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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I went pretty serious with this fill which I don't think is what the OP wanted. If any other Anons have a more lighthearted fill they wanted to post, that would be great! I'll just share what I've got in the meantime.

-----

She can’t believe it. She’s looking right at it, but still. The people of her village had legends about the sacred cave; the children would create stories to frighten each other, but this? Kaniehti:io had not expected this.

A man came up beside her, looking up at the great shining barrier as well. She had never met him before, but she felt that she almost… knew him, somehow. His spectacles reflected the blue light as his eyes traveled over its shifting surface. She looked back to the surface of the barrier and tried to catch her breath.

“Odd, isn’t it?” He remarked suddenly. Kaniehti:io tilted her head slightly to show she listened and followed the massive arch of stone that framed the barrier.

“I never expected such a thing would be beyond the door.” She answered at last. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him startle and turn to look at her. She stepped forward to look at the stone protrusion that looked to be some kind of complicated lock.

“I meant more along the lines of how this could just be sitting down here for so many years without anyone being the wiser, but yeah, fair enough.”

The way he spoke reminded her of someone. Someone she couldn’t quite recall. Her hand reached out, and something seemed off about it, something about her skin…

“Alright there Desmond?” Shaun asked and she realized that she was dead.

Desmond fought to not jerk his hand back, staring at his tattoo. He hadn’t even noticed the Bleed taking over. It had always been so violent before. He closed his fist and let his arm swing back down to his side.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He walked back to the Animus slowly, ignoring Shaun’s concern.

-----

She’s so happy.

Luxuriating on the chaise lounge, Maria stretched each leg individually. Her ankles have been so sore of late, and her back is often cramped and aching. But today, her bambino is quietly resting inside her, and she has spent the morning doing nothing but embroidery in her chemise, and she feels that the entire world is wonderful.

Giovanni had said he would be back before noon, and as it nears midday she begins to grow anxious. Perhaps sensing her distress, her boy shifts and brushes a hand against her belly. She strokes at the little handprint and he settles.

To pass the time she thinks on names once again. Giovanni never seems satisfied with anything she suggests but he will not say so. He merely hums and nods and kisses her neck. As if that was an acceptable answer.

She loves the name Claudia, but she has been able to tell since he began to shift inside her that her firstborn would be Giovanni’s son. An heir, and so soon after marrying. It will do her credit in the eyes of her mother and raise Giovanni’s status at the bank. Yet social politics are far from her mind.

All she can feel is the warmth of the sun and the press of a little hand against her skin, and Maria cannot tell if she has ever been so content before in all her life.

Desmond thinks it’s like waking up, almost. When he opens his eyes he’s staring up at Altair’s statue, and it pulls him back to the present faster than being shaken. Rebecca turns her head quickly to throw him a smile, then stuffs a sandwich in her mouth as she continues working.

Desmond pulls his hand out from under his shirt and pretends he isn’t disappointed at the flatness of his stomach.

-----

Desmond sneezes, and then swears quietly. He can tell that Rebecca’s about to offer him a tissue, but embarrassment grips him hard and he’s already heading to the door by the time she asks what’s wrong.

“Bathroom.” He gives his excuse at a near run. The loft of the warehouse was laid out simply enough, and he found it behind the second door he tried.

He hates this weakness of his sex. He gives a frustrated growl as he tears open the lacing on his trousers, pulling down his smallclothes to survey the damage. He can see a bright spot of blood staining the white fabric, and she tears off everything below her waist in a fury. Her smallclothes go into the basin to soak while she tries to fashion some kind of makeshift bandage.

She was supposed to go riding with Robert today, and away from the others he would help critique her form. Maria gave a frustrated growl and threw the useless gauzy fabric she’d found into a waste bin and decided she wouldn’t care if the blood ran down her legs.

She scrubbed at her smallclothes, the blood lifting out surprisingly easily. It looked as though the water itself was hardly stained at all, and that at least was some good fortune. He lifted the startlingly white fabric out of the basin and rung it out, using a nearby towel to help absorb some of the water. They’d still be cold and damp when he put them back on, but it was better than suspicious bloodstains.

Desmond shivered as he pulled his underwear back on, then stepped into his jeans. As he washed his hands in the surprisingly cold water he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. For a second, his hair almost seemed too short and dark.

-----

When she opened her eyes in the dead of the night she was immediately terrified. The white and the metal. The smooth lines of the strange furnishings. The soft sheets and downy mattress.

She had been taken back.

Eve whimpered and turned to her side, hiding her tears as she sobbed her heartbreak.

All I can think of is Desmond trying to get to know Connor and Connor's sitting on like the ass-opposite end of the room while they chat and Desmond's wondering if it's 'cause of his scent or something, but Connor has shown zero interest in Desmond thus far and Desmond doesn't know what to think of him while Connor is just trying to respect his boundaries since he punched Ezio in the gut for giving him an unwanted hug but Connor doesn't know that Ezio tried to cop a feel and Desmond would have none of that.

... Sorry, I'll just go be waaay too enthusiastic over there.

Strange Fates

Chapter 25 -

To George’s surprise, they managed to get to a couple of horses and make it out of the camp without incident. When he looked questioningly at Stephane, the Assassin simply nodded towards the periphery of the camp. Upon straining, George could just make out the hint of a hint of boots at the base of a bush.

...boots that were common standard amongst his troops.

George shuddered as he realized that that bush was the resting place of one of his men, likely one of the spies the Templars had planted. The Assassins had likely already dealt with one of the threats against him in his army.

It must have been recent, because any disappearances would’ve been noticed and investigated.

George briefly wondered what his officers would make of it, if they ever discovered the body, but then quickly turned his thoughts away. He left the camp on his mission before anyone discovered the body. It would seem strange if he had knowledge of it when he returned.

Strangely enough, it heartened him. The enemies pitted against him were terrifying, yes, but his allies were also capable of great and terrible things. And that they had already eliminated one threat could only be good.

It meant they actually had a chance.

