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

Around the end of sequence 8 when Connor gets thrown in prison, the gaurds (and Charles Lee at that little end bit) were giving off some VERY creepy vibes and my mind went straight to the gutter. So, prison gangbang, anyone? Utter humiliation is a must.

I just went through that scene and the creepy vibes were all over the place, especially with that 'looking for a husband?' comment. ...I was kind of disappointed they didn't follow up on it but then again...

Anyway, seconded!

Hmmm interesting... I was getting the vibes more from the end scene where charles Lee and Thomas hickey have Connor trapped in the cell and are practically molesting him with their eyes... Charles pining Connor up on the wall and the noises Connor was making was the icing on the cake for me :)

*moan* Oh god yes, I know!!!

YES

Yup, same thing passed through my mind. XD But yes please! I'd love to see a fill for this!

Oh boy, there was also that scene near the beginning where Thomas Hickey was all, "'Ello, swee'art."

Also requesting a fic for this!!

OMG Yes! I got all sorts of creepy vibes with Charles/Connor/Thomas

It’s the tightness that’s the worst part – a pressure coming from within and from all sides that makes his body feel at once too big and too small for his skin. The injuries are a minor concern; he’s had far worse before and if he couldn’t handle bruises and broken skin he would hardly have made it far as an assassin.

The tightness, though. His skin itches with the need to run, to leap, to move more than a few feet before meeting another wall, and that bothers him more than what inevitably lies at the end of all this. In all honesty, he thinks his fate might be preferable to spending the rest of his life here, wasting away in mind and body until there’s nothing but a wretched shell left behind. After only a few days he’s already starting to feel stretched thin.

He’s almost too deep in thought to notice the footsteps approaching his cell. Almost, but not quite, because Achilles would never forgive him for falling so low.

(He wonders if Achilles is disappointed in him for getting captured in the first place.)

It’s one of the guards, eyeing him as if he’s on some kind of display. Connor turns his head away sharply, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of your people,” the guard says, almost conversationally. Connor remains silent, but apparently the guard needs little encouragement. “Normally we just kill them outright, you see. But you, though. Got to make an example out of you, haven’t we?”

Connor counts to ten silently, hoping by the time he’s finished the guard will have gotten bored and left.

“You do speak English, don’t you? Not just,” and the guard makes the kind of noises Connor is quite sure no human ever has made before. He can’t help but frown and glance over at the guard, who’s staring at him even more intently than before.

“I think you do, you know. And that means you’re ignoring me.” The guard grasps at the bars of his cell. “And I don’t like that. Not one bit.”

“Am I to care what you like?” Connor asks, breaking his silence at last. The guard’s eyes widen slightly before his expression settles back into a smirk.

“If you know what’s good for you.”

The guard is shorter than Connor and with a slightly more stocky build, probably around ten years older. Not a weakling, but only holding the upper hand so long as he still had his sword. It would be easy enough to goad him into coming into the cell, and then simply a matter of disarming him. He could take his uniform, sneak unnoticed until he found where Charles Lee was hiding…

“Perhaps I don’t.”

He expects the guard to get angry, but if anything his smile widens and Connor can’t fight the sense of unease that settles over him. “Well, that would be a damn shame. ‘Ey! Jameson! Someone here I’d like you to meet,” the guard yells, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps.

Ah. Not quite so easy as he’d first thought, then.

Jameson, as it turns out, is one of the largest men Connor has ever met – at least a head taller than him and about twice as broad across the chest. He also has the coldest eyes; a grey so pale it almost blends in with the whites, and Connor has to force himself not to back away when those eyes meet his.

“He’s been giving me lip,” the first guard says, almost cheerfully. Jameson gives a grunt of acknowledgement. “And I know how much you like their kind. Remember that last one?”

Jameson gives Connor a scrutinising once over, and this time he can’t help but recoil. “Not the same.”

The other guard shrugs, unabashed. “I’ll take your word for it. They’re all bleeding Indians to me. But if you’re not interested…” He begins to step in front of Jameson, only to be shoved out of the way.

“No.” The voice leaves no room for argument.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then, shall I?”

“Stand guard,” says Jameson, and for the first time the other guard looks uncomfortable.

“Look, you know I don’t care what you get up to, but there are some things I don’t exactly want to watch.”

“Charles Lee and the others. They are… interested in this one. I will not have them interrupting.”

Connor’s heart pounds heavily in his chest, he can hear the steady thump of the blood as it passes his ears. He couldn’t take on Jameson in a fair fight, never mind one already weighed against him. He tries to think of something he could use to his advantage, but his cell is as bare as ever and his thoughts seem to be coming from a long way away, fading into nothingness before he can make sense of them. All he can think of his the hungry look in those cold, grey eyes.

“I… fine. But I’m covering my ears, mind you.”

“Whatever you do,” Jameson says levelly, “is your own business.”

