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

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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So I'm REALLY liking this plot, OP. I was gonna do something short, but there's just too much potential.

This is my first fill as well as my first attempt at writing anything smutty, so here we go!
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The slave hears much but, truth be told, he retains very little of it these days. The words wash over him, meaningless. It is as if he floats in water, his ears beneath the surface. The voices are distorted, muffled and muted. Even when he does understand what is being said, he finds he has very little interest. Troop reports, pockets of resistance, towns put to the torch, civilians slaughtered... None of this has anything to do with him. His task is to wait, his body aching, until His Majesty has need of him, and that is what he does. There are moments, though... little glimpses of lucidity when the gloom sharpens and he can see things as they are, remembers things and he's not sure if they are memories or figments of a fevered imagination. Those moments are far and few between, but when they do happen, they make him wish he had the means to slit his own throat.

He stares blankly, straight ahead. The slave has this notion that maybe, once, things were different, that he was something more than a toy, a pet, but most days its all he can do to keep his eyes opened and focused, much less ponder over things that may or may not be. Some days he cannot not even manage that. He can barely feel the flagstone beneath his knees, the itch of the rough-spun against his skin, the cold of the iron around his neck. He cannot feel much of anything anymore, except for His Majesty’s touch.

It isn't until the slave hears his master gasp that he rouses back nearer to the surface.

“You!" his master gasps. He sounds shocked, livid. “How is it you live?”

He came to realize that there was a man in front of the throne in chains, he had been dragged before the throne against his will. This was unusual, to say the least. Many came before King Washington, to ask for favors, to bend the knee and pay homage, to repent and declare His Majesty the rightful king, but there were scant few that came by force. The scene feels familiar—wasn't he brought forward in a similar manner? Just how long ago had that been? He can't recall, realizes that he hasn't the faintest idea what season it is, much less what month or year, and feels vaguely disquieted.

The man brought before His Majesty is broad across the shoulders, tall, dark-skinned, corded with muscle, dressed in animal furs and leather. A native, then. The prisoner doesn't answer King Washington—a dangerous tactic. Instead, he stares at the slave, slack-jawed, plainly horrified. Dark brown meets dark gray. The slave stares back, mildly disconcerted by the sudden attention.

“Haytham?” the native asks, voice tremulous. The slave frowns back at him. Haytham? It sounds familiar. Was that his name? It had been so long since he had last heard it. The slave did not reply. The last time he had spoken out of turn... well, that was hazy as well, but whatever had happened had left him in agony for days, and even the mere thought of speaking made something painful clench in his guts. He was never to utter a word, unless it was to beg.

His Majesty gives a short, harsh bark of laughter.

“Oh, you two are acquainted, are you? Tell me, how does a dirt-worshiping monkey come to know a British Templar?”

“Goddamn you, Washington, what have you done to him?” the native's voice is hoarse with fury, and he throws himself forward, nearly breaking the grasp of the two soldiers restraining him. The slave crimps his lips together, brow furrowed. It is difficult to be certain of anything anymore, but he doesn't think he knows the man, doesn't recognize him in the slightest.

Again, that mirthless laugh. “At this point, perhaps it would be better to ask what I haven't done to him.” The master idly traces the ridge of his slave's ear with his fingernail, and that he most certainly can feel, as sharp and urgent as a lick of flame, and he gives an involuntary, full-body shudder. “This is what happens to peons who presume to deny the power of the Apple.”

With his other hand, His Majesty raises his scepter, and the room pulses with golden light. The stone faces of the guards that hold the native soften in adoration, their faces the very portrait of bliss. The native roars in agony, writhing in their arms. He thinks—if he tries hard enough, he can remember the sensation: like being in a roaring oven, blood boiling in the veins, feels like the skull is fit to split at the fissures. It seems like King Washington holds his scepter for a long time, and then he abruptly lowers it and the native goes limp against his bindings, gasping for air, shaking violently. When he looks up again, his face does not mirror the guards. Rather, his his features are contorted with rage and he bares his teeth, stark white against his dark skin.

“I will feed you your own heart!” he shouts, and begins to struggle anew. His Majesty sighs, as if he were a benevolent schoolmaster and the murderous native was nothing more than an unruly, head-strong pupil.

“Ah. I see you've in need of a more... objective lesson.” The master rakes his fingers along the back of his slave's neck, near the collar, and this time it elicits a moan as well as a shiver. He leans into the touch and the sensation goes straight to his groin; the rough fabric of his trousers immediately feel uncomfortably tight. “You see, I have other ways to break a man to my will...”

His Majesty snaps his fingers, and the slave crawls on battered hands and knees between the seated man's legs. The slave's hands open his master's breeches with deft efficiency. His master is not wearing any small clothes, and his cock springs forth from confinement, already half-erect; using the Apple has that effect on him.

“Go on, show the savage how much you enjoy your captivity,” says Washington, and the slave dutifully takes the head of his master's cock into his mouth. He ignores the acrid taste. He's done this countless times, and he quickly swallows the man to the hilt. His master sighs in appreciation and runs a hand through his slave's gray hair, scraping the scalp with his nails. The touch is electrifying; his skin flushes and he moans around the shaft, bobbing his head enthusiastically, tongue lathing the thick veins, flicking the bundle of nerves beneath the head. He's completely unselfconscious of the fact that he has an audience, oblivious to how the the wet, sloppy sounds he makes with his mouth echo off the walls of the great hall.

“Stop this madness,” he hears the native demand.

“Why? Obviously, our mutual friend has no objections.”

“He is very clearly not himself.”

“No. I found that man to be most disagreeable. I—oh...” He sighs in pleasure, bucks his hips, pressing himself deeper. “I much prefer this version—Gentlemen, the mongrel has adverted his eyes. Correct him.”

