Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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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
Fills Only
Discussion

Comments

Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

Charles goes insane with grief after Haytham's death. When Connor is caught at the funeral, Charles decides the best punishment for Connor will be to replace Haytham. What follows is full-on brainwashing and non-con, with Charles dressing Connor up as Haytham and only referring to him by his father's name, forcing him to tell Charles how much he loves him, etc. Bonus points for Charles acting romantic with 'Haytham' and trying to woo him. The creepier the better.

Re: Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

SECONDING

We need more creepy prompts, and this sounds so promising! I'd love to see this filled!!

Re: Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

THIRDING

I agree with the above anon. I would love to see this

Re: Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

Hey, hey, hey, hey, OP! OP, hey! I'm working on a little something for this, I hope you'll like it. But I need you to answer a question first: when you say non-con, do you mean non-con transformation or non-con sex? (I'm thinking it's the former, but I'm just checking because how I have it planned out in my head works better without sex).

Re: Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

OP: OMG really? Thank you! I really hoped someone would fill this! Well, I mainly meant the non-con transformation in the prompt; I don't really care if it has sex or not. I just want to see Charles acting creepy with Connor :)

I'm really looking forward to seeing what you come up with!

Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

His necklace was gone. The absence of it's gentle pressure agwainst his collarbone made Ratonhnhaké:ton immediately reach up, only to find his wrists were tightly bound by handcuffs and these, in turn, were attached to a short length of chain to the wall beside him. He growled but did not tug, pausing to take in his surroundings, fighting the seductive caress of sleep that threatened to pull him down. It would be better to find something to pick the lock with than to risk unnecessary injury. 

The bed he was lying on was basic, although layered with thick blankets, and the rest of the room followed in the same fashion. A grated fire had been lit some hours ago, it's glowing coals now bathing the room in blurry shadows. There was a window on Ratonhnhaké:ton's other side, but it was dark and he only saw the faint lights of a distant town from the awkward angle he had twisted himself into to peer from it. Nobody would hear him in this place. Besides the bed and the fireplace, there was a small bookshelf, loaded with rich leather tomes, a desk, and an armchair. Nothing that could help him within reach.

Over the years, Connor had been bound many times, but handcuffs had always brought a painful bite around his wrists. It was strangely absent this time. When he glanced back at them, he was startled to discover they had been carefully wrapped in soft leather and placed over his shirt sleeves. The fact that he hadn't noticed this immediately caused a crease to mar his brow; what exactly had he been knocked out with? Some disgusting mix the Templars had invented, no doubt.

The door opened, lighting a masculine figure from behind, and the fire glinted off the man's eyes. Connor tensed, ready to fight, knowing immediately who had stepped over the threshold into his prison cell. One didn't forget eyes so pale they looked like the world had drained them of all colour, leaving only the palest stain of grey-blue like the blind eye of a beggar. They were bloodshot and red-rimmed, dark splotches of too many late nights painted under them.

"Ah, Grand Master," said Charles Lee, "I see you have awoken from your brutalisation by the Assassin."

Jerking back now, the sleepiness falling away, Connor narrowed his eyes at Lee, then at the tray that his enemy was holding. Lee didn't seem to be offended, taking the recoil in his stride. The tray was laid on the desk with a rattle, and Connor saw a bowl of hot, thick stew and slices of bread laid out next to a German stein of unknown liquid.

"You were quite violent in your sleep, so we had to restrain you."

The tone in his voice was too soft, too tender compared to what Connor was used to. This wasn't the Lee that he knew. This was someone alien in mannerisms and attitude, distorting the man's body into affection beyond what Connor thought him to be capable. It was frightening.

"Give me my mother's necklace and you may yet live, Lee," Connor growled.

"I do not know of this necklace you speak of," replied Lee, shrugging his shoulders.

Lee prodded at the fire with a poker, coaxing it to lick at the fresh logs he offered, then sat back in the armchair and rested his head on one hand.

"You are a liar and a thief," said Connor, wriggling his wrists around in their cuffs.

"I am no such thing. Not to you, at least, Grand Master Kenway. I would never betray you," retorted Lee.

He turned his beggar-eyes on Connor, watching the young man. A scolding noise slipped from his throat. The leather wraps were slipping now, rubbing red welts across the most slender part of the wrist. Large hands were useful as an intimidation and combat tool - slipping handcuffs, not so much. If Connor had to break a hand in order to escape, then so be it.

It was looking more likely by the second, and Connor wasn't interested in finding out exactly what Lee had planned for him. A secluded hut, a captured enemy, and a motive: he wasn't stupid. The array of torture tools would come out any moment now.

"Stop that. You will hurt yourself," said Lee. "We killed the assassin. He is dead and buried. Bled to death with a hole through his throat. A masterly use of the hidden blade, sir."

"Stop calling me that!"

"Calling you what, sir?"

Lee was deranged, Connor decided, completely deranged by grief over Haytham's demise. The quicker he escaped, the better. But Lee was pulling a small vial from his coat pocket, sprinkling the liquid onto a handkerchief, and stood, holding the fabric gingerly.

"What is your name?"

"Connor."

Lee's lips twisted into a thin line. Before Connor could tuck hus face against his upper-arm, the cloth came over his mouth and he choked, trying not to inhale. He didn't want whatever it was and struggled viciously, squirming and kicking, but eventually he had to breathe and the scent overwhelmed him. Stars burst across his vision.