George felt hope struggling to bloom in his heart. To see his beloved Wolf again and know that he was safe...

It would be such a gift.

He must have smiled or seemed a little too hopeful because Stephane soon halted his horse, turned to him, placed one heavy hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

George felt all the hope that had been building in him suddenly crash.

“We are far enough from the camp to speak safely,” the Assassin murmured.

Indeed, they had traveled for quite a distance and George wagered they’d put more than 5 miles between the camp and them.

“Commander,” the Assassin began. “There’s been a complication since we last saw you.”

George didn’t like the sound of that.

“Complication,” he echoed, eyes narrowing.

His first thought went to Connor, and his heart leapt at the thought that the young man may be dead.

But no, it couldn’t be. There would be no point in removing him from the camp then. And the Templars would not have bothered to keep him alive.

George knew that, in his enemies’ eyes, he was only useful as leverage against his beautiful Wolf.

“Not as bad as it sounds,” Stephane continued, “but Connor has been removed from Lee.”

George was confused.

“Isn’t that a good thing? Lee has done horrible things to Connor, and separating them seems like it would be good for us.”

When Stephane simply pursed his lips, George pressed further. “Right?”

The Assassin frowned.

“Using our...special agent, we were able to track him down after a few days—“

So that was why they had been delayed for so long.

“—and deliver a message to him. Yusuf brought a note back, and the news was...troubling.”

The man didn’t look inclined to continue so George laid a firm hand upon that broad shoulder.

“It will be best if you tell me. I can do nothing but cause trouble when ignorant.”

The Alpha nodded.

“Lee had...angered...the Templar Grandmaster.“ The Assassin’s brief hesitation clued George into the fact that there was something not being said.

“The Grandmaster had Connor moved to his own townhouse and we managed to scout it out fairly well because it is less protected than Lee’s residence.”

Less protected? Wasn’t that good for them?

“However, the Grandmaster foresaw this and stationed two of his most bloodthirsty agents to guard Connor day and night.”

That was not good.

“Most bloodthirsty agents?” Given how much his Connor had killed in their defense, it was truly frightening to think of a pair of men who killed so much more to be spoken of so warily by a trained Assassin.

Connor’s second no less.

“A Hessian and a Spanish priest.”

George started at that. He wasn’t all that surprised by the Hessian, but...a priest?

As if reading his thoughts, Stephane decided to clarify.

“The Spanish priest, Frederico Perez, is utterly ruthless. He sees us as...sinners. Possibly abominations against God. And so he takes cold joy in killing us. He used to—“

And here, Stephane choked up a bit.

“—Back in the days of Connor’s mentor, he used to hunt down our brothers and then hang them so that all could see. We lost a third of the order to his fanatical devotion.”

A third.

George shuddered.

“And...the Hessian?” George was almost afraid to ask.

“The Hessian is Gerhard von Stantten. He is insane.”

George blinked.

“He killed so many, without a trace of emotion on his face...one after another, he slaughtered our brothers and their apprentices. He even took out innocent bystanders who had nothing to do with us.”

Stephane paused.

“Achilles thought that he secretly enjoyed the killing and the blood. He said that he was a sadist who enjoyed the terror he inflicted.”

A monster then.

“Are they part of this Inner Circle Connor spoke about?”

The Assassin shook his head.

“No. Part of what is particularly frightening about the pair is that they were offered advancement and turned it down because they enjoyed killing our brothers so much.”

George felt a chill go down his spine.

To have such men between them and Connor...

“How are we ever to get Connor out then?” he worried.

Stephane sighed.

“A lot of planning and a lot of luck.”

George didn’t like that.

“And what is your plan?”

The Assassin reached into his bag at that and pulled out a letter.

Connor’s letter.

“The mentor’s instructions are in here. He’s commanded us to bring him a couple of hidden blades through Yusuf. We are to create a commotion, preferably using the stray cats and dogs and pigs rather than people given von Stantten’s...tendencies.”

“The Hessian kills people gleefully but not animals?” George was a bit incredulous.

“Yes. He has never killed a single animal.”

Somehow that made the man even more terrifying.

“And me, what about me?”

Stephane’s gaze sharpened.

“You are to go to the Homestead and stay there. Safe.”

George opened his mouth to argue.

The Assassin held up a hand.

“It is more than you think.”

George waited for the Alpha’s explanation.

“Connor believes that, due to the recent falling out between Lee and the Grandmaster, that Lee may soon be making his move against you. Lee is seeking to redeem himself in the Grandmaster’s eyes and may move to seize power in the continental army to do so.”

There was a story not being told there, but George was too worried about the prospect of Charles Lee seizing power to think much of it.

“What can I do to stop him?

Stephane handed him Connor’s letter.

“Connor’s instructions for you lie in here. He briefly described it in my own correspondence and said that you should use the proclaimed reason for your absence to accuse him.”

Ah right. He’d claimed to be working to track down a traitor in their organization.

...how fitting. And it even turned out true.

A thought came to him then.

“I can court marshal him, but I have no evidence. And he is still very popular, despite his unexpected leave.”

In fact, his popularity was the only reason they hadn’t tried him for desertion when he’d first disappeared.

Stephane didn’t look too worried.

“Connor has a solution for that, but first you need to get to the Homestead.”

With that, the Assassin suddenly whistled and a familiar figure dropped out of the trees and landed in front of them.

“Commander,” the Assassin Clipper greeted him. “We have no time to spare. I will escort you to the Homestead, but we must hurry.”

George didn’t like the sound that. From the look on Stephane’s face, neither did he.

“Were we followed?” The Alpha Assassin asked worriedly.

Clipper nodded solemnly.

“Duncan, Deborah and I got rid of most of them, but we can’t take any chance that they discover where the commander’s disappeared to. So quickly, while they’re still distracting the last of them.”

He leapt behind George on top of his horse.

“I will see you once Connor is with us again.”

And then Clipper saluted the Alpha, spurred the horse forwards, and they rode off quickly.