Not OP, but I'm loving this so much right now! Luckily I decided to check back on a whim, because I pretty much gave up hope for any fills for something as far back as the first page. XD

So yeah, you pretty much made my day anon. I'm really excited for the next part now!

Oh god, this is looking good. I'm excited to read more.

omfg. i cant wait for the next part!

This is, this is not… Connor readies himself as the door to his cell opens, but he’s standing on shaky legs and not enough food or water, and Jameson catches his punch with apparent ease before smashing Connor’s face against the wall with a sickening-sounding crunch. Hot blood streams down his face and he can taste the coppery tang in his mouth as he tries to sweep the man’s legs from under him.

He may as well have kicked the wall for all the good it did him, and Jameson seems almost amused by his efforts. The words sound warbled in Connor’s ears as he says, “Are you finished?”

Connor wants to say never, but the word refuses to come out, and he refuses to let out the pained gasp that would come instead.

A large hand caresses his bruised cheek, the gentleness of the motion at odds with the sting that accompanies it. “Such a handsome face. I’d hate to damage it further.”

Connor tries to spit in his face, but all that comes out is some bloody spittle that dribbles down his chin instead. A callused thumb wipes it away, lingering just a little on his lips.

Then that same hand is reaching under and tugging off his shirt, and Connor feels like a child again as it catches against his protesting arms, fabric bundled around his neck. One more pull and it’s off completely, and he doesn’t understand how he can feel that much more vulnerable without a threadbare shirt that sweat and blood and grime had left clinging to his skin anyway.

“Look at you,” Jameson breathes, and when did he lean in so close that Connor can feel his breath against his neck? He tries to smash their heads together – a moment, that’s all he needs; a moment where he has the upper hand and can bring a stop to this – but the other man takes a sharp step back and laughs as Connor sways and nearly falls over. “So defiant. So… bestial.”

“You are the beast here,” says Connor, his vision blurred and his surroundings refusing to stay still. Then there are arms pinning him against the wall, a low growl by his ear.

“This is civilisation. I can show you how a beast acts.”

There’s no pretence at tenderness now. Connor’s forced roughly to the ground, and once he’s down there his arms feel far too weak to push himself back up. All of him feels weak, weak and pathetic and helpless. His eyes burn threateningly and he will not cry, has not cried in years and refuses to give this filth the satisfaction. He squeezes his eyes closed, and it is a bead of sweat running down his face. Nothing more.

And then it’s like he’s not there, like it’s someone else this is happening to. In a way, it is – Connor’s not so much another name as it is another identity, one watered down so to be more presentable, more acceptable to the people around him. Connor is the one being unceremoniously undressed, lying limp against the floor. Ratonhnhaké:ton can do nothing but watch.

He’s unable to help as Jameson ruts against Connor, disgusting, nauseating grunts with each thrust, and can only swallow back bile as Jameson forces his way inside. It’s not the worst pain Connor’s felt – far from it, in fact, he’s had cuts and burns and grazes from bullets – but it’s so wrong, like there’s some part of him that can never be made right again.

Ratonhnhaké:ton just wants to see Jameson dead.

“The last one made noises for me,” Jameson tells Connor, his voice almost light. Only the occasional pant suggested otherwise. “But you’re so quiet.”

Connor is quiet. Ratonhnhaké:ton is reciting every insult he’s ever learnt.

Jameson’s breathing gets heavier, his thrusts rougher until he’s banging Connor’s hips against the ground with each one, and finally he lets out a long, drawn out gasp.

“About time,” comes a voice, and another wave of nausea washes over Connor. People heard. People know. They may be nameless and faceless people destined for the gallows, but they…

He retches, but nothing comes up.

“I thought you were covering your ears.”

“Didn’t help me – wait. Shit. Lee’s coming.”

Connor feels rather than sees Jameson getting up, hears the rustle as the man makes himself presentable.

He knows that he needs to move, needs to not let Charles Lee of all people see him like this. He knows this, but he also knows that his limbs will not cooperate and doesn’t trust himself not to pass out even if he managed to get to his feet.

Instead he settles for burying his face in his arms, makes sure he can’t see Lee and can only hear the footsteps, coming to a stop as they reach his cell.

“Sir,” say both of the guards.

He can’t see Lee’s face, but that doesn’t stop him from picturing it. He’s lying naked on the floor, covered in clammy sweat and blood and come, and he doesn’t know what response would be worse from the man. Contempt? Disgust? Maybe, beneath it all, some shred of pity?

“As you were,” Lee says, his voice crisp. A pause. “And for god’s sake, show some discretion next time. This is hardly the sort of thing I’d want to expose Haytham to.”

The last thing Connor remembers is the reverence in his voice.

Oh, I didn't notice part 2 before posting my comment ^^; Part 3?

...Is it wrong that I do want Haytham exposed to it? Especially if it leads to a rescue, nngh.

