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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Join or Die

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

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

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

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

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

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
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Anon, you've made a sad person very happy today, I simply can't wait for more, your fill is wonderful. As much as we're excited though, we'll patiently wait and set up a camp in the meanwhile :)

Non-con is kinda my kink so...yes. I like this very much.

Still...not...giving...up. @__@

(But seriously though fill anon, if you have more important things to take care of, like real life, then don't worry about us silly perverts over on a kink meme. XD)

This is interesting~

I literally check this every single day, sometimes several times a day, that's how addicted I am to this fill!

I love how you write them, and poor Connor, having to justifying his actions as 'keeping the Templar distracted' :D

This anon really hopes this amazing fill has not been abandoned ):

aaaaaahhh, holy shit! Connor's plan worked... sort of. He's not completely broken! Stephane's badassery and getting places is just awesome! I really want to give Duncan a hug, poor guy. And Captain Morgan, despite technically being an antagonist, is a really sweet guy. ALL THE FEELS!

I am so sorry for the wait! I've been rather busy with my (insanely long) list of fills and a hectic real life… It will not happen again, and I thank you all for being so patient with me, despite my slowness.

Sexy torture will happen soon, but not in this part. This is mildish physical torture.

The morning- or at least Connor assumed it was morning- came slowly. He'd hardly been able to sleep, not after speaking with his father. He didn't blame the man for being angry with him. It was natural. He had betrayed him in the worst possible way, after all.

He woke up in absolute agony, a searing pain across the left side of his face, the area around his cheek. He heard a sickening sizzling and smelt burning meat, and he howled, thrashing, trying to get away from the white-hot thing pressing his face into the rough mattress. The thing was taken away, but the pain was still there, digging deep into his bones.

A cold hand stroked his hair, and wiped away tears Connor hadn't even released he'd shed from his nose.

"Ssh," Charles's voice said, soothingly. "It's nothing you don't deserve. If you're lucky, I won't have to do that again. Or maybe I will. I'm not sure. Your screams were quite poetic."

Connor opened his mouth, perhaps to demand an explanation of what exactly that pain had been, but only a shocked moan escaped his throat. He tried to blink the blurriness from his eyes, to roll over and look at what had been used to inflict such agony, but he found that not only was his body tightly bound with ropes, but his fingers were too clumsy from shock and pain to do more than ineffectually scrabble against the many intricate knots.

"Stop it," Thomas said, grabbing his fingers and twisting painfully (though nothing compared to the agony in his face, nothing at all). "You got to conserve yer strength. Yer goin' to need it. Today's the first day of the rest of yer life."

"What have you done?" Connor tried to demand, but his voice was smaller and weaker than he wanted it to be. It was almost as though he were a child again, trying to articulate to the Clan Mother what happened in the forest and how he failed to save Ista.

"Nothin' much," Thomas said, right into Connor's ear, and Connor could hear the grin on his face. "But everybody's goin' to know wot you really are. Assassin."

Connor closed his eyes and took a deep breath. If he concentrated hard, he could feel that his breeches were too loose, that the pain in his skin was a similar size and shape to the insignia he wore on his belt.

They's branded him. Like an animal. With the insignia Achilles had so kindly given him, as well. He'd hoped to return it after his tortures; alas, it was obviously not supposed to be. And, even supposing he did manage to go free, he would be marked for life with the scars. He could not walk the streets inconspicuously ever again.

"Do you think it'll scar more if we rub salt into it?" Charles asked.

"Nah. Things like that scar more if you leave the blisters whole," Thomas replied. "We could run salt water over it, though."

Charles chuckled, and it was not a friendly sort of laugh.

"I have a better idea," he said, and Connor heard the small sounds of buttons being undone and ties being unlaced.

"You bastard!" Thomas let out a foul giggle. "Ain't you goin' to take him off the bed first?"

"No," Charles gave a small grunt, and something hot, a liquid, splashed over Connor's burn, and ran down his skin to soak into the sheets beneath him. "We're not supposed to treat him nicely, remember? Master Kenway's orders."

The liquid stung, almost as bad as the actual burning had, and Connor cried out in pain, only to clamp his mouth shut and moan through pressed lips as some of the liquid ran into his mouth. The taste was acrid, unpleasant. Piss. How vile. He was a human being, for God's sake.

"'Master Kenway's orders,'" Thomas mimicked. "You'd do anythin' 'Aytham asked if you fort you'd get his cock up your arse in return."