There is a jingle of chains and the sound of a fist connecting to flesh. The native grunts but does not cry out. The slave does not concern himself. He concentrates on the feel of the hand fisting in his hair, the soft skin against his lips, the swollen head butting against the back of his throat. His master's thighs tense and there's that familiar little hitch in his breathing, and he knows he is close to his end.

“Touch yourself,” he growls, and the slave does not need to be told twice. His hand goes to his trousers and pulls out his own cock, already hard. He palms himself, his hand is a blur and he moans around Washington's cock. He's close himself—he's always so close, it only takes the lightest of caresses to set his skin on fire and make him gasp and squirm.

His Majesty grunts, holds down his slave's head, and he takes it all without any protest, feeling the king's seed flood the back of his mouth, and he swallows hard to keep up, and he barely registers the repugnant taste because he's coming himself, moaning and thrusting into his own fist.

King Washington sighs contentedly, stroking his slave's hair. “Clean up your mess,” he commands, and the slave lowers his head. He knows better than to use his hands; they still bear the marks from the last time he had made that mistake. He dutifully laps up his own seed from the stone floor between His Majesty's boots without a second thought.

The native makes a pained sound behind him. “You are a monster,” he hisses. “There are—I have no words to describe this... this...”

“This is justice. He, too, threatened my life. If you are so concerned for his well-being, perhaps you would like to volunteer to take his place?” At that, the slave turns his head, looking back over his shoulder. The native's face is flushed with embarrassment and now he looks more disgusted than angry. He meets the slave's eyes but quickly looks away.

“No,” he says, sullen.

“Good. Truth be told, I wouldn’t dare pollute myself with some feral animal, even if your features are... somewhat comely. No. I think I have other plans for you...”

OP is in awe and glad she logged on to post her werewolf piece at the same time because HOLY FUCK. THIS IS AMAZING. Haytham's complete and utter submission, the collar, Washington's cruelty and Connor's rage are all absolutely spot on. I think I'll have to re-read because BWAH, I love it! Thank you for such a perfect beginning. <3 <3 <3 all the love and cookies for you!

Ah, I know who you are! :D I'm really pleased you like it, your fics are awesome!

Come here, you! You're making me blush! If the quality and awesomeness of above is what we're to expect from you in the future, well, I am your enthusiastic cheerleader! *shakes pom poms* Ra-ra-ra! You are a superstar!

The door of his cell slamming open jars him awake. He had been dozing; His Majesty had seen fit to let him rest, and had sent him back to the little brick room with the iron bars. Two men manhandled a third into the cell, shoving him to the floor and then jumping back as the man whirled, snarling, and the guards quickly slammed the cell door and secured it before the man could throw his weight against it, screaming at them in some language that the slave didn't know. He thought he recognized the man—yes, it was the native from His Majesty's throne room. They had taken away his furs and leathers and replaced them with threadbare clothes that were little better than rags. He wears an iron collar as well. He stood there at the bars for a long time, breathing hard, hands gripping the bars as if he were going to try to pry them apart. He growled and slammed his fist against the bars, and then turned. It's several seconds before he notices the slave huddled on the pallet beneath the window, doing his best to appear as small as possible.

“Haytham?” That name again. The native rushes to him, his movements quick and sudden and the slave shrinks back against the wall. This is not the first time he has had another man brought to his cell; his skin is still mottled and bruised from the last incident. The native seems to note his reaction, for he stills. He squats down, slowly lowering himself until he's eye to eye with the cowering slave. “Haytham?” he repeats, softer. The slave slowly shakes his head. It's not him, not him, he has no name, why does he keep repeating that damned name?

“Haytham, do you know me?” he asks, voice soft, dark eyes imploring. The desperation in them makes him uncomfortable. The slave turns his head away. “Haytham, look at me.” He does not, he stares at the wall, eyes unfocused. That's when the fingers touch him, burning into his cheeks as the native grips him with both hands, the callouses on the pads of his fingertips lighting him up, and his touch is gentle but firm as he guides the slave's head back to center.

“Please,” the slave croaks, voice hollow and metallic from disuse.

The native asks him something else, his tone beseeching, but he doesn't know what the man is saying, can barely hear him, can't hear anything over the blood pounding in his ears and the rough pads of his thumbs are smoothing the wrinkles near his eyes with little licks of flame—

He leans forward and mashes his lips to the native man's. That's what he wanted, wasn't it? Wasn't that why he touched him like that, on the face, so intimately, so familiarly? His lips are chapped from exposure but the slave doesn't care and before the native can respond he sucks the lower lip into his mouth, worrying at it lightly with his teeth. The hands tighten against the sides of his face and the native pulls back with a gasp. His dark eyes are wide, shocked.

“Haytham,” he says again, breathlessly, and the slave thinks maybe he likes the sound of it, the way the native says it, the way his tongue flicks against his teeth when the word falls from his full lips. “What are you—”

He catches the native off balance and he falls hard on his ass with a surprised grunt and the slave is atop him, gasping at the sensation of the body writhing beneath him. He cups the native's face, presses his own closer, moving in for another kiss, but the man wraps his arms around the slave and suddenly he finds himself on the floor again, the native straddling his waist, but that's alright, this is what he's used to, and he runs his hands up under the shirt, up hard planes of the native's chest, finds a nipple with his thumb.

“Have you gone insane?” The native gasps, the tone of his voice dismayed, shocked, but the slave only stares up at him, confused. Doesn't he want this? Isn't that why he's here? Why would he touch him, otherwise? Unconsciously, he rolls his hips, grinding against the younger man, thrusting, cock stirring to life—but the man sits down on him with almost painful force, trapping his hips, pinning him to the floor. He captures the slave's roaming hands and pins them to the ground on either side of his head. “Haytham, stop!”