"Shhh, it will all be fine, Grand Master. You have had a nasty injury and it is to be expected that you are confused," crooned Lee, pushing Connor onto his back.

Lavender. It was only lavender. Connor stilled, trying to lure Lee into thinking the oils had worked. A ripple of revulsion rolled down Connor's neck as Lee stroked what was left of his hair.

"The savage was cruel to you, cutting your hair like that. Of course, I should respect him, he was your son after all."

The rough fingers pinched a lock and rubbed it between them, feeling the texture. Lee lifted the cloth and Connor wheezed, taking in a breath of fresh air. Slowly, the room began to spin. He grumbled something in Mohawk and tried to shake it, but still persisted.

"Now, what's your name?" asked Lee.

Through gritted teeth, the captive spat out, "Connor. Connor Davenport."

He received the cloth once more, with Lee's smile and the beggar-eyes the last things he saw before the stench overwhelmed his tired, injured body.

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

OP: I love this! This is simply incredible, you are an awesome writer. I love how you wrote Charles here, he is so creepy! And I really like how Connor gave his last name as being 'Davenport', I don't see that too often and I love anything to do with Connor and Achilles.

In any case, I really adore this and I cannot wait to see the rest!

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

Thanks OP! I'm all sorts of flustered blushy right now. I'm glad that this got off to a good start! Let's hope I can keep it up!

Charles is in a pretty bad state right now, but the creepiest thing about it is that Connor will keep expecting to be hurt...but Charles never physically hurts him (until a certain part...yeeeees...). The hanging threat of being hurt and being unsure of what Charles is up to is what is truly scary in this.

Ah, I'm glad you liked the Davenport part! Names have a particular importance in this, and I shift between them on purpose. So look out for that. :)
I think Connor wouldn't use Haytham's name unless it was to his benefit. Otherwise, I think he'd take on Achilles', because Achilles was more of a father to him than Haytham, so it's only natural that if he's going to be called Connor, then he might as well be Connor Davenport, the Assassin.
Ratonhnhaké:ton is reserved for his personal self, and for visits to his village. Only they have the right to see the real Ratonhnhaké:ton under the Connor shell.

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

holy shit this is an amazing start! I can't wait to read the rest! <3

Re: Grief's Madness 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, forced transition, elements of non-con)

[(Anonymous)]

Ahhhh, thank you, sweet anon! More will be in a day or so.

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

[(Anonymous)]

Lee was still there when Connor snorted and sat up, haziness from the lavender oil still fogging his body. The stew wasn't steaming anymore but it was still dark outside. It could not have been more than a few hours that he was unconscious for.

"Haytham," murmured Lee, attention immediately on Connor's movements, like a snake ready to strike.

"Haytham is dead," snapped Connor. "I killed him."

And he winced at the hoarseness of his voice.

"No, you killed the assassin, sir," said Lee.

Taking the stein, he offered it to Connor, trying to tip it down his throat. It was tempting - Connor's throat felt like someone had slice into it with a knife, peeling away the skin - but he did not trust Lee.

"It is only water."

To demonstrate, he took a sip himself, then held it to Connor's lips once more. Hesitantly, Connor drank a mouthful of the water. He tried to pull away but Lee tipped the stein up and pinched Connor's nose shut so he was forced to drink the rest or suffocate. Right at the very bottom a sweet globule of honey fell into Connor's mouth, and he swallowed it in surprise. Lee refilled the stein from a pitcher that hadn't been on the desk before.

"Are you still thirsty?"

"No," said Connor.

"You need to be washed, from the inside out. Doctor's orders."

The mug came forth again, but Connor flung an unbound foot at Lee, knocking him, but not disabling him. If the stein dropped, then he wouldn't have to drink. Connor lunged again, foot ramming into Lee's thigh, other leg coming around to smack into the Templar's hip. He was successful this time, and it clattered to the ground, breaking the handle from the body and tearing a gaping hole in one side. Lee's face crumpled for a moment, a high flush of red on his cheeks.

Good. This was the Charles Lee that Connor knew well. He braced himself to be hit, a backhand or a punch, or even a well placed jab to the ribs, but Lee only bent down to pick up the wet, broken pieces, and placed them on the tray.

"There was no need for that. You need your fluids."

Lee took up the gallon pitcher, thoughtfully turning it around in his hands. There was still a great deal of water left, sloshing about. He seemed to decide upon something, for he took the few steps across the room and roughly shoved Connor against the bed-head and straddled hus legs, pinning them. While Connor was still distracted, he pushed the lip of the pitcher into Connor's mouth and started to pour.

The water assaulted the younger man, filling his throat, and he gulped it down as best he could, excess splashing his shirt, making it stick to his skin in little droplets. He thrashed about, struggling to breathe and had to give that up when Charles grabbed his nose again. He smacked his bound fists against Lee trying to push him away, but it was a desperate, useless action, for that flush of red only darkened, Connor's nose released momentarily as Lee grabbed the chain attaching Connor to the wall and dragged the end of it to hook over a steel bolt in the wall, shortening it.

"Why are you hurting me, sir? I only want to do what is best for your continuing health. Now drink," said Lee.

Connor couldn't take much more of the water, but he needed to breathe. It sprayed from his mouth as he swallowed and failed to keep it down, but still Lee kept tipping the damned thing. Finally, after what felt like far too long with blackness blurring his vision, the pitcher was taken away, and he coughed on the air, sucking it into his lungs.

"Nearly half a gallon. Very good."

"You are mad!" screamed Connor, bucking Lee from his lap.