Connor's stomach turned, and he hoped that Charles would finish quickly and his clothes would remain unscathed. Connor noted, with some dismay, that the shoulder pressed into the sheets was starting to feel unpleasantly damp, though Charles was surprisingly quick about finishing his business.

"You are the crudest man I've ever met," Charles said, coldly. He sighed, and there was the sound of buttons being redone. One of the men kicked Connor in the back.

"Got a message from Daddy, here," Thomas said, slipping into a parody of an upper-class accent. "Should you wish for the torment to stop, you need only sincerely apologise for your actions and dedicate your life to furthering the Templar cause so as to make amends for your Assassin treachery."

"The boy doesn't even know the meaning of the word 'apologise'," Charles said, scathingly. "Do you?"

There was another kick to his back, and the sound of footsteps. The door creaked open, then slammed shut.

"Ah, Charlie-boy's in a lovely mood again," Thomas said, patting Connor's shoulder. "Cheers fer that."

Thomas left as well, though not before slicing through one of the ropes binding Connor's hands. It took the better part of an hour for Connor to undo the remaining knots and free himself from both the ropes and the urine-soaked longcoat and shirt.

My poor, poor baby... ;___;

Damn, anon, I'll be setting up a camp here.

Still holding on to the hope that this has not been abandoned!

oh man it's nice to see connor isnt completely gone

I have hope for him ;w; And oh man Charles is still so creepy ahhhhhh

Also!! Woah can we just focus on the part about Duncan? The last part? Because holy shit that part just blew me away; it's amazing.

Keep up the great work, writeranon!

Certainly not. :) This anon has been extremely busy with both work and college (currently undergoing midterms) and I've had little time to write this and the other 3 fills I'm currently writing around here. I have already started the next chapter so I might be able to finish it during the weekend (don't take my word for granted though, work seems to pop out of nowhere to me as of lately).

Connor stays as far away from the King as he can for the few days it takes for Charles Lee to journey from Philadelphia. He hides away in the unexplored, half-built parts of the castle, only staying in Court and by the King's side for shortest amount of time he can get away with. He is nearly silent, and politely draws back from any touches the King tries to inflict upon him- even the lightest of caresses on the back of his wrist.

"You're not still mad at me, are you?" His Majesty asks once, during a terse dinner. "You're my wife, it's what you're supposed to do."

"You broke your promise," Connor replies, quietly, head bowed.

"And you broke yours. An eye for an eye."

Connor grits his teeth. A few weeks. A few weeks and he can have Haytham and the others tail the guards who carry the sceptre back and forth from its hiding place. A few weeks and the Apple will belong to the resistance. A few weeks and he will be free.

The King takes note of his foul mood and showers him with gifts and less unpleasant attention. It does not make Connor feel better. He would like to be treated consistently, not merely as an object who is personified when it suits its owner. He does not want to be a pet, to be primped and pampered in apology for shoddy care. He is a human being, not a doll or a toy or even a fetish. Why is it so hard for the King to understand? How can he be so far removed from Washington? They share the same history, don't they?

Still, he pretends to forgive the King for the wrongs that have been done to him, and visits the prisoners once more.

His father hardly knows him in this version of events, but he knows something is wrong as soon as Connor sits down in front of the cells, pulling off his mask. Connor must not be as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks.

"You seem troubled," he comments, staring at the wall of his cell.

Connor wonders what to tell him. Truthfully, he hadn't wanted to bring it up at all. Obviously Haytham and the others must suspect that, as the King's lawful wedded husband, he must do… certain things, but he does not want to speak of it (or do it at all), much less admit that he is not as strong or capable as he wants to be. As he thought he was.

"Promise me something, will you? When we retrieve the Apple, I will be the one to kill the King."

Connor does not look his father in the eyes, but Haytham seems to understand that the King has overstepped a boundary, even if he does not know exactly what that boundary is.

"Of course," Haytham replies.

Connor lets out a sigh of relief. Good.

"Lee should be arriving tomorrow," he says, after a few silent minutes. "I will visit with him before nightfall."

Writer!anon just swinging by here to say that a) I'm not dead and b) I haven't abandoned the fill. RL has been beating me to a juicy pulp, and it's left me wanting to do very little aside from sleep and veg in front of the tv. 8(

Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for the even slower than usual updates; I promise that I will finish this fill, though, even if it takes a long time. Many, many thanks to everyone who has been patient and understanding with me. ♥

The King makes him ride into the city before meeting Lee. Apparently there's some sort of ruckus in the bay, and the King wants to watch his ships defeat the enemy. Connor sits side-saddle, not because he wants to, and prays to any gods, spirits or supernatural creatures that might be listening that the King's ships will fail.

