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

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

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

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

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

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✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

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Oh, but half the fun of this is watching Charles try many different things. :D

It wouldn't be fun to read (or write) if it was too easy for Charles. :D

Yes, poor Charles, poor little Haytham, and poor Connor - I can't believe I killed him off! May flesh this AU line out in one-shots, Templar Connor and his relationship with Charles is interesting - and yes, there is genuine love there, but also conflict as Connor is a high ranking Templar and there's probably a power struggle with him and the older Alpha members of the Inner Circle.

Oooh, I'm happy that this is set in AC1! (Still my fav of the series, despite me really sucking at fighting and freerunning.... ^^; I especially hated Sibrand's assassination, as Altair refused to jump from post to post, and straight into the water ~~nearly put my controller through the tv, I was so pissed~~ I finally went "FUCK IT" and fought my way through the guards to him.)

Apple shenanigans, hmm? I wonder if the wings are gonna come out before or after Al Mualim's reveal?

In Pursuit of Happiness

Chapter 8 - Silver-Tongued

Connor wasn’t sure what he expected, but it was certainly not this. Not this instant agreement. Not this acquiescent with his demands.

In all honesty, Connor had asked for everything to see what the man’s motive was. He had planned to start off with a high bid and then negotiate to a better position. By seeing which terms Lee pushed against and which he agreed to, Connor would have a glimpse into what it was that truly drove the man to make such an unusual offer.

Instead, his high bid was accepted. Every single bit of it.

How...odd.

Connor thought back to the events that had befallen the Templars. He had killed two of their Inner Circle, to be sure. He had derailed quite a number of their plans. And he had recruited apprentices to aid him in his mission.

None of that explained this—eagerness—that Lee was now displaying.

The Templars still had four of their Inner Circle. Both Lee himself and Connor’s father were still alive, well and, by all accounts, dangerous as ever.

Lee himself was in a position of high influence within the continental army. Hickey was a trusted soldier with access to all the racy, gossipy news that such a personage as Lee would never have access to. Church was using his influence with both armies to ill effect (and Connor secretly feared for the health of the commander with such an army doctor), and his father seemed to be scheming as he ever was.

They had been thus right before Connor had been caught and thrown into prison, and Connor saw nothing that could have caused all of that to change during the short time he was imprisoned.

It could not be himself. The Templars had their greatest chance right now to rid themselves of him and cripple the Brotherhood.

That they seem to be pursuing an alliance instead was curious.

He stared at the proffered hand, at that intense scrutiny those gray-blue eyes held him under.

It was uncomfortable being looked at so.

This was not hate, nor disgust, nor any of the other myriad emotions Lee wore when he had gazed upon Connor in the past.

This was something else.

Something almost intimate, almost tender. As if he and Lee had shared an experience, a secret that he had now forgotten.

It was troubling.

Connor looked away from that gaze briefly. He had not taken that proffered hand.

“Why do you look at me so?” he whispered.

“I look at you as I have always done.”

Connor shook his head. He did not look at Lee.

“I do not understand what you wish to gain out of this.”

“An alliance—“ Lee began.

“For what purpose?” Connor interrupted him. “You and I are enemies, with opposing ideals.”

“Not so opposing,” Lee responded.

Connor pursed his lips in doubt.

“We both strive for peace, you have said, but do not pretend that you would not sacrifice freedom for order, justice for discipline.”

Lee sighed at that.

“We are, perhaps, more expedient than you, but we would not sacrifice justice.”

Connor frowned. That was not what he had seen, not when William Johnson was willing to kill the Kanien'kehá:ka council for simply being unwilling to sell their own home.

“And as for Order,” Lee paused, thinking. “We do desire order, but that is because true freedom can only be gotten through order. You yourself spoke of what would happen to your people if the colonials had their way. That is because there is very little order here, unlike in England. There are few enforcers of the law. The local governments are either corrupt or have next to no power. And when they are enforced, the laws are cherry picked, sometimes arbitrarily, most often with an eye on who has the most power.”