George clutched the precious letter and hoped that his beloved Wolf would be safe.

Hnnnngg--- the tension. I'm on tenterhooks, anon, this is all so very exciting. I'm wondering how Connor fares in his new establishment. Gerhard's and Frederico's descriptions made me shiver. Poor Connor, just imagine the safety he wallows in while surrounded by these... men. Must be lovely, eh? My poor baby...

Not OP loved this so much! I think it's amazing that you kept it so serious and I'm glad you kept the focus on Desmond but included the others as well.

Another anon joining the readership. Let's see how the rebellion develops...

Mm, bb, I do not mind the bluntness at all. If someone wants creepy forced transitions, then I am going to make it as creepy as I possibly can. After all, Charles doesn't want Connor, he wants Haytham.

Okay, so the soft glowing in my backward is your camp? I'll be sure to leave marshmellows out for you. :) Thanks for reading!

This is probably going to be a very very long fill. I can't promise that it will be updated on a consistent schedule since I'm quite literally drowning in fills, but I will do my best.

Also, in case anybody was wondering, Bridgeford is a made-up city in the south of England and the university itself is basically a weird mishmash of Oxford, Cambridge and Durham and a couple of others. And when I say 'city', I mean a large town with a special charter, because that's how we roll in the UK. We don't like things that make sense.

Haytham Kenway is a man of habit. Each morning he rises at seven, then showers, shaves and dresses and drives his trusty little Nissan to his office at the University of Bridgeford's Department of History. He arrives at exactly five past eight, and at exactly quarter past, his research assistant arrives with their coffee, from the campus Starbucks.

"Morning, Charles," Haytham always says, flicking through the newspaper Charles hands him. He waits for his computer to boot up, carefully sipping the triple-shot Americano while it's still extra hot. Charles dutifully tells him his schedule (seminars at nine and eleven, a lecture at one, planning meeting for the trip to Pompeii at three, two students for one-on-one tuition at four and five respectively), and gives him back his notes for his lessons for next week, which have now been photocopied just in case they are needed for future reference.

Haytham tends to eat at the cafe near the library, mostly because staff have a fifty percent discount. He doesn't know or care where Charles goes at lunch, as long as he's doing his work by the time Haytham gets back to the office. Most evenings, he heads home at six, and often spends his free time reading, watching television, or being forcibly dragged to various social events by the few men he considers his friends.

Although Haytham's small circle of friends all live nearby, they hardly meet as a group. William usually insists on interrupting his peaceful Friday lunch by taking him to one of William's many favourite indie cafes around the small city. Thomas drops by the office randomly, mostly to piss Charles off, while John usually communicates via texts due to his insane working hours at the local airbase which is quite possibly actually an MI5 facility.

Haytham is well aware that his life might be considered 'boring' or 'dull', but he's had more than enough excitement to last him a lifetime. He's grown to appreciate predictability and organisation.

All of the above is why he's apprehensive about answering the phone when it rings at nine PM on a Sunday in August. Nobody phones him this late at night. His friends all call his mobile, not the landline. He answers anyway, because he hasn't got anything better to do.

"Doctor Kenway speaking," he says.

"You're a doctor now?" Ziio asks, and Haytham's breath catches in his throat. He'd never expected to hear her voice again, not after everything that had happened between them. What on earth could she be calling about? Had her-- had their son died? Were they moving to Britain? Were they in trouble?

"Indeed I am," he answers, smoothly. It sounds like she's in a place with bad reception, or there's something dodgy about her phone line. "You never call."

"Connor's been accepted at your university. He's flying over the Wednesday before Fresher's week. He'll be staying with some friends of mine before moving into his halls of residence, so you don't need to worry about getting a guest room ready or anything. I just wanted to make sure you knew he's going to be around for the next couple of years. I sent you an email a few weeks ago, but I figured I'd call, since you never answered. "

"Oh," Haytham says, dumbstruck. "Sorry. I didn't get it."

Anybody else would probably have yelled at him for being uncaring, but thankfully Ziio knows he just doesn't know what to say or do.

"I thought as much. I expect you to meet him at some point," Ziio says, sternly. "Be nice. Try to pronounce his name properly. Don't ask about the mohawk."

"Mohawk?" Haytham starts, but is cut off by the phone going dead. He stares at the receiver a moment, then sighs and puts it back on its hook. There are few things Haytham hates more in the world than sudden changes to his comfortable life, but he's admittedly quite curious about the boy. They've never met, though he has seen a few pictures Ziio sent over of a rather adorable little boy.

He can't help but feel apprehensive, though. Just what did Ziio say about him? If it's what he suspects, then Connor shouldn't want to be within a million miles of Haytham.

*wraps shock blanket over anon*

It's only going to get worse. Thanks for reading!

You can't say that Charles isn't thorough. ;D It'll take a bit of time, but Connor will find it more and more difficult to speak in his original voice. I am really happy that this hits the target for what you want! If I ever cross the line into "too creepy, cannot do this anymore", let me know and I will tone the creepy down. :)

Attaching a longer chain, Charles led Connor outside, where dawn was beginning to break, and directed him into a little outhouse. During the chain swap, two other Templars had come in to secure his legs, pinning him down as he twisted and kicked.

"It is all delirium," said Lee, watching the padded cuffs go on.

They forced Connor's still bound hands up, looping a thick band of leather around his nape and attaching it to either side of his hands. Stomach exposed, Connor felt vulnerable, like the soft and non-toxic underside of a toad, ready to be pecked apart by crows. Lee ran his eyes down Connor's body, the tiniest hitch in his breathing betraying the moment they slid over Connor's crotch. The assassin shifted uncomfortably. That was always the part that caused attention and he wasn't quite sure why.

"L-Charles. Hurry up."

The outhouse was clean, not that Connor expected anything less from the Templars, and one of the grunts, the shorter one, lifted the toilet lid. Connor tensed, still trying to hold on, and glared at Lee.

"I am not a magician," he pointed out, in his own voice.