It is the Aquila.

The ship is beautiful as always, though in severe disrepair. It goes down fighting, ramming into the largest of the King's fleet, and Connor feels his heart sink. A suicide mission, a last-ditch attempt at weakening the King's forces. His ship, his beautiful ship-- no, not his, not here-- disappears beneath the ocean.

The King laughs.

"What fools, thinking an act of petty rebellion could harm us."

Before Connor can answer, the King is knocked off his horse by a furious Kanen'tó:kon. He brandishes a tomahawk, and screams in Kanien'kehá:ka. The soldiers raise their rifles, and as much as Connor wishes the King dead, he does not want Kanen'tó:kon to die.

He slides off his horse, grabs his friend and pulls him backward, putting himself between the soldiers and Kanen'tó:kon.

"Kanen'tó:kon!" Connor yells, also in Kanien'kehá:ka. "Stop! I know you want the King dead, but this is not the way to do it! I already have a plan to steal his sceptre, and I need your help."

Kanen'tó:kon stares at him-- no, his mask-- with wide eyes, trying to figure out what is happening, who this man is. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

Connor does not dare not, not while the King is watching. He grabs his friend's wrists, and shouts instead.

"Yes, but am not here because I want to be! I am working with the resistance, and I will tell you everything later. I need to stop the king from killing you. Please play along!"

"All right," Kanen'tó:kon replies after a long split second, pretending to struggle against the grip Connor has around his arms. "Shall I carry on shouting like this?"

"Yes!" Connor replies, before turning to the King, speaking English. "This man is from my village. He thinks you have slaughtered everybody. I am trying to tell him that you merely moved the people, but he will not listen so long as there are so many muskets pointed his way."

"We ought to just kill him," the King says.

"He is a respected leader," Connor says. "Killing him will only anger the native peoples of this land. But to have him willingly serve you… most of your troubles regarding my people would cease. If I can simply explain to him that you are the rightful king and leader of this nation, I am certain he will be a great asset to us."

The King cocks his head to one side, thinking hard. He waves a hand, and half the guns are lowered.

"Please, my love," Connor adds, in his most pleading tone. "I guarantee this will be worth the time and effort."

The King's lips twitch into a smile, and it is not a smile that Connor feels comfortable with.

"All right," he says, after a few tense moments, "But no more of that damned monkey language. He'll have to learn English, like a proper man. I'll even let you teach him if you want. …But."

There's a catch. There's always a damned catch.

"But what, my lord?" Connor asks.

"But you'll need to prove to me that your attentions with all these damned rebels are as innocent as you say they are."

Connor's stomach sinks, and he starts to feel sick. Damn it! Damn it all!

"Yes, my lord," he says, and the look of puzzlement on Kanen'tó:kon's face only adds to his shame. What must his mother's spirit think of him, the whore of her murderer?

"Take him away," the King says. "Put him in with the old rebels from last week."

Kanen'tó:kon is lead away by men with muskets, and Connor can only pray that his English isn't quite good enough to disclose the details of the exchange. He does not want to picture the expression on Haytham's face, on anybody's face should they find out exactly what the King now asks of him.

"Now that's been take care of, I believe Lee will be arriving at the north gate any minute now," the King smiles. "Shall we be off?"

"Yes, my lord," Connor says, getting back on his horse. "Thank you for sparing Kanen, my lord."

"Anything for you, my Queen."

No worries, we love you Writer!anon ヽ(´▽｀)ノ♪ Keep being awesome!
You're doing here a marvelous writing, no matter how slow you write. We can't ask more but your best <3

Keep going! d (#￣▽￣#)
Your fellow anon!readers.

omg I've waited so long for this anon!! And you certainly delivered! *sets up camp with above anon

The final fitting. It had come. Soon the Lodge would be complete, and Haytham would take his vows. Mr Babbington had done such a fine job of completing the two suits of clothing that Charles was inclined to pay him extra. Perhaps even move onto the complex, with his family. Soldiers had their families moving in. It was beginning to feel more like the harmless community it pretended to be. A good tailor would be incentive to stay.