Its a command. He always does as he's told. He's panting, flushed, already somewhat aroused, and the other man must feel it—there's no way he can't, he's practically sitting on it—and the native scrambles away, regaining his feet. The look on his face is pure revulsion and the slave cringes at the sight of it.

“What is wrong with you!?” he shouts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I'm your—” and then he stops himself, the last word echoing down the long hall and dying there. He shakes his head, leaving his thought unfinished. His face softens and he looks very sad. The slave doesn't know what to do with himself. This has never happened before, as far as his limited memory served. He scoots backwards until he can feel bricks and he draws his knees up to his chest. His wrists, hands, lips and face still burn, but that will fade, so long as the man doesn't touch him again. He shivers. It's cold, and the arrow-slit of a window has no glass. He wants a blanket, but the blankets are all on the pallet, and that's where the native man sits to bury his face in his hands and he doesn't want to go near him.

“The world has gone mad,” he moans, rubbing his temples. “Damn you, Washington...”

The slave sits, eyes unfocused, shivering, doing his best to melt into the wall. His teeth chatter. He flinches as something flies at him, but it's only a wool blanket that the native tosses his way. He quickly wraps it around his shoulders. The native stares at him, eyes searching his face, but he doesn't say anything. Eventually, after what might have been minutes or what might have been hours, the native flops down on the pallet with a frustrated sigh, his back to the wall, facing the door. After a while, the slave closes his eyes, and drifts.

Not long after, he hears voices and he's awake again. The native is on his feet, standing at the bars, ever tense.

“And where is mine?” he hears the man growl.

“You'll eat when ya earn yer keep,” another voice answers. It's one of the guards. Something is slid across the flagstones beneath the bars. “This here's for His Majesty's pet. And if I find out yer stealin' scraps, I'll feed ya naught but rat meat, when yer turn comes.”

Boots slap down the hall and they are alone again. The native swears something in his strange tongue, and picks a wooden tray off the floor. He sits in front of the slave, long legs tucked underneath him.

“I guess this is for you,” the young man says bitterly, setting the tray before the slave. There's a stew in a wooden bowl, a half-loaf of bread greased with lard, greens, and tea in a gourd cup. There are no forks, knives or spoons, nothing metal, nothing that could be used as a weapon. The slave reaches for the tea. It steams invitingly, and he wants something warm. “Wait,” the man snaps, and the slave pulls his hand back as if burnt. The native snatches up the crude cup.

“Sorry,” the native mutters, but he does not give him the cup. Instead, he holds it close to his face, wide nostrils flaring. Tentatively, he sips it, and then makes a face and spits it out on the floor. He frowns at the slave. “Do you drink this every day? Do you have any notion what this is?”

It's a direct question. He has to respond. He can't remember if he ate yesterday, much less what he ate. “Tea,” he whispers. The man does not look pleased by his answer.

“This is no mere tea,” he says, scowling. “It's—” he says something very fast and incomprehensible in what must be Mohawk. “—or at least, that is what I think it is. It would explain your... sensitivity to touch.” The native looks perturbed and his cheeks darken in embarrassment.

He stands, taking the gourd with him. The window is just wide enough to accommodate his hand and wrist, and the tea splashes to the ground below. The slave is disappointed but not upset. By tomorrow, he will have forgotten all about it. The man examines the tray again, and this time picks up the greens. Sniffs it, tears off a miniscule amount and chews it. This, too, his spits out. He stares at the slave for a long time, brow furrowed.

“And this too, I suppose they give you this every day.” He sounds angry, and the slave draws back instinctively, but the ire is not directed at him. He takes the greens and throws these out the window as well. He sits again. Next he picks up the bowl of stew and sniffs that, dips a finger to taste, and for a moment the slave worries that this, too, he will take and dispose of, but the young man sets it back on the tray with much reluctance. “I think this is fine.”

The young man's stomach growls like a feral animal, and he sighs. The slave considers this for a moment, picks up the bread, and holds it out. The native gives it a hard stare, then looks the slave up and down. “You need it more than I do,” the young man says. The slave rips it in half, and holds this out. The native takes it, careful not to brush fingers with the other man, and then bites into it ferociously. He devours it before the slave finishes chewing his second bite.

The native sits and watches him, eyes thoughtful. At first, he wonders if it is because he wants more food, but he doesn't ask for any. For a moment, the slave thinks the young man looks... familiar, somehow. Something about the eyes. And then the moment is gone again, and he's just some man that's in his cell, but doesn't want to touch him.

“It is not the Apple at all, is it? It doesn't effect you. It is all the herbs.” The corners of his mouth upturn slightly; it is not quite a smile. “Perhaps there is a way out after all.”

As I said on AO3, this continues to be brilliant in every way. If you notice a glow in your backyard, it's just me camping out and offering your muse brownies.

*slips into camp bearing offering of chocolate-chip muse-cookies*

NOM NOM NOM goes WriterAnon.

You know, I'm going to be so horrible to these characters, I think I'm going to give myself the additional challenge of somehow finagling a happy ending.

I love you, WriterAnon! Can't wait to read more. :D

this is freaking amazing, and that last bit with the food, I can practically feel Connor's dawning realization and subsequent hope. brilliant.

One day, he has a headache.

It's a minor thing, just an irritating tingle behind his right eye, but he doesn't remember ever experiencing the sensation before, and the ache makes him slightly anxious and confused. When His Majesty and a guest have their way with him in the throne room that afternoon, the pain worsens, but not too intolerably.

When he is returned to his cell in the evening, there is a native waiting for him. The eyes look familiar. He has seen him before, he thinks. “Clean up His Majesty's pet, savage,” instructs the guard before he locks the door and leaves. The native looks at the slave with dismay. The cell is not completely without comfort; there's a small wash basin. The native tells him to sit on the pallet he does so, albeit gingerly, still tender.