Haytham's accent was hard. It tended to slip into parody, and was soft around the edges, while sharp and pointy in the middle - an upper-class attitude went with it and that was the part Connor was fighting with the most. The aristocracy just didn't care about middle or lower-class people. Connor did. But Lee refused to listen unless he made some attempt to emulate it.

"Charles?"

At least that was a word he had experience of. Haytham had talked about his second-in-command quite frequently.

"Charles, my hands - " began Connor.

"Yes, of course, Haytham," replied Lee.

Immediately he reached for Connor, and started undoing the buttons to his trousers. Connor turned his attention elsewhere, not wanting to see the greedy and lustful care with which Lee was handling his body. Lee's hands were cold, the shock almost making him lose control before he was ready. His prick, trying to leak, was tugged on, Connor stumbling forward to follow.

He almost moaned in delight as he was allowed to relieve himself, Lee aiming him carefully, but kept his pleased noises to himself. Once done, Lee wiped Connor's prick down with a wet rag and tucked him away, although not nearly as tightly as Connor normally preferred he did not want Lee to touch him more.

It was a cold walk back to the cabin, frost crunching under his bare feet, a numbing sensation that Connor hadn't noticed on the way out. He dug his feet into the soil, scared that he wouldn't feel the earth between his toes for a while. Purposely slowing, Connor turned around, taking in the peaceful little spot that Lee had built his cabin in. The trees were naked except for a shawl of late snow with tiny buds of new leaves studding the melting ice with jewels. They stretched to the sky, limbs and fingers reaching for a sun they would never be able to touch, only feel. Even the grumbles of the Templar lackeys complaining about the cold and the lack of women couldn't dampen this image. They faded into the background, and Connor crouched to crush fallen pine needles under his feet and to take in the sharp smell and the spikes pricking his skin. It eased that rank overload of lavender that still lingered in the back of his nose. The frosted grass was broken in a lot of areas - for such an isolated spot, there were many fresh footprints.

One of the lackeys nudged Connor with their rifle stock. Without even thinking, Connor snatched at it as far as his bound hands could. When that failed to yield a weapon, he rolled back, standing up to ram the solider in a sort of reverse headbutt. His skull connected with soft cartilage and Connor felt the blood immediately ooze onto his skull. Tucking his chin to his chest, Connor managed to unloop the leather band from over his neck and used it to grab the other soldier in a stranglehold. The Templar struggled, bleating pitifully for help.

Connor dragged him, walking backwards to use him as a shield between him and his inevitable pursuer. He would not go back. He would not be used in such a disgusting way. At about half a mile, Connor dropped the solider, watching them sob in gratitude as their life was spared for another day. The snow and pine needles weren't pleasant now but Connor had endured worse with Achilles. They were the leftovers from winter, more of a frost or such than a proper snow.

But he took only one step away from his former hostage when all manner of weapons were pointed at his throat or chest. Ah, the extra footprints. They were the rest of Lee's security detail. Connor cursed the wailing of his hostage smothering the noise of the Templars slowly close in on him. A stupid, foolish mistake.

Connor's lip furled in displeasure. They grabbed him by his upper arms and forced him back.

Lee was waiting - his expression was so forlorn that Connor almost felt sorry for him. Almost. He threw a blanket over Connor and tutted at the Assassin's muddy feet, streaked with blood from stones and pine needles.

"Your little adventure had me worried, Haytham. But at least it gave me time to have your bath properly prepared," said Lee, tightly clasping Connor's hand with both of his.

"My bath?"

Lee wrinkled his nose.

"Yes, it is quite unlike you to allow yourself to become so dirty, if I must give you my truthful opinion, Grand Master Kenway," replied Lee, ushering Connor into the cabin.

A wooden tub had been set up in the middle of the room and more lackeys were attending to it, boiling water in the fireplace. It was about one third of the way full with fresh ice being hauled in from outside to supplement the hot.

"In you get," announced Lee, and the next thing Connor knew was he was being pushed into the tub, clothes still on.

"Oh dear. It's a shame that you fell in. Well, I have just the thing," Lee said. "It should fit just fine."

Insane. Bloody insane.

He supposes that he knew something like that would happen, that he'd be witness to some new and gruesome shade of brutality, but it hadn't made Adams' mutilation any less terrifying to behold.

Had he made an involuntary face? Made a noise? The drugged and complacent whore would probably not have looked on the scene with anything more than mild dismay, but Haytham isn't that good of an actor. He doubts anyone is. He feels sick, panic gnawing at his chest and he jams his hands between his knees to keep them from shaking. Adams makes low guttural noises that may have once been speech but now just dissolve into inarticulate, animal howls of rage and pain, echoing off the walls.

Jefferson takes Adams under the arm and hustles him out. The other delegates have already fled, made a run for the doors before Washington inspired more mutilations. Haytham wonders if the Adams will live to see Philadelphia.

His mind spins around the figure Washington had so casually bandied about: Sixty thousand. He was certain the remaining Philadelphia regiments and French troops were well trained and armed, but what would they do against men that were compelled to keep fighting unto death? Could they bring themselves to kill women bearing muskets? Children wielding knives and axes? And still, the larger question; how was that sort of power even possible? He'd studied accounts of Precursor technologies extensively, the Pieces of Eden in particular, but no where had he ever heard of anything capable of directly controlling more than a few hundred at a time. Washington was bluffing. He had to be. At least, that's Haytham's fervent wish.

Washington sighs, shifts in his seat, leans an elbow on the throne and rests his forehead in his hand, tense.

“Fools. Utter fools,” he growls, “How dare they? What do they even hope to accomplish by defying me?”

“Highness?” asks Thomas.

“Yes, Captain Hickey?” is Washington's weary acknowledgment.

“You want we should put a tail on 'em?”

“I doubt that will be necessary. It's an eight day ride to Philadelphia; we'll know their response soon enough.”