There was rustling and murmuring, and once or twice a corner of white fabric flicking from behind the curtains. Charles leaned forward in anticipation, careful not to crease his own blood-red robes. He picked at his gloves, trying to distract himself. A clatter caught Charles' attention and his breath hitched as the curtain was pushed aside.

Haytham stepped forward, smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his coat, adjusting the ceremonial sword at his side. The pale cream shimmered in the sunlight that poured through the windows, the delicate embroidery and trims accentuating Haytham's body. It fell to just below his knee, allowing the red silk lining to flash and ripple as he walked, shouting a warning to his lethality. The shape of the coat was similar, with a split up the back to his tailbone. Lines of a darker gold-bronze decorated the seams, drawing attention to the undisturbed planes of his chest and back. The tailor fastened a heavy cape to Haytham's shoulders in a Roman fashion, draping the fabric to dip in a sweeping curve between his shoulders. It was also lined in the same blood red as his coat. White breeches, stockings and knee-high polished black boots with a snowy shirt, cravat and red waistcoat completed the look.

There had been quite a bit of lace at one point, but Charles and Haytham had agreed that it was unflattering to the crisply cut design, and had removed all of it save for the tiniest peep on Haytham's shirt sleeves. Charles couldn't keep himself from staring. Now if they just brushed out his hair, they might be able to disguise the shorter pieces with the longer.

"Like a true knight," said the tailor, lifting Haytham's arms to check the stitches.

"Would you like me to turn for you, Charles?" asked Haytham, a amusement honeying his voice.

Without receiving an answer, for Charles seemed to have been struck dumb, Haytham slowly turned on his heel. The cape barely brushed the ground, a perfect measurement.

"You have exceeded our expectations, Mr Babbington," said Charles. "Congratulations, sir, your commission is at an end."

Babbington bowed, and checked Haytham over one last time before asking both men to remove the clothing so it would be properly stored for the time being.

"I hope you gentlemen have a nice gathering, although this seems a bit extravagant for a simple ball," said the tailor, putting his scissors and threads into his toolbox.

"I do believe we shall," said Charles.

He held Haytham's waistcoat as the man tried to get his shirt tucked in properly. For some reason it didn't want to sit right.

"Damn this," he muttered.

Charles batted away his hands, and slung the waistcoat over his shoulder, pushing Haytham's shirttails back into his trousers. He was about to protest when one of their guards threw the curtain back, eyes wide.

"What do you think you're doing?" snapped Charles, tweaking the shirt on Haytham's shoulders.

"The Assassin has escaped!" he gasped. "His comrade freed him!"

Snatching his waistcoat from Charles, Haytham threw it and his coat on, not bothering with the buttons or his cravat. The soldier ducked to the side to avoid being trampled by the two much larger men as they left the nook that had been their temporary dressing room. Babbington was startled, but he didn't seem as startled as he should have been. He was packing up with far too much eagerness rather than cowering at the intrusion.

Taking the soldier's musket, Haytham made motions to leave, then turned at the last minute.

"Your widow will be compensated," he said.

The musket was brought up, the blade slicing through the vulnerable underside of Babbington's throat, penetrating his tongue and mouth. Haytham pulled the trigger.

***

Stephane spurred his horse, Duncan clinging to his back, hands entwined in his belt. They didn't have much time to escape before the alarm was raised. As it was, Duncan was in a state of shock and hadn't spoken a single word. If they were caught, Stephane feared that he would have to fight alone.

The branches whipped past them on either side of the rough track that led to the complex. A final watchtower lay ahead. Yellow light flickered in the distance - Stephane slowed his horse to turn down the hill to where he knew a sizeable stream lay. Water splashed noisily but there was nothing they could do except travel slower.

After around a mile, they left the river and headed for New York. Stephane patted Duncan's hand as they sped further and further away from the cursed place.

"I am sorry," said Duncan, although Stephane felt rather than heard the words against his back. "I ruined it."

"Yes. You did. But everything can be fixed."

The chef wasn't cross with Duncan. Well he was, because who would go into a Templar encampment by themselves like that? (Stephane ignored the voice that said "You would") But he wasn't angry at Duncan for getting caught.

Actually, no, he was furious at Duncan for getting caught.

If only for the fact that they could have killed him. Even though Stephane had given his assassin-in-distress a cursory check over for injuries in the cell, Duncan didn't seem to respond to the manhandling. No physical injuries discovered, yet Duncan was silent.