Lee stepped into the path of his sight, forcing him to look at him again.

“Would you not agree that a world where no one is sure what the laws are and which laws are to be enforced or anything else...would you not agree that that is not freedom? It is chaos and anarchy, and it only leads to injustice and madness.”

“And you seek to end this—anarchy—as you call it, by installing yourselves in places of power? So that you, and no one else, can decide those laws and enact the structure that most benefits you?” Connor challenged him. “You expect me to believe that to be freedom?”

Lee shook his head.

“We know that freedom is the ability to set an ordered structure into place, with choice woven into the fabric of its being, so that people can make their own decisions with full knowledge of what those decisions will lead to. And we know that our guidance would never satisfy those of the Brotherhood. Which is why I come to you with this arrangement.”

Lee stepped closer to him.

Connor could smell the musk of his body.

It made him sweat.

“It’s an opportunity, Connor. An opportunity for both our organizations to become something greater, something bigger. For the deaths to stop and for peace, order, justice and freedom to exist, side by side.” Lee’s voice lowered.

It was soft, confident.

Connor felt heated and strange and...

Spirits above, his heat again.

Here.

Now.

“Work with us, Connor.” It was said in a low whisper. “The Brotherhood is afraid of us abusing our power, no? Of instilling a structured world that would benefit only us and disadvantage all else. So work with us. Ally with us and gain the ability to keep us in check. Without bloodshed. Without more loss and mothers weeping over fallen children.”

Lee took another step closer, and Connor took a hesitant step away.

He felt flushed and dizzy.

“I will give you the time to think, your freedom from this place, your weapons. I will give you the time to speak with your mentor and your apprentices,” and how had he found out about them? Connor did not know.

It was so confusing. The way Lee was acting, all this knowledge about him that the Order had apparently had.

That infernal look in Lee’s eyes when he gazed upon Connor.

Intense. Far too intense.

Connor felt the tremors begin to crawl up his spine.

He backed away again and hit the cool stone of the wall.

Lee took another step closer.

“Mutual cooperation, instead of mutual destruction. Working together to overthrow the crown’s influence and installing practices that would be fair to both the colonials and your people.”

Connor managed to shake off his dizziness for a moment.

“Why?”

Lee stopped at the question, thinking.

“Because I think we could do much good together.”

Lee looked at him again. And then he removed his cloak and carefully wrapped it around Connor.

“It is not good for an Omega to withstand such chill when in heat. Keep it about you while I bargain for your release.”

And with that, Lee promptly stepped away and knocked to exit the cell.

Connor was left feeling more confused than ever.

/swoons/ Oh Charles you sweet talker, and poor Connor totally has the rug pulled out from under him. In his head he's probably wondering like crazy how Charles knows so much about him, even though the last time they met at George's acceptance speech, he was all : "Do I know you?"

Loving the detail of Charles giving Connor his cloak and of course not taking advantage of his heat /shakes head at SF!Charles/ though this Charles has been in love with the memory of his wife for over a decade (I bet he never bedded another Omega afterwards) and he's not going to let his own lust ruin his future.

Capatcha

The name of Charles is?

OMG, even Capatcha is rooting for Charles ^_^

This Charles definitely never touched another Omega after Connor. It was one of the ways he dismayed his subjects, never taking another Queen. :D

Lol, Captcha works in mysterious ways...

Yeah. I was kinda disappointed by how they never fleshed out Achilles' character. Maybe in Black Flag? I dunno, haven't done the math. But, yeah, I wanted to emphasize that both timelines didn't really treat the Kenways too well even if they made different choices. Thanks for reading!

And by fleshed out character I mean that they didn't have much of a backstory for him.