He calls out to his servants, to the other soldiers. He barks out commands. Ride into the country and collect all the horses that can be mustered, be they thoroughbreds, plow horses or ponies. Kill as many bears and wolves as they could find; they would dress as Russians if need be for a winter campaign. Have construction halted on his palace; they would need every laborer for the war effort.

Haytham is barely listening, though. He's staring at the last five inches of Adams' tongue on the carpet before the throne. He wonders if Washington specifiably chose red for the carpet in order to better hide the blood. Finally, one of the servants reaches down, covers the bit of human meat in a square of cloth, and takes it away with an offended grimace.

Haytham feels a hand brush against his neck, near the collar, and shivers. The fingers leave a burning trail in their wake thanks to the aphrodisiac that's been reintroduced into his system, but He can't feel the lick of pleasure over the revulsion and fear that churn his guts. Damn. Haytham was hoping that he would be forgotten in all the confusion, but fate was not on his side today.

“Collect as many natives as can be found in the frontier, they can be compelled to serve as cannon fodder if need be. No sense in letting good Christians be killed in the first volley.”

“Aye, Highness.”

Good thing Connor isn't present; no doubt he'd get himself killed upon hearing that. Haytham wonders where his son is. When they marched Haytham into the throne room, the guards had dragged the boy further down the hall.

All thoughts of Connor evaporate when Washington coils Haytham's chain around his fingers and jerks it slightly. Not an attempt to choke him, then, but a command. Wincing, he crawls on hands and knees to the front of the throne.

Washington reaches out and caresses Haytham's stubble-rough jaw, suspiciously, creepily gentle. He can see the tension in the muscles of the man's hand.

“Are you well?” Washington asks, all false concern.

No. He most assuredly is not. He feels nauseous, especially after witnessing Adams' mutilation, still feels weak, lightheaded, and regrettably lucid after being subjected to Connor's 'help.' He nods anyway, though.

“Did you enjoy your little reprieve?” Haytham doesn't know what to do—does he nod 'yes?' Shake his head 'no?' He doesn't know which Washington wants, so he just crimps his lips and stares at Washington's chest. Powerful fingers grip his chin, force his gaze back upwards. He settles his gaze at Washington's mouth, not daring to look him in the eyes. He wills his face to be as blank and his eyes as vapid as possible.

“I asked you a question, pet,” he says, that dangerous bite of steel lurking beneath his mild tone. He grips Haytham's chin tighter. “Did you miss me?”

Haytham nods, guessing that was what Washington wanted. He guessed correctly, apparently, because the self-made king grins and runs his fingers along Haytham's neck, rubs the back of his spine and Haytham feels a weak tingle that might be pleasure beneath his mounting unease.

“Truly? Well, then, perhaps you would like to show me how much?”

It's said as a question, but Haytham knows a command when he hears it. He tries to swallow his anxieties but his throat feels like it's lined with sawdust. He hesitates. This was so much easier when he hadn't the slightest clue what was going on, when he couldn't even remember his own name, much less the abuses that he'd been subjected to the day before.

Connor. Damn him, how was he supposed to be able to do this? Interfering bastard...

He doesn't want to know what the consequences will be if—no, when Washington finds out Haytham isn't the docile, dumb play thing he once was. He has to do it, though, has to make it convincing or they'll realize what Connor has done. He doesn't know why he gives a damn about what happens to the fool boy. Obviously, Connor doesn't exactly hold Haytham in the highest regard, judging from the way the boy stabbed him in the throat in their previous lives. Haytham shouldn't care less what happens to him, but... there's something between them, something that snide comments, hateful words, spilled blood and an all-out war hadn't been able to completely annihilate.

For a moment, Haytham wants to laugh. He must be going insane himself. It's just that the world has become so absurd, so twisted, that his life and the life of his son depend on how well Haytham preforms between Washington's legs.

Speaking of which.

He shuffles forward as Washington sits back and lets his knees fall wide apart. Haytham undoes the front of the man's breeches, his fingers feeling stiff and clumsy. Washington isn't wearing any small clothes. Haytham can't help but dumbly stare at his cock. For a brief moment he panics, mind racing, but if Washington notices he doesn't react. The king reaches down and gives himself a few quick pumps, and it's still only at half mast, but Haytham can tell that it's of an impressive width and length, not unlike the rest of the man.

“Well?” Washington prompts, traces the head of it along Haytham's lips. He can't afford to be reluctant; he has to play the part of the obedient, wanton little whore. Nothing he hasn't done before, apparently. Cursing himself, he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth. Washington sighs appreciatively, bucking his hips.

He doesn't know what to do. He had hoped that some part of him would remember how the act is done, what Washington prefers, but everything is so hazy from the time before, so he thinks further back, tries to remember what he himself had enjoyed, but he can't concentrate hard enough to recall those times either. He remembers to sheath his lips over his teeth, at least, and goes down as far as is comfortable, lapping at the thick shaft as he goes. He bobs his head up and down, trying to take in as much as he can, but when the head touches the back of his throat he recoils. He tries not to think of how much of a whore this makes him. It's one thing to be forced into doing this filthy act, quite another to be a willing—if coerced—participant. He tries to make his mind as blank as his face, to retreat further into himself, to make it as if this is happening to some unfortunate stranger.

Washington sighs. It's not the sigh of someone deeply contented and in the throws of passion—it's disappointed, agitated, the sound one might make while waiting for a carriage that's late. Haytham looks up at him discretely though his lashes. And against all common sense, all reason, and despite the fear that constricts his chest and threatens to strangle him, Haytham feels—well, weirdly indignant, because Washington looks apathetic—bored, even. More bored than anyone with their cock in someone's mouth had any right to look.

That, Haytham thinks, is a very bad sign.

He thinks back to what Church had said that morning, about how Haytham had “ceased to be amusing” and how he doubted that he would need to see to the king's pet much longer. Were they going to replace him with someone else? He didn't want to know what happened to Washington's cast offs.