But Lee leaned back and pressed on Connor's lower abdomen, knowing precisely where Connor's swelling bladder was.

"I cannot understand what you are saying," said Charles, idly.

"You can understand me perfectly, Boiling Water," Connor growled in Kanien'kehá:ka.

"Well of course I do now," replied Lee in the same manner. "I did not realise that the mother of your son taught you their language."

Connor paused. Mulled this confirmed suspicion over. Then Lee pressed down a little harder and Connor clenched his thighs. The water hadn't helped relieve what was already contained.

"Is there something wrong?" asked Lee innocently, not butchering a single syllable of Kanien'kehá:ka.

"Remove your hand," said Connor, switching back to English, refusing to allow Lee to taint the tribe by speaking their language further.

Lee's face crumpled into a quizzical expression. He leaned his head towards Connor, as if trying to hear better. The thick moustache that perched on his lip twitched and bristled.

"And there is that damnable accent again. You are slurring your words. Perhaps you should sleep again," said Lee.

The fullness was getting worse. This game, whatever it was, appeared to be going around in circles. Connor wished Lee would just get to the point, and stop calling him by his father's title. It was frustrating enough to have been caught, but for Lee to not do anything, well, that seemed odd. The Templar's objective wasn't clear. At least Haytham would have given Connor a good spar after a heated exchange of words. That made things interesting.

What did Lee want? Wasn't he supposed to be the Grand Master, now that Haytham was dead. He was supposed to be running the Order, not taking in spare assassins from funerals.

"I was not slurring," spat Connor, pronouncing each world slowly. "I wish to relieve myself."

A cry of angry tore from him as Lee jabbed him.

"Again."

"I wish to relieve myself, Lee," said Connor.

 "Lee? Have I done something to earn your displeasure, sir. Again."

It was getting too much - he didn't know how long he'd be in these clothes and he didn't particularly like smelling of piss if he could help it. But Connor didn't know what Lee wanted from this. Presumably it was some mad reasoning behind it.

"Again."

Connor snarled in frustration and had the underside of his chin tapped lightly for his troubles.

"I wish to relieve myself."

There was nothing wrong with his voice! The chains rattled as Connor grunted and tried to unbalance his captor. Lee was steady though, and lifted his hand to relieve a margin of the pressure before reapplying it.

"Again."

Yeah, he really needed to piss. It had been half an hour.

"I wish to relieve myself."

"Wrong, wrong!"

Connor moaned in frustration. What had his father called Lee? As much as Connor was loathe to indulge in Lee's sick fantasy, this was the only way to guarantee  wouldn't soil himself and risk further punishment.

"Do it again."

"I wish to relieve myself," and here Connor paused in contemplation, one last chance to turn back. "Charles."

He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see those beggar-eyes light up in delight.

"Again, Haytham."

Realisation hit Connor like a eight pound cannonball to the chest. He wasn't here to be physically tortured, but to be groomed into his father's image. Lee wanted him to retrain his voice into Haytham's. A ball of contempt and disgust, cold, small, spiked, sat in his stomach.

No. He might be of Haytham's blood, but he wasn't Haytham. They only resembled each other in passing. It wasn't obvious that he was Haytham's child. No, no, no. Ratonhnhaké:ton cringed; Haytham wasn't his father, he was not spoken of. Ratonhnhaké:ton didn't have a father.

But surely obligating this unspoken request wouldn't hurt. Connor was stronger than that. He could lure Lee in. One lapse wasn't all that much.

"Charles, please," said Connor, wrapping his mouth around the words in the best imitation of his father's voice. "I need to relieve myself."

"Yes," sighed Charles, a smile appearing under his twitchy moustache. "Of course."

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

[(Anonymous)]

Please excuse my bluntness, but this was fucking creepy as fuck.

In a good way, of course.

Also, I love the desperation element, anon.

Setting up a camp and eagerly awaiting more.

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

[(Anonymous)]

holy fucking shit

i just

wow

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

[(Anonymous)]

OP: Words cannot describe how much I love this. Re-training him to speak in Haytham's voice? That is both genius and insanely creepy. I can't wait to see more :3

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

[(Anonymous)]

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."

Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

Snow fell in small flakes around him. Haytham brushed the ice from his shoulders, and adjusted his cape. Hadn't it been spring? A wolf howled in the distance, several others replying. There were only trees around him, and the ground did not seem to rise nor fall in gradient.

Something moved at his feet, and from the snow popped a very familiar face. Spado. Haytham tucked the dog under his arm, drawing his coat over the immaculately groomed pet. He glimpsed a flash of brown, a splash of blue, a trickle of red. There was no sound but the crunch of his boots - the wolves had ceased.

A tugging sensation spiralled from his chest, a thread coaxing him forward. Spado growled and wriggled, leaping from Haytham's arms, taking hold of the hem on his cape, and tried to pull him back. Unfastening the chain that held it, the fabric dropped over Spado's head and he frantically spun around, trapped. Yet when Haytham lifted it, feeling guilty, the dog had vanished. He scrabbled in the snow for a few minutes but to no avail. Spado was gone.

He decided to follow the thread.

The cloak was a black speck behind him when the ground suddenly sloped upwards. So he climbed it, losing his hat on a clawed branch, but he ignored the loss and kept climbing. Somewhere, someone cried outraged, and it echoed thrice then fell victim to the silence. The slope was steep but consistent, and when Haytham reached the top, he came face-to-face with Spado again.