Thanks :D There'll be a couple more backstory chapters (although not necessarily back to back) that'll explain the conflicts that lead up to Haytham's and Connor's imprisonment

Oh! Well, don't read it if it makes you too uncomfortable. But, yeah, I sort of do my best to make it a more visceral fic. I PROMISE there'll be at least a somewhat happy ending, but yes there's gonna be some fucked up things that happen between now and then. Thanks for reading!

Thanks! I'll get on that, might fill another prompt or two in the meantime though.

oops, didn't see your response here.

Not sure which missions they'll do together, but you can bet Charles will try to edge himself on many.

/crosses fingers for the Captain of the Aquila outfit/

Awww that's so sweet and heart breaking, especially when he never shared any details about Connor to little Haytham

This made my entire day. Thank you kindly, dear anon.

Silver tongue or not, I adore Charles in this one. Eagerly awaiting to see what more you have in store for us...

It's a pretty long chapter and I still can't figure out how the formatting works here. So I'm just going to post the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/807666

Author!anon is trying for a relationship, not just father/son with benefits here, so the first chapter is only to build up the feelings between the two. The angst will come later.

Lovely start, anon! I'm very excited to read more, so glad someone is filling this request <3

Yeah...

I do enjoy emotionally torturing characters. :D

Thanks! :) Charles is definitely up for some highs and lows, but I hope to grow both him and Connor as characters.

OP here!

I've not expected a fill since it's been so long, and I haven't checked my feeds in a while so I apologise for the late response

but this fill was just ace. I love the flow of the story, and it's all weaved very wonderfully and smoothly. I thought the prompt might seem too awkward to write well, but you did it most excellently.

I'm really glad that you filled this. Thank you so very much. :')

I don't know what I wrote here. I just...

In Pursuit of Happiness

Chapter 9 - Desire

The moment Charles left the private cell he had asked for, he took a deep, calming breath.

When his bride-to-be had begun to sway slightly, Charles had been worried that the boy was hurt somewhere. That the insane brawl he had witnessed had had consequences unseen. But then he had noticed the flush on that beautiful face and saw the way Connor trembled when he took a cautious step forward.

Charles let out a shaky breath.

The sight of Connor’s heat, his memories of the long marathon sex they had had before...

It was heady and exhilarating.

He’d wanted to take Connor into his arms, push him down on the floor and take him. Plant himself within that tight heat that he still remembered, even after 10 years, and sow the seed that would become his son.

He imagined it.

Connor’s eyes wide in surprise, mouth opening in soft cries. They would be cries of pain at first, but Charles would be careful. He would ease the way as well as he could, with saliva and pre-ejaculate and whatever else he could find in that little cell.

But once he seated himself, once he was fully encased by that tight and delicious heat, clenching smoothly around him...

He’d rest a bit. Let his lovely bride become used to the feeling of fullness, of having Charles within him. He’d wait until those muscles relaxed, and then he would slowly draw back until only the very tip of him was still within his wife.

It would be one long, sensual glide, the muscles around him trying to keep him inside. That mouth would pant and those gorgeous amber-brown eyes would flutter shut. A brush of color would paint those high cheekbones, and Connor would look so...so...

Beautiful.

And Charles would drive all the way in. Those muscles would clench about his sudden invasion, the pants of breath would become heavier, less pained.

More pleasurable.

There would be little to no pain for Connor then. The pain was past, gone. Fleeting and inconsequential. The pants would turn into cries of pleasure, and when Charles looked at Connor, he would see that his bride was staring back at him in such wonderment and surprise and anticipation and lust...

Charles didn’t want to hurt Connor again. He didn’t want to do anything that would result in—

Those strong thighs would wrap around him, that body opening gloriously up to him, arching up to meet his thrusts.

Because Connor would want him too. It wouldn’t be one-sided this time. It wouldn’t be a moment of punishment, an instrument to break and destroy his lovely wife.

Those lips would open in breathless cries, chanting a litany of “Charles, Charles, Charles.” He’d seal those lips in a kiss, tongue slipping into that tender softness and tasting the beautiful Omega that he’d wanted and thought of for 10 years.