“I'm going to touch you,” says the native carefully, “but I do not want you to touch me. At all. Understood?” The slave nods warily. When the native runs a wet cloth over his face and neck, he shivers in delight. When the young man asks tells him to take off his shirt and pants that he might wash beneath, he does so without hesitation. The man gasps and asks what they did to his back, tells him that it's crisscrossed in scars, and the slave doesn't know what to tell him; he hadn't known.

“And your fingers?”

His fingers? He stares at his hands knotted in his lap and realizes with a start that he only has eight fingers. The ring finger on his right hand has been reduced to the first joint, and the smallest finger next to it is missing entirely. The scar tissue is thick, but well healed; an old trauma, then. Even more disturbing, though, is he realizes that he doesn't remember why he's missing his fingers. How had it happened? One doesn't just loose fingers. Try as he might, though, all he can remember of the incident is a flash of searing pain, and eyes that are the color of fresh spring grass.

“I don't know,” he admits, quietly. The young man looks sad. Further down, the native's face flushes and bids the slave to do the rest himself. When dinner comes, there are two trays. The native takes both, only permitting the slave his meal after he removes some sort of vegetable from his tray and wastefully dumps his tea out the window. Later, they both climb onto the pallet, which is just large enough for two, and the slave thinks that perhaps the man will want to touch him, but native wraps himself tightly in one of the blankets and turns his face to the wall.

The next day, the ache is worse, has spread to the side of his head. Disjointed thoughts assault him out of no where, flashes that pound at his brain but then vanish again so quickly that he can't make any sense of them. A ship at sea. A painted cave. A circle of strange metal with a hole in the middle. The eyes of the boy in someone else's face. When he is brought back to his cell, this time he is not surprised to see the native boy there. When the two are alone, the native asks him how he is feeling. The slave has a notion that the native has asked him this before. He confesses to nothing; not his growing unease, nor the first stirrings of panic, nor the constant throb of pain in his skull. When dinner comes, the man takes his tea and vegetables, and then throws them out the window.

The day after that, he knows there is something very wrong. He kneels to the right of His Majesty's throne. The collar around his neck feels very heavy, the chain seeming to weigh him down, a long snake of dead iron resting between his shoulder blades and down his spine. He feels miserable. He sweats even though there is a chill in the air and shivers uncontrollably. The pounding behind his eyes is relentless.

He looks around, tries to find a distraction from the pain. He regards his surroundings; it has been a long time since he has had any interest. He thinks that maybe, at some point, the great room was some sort of banquet hall. His Majesty's throne sits upon a large dais flanked by large, sweeping staircases. The walls that are not occupied by large paintings are adorned with muskets, pistols, sabers and swords of all different vintages and qualities, arranged in patterns and juxtapositions that are both menacing and disorienting. Long tables that could easily sit twenty men have been turned over on their sides in the center of the room, arranged in a circle, legs pointing outwards.

A crowd has gathered, mainly soldiers but there are a few gentlemen in powdered wigs as well. They cheer and curse at two men in the center of the ring of tables, passing money back and forth and shouting out what he assumes are gambling odds. The two men are both naked to the waist. One is the native boy that was in his cell when he was roused that morning, the other is a white man. They circle each other, grappling and punching. He thinks he can hear the boy's voice, hears something echo off the high ceiling that sounds like a plea. Is he trying to reason with the man he was fighting? If so, he may as well yell at stone for all the good it would do.

There's something he doesn't like about the boy. He doesn't trust him. The boy... did something. He doesn't know what, or when, but something had happened between them that had not ended well for the slave. The sight of the boy makes him uneasy. Improbably, he thinks of the colors white, red, and blue. But the boy is wearing brown, his skin is brown, his eyes are brown. Only his teeth are white. And when did he start thinking of him as “the boy,” anyway? Clearly, he is a man. Young, yes, but very obviously a grown man.

He looks away. He's seen these sorts of bouts before; sometimes they are fought bare-fisted, like today, other times with knifes, clubs, swords and spears. No matter what weapons are used, the outcome is always the same: one man walks away, the other does not. Although something about the boy troubles him, he does not want to watch the boy beaten to the ground, to watch the light fade in his eyes and his face and body go slack on the floor.

A hand trails lazily across his cheek and his breath hitches in his throat.

The burn is still there, but it's a reduced sensation, not as intense or urgent, and when he shudders it is more from revulsion than pleasure. He tries to ignore it, but there's a tightness coiling in his guts, and what's left of his hands clench in the rough material of his pants. His head pounds as loud and insistent as a warning bell. Not again. This is wrong, shameful. His Majesty's hand continues to wander, pressing against his lips, and the slave has no choice other than to open his mouth, admitting the fingers. They taste like butter and salt, probably from His Majesty's luncheon. He sucks on them obediently, lapping at them with his tongue as the king thrusts them in and out of his mouth.

In short order, a hand grabs his collar and he is jerked roughly upwards. He gets to his feet, unsteady; it feels as if the ground is shifting beneath his feet. He comes to stand before the king.

“Breeches off,” the king commands and his throat goes dry. That's the last thing he wants to do, the room is thronged with people, and this is shameful, what they're doing, but the worst thing he can do is disobey. Clumsy fingers undo the drawstring at his navel and the garment falls to the floor. He kicks it aside.

“What's this?” His Majesty pushes aside the frayed hem of the shirt and grips his slave's flaccid cock in his spit-soaked fingers. Normally, he'd be half on his way to an erection by now, simply from the caress of bare flesh against his skin. “Are we feeling neglected, pet?” His words are amused, but there's an irritated edge to them; he's displeased.