Haytham scolded the dog for wandering off, and ignored Spado's sharp barking as he walked past.

There was a house. A manor. A manor with a door. An axe - a tomahawk - the handle yellowed by the sun, cracks in the wood from a lack of oil (how long had it been since this war started? How long had he been away? How long would it be before he could remove it, wipe away the dust, and place it on his bedroom wall as memory of a friend who had died at his hands?) was embedded in a white pillar. Haytham didn't touch it, and pushed the door open.

He peered to the left - a study or parlour - and then to the right - a dining room, and before him a set of stairs. The thread led up to a bedroom. When Haytham padded in and looked around the room, the sliver of blue and red and brown belonged to someone.

Two someones.

A child. His child. A man. His child still but grown.

They extended their hands in invitation while their eyes burned with fury.

Then Spado bit his ankle and Haytham yelped, turned away, and chased the dog with idle threats. He clattered down the stairs, out the door, slid down the hill, and chased, chased, chased, until he found his cloak, and feeling cold, put it on.

He grasped at the hands pulling a blanket over his shoulders, petting them. A huff of laughter made him crack open an eye. Haytham was in bed - he'd kicked the blankets off. It was too early to be getting up, the nip of spring mornings still curled around the complex.

"Where are you going?" he mumbled sleepily.

Charles pressed a kiss to Haytham's forehead.

"To business in New York. I will not be gone long."

"Do not leave me with nothing to do," groaned Haytham.

Chuckling, Charles patted a parcel of papers.

"I thought you might like to check my paperwork," he replied. "Then check on the new families. I am sure you will find something else that requires attention."

Fingers stretched from under the blanket and stroked Charles' cheek tenderly.

"Of course. Stay safe," said Haytham.

He didn't quite catch Charles' reply, but he did see the longing gaze that Charles gave him before Haytham fell asleep again.

***

It was Stephane's turn to cook. It was nearly always Stephane's turn to cook, and for that the Assassins were grateful. They ate in relative cheer, passing a few bottles of wine around. Tomorrow Duncan and a few recruits would ride for the Homestead to prepare the people there.

For some, this was the last time they would see Duncan, their glass eyes only staring at huts and clear skies, stars, smoke, and fire. An orange glow. Their blood spilt in the name of freeing a man they had never known. Their loyalty repaid by death. They knew the risks of their new lives and afterwards someone would swear and damn the ground, damn the skies, and damn the bastards that convinced them to take so few into so terrible a battlefield.

But this is the future. This is not now, with Aveline at the head of the table and Stephane at the other, good food between them, and hungry mouths of their comrades, one or two whispering grace while others looked on with mixed amusement, bemusement and annoyance at being restrained from eating.

"A toast!" cheered Aveline, taking her glass and raising it. "To the success of our mission!"

Glasses were raised, the sentiment repeated, and they drank the spiced wine.

After the meal, the table was cleared away and pushed to the side, and more than a dozen bedrolls were set up. Hammocks were slung above these, as the den was a small house squashed with no dignity between two other similar houses, and Connor had sealed off the upper floors, including several bedrooms. If one hadn't known exactly where he'd plastered and wallpapered the staircase, a person would never find it. It was easy to assume that the upper floors were occupied by another family.

The first watch set themselves up for their three hour duty. As the Assassins nestled into their beds, the chatter decreased into a comfortable silence as they fell asleep. Sleep was a precious commodity the recruits had learnt after the first night.

Again, they assumed the pattern of Aveline at one end and Stephane at the other, a mix of their people in between them. The novices were clustered towards the middle, the more advanced assassins near the outer edges. Quite a number of them had rolled together in their slumber, heads nestled in the crooks of necks and arms thrown across chests and shoulders.

The second watch saw Duncan and his group leave so they might slip out of the town without being noticed.

The third watch sounded an alarm.

"Templars, heading straight for us! Lee is with them."

In less than five minutes, the bedding had been packed, as well as food, and they were escaping into the underground passages. The option of fighting was impossible - they did not need to display their power, or lack thereof, before it was necessary.

"How?" snarled Dobby. "How did he know?"

Aveline shook her head, "Perhaps my arrival was more conspicuous than I first realised."

They split into five smaller travelling teams, and ran for their lives while Templars riffled through the pots and pans they had left behind.

"Do we always flee?" asked a recruit.

"No," replied Stephane. "But sometimes it is better to."

Through grates and cellar doors, they heard the piercing cries of, "Fire, fire!" that disturbed New York. Her citizens awoke in terror, and the newspaper described the destruction in minute detail, claiming no bodies had been found in this heinous and random act of arson, the ink still wet as it was waved by newsboys before the embers of the former den had cooled.

Yet the sealed rooms remained so, and the house was untouched by scavengers.

Burn the rats from their nest. Burn them before they breed and wring the necks of their helpless young, pink and hairless and disgusting. Watch them jump overboard as the ship burnt merrily, the fire singing in a twanging tune of creaks and groans, snapping flint and buckling copper, to accompany their three day trek to find land before they too drown like the sailors that were thrown from their Crow's Nests.

Lee inspected the remains. The rats may flee but they would die soon enough.

Re: Grief's Madness 13/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

holy shit lee how did you know?? urgh i'm so glad that the assassins escaped (even though i guess they didn't exactly need to) and that duncan's group got away safely (but for how long? charles must know about the homestead, mustn't he?)