He tries to redouble his efforts, to make up for his evident lack of finesse with faked enthusiasm, but it's apparently not enough. The man grabs Haytham by the hair and pulls him back. Haytham lets the flesh slide from his mouth. A strand of saliva and precome connect his lips to the head of Washington's cock. The fist clenches and Haytham's face is forced upwards. For the briefest of moments, their eyes meet. Washington stares at him, frowning, brow furrowed, and Haytham can feel the panic rise in his throat and set his heart to pounding—he knows, good God, he knows everything—but the man says nothing and Haytham forces his face to be as inscrutable as stone.

“Captain Hickey,” Washington says, and Thomas emerges from behind the throne.

“Y'Highness?”

“You did very well today. Would you like a little reward for your service?” asks Washington.

Oh, no, Thomas would never... But the eyes that rake over Haytham are hungry and malicious. Haytham had never in his life anticipated being on the receiving end of his Brother's lascivious smile; it makes his skin crawl.

“I think tha'd be right generous of you,” he replies and ambles forward with a swagger.

Washington smiles in a way that makes Haytham even more uneasy. He pushes Haytham's head back down. Haytham takes the hint and reluctantly resumes. Haytham flinches when Thomas yanks down his pants down around knees, exposing him to the chill of the air and the scrutiny of the entire room.

“Not bad, for an old bloke,” he chuckles, and Haytham can feel the panic starting to bubble inside him. It's Thomas Hickey, for God's sake. He would never... he preferred women, exclusively. Thomas may not have been especially discerning about the quality of the wenches he would take to bed, but it was always women. But it's not Thomas anymore, not really, Haytham has to remind himself. It's a highly dexterous marionette; Washington using Thomas' body as yet another object of abuse, as effective and hurtful as any whip or thumbscrew. It's really Washington's burning touch that skims possessively from the small of Haytham's back to his ass cheek, Washington's hand that gives his skin a ringing slap, Washington's dark chuckle when Haytham flinches.

Nothing I haven't done before. Nothing I haven't...

He hears Thomas spit into his hand, presumably to slick himself, then wet fingers slide along the cleft of Haytham's spread cheeks, making him shiver. Thomas gives his entrance only the most cursory of attention, almost as an afterthought. Then, Haytham feels something blunt and hot and far, far thicker than fingers press against his hole.

He can't mean to... Oh, no. No no no that wasn't nearly enough preparation he couldn't—

When Thomas' cock presses forward he feels the burn of skin against skin. He pushes and pushes, slow but unfaltering, relentless, sinking himself deeper by fractions of inches. The aphrodisiac isn't enough to mask the pain of it, not even close, and he wants to bite and scream, kick and punch out, but he can't, has to settle for clenching his fists in the fabric of Washington's breeches and moaning pleadingly around the flesh in his mouth.

He can't pretend to enjoy this. It's not possible. But Haytham's pleasure had never been the point, had it? Thomas sinks to the hilt with a grunt, his coarse hair ticking Haytham's overly sensitive flesh. Thomas pulls up Haytham's shirt and runs his hands over his scarred, quivering back, like he's trying to gentle a skittish horse. So this is what it's come to; on his knees, in public, one man in his mouth, the other in his ass, taken like a whore—no, worse, like an animal. Hickey pulls back, and part of Haytham feels like he's being pulled back along with him and he stifles a whimper at the friction.

“Always thought 'e was a tight-arse,” Hickey chuckles darkly. “Won't be, time I'm done wit' 'im.”

The hands settle on his hips, thumbs caressing the sharp ridge of bone for an instant, and then Thomas grips him hard enough to bruise, and mercilessly impales him.

He gasps around the cock in his mouth, thrashes, but Washington grabs a fistful of his hair, keeping him in place.

“Mind those teeth,” he growls, “or I'll take them from you one by one.”

He tries to scrabble forward, to escape the severity of Hickey's thrusts, only to have Washington's cock strike his tonsils, making him choke and sputter, eyes welling with tears. Washington's fingers knot in his hair and force his head up and down on the length of his cock.

“You like that, 'Atham?” Hickey hisses. “How's it feel to be the one gettin' fucked for once?”

Hickey's thrusts are agonizing. It's not the most pain he's ever endured before, but God, every push feels like the man is rubbing sand into an open wound. He's trapped between the two men, rocked back and forth between them, Hickey setting a brutal pace that Washington mirrors exactly.

“Always looked down on me and mine, didn't'cha?” he continues, “Walked around like your shit didn' stink. Treated us like we was scum. Well who's the scum now?”

It's not Thomas. It's not. They were never close enough to be friends, certainly, but Thomas had been loyal, one of the most effective tools in Haytham's arsenal, and Haytham had always given him credit where credit was due, always compensated him generously. He'd never misused him, treated him badly... had he?

“Whas that word you bandied about? Ah. Expendable.” He rests his weight on Haytham's back, the cold buttons and buckles of his uniform digging into his skin. He feels Hickey's hot breath against the shell of his ear. “You left me an' Charlie in the woods to die. Was worried more about that savage slut o' yours then your own Brothers.”

No, he wants to tell him, it's not true, I tried—but he knows better than to try to respond. Hickey's mouth goes to where Haytham's neck meets his shoulder, tongue lathing at his racing pulse.

“You brought this upon yourself, you know,” Washington says, a touch breathlessly. “If you were not so damnably willful and stubborn...”

Hickey then bites down, hard, sucking, gnawing at his flesh until the skin splits, and Haytham shudders, repressing the urge to scream.

“I wouldn't have to do this, if you would just let me in...”

And despite it all, Haytham wants to laugh—let him in? Good God, Haytham can feel the man's cock nudging his tonsils; how much further in did he expect to get? Washington's hand yanks at his hair, forcing him to arch his back, spit-slick cock sliding from Haytham's mouth.

“Do you want me to make him stop?” Washington growls just as Hickey punctuates with a particularly sharp thrust that shoots pain all the way up his spine and wrenches a cry from Haytham's throat.

“Yes!” Haytham gasps, unable to help himself.