They took shelter in a tavern on the outskirts of New York. The Templars had been lost. Duncan collapsed onto one of the two beds provided and fell asleep. He didn't even take his boots off. Stephane paused to write a message, copied it several times, and took them to the Post Office, where they trickled away to his comrades. The Templars had been busy, their forces were huge; the others couldn't go in. Not yet. They needed to consolidate.

The entire time Stephane had been in the fort, he had not seen Haytham. But he hadn't seen Connor either - Duncan wasn't so foolish as to trot into the Templar lair without saying what he was doing. Stephane would have to wait for Duncan to éveiller for the full details of what had gone wrong.

He eased Duncan's boots off and threw a blanket over him. The man did not even stir. Stephane huffed - they were trained to sleep lightly, Duncan should have woken up. Taking off his own boots, Stephane flopped onto his own bed, his weapons within easy reaching distance, a chair wedged under the door handle. He glanced at the sleeping man beside him and wondered what had happened, thoughts racing through his head until he finally drifted off as well.

Gotta work fast! And as you'll see below, Haytham really has his claws into Connor. There are things that Connor would never do but Haytham would.

Thank you, OP. I hope you'll love the rest as much as you loved the first parts. :) we are entering the last bits of the second act and about to hit the third.

Personally, I would be high-tailing it out of there, if I were Captain Morgan. Just in case. That was probably Connor's last moments of lucidity before the Haytham personality took over and made him warp that conversation into talking about new recruits.

Thank you for reading! I hope I continue to give you ALL THE FEELS! :)

Charles, I have come to conclude, is pretty fucked up, yes. I think we can all safely agree that he needs help. Maybe some time in gaol as well.

Wow? Really?! Gosh, I'm blushing now. I didn't want to go too overboard on the more purple prose, so I'm very happy that you enjoyed the Duncan interlude.

I shall do my best! *salutes* thank you for reading!

We quite understand your pain, anon, hope you get everything sorted out soon :) I agree with the people above me - your anons love you and this wonderful story and we'll continue to be patient and loving readers <3

holy shit haytham you ruthless bastard!

I mean, I understand, but wow that was brutal and sudden, I kind of hope Connor doesn't come back after all and doesn't have to realise what he's done as 'Haytham'...

And aaaaaaah I'm so happy Duncan is back in Assassin hands, I worried about him for a while. I mean, I'm still worried about him, he's obviousy got a bunch of mental wounds BUT STILL he's safer than he was.

anxiously biting nails until next chapter, thank you for all the hard work so far! <3

“Haytham?”

There's someone touching him, shaking his shoulder. Go away, he wants to protest, but he can't get his throat to make the words.

“Father?” this is soft, barely a whisper in his ear, pleading.

He's curled up on the floor on his side. His throat feels raw. His knees. His back. His... well. His everything, really. Muscles strained and wrenched to the point of uselessness, the skin of his back broken in so many places that the whole of it is on fire beneath his shirt. He is the very definition of wretched.

He cracks one weary eye open. Connor. His son. His... liability. He's kneeling at Haytham's side. The boy's eyes are tense, his face brittle and hard, shoulders drawn bow-string tight. Is he paler than before? Hard to tell, in this dim light.

“It is time for you to eat,” he says, his voice carefully even. He has Haytham's standard calculatedly grim meal with him.

They're in their cell. It's dark. He doesn't remember how he got there. At some point during his beating his body and mind must have decided that he had had enough, and had shut him down to spare him further agony. Haytham looks past Connor; there's the silhouette of a guard standing on the other side of the bars, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

He's not hungry. Food is the absolute last thing on his mind. He wants to lie on the ground and melt into the floor, never moving again. As always, though, people have other plans for him. Haytham gets an arm underneath himself and tries to push himself up, but his trembling limbs won't cooperate.

“Here, let me help.”

Connor sets down the tray of food. He grasps Haytham under the arm to pull him upright. He puts a hand on Haytham's back to steady him, but Haytham flinches away with a strangled cry. Connor releases him as though burned, holds his hand out to the light to see that the palm is wet with the blood that's seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. Connor curses in Mohawk, turns his face to the guard.

“He needs bandages.”

“Ain't you heard, half-breed? There's a war goin' on. None to spare on the likes of him—”

“He also needs alcohol.”

“Ha! Don't we all?”

“He is bleeding! His wounds need to be cleaned!” Connor barks impatiently.

“His Highness' bitch needs to be eatin' his dinner. Doctor's orders.”