"haytham"'s trippy dream... i want to know more. i love that there are lots of hints and symbolism but i'm sure i'm missing half the important clues and foreshadowing in that sequence. ugh i love it please tell me we'll be making more trips into "haytham"'s head?

and charles is so sweet to "haytham", it's adorable considering how fucked up everything is. but i have no idea what to think about their relationship any more. (platonic? romantic? familial? and what's with those gazes from charles? i'm too sleepy to speculate this stuff properly >_<)

aaaah, aveline and the others are such BAMFs and ugh i love this fill and you, dear anon, so so much. thank you once more for an amazing continuation! <3 <3 <3

Grief's Madness 14/? (TW: as above)

[(Anonymous)]

They were going to strike during the ceremony, but the raid had changed that. Stranded in the underground, they hurried, scurried, and sought shelter where there was none. Some of their recruits left, the weight of their decision only becoming apparent now. Tried to leave.

Aveline brought them back. They were shamefaced and humbled. Someone screamed something about loyalty, another pointed out that they had not been given sufficient information when they joined the Brotherhood. Clipper coldly cut through the chaos and snarled that they were not playing a game. This was a war, bigger than themselves, part of turmoil that had raged and scathed thousands of years of history. This wasn’t just England versus America. To fail in this mission would be to allow the future to crumble in front of their eyes.

They deserters were silenced by this abrupt change in character.

They did not try to run again.

***

Soot. Covered in soot. Both of them. Haytham picked the ash from Charles’ hair, laughed as it smudged and turned it grey.

“You look old,” he commented.

“I feel old,” replied Charles. “Especially next to you.”

“Well that’s because you put me in my son’s body,” murmured Haytham.

Charles paused for a moment, inspecting Haytham with a strange and alien look. It was uncomfortable, and made Haytham want to shift and squirm, and he gasped as Charles grasped his chin firmly. Blue eyes - blind beggar-eyes - flicked over his face.

“Yes. Yes I did,” he admitted. “But you will outlive me now. I feared that I would spend my last days waiting for death to take me, so that I might see you again.”

He released Haytham, rubbing the marks that his fingers had left on the darker skin, his ghost limbs moving of their own accord.

“I understand why,” said Connor. “But it does not make it right.”

The splash of white and blue danced around them, reflected in his mind’s eye. Lee had been lonely. Haytham had provided stability. Haytham had been his idol, his mentor, his master, and his companion. His lover, perhaps. The kisses suggested lover, but then again, Lee was aware that he was not entirely Haytham, not entirely the same, and therefore would treat him slightly differently.

Connor understood. And he retreated because he had come to care somewhat.

“Oh Charles, I was only joking,” said Haytham. “You do not look old at all.”

It was times like these that completely threw Charles off-balance. Not even a moment of that brief conversation to Connor seemed apparent in Haytham’s mind. He had skipped over it, like an orchestra missing a page of music, and continued on as if nothing had happened to begin with. Haytham touched Charles’ brow, smoothing the frown that had appeared.

“Of course,” said Charles, trying to laugh.

Haytham brushed some more of the soot from his cloak. It had been dumped over the dark navy wool when Charles had embraced him upon their return. He had been unsure of Charles’ business, and why he had to leave so suddenly. An unease had crept into his heart after Charles had left, as if the sleepy farewell would be the last time he ever saw Charles.

He had fretted and worried, his nightmares returning without Charles to chase them away. In the fire, he had burned, his flesh peeling from his skin. In the snow, he was torn to pieces by wolves - sometimes he became the wolf, and he would chase the threads of blue, brown, and red; the figures that ran from him, their hands clasped. The little one would hide in the trees, the large one liked to stalk Haytham from behind.

The screams would scare his guards, and they would burst in only to have whatever was close to Haytham’s hand hurtling towards them. Still they did their duty, and loyally checked on him up to four times a night.

“You are pale,” said Charles.

“I have not been sleeping well,” Haytham admitted.

Even the guards shifted their weight, surreptitiously exchanging a twist in their mouths and a tighter grip on their rifles.

Charles sighed, and patted Haytham on the shoulder, promising, “It will be better tonight.”

Boston. Then the Homestead. Smoke out the rats. Burn them to their root. Destroy the Brotherhood, and claim Haytham for good. This was his Haytham. They would not be allowed to tear him away again.

“Would you like to take a cup of tea in the cabin?” asked Haytham. “The Lawrences were kind enough to gift me with the most delectable strawberries as thanks for helping them settle.”

“Of course,” said Charles.

He had noticed the guards skittishness. Something had disturbed their reasonably peaceful camp. The question was strange - Haytham wasn’t talking about strawberries.

As soon as the door to the cabin closed, and Haytham had put the kettle on to boil, the reason for the interrogation became clear. He motioned for Charles to sit. A temper growled under the surface of Haytham’s skin.

“Why were you in New York?” demanded Haytham. “Were you behind the arson?”

“Arson? I do not know what you are talking about,” said Charles, quite startled by this outburst.

Haytham slammed his fist on the table, barking “Damn it, man! I told you the location of their den so we could keep an eye on them, not make them angry. You are covered in soot. I am not a fool.”

“No, sir, I-”

“Do not ‘no, sir’ me, Charles!”
“I am sorry. It was a mistake. I had hoped to kill them off.”

Reaching for something in his pocket, Charles laid out a package, with a cord and amulet wrapped around the outside of it. He pushed it towards Haytham.

“And did you?” snapped Haytham.