“Look at me,” he commands. Haytham does so, bright blue meeting dark, stormy gray. Washington's eyes are glazed with lust. “Will you let me inside?”

“Yes!” he gasps again on reflex, mind whirling—Washington could have gotten him to agree to anything at that point, it just seems like the right thing to say in the moment. He doesn’t even know what he's agreed to do, but he's beyond caring either way. He just wants it to end. Almost anything is better than this.

Almost.

What he forgets is that there are things far worse. Washington is quick to remind him of it. The king reaches for his scepter and Haytham immediately regrets saying anything at all.

Suddenly his head is invaded by burning, scathing gold, bright and merciless. The world is gone, burnt away to Haytham, Washington, and the Apple. It's pain beyond reasoning, beyond words, more excruciating than anything he's ever felt before. He can't even feel Hickey anymore—whatever rude punishment he's inflicting is nothing compared to this, to Washington thrusting himself against him, battering at him with his power, assaulting him, stabbing him behind his eyes and twisting until the knives scrape bone. Washington boils Haytham's brain inside his own skull, burns down his spine, rips him with claws of fire that threaten to rend him into a million pieces.

Below all the pain, Haytham feels something else, something freezing that oozes into all those fresh cracks in his armor, makes him tremble with a queer sort of mixture of disgust and pleasure, caresses a familiar, icy finger against his startled and horrified mind. It prods and winkles, tries to gain access to something that Haytham wants desperately to keep hidden away.

No no no PLEASE—He screams but he's trapped, paralyzed, Washington encompassing him in a cage made of pain, crushing him under an impossible weight, moaning at Haytham's distress and lapping up his terror with tongues of knives. He can't think, can't breathe, rendered utterly helpless. This is worse than what Hickey is surely still doing to him, so much more intimately violating. It isn't about pleasure, pain, humiliation—this is Washington wanting to destroy him from the inside out.

“Just relax, pet,” Washington croons, but Haytham doesn't hear it with his ears, he hears him in his mind and it's not just Washington but hundreds, thousands of voices, screaming, laughing, muttering, shouting, all at the same volume, loud enough that he must be bleeding from the ears, and if it doesn't cease he's going to be driven mad—

“You don't have to fight me, Haytham. There's nothing left to fight for. Just let it happen. Just let me in.”

He feels that cold thing insist, promising instant relief, strokes him as gently and soothingly as a mother. It can all stop, right now, he can go back to being a mindless, pliant drone, like before Connor found him. Better, because he won't be all alone, he'll be one with all of the others he can hear, be useful, be part of something larger than himself. The pain, the humiliation, the constant violation will stop, it will be as if it had never happened. He can have everything he ever wanted, he won't have to think, or feel, or remember anything ever again.

And he wants it, doesn't he? It would be so easy to give in. He wants it all to stop, needs to, but...

But the boy.

No. He can't. He'd already walked away from his blood more times than he could count. He couldn't do it again. Not to Ziio's son.

“Let me in,” Washington insists.

No.

At once Haytham feels the cold power recoil, as if it has come against some sort of barrier, feels Washington scream with a rage that grinds glass into his spine, threatens to split his head apart at the fissures.

“Let me in, Haytham!” the legion of voices growl and hiss and scream.

And then something does break, and all at once Haytham is filled with something else, something that he clutches to himself that's as familiar and comfortable as his old cloak. Haytham's rage drowns out the terror, blocks out the voices, turns the pain back on itself. Haytham stabs out in all directions, howling—

Get out. GET OUT.

Haytham's back on his knees in the throne room, no, is still on his knees, because that's where he's been the entire time, and Hickey's thrusts have grown erratic, breathing labored, and the thighs beneath Haytham's hands are trembling, hard as stone beneath the fine linen. Washington's hand is before his face, cock in his rapidly-pumping fist, and Haytham cries out when the burst of cum strikes his cheek, Washington grunting in answer above him.

Haytham's still disoriented by the attack, limbs trembling and chest heaving for air, amazed that there's anything left for the two men to abuse, because the echos of what Washington did still rankle in his mind, tell him that his flesh should have sloughed off his bones like over cooked meat, that he should be bleeding from a thousand cuts, dead on the floor with his brain boiled out of his ears, but Haytham is still alive and whole. Sort of.

Hickey pounds at him, fingernails leaving crescents of blood where he grips Haytham's hips, and it hurts, of course it does, but the pain seems a trifling thing compared to what was just inflicted upon him. Hickey curses and sinks himself hilt-deep. Haytham's guts churn in disgust as he feels his former associate let go.

“It is very unwise,” Washington says, voice low and dangerous, “to promise what you cannot deliver, pet.”

Haytham glances up to see Washington's cold fury. His heart pounds in his chest.

“Captain Hickey.”

Hickey pulls out. Haytham feels his former Brother's seed ooze down his thigh.

“Highness?” asks Hickey, a touch winded.

“Fetch me my riding crop.”

Ah fuck. Haytham really needs acting lessons.

Your description of Washingtonl's attempt to get into Haytham's head with the Apple is amazing. It captured all of the madness and disorientation that the Apple scenes give off in the episodes and more. I really do adore your writing - its so good. Thank you again, for filling my prompt!

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

You're the greatest cocktease I ever saw, anon. No offense, I love this fill to pieces, as much as I love Connor/Clipper, it's such a shame I managed to miss this fill. But now I found it and I'm all hot and bothered and you're leaving me with an evil cliffie like this. Oh you clever little tease...

Eagerly awaiting the next update, I hope you haven't abandoned this wonderful fill.

A new anon reader dropping by to report. This fill is wonderful, and I'm so very excited to read more. Eagerly awaiting the next part!

late authornon is late, but... i'm working on something. it's only small, and it might be a while, but i'm working on it.

This is so fascinating! Poor Desmond being wrongfully accused and no one believing him. Also Clay is his older brother! Is that a blood-related or a Family thing? And since you mentioned Bill by name I'm assuming he's not the Boss, but now I'm so curious about who is.

I'm very much looking forward to the next part!