He’d kiss those lips even as he thrust into that trembling body until Connor felt faint from lack of oxygen, until those eyelids fluttered in hazy pleasure.

And then he’d let him have a single breath before kissing him again.

And again and again.

That supple body would arch up into him. That head would be thrown back, exposing that long elegant neck to be bitten and licked and sucked.

Connor would taste of musk and salty sweat and sweet Omega.

He would be glorious.

He had always been glorious. Charles just never saw it was too late.

And then Charles would wrap one hand about Connor’s erection, while the other would pinch those rosy nipples that were so sensitive for his wife.

He’d cry out. The sensations would be too much, and Charles’s wife would clamp down on him, and Charles would come and come and come in a wash of utterly content pleasure, safely hugged by those velvety tight walls.

It would wash away all his regrets, all his thoughts of what-could-have-beens.

Charles let out a sharply shuddering gasp.

The guards around him stared at him in concern.

Charles colored. He’d forgotten that he was not alone.

“Sir,” one of them approached him. “Are you well?”

Charles felt mortified.

“I...need to go.”

The guard looked strangely at him.

“There is a private room for us to use to relieve ourselves,” Charles colored again, “around that corner.”

He nodded. It should afford him some level of privacy, and he needed it at this point.

He would talk to the warden later. After he’s had time to...relieve...himself.

Somehow, Charles didn’t think he’d make much of a case for his request if the warden noticed his erection.

----

A candlemark later, Charles smiled as he watched Connor take his belongings and leave the cell he had been placed in.

The negotiations with the warden had not been easy. The man was not pleased with the brawl that Connor had apparently started, and he was less than pleased that the boy who started that brawl and caused so many injuries would be going free, without so much as a slap on the wrist.

He apparently had had plans to punish Connor.

Charles’s countenance darkened. It may have been his imagination, but he thought he saw an almost greedy, covetous look in the man’s eyes. As if...

Well. No use thinking on that anymore. Connor was out of that place. Free to go back to his blasted Brotherhood and confer with them about Charles’s request.

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he made a good case.

He hoped he made a good case. He hoped he gave his wife enough to think about that Connor would give him, give them all, a chance.

That was all Charles needed.

He wanted his wife by his side again. He wanted to win his wife and son back.

Because he knew what happened when he just simply took.

And he would do whatever it took to make his desires a reality.

The white-clad figure he watched so carefully stopped five steps away from the prison door and turned to look directly at Charles.

Then, slowly, Charles’s bride-to-be inclined his head in a slight nod.

Charles felt his heart soar.

thank you OP! Here's a longer part in response to your lovely comment--which also answers your last question HAHA
---

He repeats to himself it's nothing, a fluke, but by the time he's riding back to Masyaf, his head throbs to the beat of his heart in a persistent, lingering ache that hurts like a blade-wound. Altair can ignore it, the same way that he's learned to ignore similar injuries until they healed, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it; it's a distraction, a strain upon his mind, and he wishes it would go away as soon as possible. How is he to accomplish his task when the very sun agonizes his eyes, even under the shade of his hood? When fresh throbs of agony make his hands shake? When the growing soreness in his bones makes him want to stretch out in the sun like an oversized cat and sleep? It's weakness, weakness that he cannot afford, and what an inopportune time to fall ill. It's strange and unseasonal and Altair had always kept in the peak of health before, but comparing it to the fevers that came with injuries is his only reference to his current pain, so he tells himself that it's merely that he fell one too many times in the water at the docks, that it's been cold at night, that this isn't the treasure's doing at all.

He's not quite sure he believes himself, but he clings stubbornly to his explanation.

--

Al Mualim speaks in circles, riddles, and Altair quells his growing annoyance with the roundabout talk, resisting the urge to snap and tell the man to get to the point; his head hurts, he has another rank and target, and even the discussion of the Order's Creed merits nothing more than a passing moment of interest from Altair.