“No,” said Charles, lifting his head defiantly. “It was for the good of the Order. They know we can find them and we know that they’re building an army. Trying to, at least. The sealed rooms contained multiple artefacts that could be of use to us. They had extensive weaponry, art, and quite a few First Civ trinkets.”

Plucking the package up, Haytham undid the cord, flipping the amulet between his fingers.

“This is the key that I gave you to safeguard.”

A curious gaze returned to the package, unfolding the brown paper. Dried leaves sat inside it, raw tea, and from the scent that rose to his nose Haytham judged it to an Indian Chai, with a rich brown tone, long unbroken leaves and tiny jasmine flowers. He put the package down.

“This is an apology?”

“No, it was a gift. And a suggestion,” said Charles, speaking carefully.

The kettle whistled. Haytham stood, grasped the handle with a wrapped up cloth, and poured the hot water into a porcelain teapot. He put the kettle back, the burning sensation of the metal already seeping through the cloth. Charles didn’t touch the teapot - Haytham always took charge of making the tea. He slowly pushed his chair back while Haytham’s back was turned, snagging the amulet.

“The cave requires another key,” continued Charles. “And I believe you know where that is, Ratonhaké:ton.”

Before Haytham could duck away, Charles dashed forward and tossed the amulet around Haytham’s neck. As much as he hated having to do this, the boy knew where the real key was. Haytham shrieked, arching his back. The amulet hadn’t had this effect before. But then again, there hadn’t been two personalities in the one body before.

Charles clapped a hand over Haytham’s mouth, pulling him flush against his front, wrestling him to the ground. He wished he’d done this earlier - the Haytham personality had forceful dominance. But Ratohnhaké:ton was strong.

“Tell me, and the pain will stop.”

The child screamed and howled behind Charles’ hand, even bit it, but Charles didn’t let go. They kept it up for three hours, until they collapsed, exhausted.

“Charles, why are we on the floor?”

“You had a dizzy spell, sir,” said Charles, stroking Haytham’s hair.

“I remember the tea, and the amulet, but...” the other man trailed off.

“The heat from the fire and the steam of the kettle made you faint. Perhaps you are ill.”

“Yes,” Haytham paused. “Yes, that must be it.”

******

Author Note: Thank you everyone for the lovely feedback. I will get around to replying to you all tomorrow, but for now I must sleep. :) This is also a notice to say that there will likely only be two or three more parts to this, and then it's all wrapped up. OP, this is close to your last chance to influence the ending! Bittersweet or sad? (I am fully able to go either way).

Grief's Recovery 1/? (TW: psychological abuse, same triggers as before)

[(Anonymous)]

Connor's beads had been clumsily woven into his hair, the locks not quite long enough to be braided properly.

Haytham raised his hand, an effort that felt as if he were dragging it through ice slurry, and picked at the beads. His eyes were dull with sleep. A heavy weight had settled upon his mind. Another fever? At that moment Haytham wanted nothing more than cool hands to massage his temples. Exactly like Ziio.

Except Ziio had never massaged his temples, had she? Only when he was a child, sick, with a fever that had induced such horrible dreams. Those cool hands had provided comfort. A balm to soothe.

The bedroom he was in was much larger than the cabin's. It was too plain to be the Lodge, but it felt about the right size. What if this was the Lodge unfurnished? Maybe Charles had wanted to surprise him?

But then how had he made it here?

The beads felt familiar. As if he knew the texture. The room also felt familiar, but only faintly, as if he'd seen it through milky glass a long, long time ago.

A gagging sensation came up in his throat, bile rising with acidic vengeance. Twisting to one side, the contents of his stomach were deposited into a bucket, having being handily placed by someone with a great deal more foresight than most. This purge preoccupied Haytham for several minutes, his throat burning but his stomach easing up. With the foul stench beside him, it was difficult to determine whether he'd finished or not, but eventually Haytham deemed it safe to lie back, propped up by half a dozen pillows.

Then it struck him. This was the room from his dreams. This was the room that his son and child had led him to, through the snow that crunched under his boots and Spado with a silk ribbon trying to pull him away. This was the room he'd forgotten.

Haytham eased himself up, looking around him. The first thing he noticed were the irons clapped around his ankles. Then the jug of water on the bedside table, still frosted with condensation and rattling chips of ice.

A knock at the door drew his focus. It opened to admit one of the Assassins - Aveline. She was carrying a tray but Haytham couldn't see what was on it. Probably for the best. In Haytham's experience, those sorts of hidden trays were a prelude to torture. When she looked at him, her eyes seemed sad, pitying almost. That didn't make sense at all.

Nothing made sense.

His head hurt from thinking about it, a good sign that he was either dreaming or she was a fever hallucination. His immune system had been so weak these past few months.

The Assassin put the tray down, revealing nothing more dangerous than a warm bowl of porridge. She didn't seem sure of how to approach him, hesitating, examining him with her eyes, before saying, "Good morning, Connor."

"You are deluded," murmured Haytham as he rolled over, not wanting to see that strange, sad gaze anymore.

If they wanted to kill him, then so be it. This was just a dream. If he died then he would wake up, and he was sure he would be carefully entwined in Charles' arms, the sun barely breaking through the canopy of the trees to play twisted shadows on the floor. It was a very convincing dream, but a dream nonetheless.

He screwed his eyes shut and waited for the release.

Re: Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

you might be getting a very short second fill at some point

Re: Haytham's replacement (One-sided Charles/Haytham, non-con Charles/Connor)

[(Anonymous)]

OP: That would be awesome ^_^

lose one's heart (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

Second anon here! This ought to be three parts long.

