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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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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.
✩ 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
lose one's heart (1/3)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-10 01:54 pm (UTC)(link)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) 2013-05-10 10:51 pm (UTC)(link)Re: lose one's heart (1/3)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-12 08:32 am (UTC)(link)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) 2013-05-17 02:22 pm (UTC)(link)"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.
Re: lose one's heart (2/3) (tw: gaslighting, stockholm syndrome)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-17 06:03 pm (UTC)(link)Re: lose one's heart (2/3) (tw: gaslighting, stockholm syndrome)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-17 08:57 pm (UTC)(link)lose one's heart (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-23 02:48 am (UTC)(link)Haytham is used to working his body as hard as he can, and his efforts are paying off: his body is bulkier, in all the right ways. The muscle he had lost during his sickness is almost completely back, and his clothes fit far better (though they do need to be sewn in and let out just a tad in a few places). The shortest parts of his hair are long enough to be tied back properly, and he feels far better than he has in a long time.
Charles is still fussing over him like an overprotective grandmother, and throws the closest thing a grown man can to a tantrum when Haytham suggests they ought to go to the market or something.
"You're not well enough, sir!" Charles will inevitably protest. "At least wait until the doctor says you're completely healed! You're damned lucky I turn a blind eye to your excessive training. You ought to be taking things slowly."
Haytham grumbles and scowls, but he always relents. Charles knows best, after all.
It isn't until autumn starts to set in that the doctor proclaims him fully healed.
---
The one thing Haytham cannot quite get used to is how young he feels. He is fifty six, he knows, but he barely feels twenty six. His face is unlined, his body still full of raw power and that inner strength of the young. His shape has not settled at all in that way that even the most athletic of older men tend to-- well, most athletic of older men aside from Haytham himself, it seems.
"You've never shown your age, sir. Must be something of the Native blood in you. I can't say I'm not jealous, my fifty years certainly show."
Haytham reassures Charles that he really doesn't look that old- just tired- and spends the next hour finding and kissing each and every wrinkle, scar and blemish on Charles' skin he can find.
That's another thing that makes him feel young. While he has enough stamina to fuck for hours on end (with breaks to allow his cock to recover during which he's quite content to entertain his lover with his mouth and fingers), Charles doesn't. Which isn't to say that their lovemaking sessions aren't satisfying- they are- but the rough, desperate sort of union that can be repeated over and over that Haytham favours is often put aside for Charles' preference for something prolonged but extremely gentle. Charles simply doesn't have the energy for more than one or two sessions every other night, and it's almost always Haytham who instigates.
"No, Haytham, I really do need to finish these letters," Charles murmurs, leaning away from Haytham's kiss.
"Perhaps I could entertain you while you work?" Haytham asks, in a honeyed tone. He draws his legs up coquettishly, one hand skimming his torso as sensually as one can while fully clothed, the other hand pulling his necktie so it slowly comes undone.
"As much as I would love to see you pleasure yourself, I must get this done. And in any case, I'm far too tired to reciprocate in any manner."
Haytham understands.
"Perhaps tomorrow?"
"I don't know. Good God, Haytham, it's like you're a teenager all over again!"
Haytham chuckles at that, even as Charles pales and his eyes widen. He always does that when he thinks he's offended Haytham. He pats his lover and second-in-command on the back.
"It's all right," he says. "There are a few other things I ought to be doing in any case."
---
The assassins are a clumsy, confused lot. They watch him with wide eyes, targeting Charles rather than Haytham himself. Which is a ridiculous thing to do, because that means that Haytham is left with naught to do but protect what is his, and he does.
The woman is his first target, being more physically weak than her brothers-in-arms, though still much stronger than most women. A slice through her gullet, and she falls, choking on her own blood.
Still, the other do not try to kill him. Rather, they attempt incapacitation, apparently having confused Haytham with his own son. Fools.
"Please," a Frenchman begs. "Connor, you do not 'ave to do this!"
"I'm afraid to say that I am not Connor," Haytham replies, stabbing him in the shoulder. The Frenchman yells in pain, dropping to his knees, and Haytham twists his head, breaking his neck easily. The assassins pause for just a split second, before attempting to flee.
Haytham catches the man with the bearskin hat and beard, stabbing him six times in the torso before slicing his jugular. By that time, the three remaining men are gone; Haytham closes his eyes, tries to remember their faces. Clipper, Jacob and Duncan. Clipper, Jacob and Duncan.
When Charles asks how he knew their names, Haytham quirks an eyebrow upward. Surely he'd heard them shout their names during battle?
Charles pales at this counter, and Haytham knows it's because Charles does not want to think that he is getting old, that his ears are failing him.
"You must be right, Haytham," Charles stammers, when Haytham attempts to comfort him.
---
It is about a decade before he sees the assassins again, this time far larger in number. Charles has retired from his military duties, being nearly sixty. Haytham still feels sprightly, cannot quite believe he's sixty-five already.
They are surrounded by assassins, each one pointing a bow and arrow, musket or pistol at Haytham. Clipper tosses a human hand at him, and Haytham catches it deftly. It is Charles', Haytham knows every scar and blemish, and Charles' ring is still upon one finger.
His lover is dead. After-- oh spirits, it's almost forty years now, isn't it?-- all this time, Charles has been killed. Haytham should've tried harder to exterminate the vermin standing before him.
"After all you've taught us, sir," Clipper says, solemnly. "We figured we owed you a proper goodbye. What Charles Lee done to you was wrong and cruel, and I know it ain't your fault you broke. Any man would've. I-- no, we-- forgive you for the things you've done since then, and I think Achilles would've forgiven you too, sir. Even killin' Stephane and Dobby and Jamie. But we got to stop you, sir. I'm sorry we couldn't save you."
Haytham is speechless. Charles would never-- had never-- hurt him. (A long-since sealed corner of his mind whispers if only that were true.) And what did Davenport have to do with this?
"I don't understand," Haytham snaps. "You're insane!"
Clipper shakes his head, and whips out his gun, and Haytham is being propelled backwards by the force of a musket ball to the throat before his ears even register the sound of the gunpowder igniting. His mouth tastes of metal and he's choking on hot liquid that just won't stop flowing into his windpipe and he can't breathe.
The last sound he hears before darkness and the faintness overcome him completely is Duncan's voice, followed by Jacob's.
"We're not the insane ones. I wish we were."
"Auf wiedersehen."
Re: lose one's heart (3/3)
(Anonymous) 2013-05-23 02:59 am (UTC)(link)