the ship, blasting it apart like it was a cheap toy to destroy. Shrapnel flew across the docking bay and into the ocean, revealing that Haytham had taken the extra time to place several more barrels down below the hull. The ship had met its gratifying end, along with all the soldiers aboard it.

The second most beautiful sight in the world, was the ship sinking, down, down into nothingness, the pale full moon in the night sky reflecting off the rapidly-moving waves, blood coloring the surface of the disturbed froth below.

A timeless memory, enjoyed by Father and Son.

A full moon makes people do crazy things.

And it makes once-bad people come to those in need.

Perhaps they shall fight one another no longer in the future, quarrel no more. They have bonded.

:O

Very nice tie-in with the new Assassins. :D

Very, very nice. Though I can't imagine that Charles treated Connor very well since he ran off and his son disappeared off the face of the map.

Such angst potential...such adventure potential!

But yes, your brain is a plotbunny farm. I like! :)

Well, not sure what I'll do atm, but probably will take a short break. And then may dive into whatever plotbunny's nomming on my brain.

Have a short porny fill for Charles/Washington. I want fics about those two, but there is nothing and that is sad.

Charles doesn’t know why Washington comes to him for this. He just appears from time to time, especially when the day has been particularly difficult. He doesn’t ask for anything, but he doesn’t have to. Charles knows why he’s here.

For him, the thrill comes from how easily he could end the man’s life and yet how beautifully he submits to him. One day, when the timing is best for the Order, he will allow himself to squeeze every last breath out of Washington. He hopes the general’s most faithful followers will find his desecrated body, Washington having died an unseemly death, as far from a battlefield as possible.

But today is not that day.

Washington can never quite meet his eyes. Charles’ doesn’t mind: let the man wallow in his self-disgust if he feels the need to. It makes it easier to push him to the ground. He straddles Washington’s waist, making sure his weight pins him down, and gives him what he came for.

At first, he lets his fingers barely brush the skin. He enjoys watching the anticipation growing in his victim, his chest rising faster as he waits for a heavier touch. He then wraps his hands gently around the neck, the touch gentle enough to be mistaken for a lover’s. Washington tenses under him, torn between what he wants and what he should do, which is to push away the man who never really hid his hatred from him, even if the self-centered idiot doesn’t really understand the cause of his animosity. Charles knows Washington thinks he’s the one using Charles’ dislike of him to fulfill his sick desires. As if he would ever let himself be manipulated like this, even more so by Washington of all people.

When his hands have caressed Washington’s neck long enough for him to know the general is seconds away from either leaving or begging, he tightens his hold, slowly but with force, letting each digit dig into soft flesh. He makes sure his thumbs are well positioned to block any passing of air and stays steady against Washington’s instinctive attempts to dislodge him. He always struggles at first. Charles can hear the gasps dying as all air leaves him. When mind and body catches up to the situation, he calms down. It begins by an act of will and turns into necessity. Charles watches the euphoria the choking causes in Washington wipe away all the shame that he felt barely moments ago.

Washington is hard against his lower back. Charles grinds against him, knowing much more contact than this won’t be needed. Washington always arrives more than ready for pleasure, like he’s been waiting for too long before breaking and coming back to him. He continues the movement until he can see how close Washington is to the edge. At once, he tightens his fingers just a bit more, only as much as he believes he can without causing lasting damage, and frees him a second later. The first inspiration, deep and uneven, concurs with his orgasm, leaving Charles unable to tell if the body trembling under him is shaking in pleasure or pain. Similarly, the gasps he emits as he tries to get as much air as possible could also be moans or pleas.

The sight of Washington this defenceless and at his mercy hasn’t left him unaffected, and now that the general has gotten what he came for, it’s time for him to pay his due. Charles rises and stares at Washington until the man can compose himself somewhat. When dizziness seemingly left him, he kneels in front of Charles and unlaces his breeches. They never bothered with foreplay: tonight isn’t any different. Washington takes him in his mouth up to the root. Charles grabs his head and keeps him there until he’s once again gasping for air. He pushes out and starts fucking his mouth, uncaring of his enemy’s comfort. In this, Washington never opposes him anyway.

When he’s too close to the end, Charles tangles his hand in Washington’s hair and roughly pushes him away. He takes himself in hand and gives himself a few strokes, enough to reach completion all over Washington.

They would get along so much better if Washington always looked like he does now. Wet streaks covering his face and saliva running down his mouth, nobody could ignore what the man was doing a few seconds before. He’s still on his knees, his own breeches stained, but what really complete the tableau are Charles’ hands imprinted on his throat. Washington can wash away all other signs of their clandestine encounters, but this will still be there in a few days, undisputable proof that he submitted to someone else. He’ll absently rub the marks through his clothing when they see each others tomorrow. Charles will catch the gesture and give him such a smile that he will blush, the respected general, and will have to deal with mystified subordinates. Charles will leave him to this, and will wait until Washington breaks again. It’s only a question of time.

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