Connor wakes up in an unfamiliar place, with a few matronly ladies apparently hired to nurse him back to health. How he has so many wounds, broken bones and bruises, he can't remember, but he's fairly certain that Lee's goons beat him half to death after he was knocked unconscious at his father's funeral.

The nurses do not speak with him, other than to ask 'Master Kenway' if he is hungry, or thirsty, or would like to use the privy.

"Can't answer that, Master Kenway," they curtsey, whenever he tries to get answers.

---

Lee visits often, and sometimes sits by his bedside for hours at a time, quietly reading. Sometimes he'll raise an eyebrow, mutter a comment like "so that's what Adams was hoping for", but he'll always ignore Connor's questions.

Lee always stays overnight on Saturdays, since he has nowhere to be on Sunday. Mondays and Tuesdays are very busy, so he hardly visits then. Wednesday affords a half-hour in the afternoon, while Lee lounges around for almost the whole of Thursday. Friday is another absent day, and Saturday sees Lee lavishing the whole afternoon on his prisoner, offering him gifts.

Despite technically being fired from the Continental Army, Lee has a lot of business to attend to. That he insists on torturing Connor like this is a testament only to his madness and cruelty. If Connor did not know better, he would think Lee were attending to the recovery of his dearest friend. No, he is torturing the man who took power from his grasp by reminding him of everything he could've had, if he'd decided to help the Templars in their dastardly plans. Of the father he'd been forced to murder simply to survive.

"The assassin is finally dead, Haytham. I wish things could have ended differently, I know you were fond of him in your own way." Lee turns a vase of flowers slightly, so Connor's view of them is more beautiful.

"I am the assassin!" Connor snarls.

"You are sick, sir," Lee replies, walking over and stroking his face gently. "It's no surprise, really. Not after everything that has happened."

"Do not touch me!" Connor recoils from the cold, gentle fingers.

Lee looks disappointed, but nods, and goes back to rearranging the flowers, still talking to Connor as though he is Haytham.
---

Connor wakes up one day, bound to the bed.

"Let me go!" he howls, struggling as much as the ropes and his injuries will allow.

"It's the very latest treatment in London, sir," Lee says, drawing heavy blinds across the windows. All light is blocked from the room. "You'll have only the best if I have anything to do with it."

Connor does not know if Lee stays or goes, and as he lies in the darkness, struggling against his bonds and listening for Lee's breathing, he wonders if he has gone mad, whether the Brotherhood think him dead.

They probably do.

He screams until his throat gives out for someone to release him from this hell.

---

Connor tries to refuse to be re-bound to the bed after using the privy, but the nurses are stronger than they look (or perhaps his muscles are atrophying) and they use some kind of chemical to force him into sleep.

When he wakes up, he is violently sick over the side of the bed. Lee places a cool cloth on his head, and wipes strings of stomach acid and saliva from his mouth and chin, a maid cleaning up the mess.

"I wish you'd get better, sir," Lee says, nothing but adoration and pity in his eyes.

---

Connor's days and nights are a constant blur of darkness and despair. He sleeps a lot, but never for more than an hour or two at a time. He wishes for some kind of rescue and reprieve, but there is nothing but Lee's voice, whispering lies to him in the darkness.

"Sir, you were sick like this before. Don't you remember? You recovered well enough to see your son, but… Haytham, please try to forget these delusions of yours."

---

When he is finally unbound and the curtains drawn (two weeks they say, but it feels like two years), he is still too injured to do much more than visit the privy with some help.

---

The doctor Lee brings in advises him to stuff Connor's mouth with handkerchiefs, and have lackeys shout at him. Lee looks skeptical, argues, and eventually the doctor prescribes drops that make Connor's head fuzzy and faint.

---

Lee starts trying a different tack. Whenever he visits, he brings a steaming pot of earl grey and two cups. Connor drinks only because the drugs make his throat dry.

"Haytham, do you remember when we first met? It was a sunny day in Boston. Forty-nine, I believe it was. You looked completely out of place, with your formal London posture and stiff upper lip. I say 'out of place', but considering the sort of place Boston is, that's not a bad thing at all. You've always had a regal sort of air about you. I've always liked that."

Connor has given up correcting Lee. He is clearly mad, and Connor wants nothing more than to go back to his village, to the homestead. He wants to be free of this room, of this bed, of these clothes that are not his, of the injuries he ought not have and the medicine that seems to do more harm than good to his mind and body.

He wants an end.

Re: lose one's heart (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

Oh poor Connor /hugs/ can't wait to read the next part!

Re: lose one's heart (1/3)

[(Anonymous)]

OP: Love this ^_^

I really like how you did Lee and Connor here. I love how Lee's trying to remind "Haytham" of how they met and how it feels like he's really trying to help him. If it wasn't so f-ed up, I'd think it was sweet. I can't wait to see the rest!

lose one's heart (2/3) (tw: gaslighting, stockholm syndrome)

[(Anonymous)]

I forgot to mention, all the "treatments" in the previous part were nice georgian treatments for mental illness. Even the King at the time of the American Revolution, George III, was subjected to them (he didn't recover from his psychotic episodes with that sort of help, funnily enough). Most treatments were even worse (i.e., being beaten, or given medicines to make the patient feel severe nausea and pain). Sedatives are largely a modern treatment, but it made the story flow better so ARTISTIC LICENSE~!