They know. They know he hasn't been eating the herbs—No, he corrects himself, they suspect. If they knew for a certainty that he was off his diet, they would have separated Haytham and Connor (and perhaps separated Connor's neck from his head) and then forced the stuff down his throat. Washington would have never allowed Haytham anywhere near his... his person if he had known for a certainty that Haytham was lucid. It does mean, however, that if this ruse is to continue, Haytham is going to have to be far more convincing. Which means he's going to have to keep letting... He shudders. God, he can't do this...

“Do you think your king will care what the man ate after he has dropped dead of corruption?”

The guard laughs, tries to make it sound dismissive but there's an edge of nervousness to it. “He dies, then it'll be your head on a pike decoratin' the armory.”

“If there is space for one head, there will be space for two.”

The guard doesn't have a retort for that. He shifts from foot to foot. “He eats. Then I'll see what I can do about the rest.”

“Very well,” says Connor grudgingly. “Eat, Haytham.” He picks up the tray, holding it out for Haytham's perusal. The boy gives the witch-doctor's greens a significant look.

Haytham takes a hand full with trembling fingers and puts it in his mouth. Chews. Tastes bitter, pungent. Swallows. Grimaces at the pain in his throat. The two other men watch him in tense silence as he finishes the herbs and starts in on the gray sludge that is probably meant to be stew.

Apparently the guard is satisfied, because he stalks off down the hall, muttering. Connor waits until the footsteps die away and then grabs the waste bucket, sets it in front of Haytham.

“Get rid of it.”

He's not sure he wants to, thinks perhaps he would be better off drugged, insensate and oblivious the next time Washington... but the look on Connor's face is hard, lips compressed into a thin line. There is an intensity in the boy's eyes that's disturbing, the threat implicit—do as he says, or he'll do it himself. So, Haytham sticks what's left of his fingers down his throat and brings the greens back up. He hopes that whomever is forced to clean up after them doesn't examine the contents of the bucket too carefully.

“I could hear you, earlier,” Connor says quietly as Haytham wipes bile from his lips with the back of his fist. Half of Boston probably heard him, if the rawness of his throat is any indication. “I thought... It sounded like you were being slaughtered. I thought... I did not expect to see you again.”

“Used the Apple,” Haytham croaks, throat burning, before taking the aphrodisiac-laced tea, hoping to wash down the disgusting taste in his mouth. He half expected Connor to give him that familiarly irritating look of befuddlement, but the boy stares at him levelly.

“You resisted him.” Well, yes, of course he did. Otherwise this conversation would be even more one sided. “Why? What made you say no?”

Haytham doesn't answer. He doesn't quite know himself. He shifts, wincing at the pain that shoots up his backside. The boy is damnably persistent, though. Connor's eyes glitter in the torchlight.

“This morning, you were ready to to die, you said there was no hope. Why did you not give in, then?”

Because of you, he should say. Because I couldn't abandon you. Again.

“Because I'm a goddamned fool,” he says instead, voice cracking.

They hear boots, more than one pair. Connor gets to his feet. Haytham does his best to eat as quickly as possible, but trying to consume the hard, flaky bread feels like he's swallowing knives. The guard appears in short order, accompanied by two others.

“I found some blankets. Old, but they're clean,” the original guard says, gruff. He quickly pushes the bundle of rags through the bars and yanks his hand back as quickly as he can, just in case Connor has a mind to seize him through the bars.

Unexpectedly, he then pulls a pistol from his belt; Connor draws back, wary. One of the other men brandishes his musket, the hallway just wide enough front to back for him to aim without leaning on the opposite wall.

“Back of the cell, face against the wall. You try anything smart, you and your friend's gonna have more than a few cuts and a sore arse to worry about,” he growls. “Hands up.”

Connor is slow to comply. Haytham can see the wheels turning in his head; Connor's wondering if he's fast enough to wrench one of the guns away if one of the men gets too close. He does as he's told, though, watching the guard over his shoulder. Haytham doesn't fail to notice that the men are not watching him at all, obviously not anticipating any trouble from the man sitting on the floor. And why would they? He's not Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway; he's just some sad, broken thing that eats and shits and bends over for anyone that cares to take him. A danger to no one.

The third man, the youngest of the three, hastily unlocks the barred door. It swings forward into the cell about a foot and a half. He drops a steaming wooden bucket with a rope handle, tips it a little in his haste, splashing water on the floor. It's followed shortly by another gourd cup, this one larger than the one that had contained Haytham's tea. He slams the door, rams the lock home and backs away as quick as he can. Connor turns, staring at the items.