Regardless, this is veeery well-written! Can't wait for the next part~

Do want!

Re: FILL [2/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-12-02 02:23 (UTC) - Expand

Whaaaat? Perish the thought. ;)

Re: FILL [2/?] (author!anon)

(Anonymous) - 2012-12-02 23:59 (UTC) - Expand

Awesome fill anon! And I agree, I love the way this was written!

Really looking forward to part 3. 8D

OH NOES DON'T STAHP HERE!
*cough*
Poor, poor Connor. Now I'm curious how Haytham would react to that...

oh my god, this is perfect and horrible
ajksdh please continue !

Gah, this is wonderful and tragic and--and I need moar.

How's Haytham going to take it?

Oh man, this is really compelling. That moment when Connor distances himself from what's happening by telling himself that this is happening to Connor, and not Ratohnhake:ton is just-- ow. Perfectly done.

He wakes up, and everything hurts. At first it’s almost peaceful – he can focus on the pain and nothing else. Eyes clenched tight and he can pretend he’s just taken a few too many hits, and that’s why he feels sore and weak.

It’s not until he hears approaching footsteps that his eyes open and he’s on his feet in a flash, snatching up his clothes and backing away against the far wall of his cell. His clothes smell awful, the material damp and tacky in places, but he’s never been more appreciative.

Covered up, he feels a bit more like himself – less exposed, less vulnerable. He steadies himself, ready to look whoever’s coming in the eye and dare them to say anything.

The guard is unfamiliar, and walks past Connor without a second glance. Connor convinces himself he’s not relieved.

“These are the prisoners they’re moving?” asks the guard, sounding as though he didn’t care much either way. There’s an indistinct murmur, and then several sets of feet make their way back towards Connor’s cell.

He hesitates for a second, and then approaches his bars so he can get a better look. The two prisoners have clearly seen better days – as if Connor himself has not – and one of them gives him a sour look as they catch his gaze. Connor glares back, as much to prove that he could than for any other reason.

He is not going to cower, and certainly not to men such as these. Instead, he sits down on his cot – wincing slightly, the cot is only slightly than the ground – and picks idly at a scab on his arm. He knows he shouldn’t – in conditions as filthy as these it’s bound to get infected and the wound is embarrassingly minor. On the other hand, he has no illusions about how this is going to end. There’s probably little harm in anything he could do now.

And then he overhears his new neighbours talking.

“Your key is useless,” Connor says. The words come out sharp, and Mason’s complete lack of a reaction only irritates him further.

“What do you mean?”

“It did not fit the lock,” Connor forces out between slightly gritted teeth. Mason’s interest still seems more focused on his book than the man in front of him.

“It’s not meant to,” says Mason, as though Connor is the idiot here.

“You forged a key that does not work?”

Connor is a patient man. He’s always been good at waiting out his targets, regardless of whether they’re people or prey. (Or both. Occasionally, it feels as though the line blurs.)

He is rapidly losing patience for this man.

“Well, that all depends on what you mean by work. It’ll get us out of here, just not the way you expected.”

“Then how?” Connor asks. He does not ask, however, “Why didn’t you tell me that the key wasn’t actually made to fit the lock before you gave it to me?” even though he feels that he would be well within his rights to do so.

Perhaps it was a test. People seem to have so many for him.

“Well, you’re in luck,” Mason says, and Connor raises his eyebrows. He has not felt especially lucky since coming here. “Normally the only person with the real key is the Warden, and you’d have to get yourself thrown in the pit to get to him. The thing is, the Warden’s off sick at the moment, so the key’s been passed on to his second in command. Just distract him long enough to swap the fake key for the real one, and he’ll be none the wiser.”

“And his second in command is…?”

Mason points, and for a second everything seems muted – the yells and groans of the prisoners seem distant, what little colour there is draining into so many shades of grey. Grey. Grey eyes, but not looking at him, thank goodness, just looking over at the prisoners with his lips curled and holding his baton in an almost loving grip.

Connor is dimly aware of Mason saying something, and interrupts him anyway. “And how am I meant to distract him?”

Mason looks faintly put out. “I don’t know. Surely you can improvise something.”

Connor’s chest feels tight, like a weight pressing down hard against his ribs. “You are sure this will work?”
Mason gives a short nod, eyeing him curiously. “Positive. Are you all right? You’re looking… well, not pale, but…” He lets out an uneasy laugh.

“I am fine,” Connor says, fixing his eyes on Jameson once more. This time the guard notices him, and Connor raises his head defiantly. “I will not let harm come to Washington.”

Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

seconded

Re: Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

Re: Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

Re: Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

Re: Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

Re: Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

Re: Don't drop the soap- Gaurds(+Charles Lee?)/Connor, [tw] non-con

FILL [1/?]

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Re: FILL [2/?] (author!anon)

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