He doesn't respond, but his master gives his cock a few firm pumps and he moans helplessly, bucking into his fist. There's the burn, the skin to skin contact that he desperately needs, and his cock twitches to life. Traitor, he thinks. The king's member is already hard; he can see the bulge in His Majesty's breeches. He wonders what prompted it; was it watching two men attempt to beat each other bloody? The thought makes him nauseous. The king frees himself with his other hand, gives that a few strokes as well, and eases his own breeches further down his hips. The slave doesn't dare look him in the face, but he can see the other man's smirk in his periphery. He can feel the flush spreading over his face, spreading down his chest, his breathing is uneven and has a harsh edge to it. The pounding of his heart is as hard as the pounding in his head.

“Up with you,” His Majesty commands, and the slave resists the urge to cringe, knowing what's to come next. Can't his master see that he's unwell? Can he not detect the tremor in his limbs, see the beads of perspiration on his brow, how ragged his breathing has become? Perhaps he had somehow mistook the signs for lust. Or maybe he simply didn't notice at all—that was more likely. Even as the slave clumsily mounts the broad seat of the throne, his knees to either side of his master's hips, his hands gripping the back of the gilded throne, his master's attention is focused beyond his slave's shoulder, on the combatants.

Two fingers probe his entrance—they're slicked with something, oil or grease, perhaps from the plate of sweet meats half consumed at the king's right hand. He knows he has to bare down, but his mind is panicking and his body isn't cooperating, and he gasps as His Majesty's fingers enter him, fingernails grazing the sensitive flesh.

“Relax!” he growls, but the tone has the opposite effect, and when another finger is added, the three of them thrust upward, a little cry of pain and fear escapes. A slap—the cheek of his ass smarts with pain.

“What's wrong with you?” His Majesty hisses. Dizzily, the slave wonders the same thing, his mouth bowing unhappily. What's wrong with me? What's wrong with YOU? The hand that had so roughly entered him withdraws and clasps his chin, forces him to meet his master's gaze. His bright cornflower blue eyes are narrowed in displeasure. His Majesty sees his sweat, his fever-bright eyes, his drawn and pained expression—sees and apparently does not care.

“Fuck yourself,” he commands. Trembling, the slave reaches beneath himself, finds His Majesty's cock and places the head against his asshole. Holding his breath, he lowers himself, feels the fat head of it part that tight ring of muscle, and can't tell if the burn is from pleasure or pain. He hesitates, lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes squeezed shut.

Hands grip hard enough to bruise, slam him down, and he can't choke back his scream.

It's been a long time since he's been treated so roughly. He tries to take slow, deep breaths, to elevate himself above pain, but as soon as the king sheaths himself, he lifts his slave and slams him back down again—stabbing him, flesh in flesh—and then a third time for good measure. The king groans low in his throat, rolling his hips.

“Is this how you want it?” he asks. The slave fervently shakes his head. “Then do as I demand.”

He does, limbs trembling, flexing the muscles of his thighs. The hands relax on his hips, and one goes to his diminished erection, and he grits his teeth. He doesn’t want this, he does not, but his body betrays him and with a few pumps, he's hard again, bucking up into his master's hand as much as he's forcing his hips down on King Washington's cock. He hates the reaction, the way his body automatically shifts, churns his hips, looking for the place inside him that makes him moan and shudder and lights him up from the inside out. Some part of him wants it—no, needs it. Loves the way he impales himself until he's uncomfortably full, delights in the way his body stretches to accommodate his master, muscles fluttering eagerly around that column of hard, invading flesh—but his mind is panicking. The more aroused he becomes, the sicker he feels, the higher his fever climbs, and the throbbing in his head is pure agony.

The slap of thighs against ass rings off the walls. He hears snickers and laughing behind him, tries to ignore it, but the words fall like blows. Whore. Slut. Bitch. His face burns with shame, but he can't stop the downwards thrust of his hips, not when he's so close, not when his master's hand circles his shaft, milking the head with brisk jerks, kneads his heavy balls, making him moan with want.

But his mind interferes. His guts threaten him, though, make him aware that in no uncertain terms that if he continues things are going to end badly. Bile rises in his throat as well as panic. His movements become uncoordinated, hesitant, sloppy, and his master grunts in annoyance, grasps him by the hips and slams him down again, mercilessly. He struggles for air—it feels like he can't get enough, like he's trying to breathe through a reed, and his body writhes uselessly, limbs trembling. He can't help but wonder why, why is this happening?

And then a thought bubbles to the surface of his tortured mind: all of this—his missing fingers, the scars, the cock rudely forcing his body to suit his master, even the boy in the ring of tables fighting for his life, the throne beneath his bruised knees and the crown upon His Majesty's head—all of it is somehow his fault, that it's a fact that's as immutable and undeniable as the sky is blue, water is wet, and fire burns.

His Majesty groans, jerking his property down, burring himself to the hilt, and the slave can feel the man's cock pulse, feel the wetness—and his body spasms as well, but for an entirely different reason. He scrambles back, fist clenched over his mouth. His Majesty makes some angry word of protest, but he's already unseating himself, feels the king's cock slide free with a sickening pop, feels the hot mess run down his thighs and onto the plush, velvet seat. A hand grabs his wrist but he wrenches away with all the strength he has left to him, climbs off the throne, collapses on the ground on his hands and knees, and vomits.

Op here!

Ah, here's where things get tricky. I'm really scared that Washington is going to take another finger, or worse, as punishment for not performing. He doesn't seem like he'd care of Haytham was ill or not - he'd just punish Haytham anyway. And if he cottons onto Connor helping...well. Connor could lose a lot more than a finger.

The tension, dear lovely writer, is palpable. I love it. Thank you for another wonderful chapter.

This part had me on the edge of my seat this whole time, wondering if Haytham is going to give it away in his feverishness. Another wonderful chapter!

