asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
Fill Only
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!
List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
FILL [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-05 05:11 pm (UTC)(link)“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.”
FILL [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-05 05:12 pm (UTC)(link)He runs his fingers through Connor’s hair. No one has done that to him since he was a child, and it takes all of his restraint now not to pull away. They’re in a tiny room that must be the Warden’s private quarters, Jameson taking great care to bolt the door behind him. There’s a clumsy-looking desk to one side, and Jameson pins him against it, brushing aside the various letters that litter it.
“No interruptions this time,” he promises, and Connor can’t bring himself to school his features into happiness, or gratitude. He just stares back blankly. Jameson doesn’t seem to care.
He does, however, act far more gently than he did before, and Connor wonders with mild horror if Jameson thinks he is making things up to him. As if a loving stroke here and a light caress there make up for the blood spilt before, now that Connor has seen the error of his ways.
Connor does not scare easily. It is only now that Jameson truly terrifies him.
“Look at this,” Jameson says, sounding almost upset. His fingers trace lightly around the outline of a bruise along Connor’s ribs, and Connor doesn’t know if Jameson is even aware he put it there.
This time Jameson slicks himself up with an ointment, and draws Connor close to press still oil slick fingers inside of him. “Shh,” he murmurs as Connor squirms despite himself, “I don’t want to hurt you unless I have to. But I won’t have to, will I?”
It takes more than Connor thinks he has left to give to say, “No. You won’t.”
It isn’t as painful as it was before, but Connor still hisses slightly as Jameson pushes his way inside, fingers gripping against Connor’s back in a way that are sure to leave more bruises.
“Beg me for it,” says Jameson, his voice low and husky. Connor briefly imagines standing over Jameson, pressing his foot down against the man’s throat until his lips turn blue and no more sound comes out. “Tell me how much you need this.”
“Please,” Connor says quietly, “please.”
“Louder.”
Connor swallows around a lump in his throat. “Please take me.”
“Louder!”
“Please!”
And the door clicks open. Jameson swears, pushing Connor away so hard that he falls over and off the desk entirely – only just managing to catch himself so that his back takes the brunt of the fall rather than his head.
When he hears the intruder’s voice, he’s suddenly very happy to be hidden from view.
“So sorry,” comes Haytham’s voice, with the air of one not remotely apologetic.
“The door was locked,” Jameson growls.
“Was it? I must not have noticed.”
The air fills with a dangerous silence. “May I help you?” Jameson says at last.
Haytham gives a quiet hum, as if the thought had only just occurred to him. “As a matter of fact, you may. An associate of mine, Thomas Hickey, is currently under your… care. I was informed that you might tell me where he is.”
“Most men of your standing would not admit being associates with a prisoner here.”
“I am not, it seems, most men,” Haytham replies, and Connor hears him take a step closer towards Jameson. “And I believe most prison guards would not bed their prisoners like common whores.”
“You–”
Connor isn’t quite sure what happens next – Haytham is clearly capable of moving as silently as himself when he so wishes. All he hears is Haytham saying, quite mildly, “Thomas Hickey, if you will.”
“I… of course. Come this way.”
Jameson doesn’t look at Connor as he snatches the ring of keys off of the desk, Mason’s false key nestled amongst them, and Connor remains perfectly still until he’s sure both men are a safe distance away. He dresses himself – awkwardly, with one shaking hand.
The other is gripping the key so tightly it cuts into his skin.
Re: FILL [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-05 05:31 pm (UTC)(link)wtf captcha?!
The name of Charles is?
Captcha did not accept my answer of "WHERE IS CHARLES LEE?" ):
Re: FILL [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-05 08:09 pm (UTC)(link)I actually shut my laptop and pushed it back i was so surprised.
Re: FILL [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-05 11:16 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-07 02:54 am (UTC)(link)FILL [6/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-07 03:15 pm (UTC)(link)Jameson’s dead, and Connor wasn’t the one to kill him.
“I thought we’d finished off your kind,” says Lee – and the words cut through Connor two-fold.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you? To rid the world of all who do not share your views.” Connor takes a step towards them. They’re armed and he is not, and even if he was he’d hardly be in a fit state to fight. Logic dictates that he should keep his distance, but Connor’s world is a red-tinged haze and the people in front of him need to die.
“Guilty as charged,” Lee says with a slight chuckle – then his voice becomes cold once more as he levels his pistol at Connor’s chest, “Your meddling in the revolution has caused us no small measure of grief. It cannot continue. Our work is too important.” He eyes Connor like he did all those years ago, as though speaking to someone – something – beneath him. “But what would you know, beyond all the lies Achilles feeds you and the tales you tell yourself.”
Connor knows pain, and he knows anguish, and he knows white-hot rage. “I know that the people wish to be free – and that men like Washington fight to make it so.”
“Please. The man is weak. He stumbles and stammers through each engagement, making it up as he goes along.” Charles takes a step closer, gun still pointed straight at Connor’s heart. “His pedigree is pathetic – his military record even more so.” Lee takes a deep breath, his expression becoming slightly less manic. “I could go on and on but we’d be here for days, so manifold are his faults, so deficient are his merits. He must be dealt with. You as well. I will abide no more flies in the ointment.”