Yeah. Poor Connor surrounded by two super-scary Assassin killers...

Haytham certainly isn't stupid, and he suspects that his son will try something. Hence Gerhard and Frederico's presence.

Strange Fates

Chapter 27 - A Second Letter

During their ride, George thought he heard chase after them several times. The rustling of bushes, the sound of hooves striking forest floor...

But when he looked, he only saw foxes dashing through the undergrowth and elk and deer racing away from them.

Twice, he turned to look at the Omega Assassin seated behind him, but the young man simply gestured sharply, face an emotionless mask, and George refocused on guiding his horse toward the Homestead.

Five miles out, George longed to stop and rest. Give the horse some water. Read the letter that had been entrusted to him (and how thankful he was that this one need not be consumed by flames!) and see Connor’s elegant script again.

But a quick look at Clipper’s face told him all that he needed to know.

They were not yet safe.

And so they rode on, not quite a gallop, not quite a trot.

In 20 miles, they finally slowed to a stop.

Clipper wordlessly handed him a skin of water and a large metal pan and he gratefully took a short sip before pouring the rest of the water into the pan and letting the poor horse drink.

“A short rest for the horse,” the Assassin told him, “and then we will need to get moving again. It will be best to get as close to the Homestead as possible.”

It wasn’t what George was hoping for, but he supposed he had time to read a bit of the letter.

And really, that was all he wanted at this point.

After making sure that the horse was properly resting and while the Assassin stood on wary guard, George reached for the letter in his pocket.

He held it in his hand for a moment, admiring its crisp elegant lines, only slightly crumpled by its stay against his body, before removing the seal and opening it up to read.

As he read on, he felt shock, anger and...betrayal.

Dear George,

By now, you have probably heard of the falling out between Lee and my father. I would be glad to say that it is because of me if it had not been for the way it came about.

I am sorry, George.

I was neither strong enough nor prudent enough and...

I do not want to write this, but you deserve the truth.

Lee forced himself upon me again.

George’s hand clenched on the letter at this.

My father had agreed that Lee would stay his distance in his negotiations with me. This trespass against my person angered him almost as much as it angered me, and Lee is no longer in his good graces.

I am sorry to say that I wish that Lee were still in my father’s favor and that he had not seen fit to force his attentions upon me. But I know that I should not. This is a potential boon for us.

George did not see it as a boon. He, too, wished that Lee had not raped Connor again.

My father ordered me removed from Lee’s home and into his own temporary lodgings. I have arranged for my recruits to help free me from my father’s townhouse.

I want to say that I will see you soon, but I do not want your last memory of me to be of a lie.

Two of the men my father assigned to guard my steps are fearsome and notorious. I would not have my recruits fight against them.

Gerhard von Stantten and Frederico Perez.

George could see why Connor did not want his recruits, his brothers, to go up against them.

It is too risky. They would not win against them, and I do not want to lose them to this fight. They have battles elsewhere that are far more critical.

George felt unease crawl up his spine. He wasn’t sure what it was, but...

They must help you with the war. They must protect you from the Templars, and George, you must win this war. And stay alive.

You cannot let Lee gain your position and influence. Destroy that viper and his place in the army before he can poison everyone.

I trust that Stephane will have explained your role.

The Assassin did. And George didn’t like it.

I know you must be confused.

I shall be blunt.

I do not expect to survive this.

George felt his breath catch in his throat.

I have instructed my recruits to sneak in my weapons using Yusuf. And then, they are to create a distraction with the animals and lead as many of my guards as possible on a chase. Thankfully, neither of my two fearsome guards are particularly fast, and they should be safe enough as long as they do not engage.

And they have been ordered not to engage.

I will sneak out during the commotion, take down as many of them as possible and then escape.

But George, my two fearsome guards are not stupid. And they will realize what is going on.

I fear they already do.

If they do not participate in the chase then...

Then these will be my last words to you.

No!

My father gave me a choice after Lee’s attack. He told me I could marry a Templar or choose to die.

Though I do not want to marry a Templar, I wish to die even less.

But I may not have a choice.

Undoubtedly, if my two guards see me fleeing, they will shoot to kill.

My father has told them that any attempt to escape will be the same as my choosing to die.

I will likely only have a couple of hidden blades.

And I have no doubt that those two, together, will kill me.

I do not want to leave you George.

Know that I love you and will try my best to get back to you.

But if I do not, then please know that I will die with your name on my lips, with your voice in my heart and the knowledge of your love in my soul.

Thank you George.

George crumpled the letter.

Not op, but omg, omg, omg, I am really excited that this is happening!

oh, wow! I'm excited to see that you plan on filling this! I'd pretty much given up hope of it ever getting filled.

whoops replied to the wrong comment

Dude... why don't you just rip my heart out thought my kneecaps instead, it would hurt less than this letter.

Joking aside, though... This part was really touching. I don't know where you're going with all this, but I'm eagerly awaiting more, anon.

"I think abandoned fill has been abandoned."

This anon shares your pain. And it was just getting more and more interesting, it's such a shame *sniffs*

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Page 290 of 385

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Fill - Crossroads

Re: Fill (Part1)

Strange Fates 25

Re: Strange Fates 25

Re: Fill - Crossroads

Re: Gilded Cages 12/?

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

Secrets Should Stay Buried 1/?

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

Re: Grief's Madness 2/? (TW: same as prior ch. This part has some watersports elements incl desperat

Grief's Madness 3/? (TW: as above.)

Re: FILL ---------7 of ? -------Enthralled

FILL ---------7 of ? -------Enthralled

Re: FILL ---------7 of ? -------Enthralled

Re: Connor/Clipper: Freedom (7/?)

Re: It's For Life (Part 2)

Re: connor/charles captured, reverse

Re: FILL: Not Strong Enough 1/?

Re: Strange Fates 25

Strange Fates 27

Re: connor/charles captured, reverse

OP

Re: OP

Re: Strange Fates 27

Re: FILL [8/?]