Disaster! I had more written, a LOT more, but my computer decided to take a shit and I lost everything that wasn't already posted. Hopefully I'll have something with a bit more substance in a few days.

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He's back in his cell; it's nearing dusk, judging by the light. Something looms above him, a face, and when his eyes swung into focus, his hand tightens in a fist.

“Open your mouth,” the man says. He obeys, but not without hesitation. He knows this man, has never felt so sure of anything. Doctor, he thinks, and then mercenary. Traitor. The man shoves two fingers in his mouth. Unlike when his master touches him, there is nothing even remotely sexual about this. He's not sure if he wants to suck or bite, so he does nothing. The fingers depress his tongue, run along his teeth, hook his lip and prod his gums. The fingers withdraw then return to press at his neck, dig into flesh where his jaw meets his throat. His fingers feel cold on his burning skin. The man's face is blank.

“And do you have any history of illness?” He frowns. He doesn't know what to say.

A voice speaks up. “A few weeks ago, I was also sick, but I am fine now,” the native boy says. There's something about the boy's voice—a tremor in the lower register, a slight hesitation—and he knows it's a lie. If the man catches it, he doesn't call him out on it.

“Hmm. Figures. You're probably crawling with disease, like the rest of your kind,” the man says with a dismissive sniff.

“At least my 'kind' do not need to be told not to take water from where they defecate. Unlike white men.”

“Your insolence will be the death of you, savage,” he grumbles.

“I hardly think you will be the man to deliver it,” he native coolly replies.

The face swims out of view and he's left with the mottled gray of the ceiling. The man prattles out a list of tasks to the native and then leaves, the guard slamming the bars shut behind him. He's so weak that he doesn't even turn his head to watch him go.

Time ceased to make sense, much less have any meaning. Sometimes the room was lit by the sun for only minutes, and sometimes nights seem to last for eternity, and vice versa. Day, night, night, day, it makes no matter. He sweats, moans and shivers. Disjointed images race through his mind, and he knows they are not dreams or hallucinations, but memories—except that they can't be memories because they don't make the slightest sense. He struggles to construct order out of the mess that bubbles to the surface of his fractured mind. His memories have been doubled, like some sort of printer's error; two blocks of text appearing in a book where only one should exist, the letters overlapping and jumbled, and there's two stories with similar characters mashed together, each with their own disparate plots.

—The woman screams at him, tells him that it's over between them, that he must leave and never return, and it's both winter and summer. She stands both in snow and amongst wild flowers. In winter she is alone, stone knife brandished in a clenched fist—in summer, her fierce brown eyes are mirrored in the frightened boy's tan face, her arms wrapped around the child possessively—

—It's Washington himself at the door, wringing his worn tricorn hat in his hands, disheveled and perspiring from his hard ride from Mount Vernon, and the general won't quite meet his eyes. The war effort needs more support and funds, he says, that liberty and freedom will only sustain mens' hearts, not their bodies, and it was the duty of patriotic gentlemen such as themselves to provide support. As if owning a few slaves, growing tobacco, and strutting about in finely tailored broadcloth cloaks qualified this up-jumped planter's son as a gentleman. One scathing look, a sharp word and he withers—but he's not in his plantation manse, he's in a cold cell, and his new “owner” laughs, eyes hot and confident, and he hates that laugh, wants to silence it forever by ripping out the man's throat with his bare hands, but he cannot, not with his arms lashed behind his back, not with the man's hand roaming possessively up the bare skin of his inner thigh—

—Shells hammer all around him, the battlements pitted and broken, the courtyard grounds choked with smoke. He's in New York. Cannon fire from the bay. Cannon fire from the streets. He sees the naked terror in the native's eyes as his hands tighten around the boy's neck—and at the same time, he himself is on his back, a boot heel complete with spur digging into his own throat, pale green eyes regarding him without sympathy, mercy, or remorse, and his vision explodes in black and red stars—

“Please,” he begs, but he can't articulate what he wants, can't put the depth of his misery into words, he just wants it to stop. It's impossible. There can't be two sets of events, one of them must be some figment of his fevered dreaming, but each dual reality is so convincing, so solid, that he can't determine the truth from the falsehood.

The native boy is a constant presence. He wipes down the fevered skin of his face and body with a cool, damp rag, puts on more blankets and then removes them after they're soaked through with sweat, provides a bucket when the food won't stay down or he needs to make water, puts a hand behind his head and bids him to drink more water, holds cups of soup to his lips. He drinks obediently, eats the food that is given to him—that is, until he decides to refuse.

“It is alright, Haytham, drink. You will feel better.”

“...Haytham, the artifact has been intercepted...”

“...be a good Templar, Haytham, and give us what we want...”

“...We had an agreement, Haytham. He is MY son as well as yours...”

“No,” he croaks, and turns his head away from the proffered cup. From anyone else he would expect violence—a slap to the face, a yank of the hair, a sharp punch to the guts, but the boy is different. He actually smiles. It's not a hateful or full of painful promise, but full of genuine pleasure.

“'No?' Did you just refuse me?”

“No,” he repeats, stronger, puts a hand on the boy's shoulder in a feeble attempt to push him away, but the boy is stone beneath his rough-spun shirt. “What did you do to me?”

It's the boy's fault. The disjointed voices and images in his head, his fever, his pain; it's all the boy's fault. It must be. Before, everything had been... Well, not fine. Certainly not. But he had been content in his subservience, oblivious to his own suffering, and that had been close enough.

“I'm helping you,” he says, the smile disappearing, dark eyes beseeching.

Helping? This was 'helping?'

“If you want to help me, kill me,” he rasps, and he means it. Anything is better than this misery, better than... remembering.

The boy's eyes look strange; sad and angry all at once. His words are cryptic.

“Not this time.”