“Here’s how it’s gonna work,” says Hickey. “First we bind you and bring you to your cell. Then tomorrow you go before the court, accused of plotting to kill good ol’ Georgie. Maybe we could pin the murder of that one on you too.” He points over to where Jameson’s body lies, and bares his teeth in a mockery of a grin. “You had incentive, after all.”
Hickey’s words send a jolt through him and Connor rams himself into Lee, adrenaline fuelling him where everything else has run dry. If he could just disarm the man, he could…
But Lee knocks him back with surprising strength for a man of his size, pinning Connor against the door frame by his neck. The scene is far too familiar, and Lee’s eyes widen.
“All those years ago… The child in the forest was you.”
“I said I would find you,” Connor forces out, the words cracking slightly.
Lee looks almost gleeful. “And so you have. But not quite as you expected, am I right? You know – all this might have been avoided, if you’d only done as I’d asked.”
He stares at Connor for a moment. Connor’s vision is growing cloudy, his lungs begging for air. Suddenly, Lee releases him, and Connor falls to the ground in a wheezing heap.
“Leave us,” Lee tells Hickey stiffly.
“What–”
“Leave us.” There is no room for argument in his tone, and Hickey leaves with only a backwards look, closing the door behind him.
“You look so much like him, you know,” Lee says. There’s almost something fond in his voice, and Connor is repulsed even though he knows the fondness is not directed at him. “Something about the jaw.”
He presses the barrel of the pistol against Connor’s cheek, following the contours of his face.
“He signed your death warrant, you know. I was worried that he might have some… misplaced sentiment.” The pistol stills, positioned just below Connor’s chin. “How does that make you feel, I wonder?”
“I feel nothing,” Connor says. It’s almost the truth. He’s long understood that Haytham is the enemy, and it’s hardly a surprise that Haytham would feel the same way about him.
It’s apparently the wrong thing to say – Lee’s eyes narrow, and the gun is pressed harder against Connor’s skin. “You may look alike,” he says coolly, “but there is clearly little of Haytham in you. He would never have been so…” His gaze wanders over to Jameson. “Pitiful. You honestly couldn’t take care of a guard when the opportunity presented itself?”
“This coming from the man holding a gun,” Connor snaps.
Lee gives an exaggerated sigh. “That is one of the many differences between your people and ours. You talk of nobility, of honour. We take whatever opportunities present themselves and we are victorious.” He shifts the barrel of the gun towards Connor’s mouth, and presses hard. “Open.”
“Why would I do that?” Connor says through gritted teeth. “You intend to have me killed anyway. I have no reason to give in to your whims.”
“Oh, you will die, that much is certain. But you have such a limited perspective. The Davenport homestead…”
Connor tenses.
“I thought that might strike a nerve. Yes, it would be unfortunate if someone had it burned to the ground… so much unnecessary loss of life.”
“You wouldn’t,” says Connor. Lee shrugs, and the gun brushes against Connor’s split lip.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Something glints in Lee’s eyes. “Are you willing to risk it?”
Connor thinks of flames, and the smell of burning flesh, and the bastard in front of him who made it happen.
He opens his mouth. Lee forces the pistol in as far as it will go, and Connor gags when it hits the back of his throat, the taste sour and metallic.
“Tch. Sloppy. And I’d hoped some practice would have done you good.” With his free hand, Lee grabs Connor’s face. “Suck on it.”
He does. This time he can’t even find peace in the dark recesses of his mind – every time he tries, his thought snap back to the man in front of him. Time has not been kind; there is something feral about Charles Lee now, and the only thought that gives him some relief is that at least people will be able to see him for what he is, beneath the fine clothes and finer words.
He’s not sure how long he stays like that, how much time passes until Lee withdraws the gun and brings it crashing against his temple.
He welcomes unconsciousness with open arms.
Re: FILL [6/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-07 06:06 pm (UTC)(link)FILL [7/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 12:12 am (UTC)(link)“We’re making good time,” Haytham says, looking at least as discomfited as Connor felt. “There’s an inn not too far from here.”
“Or we could make camp.”
Haytham gives him an incredulous look. “You may make camp if you so wish. I, however, would far rather have a bath, a hot meal and not freeze to death in the night.”
“You would not freeze,” Connor protests. There’s… more than a little bite to the air, he’ll admit, but he’s been out in worse conditions than this and not suffered too many ill effects. “I –”
But whatever he was about to say next dies in his throat as Haytham sniffs him.
“What?”
“I take it back,” says Haytham, pulling back and acting as though sniffing someone was completely normal behaviour. “You may not make camp. You will instead have a bath. A long one, preferably.”
He ignores Connor’s indignant look, and continues, “If we are to travel together I will not allow you to smell like… whatever that is.”
“I do not smell,” Connor snaps. Perhaps it has been a while, but he has been busy, and the pigs needed herding, and… oh. Maybe Haytham has a point, even if he’ll never admit it. “As your delicate senses demand.”