“That's strong whiskey, monkey. You drink any of it, you'll regret it,” the first guard growls.

“I...” Connor hesitates, Haytham can see him struggle between lashing out at the man for the racial slur, or praising him for the favor. He decides on the latter. “Thank you. This will—”

“Just make sure he don't die,” the guard snaps and he and his companions depart.

Haytham reaches for the whiskey—he wishes there was a barrel of it and not this meager cup, wishes there was enough to drown in—but Connor is faster, stepping between his father and the alcohol.

“We need to take off your shirt.”

Rather than trusting him to do it, Connor steps in and pulls at the fabric. Haytham gasps. Some of the cuts have dried to the shirt. When Connor gingerly pulls the shirt over Haytham's head, it feels like he's taking his skin with him.

He watches Connor's eyes, assessing the boy as he evaluates Haytham. He looks troubled, but not horrified. Just your standard, run-of-the-mill flogging, then. Connor's eyes linger on the savage bite near his iron collar and the boy flushes, although with anger or embarrassment, Haytham cannot quite discern. Connor tells him to go to the pallet. Haytham doesn't even bother to try to stand up. He crawls the short distance and then flops down on his stomach with a groan. Connor follows him with the bucket, rags, and alcohol.

Connor's not the worst doctor he's ever had. For all his prodigious strength, Haytham's surprised that his son's touch is so gentle. He opts to carefully soak the blood and dirt from Haytham's back, rather than scrub. It still hurts. No amount of codling will prevent that, but the pain could be worse. His son dabs the wounds with the alcohol and Haytham does his best not to flinch. After the wounds are serialized, his son tears the old blankets into long gray strips and lays them delicately over the cuts. Connor says he'll have to wrap him in more bandages to hold them in place when he's done.

“I have a doctor acquaintance,” he says as if reading his father's mind. “He taught me how to treat wounds. Whiskey is not what I would have picked, but it will serve.”

Haytham should be grateful. Grateful that Connor cares enough about him that he's willing to speak out on his behalf, grateful that he's taking such care with his father's body. After everything they've been though, Haytham should be appreciative that the boy even cares whether he lives or dies. He's not, though. The boy's touch just further reminds him how completely and utterly helpless he is, at the mercy of everyone around him. Even though there's nothing even remotely sexual about it, the boy's touch reminds him of Washington, of Hickey, about what they had done to him and why it had made the boy's attentiveness necessary. His skin crawls and even though the water that cleanses his body is warm and soothing, he shudders all the same.

As Connor works his way down, Haytham's anxiety increases. The boy's hands falter at his father's lower back. The bruises at his hips are a livid purple against his pale skin, dark enough to make out the marks of individual fingers.

His son's voice is hesitant, soft. “Do you need me to clean... down there, again?”

God. Oh, God. The first part of that phrase is awful enough, but it's that small word at the end that disturbs him the most. 'Again.' Meaning, this is not the first time Connor's cleaned him up. He buries his face in the stinking mattress, mortified. His throat constricts, eyes and nose feeling hot. He will not weep. He will not. It's bad enough that the boy has seen what Washington does to him, witnessed it first hand, even worse that he's become accustomed to tending to him, afterward. At least he will spare himself the embarrassment and shame of the boy seeing him cry.

“No,” he croaks into the mattress.

Connor has him sit up. He kneels in front of Haytham, taking longer strips of fabric and winding them around his father's body in silence. He hates Washington. Hates Hickey. Church. Lee. Most of all, he hates himself. Hates his weakness, his inability to do anything other than let himself be violated over and over. He's not even human anymore. Just a thing. An object of pity. He wants to sleep, perhaps have a few hours of respite where he dreams of something pleasant—or better, dreams of nothing at all.

But the boy just won't leave him alone.

“We need to come up with a plan,” he says as he finishes wrapping Haytham up.

Haytham goes to run unsteady fingers through his hair, stops when he comes across something crusted. He pulls it out of the strands, examines it, and feels like throwing up—of his own volition, this time. Haytham gives Connor a ragged sigh. He can't meet his eyes.

“Not now, Connor. It's not a good time,” he says hoarsely.

“There is never going to be a good time,” Connor grouses.

“I said, 'not now!'” It comes out as a harsh bark. Connor starts, but does not draw away.