OP here! Argh, I'm sorry to hear about your computer - I hope nothing else was lost, like schoolwork. Take your time to get back on your feet! Computer crashes are the worst. *hugs*

Fantastic chapter regardless of how you feel about the length! I love this jumbled dual memory that Haytham has - it really nails in the tragedy of both paths and how neither one has really turned out well for the Kenways. Ratonhnhaké:ton's flash of pride as Haytham refuses to follow his order and the sadness that permeates the few lines that form his "no kill" declaration are superbly written. His viciousness against the racism thrown so casually at him is perfect.

Something is burning his face.

Blearily, he opens one eye, and winces. He's in his cell. He's cold; his shirt is missing, and at some point he had kicked the heavy blankets off. The arrow slit of a window has been stuffed with rags to help ward off winter's chill, but there is a slight gap at the top, and a spot of sunlight falls directly on his face. It's morning. He groans, flings a thin arm over his eyes, and rolls his head away.

There's a rustle below him and to the left. He freezes. He's not alone. His eyes snap back open.

The boy.

He'd made a nest of rags and blankets on the stone floor next to the pallet. He uncurls and props himself up on one elbow.

“Haytham? How are you feeling?” he asks. His voice is weary but full of genuine concern. He looks like hell. His eyes are red-rimmed and dark-circled, and there are mottled bruises on his face, faded to a blotchy yellow-green pallor. His lip had been split not long ago, and still looks swollen and tender.

Haytham. Yes. He's Haytham. His tongue darts out to wet cracked, dry lips. His voice is rough, and sounds like a stranger's to his ears.

“Connor.”

The man's eyes go wide and his mouth falls open briefly, and then he smiles wide, white teeth flashing, eyes glinting. He scrambles closer on hands and knees, his large hand gripping Haytham's shoulder, his face a mere foot away.

“Yes!” he exclaims, and then again, “Yes—Do you remember me?”

Yes. Oh, yes, he most assuredly does. He remembers everything.

The slap connects with the sharp report of a gunshot—Connor reels back, hand to his face, eyes wide, shocked, baffled. Haytham tries to get to his feet but his legs won't cooperate and they splay out as if he's a newborn calf. He collapses to his knees with a gasp of pain. Connor reaches out to grasp an arm but Haytham slaps that as well, scrabbling away from the man.

“Don't touch me!” he shouts.

“Haytham! Please, what—?”

“What in hell have you done to me?” His voice sounds high, almost hysterical to his own ears, almost a shriek, and the echo of it bounces off the brick walls and carries down the long hall. Connor's eyes are wide with alarm and shock.

“Quiet! Do you wish to bring the guards down on us?” He hisses, “I was trying to help you!”

“Why?” demands Haytham. Connor stares at his father, open-mouthed, aghast, as if Haytham is the crazy, unreasonable one.

“'Why?' Because you were being...” Connor blushes beneath the bruises and looks at the floor, clearly dismayed. Ah. Yes, that. Connor shakes his head. “Because there is a madman with an army of unthinking slaves who has styled himself a king! Because we need to rally support, we must find a way to defeat him! Because we need to get out of here!”

“And how will 'we' manage that?” is Haytham's terse demand.

Connor's brow beetles and he stammers, “I had thought that—you are by his side, almost every day—you must have some idea as to how—”

“Fool boy—he has a Piece of Eden.” He manages to stagger to his feet, though he still leans against the wall for support. The effort leaves him slightly breathless. “He's unstoppable. It's hopeless to even think—”

“It is not hopeless,” snaps Connor, “nothing is hopeless, not while you and I are still in control of ourselves.”

“In control? Look at me, boy!” He's a ruin of the man he used to be. Muscles that had rippled with a lifetime of training and hard work had been withered to practically nothing. He spreads his mangled hands, indicates the badly healed ribs that show through drum-taut skin, crisscrossed with scars. “What good am I to anyone like this?”

Well. Obviously Washington still finds a use for me, he thinks, and the violent shudder that racks his body has nothing to do with the chill of the cell.

Connor frowns deeper. Obviously, this was not the reunion he had been expecting. What had he wanted? An effusion of praise? That Haytham would fall into his arms and weep for joy? Thank the lord for his delivery and reveal a meticulous, carefully reasoned and dashing plan for escape?

“What would you have had me do, then?” he asks, a raw, frustrated edge to his voice. “Leave you insensate and enslaved?”

“And now I am cognizant and enslaved. Believe me, it's not an improvement. It would have been a far kinder mercy to have just killed me.”

Connor's face is solemn. “You cannot mean that.”

He throws up his hands. “It's over, boy. I lost. I have nothing left. May as well be by your hand, rather than... the inevitable.”

“I cannot kill you,” he says, dark eyes mournful and brimming with reproach.

Haytham's mouth twists into an unpleasant thing somewhere between a wry, mirthless smile and a pained grimace.

“No? You managed well enough once before!”

Connor's face contorts and he looks torn between agony and rage. “That was a different time—a different world! And you were trying to kill me!”

Had he tried to kill the boy? He wasn't sure. The incident had happened a lifetime ago, and the night had been a total chaos of bombs, fire and blood. He could remember being blinded by rage and pain, blinking blood out of his eyes from where his bastard son had cut open his brow with a broken bottle. Every labored breath had brought an agony of protest from his all-but-certainly broken ribs and his useless left hand had been slick with his own blood. He remembered wanting the boy to stop—to just stop. To stop struggling, to stop resisting fate, to stop being so willfully ignorant of human nature, to stop being so full of goddamned hope—

Still, Haytham denies, “Like hell I was, if I had wanted you dead—”

“So you were only pretending to kill me? You had your hands around my neck! I could not breathe!”

The boy has him there. Facts are facts. Regardless, Haytham glares at him. “Well. I suppose none of that really matters now, does it? As you say, it was different world.”