But at last, he is dismissed, and he takes off from Al Mualim's presence like an eagle loosed, en route to his next target.

--

The rafiq in Damascus had always been friendly to Altair, even when he'd newly lost his ranks, but today his eager interest is grating against his nerves; his head throbs still, and a fine tremor has worked its way into his fingers, hands, making him doubt his aim. It is as undesirable as the rest of his annoying condition; his very bones ache at the center, as though the marrow had been replaced by ice and fire warring with each other, numbing and full of sensation in turns--it's not quite to pain, the feeling, but it's distracting in the same way his head, hands, are.

So he turns down the rafiq's offer to share his stories, instead cutting straight to the point, requesting information, locations to begin his search, and departing at once once he's gained both--he is in no mood to linger.

He finds one of Jubair's scholars easily enough, and chooses a perch above where he is, yelling and gesticulating at the passing masses, listens to his words. He contemplates his fingers against the stone as he waits, spreading them out and watching the tremor, before tugging at his cowl, making sure it was pulled forward as far as it could be.

He hasn't realized his attention had wandered, that he'd lost time, until he registers that there's no impassioned words falling upon his ears anymore; alarmed, he sits up straight (and when had he sat down in the first place?), pokes his head over the side of the building whose roof he'd been using, to find the scholar that he'd been listening to, watching, was gone. Likely long gone as well, from the amount of dust, dirt, and scuffed footprints that are in the area that he'd been standing in; Altair curses comprehensively, furious at himself, and pulls himself to his feet, shaking out his hands. He shivers, suddenly freezing despite the sun overhead, and hunches in on himself for a moment, rubbing his hands against his upper arms to combat the chill that's seemed to have settled in his bones sometime during the time he'd lost, before scowling down at nothing and turning, leaping across roofs to find another person to shadow for information.

--

It takes nearly twice as long for him to find what he needs; before he drops down into the Damascus Bureau, he takes a moment to steady himself, school the discomfort from his face, resist the urge to remove the top layer of his robes off--the winter in his bones has given way to flame, and he imagines for a delirious moment that he can feel it parch and crackle his skin.

He shakes the delusions off and enters the Bureau; he uses the silky length of the feather to ground himself, runs his fingers over the shaft and barbs, and repeats: "Jubair, meeting at the Madrassah El-Kallasah, Jubair, meeting at the Madrassah El-Kallasah" like a mantra, keeping himself grounded so that his aching, pounding head doesn't float away and off his shoulders.

The building is easy enough to infiltrate, and he ghosts through the place like the demon he's been nicknamed (he feels like it, the vicious heat underneath his skin burns like flame), like the bonfire that Jubair stokes and feeds with words, volumes, scrolls, ink sizzling and the scent of paper smoke filling the air as Altair watches from an overlooking balcony; the flames devour one of their own, and the sickly-sweet scent of burning man infuses the air as well; he blinks once, and Jubair is suddenly alone, the remaining scholars having disappeared in the space between one look and the next.

He takes the chance, drops down from above before he loses him again; his first strike shakes, misses the path he'd intended it take by several inches, but the next sinks home.

--

The bells ring for him as he returns to the Bureau, not in alert of Jubair's death but out of sheer carelessness; Altair misjudges the distance on a jump, falls too short and clings on the edge, feet kicking and fingers scrabbling, before the strength goes out of him and he falls, tucking and rolling as he hits the ground--sprawls out in the path of several city guards.

He scrabbles, righting himself as they shout and draw blades, stumbles as he starts to run, and then gasps, nearly losing his feet once again as burning agony imbeds itself in his shoulder, arm, and Altair pushes past it, staggers but picks up speed as blood starts to soak into the arm of his robes, turns the corner and runs runs runs, climbs and jumps while rocks soar and echo in his path, and the sound of bells split the air, making the very air and his skull and the teeth in the back of his mouth ring, buzz, like the bones in his arms and ribs and spine and body.