“Believe me,” Haytham says stiffly, “there is nothing delicate about that stench.”
FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 12:13 am (UTC)(link)Now, they sit at a table in the far corner, eating a stew that is… well, if not enjoyable at least hearty. Connor’s hair is still damp, and he takes great delight in leaning over at just the right moment to drip over Haytham.
Haytham, to his credit, has not yet complained.
The barmaid comes over, asks if they need anything else. It’s the third time that evening she’s done so, and every time she smiles at Connor. This time she brushes against him as she turns back towards the bar.
Haytham clears his throat. “Nice girl,” he says mildly, and there is something in his tone Connor can’t quite work out.
“She seems pleasant enough.”
Haytham gives him a sideways look, and then clears his throat again. “And do you… have anyone back home?”
This may be the most awkward conversation Connor has ever had, and he suddenly finds himself fascinated with a lump of meat in his stew. (He still hasn’t worked out what animal it is from, and in his life he has eaten most of what the forest has to offer. He’s trying hard not to think about what that means.)
“I do not have the time,” he says, because people are far more willing to accept that answer than ‘I’m not interested in such things.’
“Only the occasional dalliance, then?” Haytham asks.
Connor stares at him. “What do you mean?”
“That… fellow back in the jail. Oh, don’t worry,” Haytham continues, clearly reading Connor’s look of shock for something else, “Ziio told me that your people do things a bit differently. A little discretion, and no harm done.”
The stew, already unpleasant enough on the way down, is threatening to come up once more. Connor’s fingers find themselves gripping the table tightly, his mouth twisted in disgust. “You… you thought I wanted…”
Haytham is very good at keeping his emotions under control, Connor has noticed. It’s something he himself needs to work on, or so he’s been told. Achilles has scolded him before for being so open, for wearing his heart on his sleeve, and it’s taken him a long time to realise that the old man means it for his own protection rather than that of the Order.
To a casual observer, whatever emotion passes through Haytham’s features could be easily missed. Connor is looking closely, however, and sees the tiny flickers, one after the other. It doesn’t mean he can read them though, and Haytham’s expression is quickly impassive once more.
“I see,” Haytham says, quite calmly, though there is steel in his voice that was not there earlier. “Our lines of work often lead us to do things we may find… distasteful.”
“Distasteful?!” Connor gets to his feet, slams his hands against the table. He isn’t even aware of how loud his voice was until he notices the silence that has spread across the inn, all eyes on him. Even the barmaid is eyeing him warily, whispering something to the innkeeper. He averts his eyes, makes sure his next words are low enough so that only Haytham can hear him. “This was a mistake.”
He steps lightly out of the inn – ignoring Haytham calling his name – and lets the door fall closed behind him before breaking into a sprint. His heart is already racing, and it’s easier to blame it on the exertion than anything else. His muscles protest and his lungs quickly start aching from the cold, but he runs until there is at least a couple of miles between himself and the inn.
It’s a deeply foolish thing to do, and so – like so many other things he’s done – it’s something he needed to do. His run slows to a walk, and finally a stop. He slumps against a nearby tree, breathing in deep gulps that bite at his chest with each inhale.
He stares at nothing, and thinks of everything he’s carefully placed deep to the back of his mind.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, but is not surprised by the crunch of footsteps through snow, nor who they belong to.
Connor meets his father’s gaze. It’s gratifying to see Haytham look away first.
“I hope,” Haytham says, a little stiffly, “that you don’t expect me to take you in my arms and tell you that everything is going to be alright.”
Connor narrows his eyes. “I am not a child. And I wouldn’t look for comfort from you even if I were.”
Haytham’s own eyes soften a little. “No. I can see that. But for what little it is worth, I am sorry.”
“But not for ordering my execution.”
Connor catches Haytham’s hesitation, but the pause is so brief as to be easily missed. “There’s a world of difference between the two things. I wouldn’t wish that upon my greatest enemy.”
“And what am I?” There’s a challenge in there, but also no small hint of curiosity.
Haytham doesn’t answer, but instead sniffs and tenses slightly as a bitter wind blows past. “A damn fool who runs off without a thought for his wellbeing is what. Come along, my horse is waiting. I already gave the innkeeper extra to make up for your earlier behaviour.”
“Your horse?”
Haytham gives him a derisive look, but Connor finds himself pleased to see no pity in it – but perhaps a little understanding. “Yes. You’ll find it’s how people tend to travel when they have no desire to freeze to death.”
Connor thinks he surprises them both by laughing.
Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 01:39 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 02:44 am (UTC)(link)I wonder whether this is going though.
Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 05:24 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 09:37 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-18 07:50 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-12-30 02:16 pm (UTC)(link)Cannot wait for part 9!
Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-01-03 02:20 am (UTC)(link)Always seems to happen right right after all the hurt. ;_; No one ever gets any looooveeeee.
Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-04-27 01:26 pm (UTC)(link)This anon shares your pain. And it was just getting more and more interesting, it's such a shame *sniffs*
Re: FILL [8/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-22 10:56 pm (UTC)(link)