“Look,” Connor says, eyes pleading. “I know you are hurting, that you do not think you are capable, but you must help me. People are dying.”

Oh, lad, you have no idea.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Haytham croaks, irritated that the boy won't just let him be.

Connor gives him an annoyed look that makes him look very much like Ziio.

“Just... Anything. Collect information. You are at Washington's side almost every day; you must have heard something useful.”

“I know nothing that can help you,” Haytham says, and it's the truth. What he witnessed today, what he saw... it will do no good for Connor to know.

“I killed a boy today,” Connor says quietly, face drawn and grim. Haytham stares at him, raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to get to fumble his way to some sort of point. “We were brought into the throne room after you had been taken away. He was like us; the Apple did not control him. He was fourteen, if that. Half my weight. He came at me with a knife.”

“Why?”

“Because he was told to. It amused Washington to send him at me. The boy apologized. Said that if he did not kill me, the guards would let the whole barracks dishonor his sister—his younger sister. I tried to stop him. Took the knife away from him, easily. He still came at me. I fought him off, but, somehow the blade found his stomach. He died in my arms.”

Connor's rendition is uncharacteristicly detached. He has a far away look in his eyes, as if he's somewhere else. “There will be more like him, if we do not stop this.”

So, Washington is still singling out resistant people to fight to the death. Perhaps it's an attempt to break them, make them more susceptible to the Apple's influence, or perhaps just out of pure cruelty and sadism. Washington had tried the same tactic with Haytham, when he'd first been taken prisoner, only to be dismayed by his ruthless efficiency and utter lack of remorse. It was war at it's most primitive and basest level; kill or be killed. So he killed. It was only after he had worked his way through a full dozen other prisoners that Washington had decided to try a different route.

Haytham laughs. It's an awful, cruel sound that's more like a sob than anything else. Poor, tender, dear-hearted Connor. So absurdly unprepared. So naive. His son is one of the most talented, natural killers that Haytham has ever seen, and yet even the slightest bit of collateral damage seems to unnerve him.

“A boy. A single dead boy you didn't even know has you put out.”

Connor tenses, draws back. “He did nothing to deserve what I did to him.”

“They never do. And yet they die just as easily.”

“I should have never expected you to care,” Connor snaps. “There is no room in your heart for anyone but yourself.”

He shouldn't say anything. No good will come of it. But he's hurting, miserable, and frustrated. He wants lash out, hurt someone in some fundamental and irreversible way to prove to himself that he's still a man, that he's something more than just a receptacle for scars and abuse and cum. And the most convenient victim just happens to be his own son. He can't hurt him, not physically, anyway, so he uses the only two weapons he has left—his wit, and his tongue.

“You're absolutely right; I don't care,” growls Haytham, vocal chords protesting, “I am completely depleted of sympathy for your dead boy. And do you know why? Because I watched Washington make a man cut out his own tongue today. Because I learned that Washington intends to round up your people, subjugate them, and then let them be massacred when Lee takes Philadelphia. And there is nothing—absolutely nothing that you or I can do about it.”

Connor stares at him, slack-jawed, dark eyes glittering, threatening to overspill. Haytham is instantly reminded of that wet, horrible night at Valley Forge. The night that Connor threatened to kill him.

“What? You look so surprised. You shouldn't be. This is, what, only the third, forth, fifth time Washington has threatened or managed to destroy your people—?”

“Shut up,” Connor says, dangerously quiet.

“—It's practically a compulsion at this point. I never murdered any of your kin; why did you see fit to kill me and let him live?”

“Shut up!” he repeats, louder.

“Why? You wanted the information. Why sulk over one dead boy when there are thousands to—“

Connor draws back his arm, viper-quick, all the muscles in his arm tense and coiled to strike. But he stops. He glares at Haytham teeth bared, eyes wet, and Haytham cowers, bringing up his hands to protect his face, quaking at the sight of so much naked hate.

The hit doesn't come. Connor's hand wavers, and then drops. He stands, goes to the opposite side of the room, and slides down the wall. Crosses his arms over his chest and buries his head between his knees. His shoulders shudder, but he doesn't make a sound.

Not for the last time that evening, Haytham wonders:

What the hell is wrong with me?

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Re: Fill: The Re-Education of Connor (Kenway) [ 18 / ? ]

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FILL ---------8 of ? -------Enthralled

Re: FILL ---------8 of ? (part 2) -------Enthralled