"I wish you'd speak properly, Haytham," Charles Lee sighs. He puts a small pile of journals on the bedside. "That Colonist accent is awfully unbecoming."

The man does not answer. He has not been speaking like a Colonist. Rather, he can feel a clipped, upper-class accent slipping into his voice, in the odd way one's manner of speaking tends to imitate those around them. Charles Lee and the nurses all speak with distinct British accents.

"I am speaking properly," he snarls, and Charles Lee frowns.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I am speaking properly." the man snaps.

"I still didn't quite catch that," Charles Lee says. "My apologies."

"I am speaking properly!" the man howls in frustration.

"Sir, please, I cannot understand you," Charles Lee grabs one of his hands, cradling it gently. "What is it? Do you need water? Or drugs? Are you all right?"

"Get off me!"

"I can't understand you, Haytham!" Charles Lee protests. The man hesitates, and tries again, this time in the manner of the upper classes of London.

"Let go of my hand, please," the man says, haltingly. The accent is difficult.

"I'm sorry, sir, I was just so worried…" Charles Lee babbles, dropping the man's hand as though it is made of fire.

"Leave me," the man says. Charles Lee looks distraught, so the man clarifies. "I am tired."

(Of Charles Lee's company, but it will not do to make him angry.)

"Of course, sir," Charles Lee says, looking relieved. He gives a tiny bow and closes the door softly behind him.

---

The man likes the tiny sliver of power he has over his captor. It is invigorating, enough to give him hope that soon he will no longer be a prisoner.

Charles Lee is kinder and more endearing when the man uses an upper-class accent, though the man is still wary of his carer.

He reads through the journals that Charles Lee brings him, his own apparently. He does not remember most of the events detailed, but Charles Lee assures him that with time everything will fall into place.

---

The man actually quite enjoys it when Charles Lee reminisces about the past. Though he cannot remember the events in question, Charles Lee's voice is soothing and there are images and sensations that flash to the forefront of his mind, memories that he cannot quite reach or remember.

"You sailed from Britain on Birch's orders. Apparently the weather was terrible, and you somehow managed to get attacked by another ship during a storm."

That is something the man can remember. The faint form of a man-o-war looming through blinding rain, screaming instructions to the men, trying frantically to tie ropes and steer and shoot all at once.

"Faulkner was angry at me for taking such a stupid risk," he croaks. "I cannot believe the ship made it back to shore."

"I'm sure the captain's name was Smythe," Charles Lee says shortly, looking irritated. "Stop pretending to be better, I can tell when you do that. Your accent slips."

The man clears his throat.

"My apologies."

---

Charles Lee will question him on occasion. On his beliefs and his past, mostly. He seems to be checking whether the man can remember his life correctly.

"Where did you spend your childhood, sir?"

"A manor in Queen Anne's Square," the man replies, smoothly. Yes, the house had been large, in an unusually peaceful, woody area of outer London. There had been a small bay, the house standing atop a cliff. He wasn't sure how it still counted as London, being that far out in the countryside, but he remembers spending many years there.

"Excellent. You were brought up by Master Birch after your parents deaths, were you not?"

"Indeed, I was."

An old black man, dreadlocked hair pulled back respectably. A wry smile, a snarky comeback for any and every comment. 'Birch' does not seem to fit him well, but are there not many men who do not fit their names?

"And I do believe your mother was a Spaniard of some sort, wasn't she?"

This is harder. The only mother he can remember looked Native. She'd been beautiful, kind and clever in the ways only a mother can be, harsh and stern when needed. Ista.

"She had dark skin," he says, hesitantly. Charles Lee purses his lips for a moment, before brightening.

"Ah, yes," Charles Lee says. "She was half Native, though I do believe she only dressed like them as an eccentricity."

The man nods, relived. How fortunate he is that Charles Lee knows the answers he does not.

Why, then, does he so often feel anxious when his guardian enters the room? He has often tried to think back, but all he can really remember are cold eyes glaring at him. A terrible argument, then. If that is the case, he is lucky that Charles Lee goes to such great lengths to look after him.

---

When the trees outside start to bloom again, and the casts come off the man's healed bones, Charles Lee helps the man bathe, then dress in clothes that do not fit him well. His eyes barely leave the man's naked skin, though his gaze and touches are kind and respectful.

"You've lost weight," Charles Lee murmurs. "When you start training again, I have no doubt that you'll regain the lost muscle."

Charles Lee's fingers caress the contours of the man's body gently, as he inspects the fit of the fabric and adjusts the fall of the cape. He helps the man comb his hair (parts of it fall to his shoulder blades, while other parts barely brush his ears), then expertly ties it back, brushing the short parts back using scented oils that help the odd lengths look even, as though they are part of the elegant ponytail. He sits a tricorn hat atop the man's head, and the reflection in the mirror is that of a man who truly commands respect.

"You're nearly good as new, sir," Charles Lee says, a truly relieved smile painted upon his face. One of his cold hands rests against the man's cheeks, one thumb stroking at the outer corner of one eye.

"Thanks to you, Charles," the man replies. Charles goes faintly pink, looking away.

"Come," he says. "We'll have lunch in the dining room. Then I'll show you the gardens. Nothing too strenuous, sir, you've been bed-bound an awfully long time."

Gardens? Outside? Not the room? What a wonderful surprise! The man smiles back at his guardian, his protector.

"That sounds wonderful," he says, leaning forward to press a small, chaste kiss upon Charles Lee's lips. The look on his protector's face is priceless.