He falls into the Bureau. It's less-than graceful, the entire process, but he gives his report (mostly in the form of saying as little as possible and handing over the bloodied feather) as the rafiq tends the wound on his bicep that the guard's arrow had left. He's asleep in the pile of rugs and pillows before he even really realizes it, but the blackness behind his eyelids is at least a welcome reprieve from consciousness.

--

He wakes up when sunlight hits his face the next morning, stirring with a groan--his head still hurts, and his bones still buzz, fingers tremble, and the arrow wound complains at him as he moves, but his head is clearer than it had been last night. He's fine. He's fine. He can do this.

Altair escapes before anyone can say farewell to him, riding back to Masyaf. After this last kill, he tells himself--then he can rest, content in the knowledge of a task completed.

--

Al Mualim gives him the last name--a familiar one. Robert De Sable is all that stands between him and his title, redemption once more, and Altair's fingers grip the reins of his horse tighter as he rides to Jerusalem; it's fitting that where it began, it would end once more; De Sable would die by his blade, he repeats himself as the road passes by, the landscape moving about him and coalescing into a brown blur pockmarked by overbright sunlight and--

--and his head hurts.

His arm, shoulder, shoulders ache, all along his spine and through his back, which is also screaming at him, the jouncing stride of his horse not doing anything to relieve the pain; the buzzing resembles a jar of flies, flies alighting on a bloated corpse, splitting it open the same way it feels as though his skin will split, cracked and dry and thin as it is, consumed by fire, and he's taking to the roofs in an attempt to escape the smell of the burning scholar that's filled his nostrils, charring meat and bubbling fat, and it's hot, so hot, the flames are so hot and he's tired, his joints and bones ache and buzz and burn--

He's falling and there's shouting, and for the moment the movement of air past is face is blissful and soothing and then he's hitting the ground to a jarring instance of pain through his entirety, lattice sunlight shining mercilessly into his eyes and Malik is kneeling above him, mouth moving (but he can almost imagine the words coming out of his mouth, calling him stupid and impulsive and foolish; forgive me please; I regret taking him from you and your potential, future, pride from you) and his back hurts so, and he opens his mouth to tell him that no, he's fine, that the lost spaces inside his memory and head of space and time are nothing, that he was just distracted by the damnable buzzing underneath his skin, persistent and encompassing and attention-draining; it makes him want to claw his back open, split and tear away the skin like it's rotten and release the clouds of flies inside, and he moves to do it, fingernails catching at his clothes, except before he can dig his fingers in his skin bursts splits tears all over his back through his robes seams splitting and it's like having all his skin flayed off torn open wet muscle and white bone opened to the air like the novices that misjudged the final leap that failed to soar that faded from blue to background grey in his vision of eagles as the life fled from them the same way his blood is flowing away and into the dirt dying it red (he has to be dying why else would it hurt so) and he's screeching screaming screaming because it hurts hurts hurts and for once he can't do this he's not going to survive he's going to die and he's afraid--

Mercifully, the pain overfills him, and he passes out.

/MELTS/ oh anon, this chapter OMG... I have not the words to express how much I enjoyed it, as much as Charles did. I'm just gonna go sit in a drool puddle and collect my thoughts before I can read again

Glad you like anon. :D

I'm still blushing when I think about it...

what's going on here... I'm actually starting to like Charles a lot, anon. Good grief, Charles, just stay like that and don't screw it up this time, you bastard.

*clings to fic* This. Is. Amazing. I love well-written wing fics and this takes the trophies home for being one of the best!

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: In Pursuit of Happiness 7

Re: One-shot: First Word

OP

In Pursuit of Happiness 8

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Fill: The Two of Us [1/3]

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In Pursuit of Happiness 9

you can't take the sky from me [2/?]

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