Connor's face contorts. “Does not matter—!” He stops himself, gives an irritated huff. “Fine. We should be planning our escape. I thought that you would be more thankful that you were no longer senseless,” says Connor darkly. Haytham's lip lifts in a snarl.

“'Thankful?' The things they've done, what I was forced to do—I was oblivious to it! Do you know what—” he hesitates, can't bring himself to say the man's name, damn him, “—what he'll do to me, once he finds out? Do you have even the slightest notion as to what you've done to me?”

“You. It has always been about you, has it not, father?” the word is hurled like a curse. He thumps his chest. “What about me? Do you even care about what they are making me do? Your son?”

His startled mind casts about for a moment. Notes the yellowing bruises on Connor's face, the fresh and tender scar tissue of the man's sharp knuckles. Vaguely, he recalls the fights, the impromptu ring in the middle of the throne room, the smell of stale sweat and fresh blood, screams and howls of the combatants echoing over the excited chatter and hoots of the gamblers and spectators. His Majesty's other special hobby.

“I'm so sorry. I forgot how violence makes you wilt like a lily in the sun.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “You are the most hateful, selfish prick I have ever known—”

“Oh, the pot calls the kettle black, boy! You tried to 'help' me? I can see right though your so-called concern. You're only trying to help yourself after you were foolish enough to be taken alive—if you had ever given a damn about me, you would have come before I'd been reduced to this!”

“I did not even know you were here! Kaniehtí:io said that you were dead!” Of course Ziio would say that. He can see her reasoning; better Connor to think his father rotting in the ground than alive and His Majesy's most exalted whore. It does not, however, make her omission any less painful. “Washington has misused you, yes, made you do unspeakable things, but your own suffering pales beside his other crimes. Do you even know what he has done—what he is still doing to people? Do you even care?”

“I cared enough to lead the goddamned Colonial resistance, you ignorant little shit,” he seethes.

Haytham can see that he's found the limit of boy's patience. Connor's hands pull into fists, jaw clenches, and for a moment Haytham thinks that perhaps the boy will do some throttling of his own, but instead he releases a long breath through flared nostrils, forces his fingers to straighten, palms flat against his thighs.

“Tell me what happened.” It's a command, not a request.

“Go to hell,” Haytham suggests.

“We are already in hell!” is Connor's outraged response.

Connor makes to continue his abuse but the sound of footfalls echoing down the hall gives him pause. Haytham's blood turns cold. If there was any color left in his pale face, it vanished. The cell faces a blank wall. Connor stalks up to the bars and presses the side of his face against them to sight down the long passage. He holds up three fingers to Haytham. Idiot. Haytham could have told him how many there were by ear alone. Two of the men are booted, judging by the heavy tread, the third has the sharper snap of shoes.

Haytham sits down heavily on the pallet, clamps his hands between his knees so no one can see how badly they tremble. He doesn't look up when he men come to stand outside. Connor stands near the bars, defiant, and does not even flinch when one of the men clangs the bars with the butt of a musket.

“Well. His Majesty's pet looks much improved.” Benjamin Church. The man who was twice a traitor. Rage sang through his veins, tempered with an equal amount of fear. He forces his eyes to the ground. If the king's physician even suspected something was off about Haytham's demeanor, that he had been restored to his cognitive faculties...

“No thanks to you,” says Connor. Church merely shrugs.

“He was either to improve, or he was not. I adjusted his medications and left you instructions, and it seems that that worked well enough. He's no longer sweating, at least.” He tilts his head slightly. “Though he looks pale yet. You've been feeding him?”

Connor's head jerks up in affirmation.

“He'll be fine, then. Or not. I suppose it matters little.”

“He is your patient,” snaps Connor. “I thought doctors swore oaths to help those in need.”

Church chuckles. “He's of little consequence; he ceased to be amusing long ago. Healthy or sick, fair or foul, I suspect I'll not need attend him much longer.” Haytham commands himself to keep breathing evenly, to not make any indication that he had heard anything of note. What was Church getting at?

“But he was your master!” Connor sounds shocked by Church's indifference.

“'Was' being the operative word. He ceased to be worthy of that title the day he lost his mind.” Church shakes his head. “Delusional fool. How he expected to keep this country from His Majesty's glorious influence, I can't even begin to imagine.”

“...So sorry, Kenway. But I always back the winning horse...”

“Well, I've other duties. Good day, savage. Master Kenway.” His voice drips with mockery. He turns and leaves. The two guards linger. One comes forward with a trays in either hand. He slides them though the gap beneath the bars.

“Best not get too comfortable,” the man advises, “His Majesty will be wanting the both of you soon enough.”

Haytham can barely hear their retreat over the throb of blood singing in his ears. He clenches his fists in the loose fabric of his trousers and resists the urge to scream. Goddamned traitorous, cowardly bastard... He barely notices when Connor takes both trays, sets one down on the floor, but he does note when the boy begins to remove the rags from the window.

“What are doing?” Haytham demands.

“Helping you by disposing of your poisons,” says Connor coldly, “whether you accept it or no.”

“What poisons?” he asks. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” says Connor, and points to the greens, “is what they've been using to control you. Achilles spoke of it. The Haitian witch-doctors use it to bend victims to their will, to make them their 'zombies.' And this tea is a... I do not know the word in English. Afra-something...”

“Aphrodisiac,” supplies Haytham, frowning. So, that's what had induced his apathetic state, reduced him to little more than an animal reacting to external stimuli.

“Yes, as you say. You should feel honored; this is very expensive. The kings of China use it on their slave-women, I hear.” He picks up the cup.

“Wait!” he commands sharply.

Connor looks at him. “What?”

“Give me the tea.”

Connor's eyes narrow. “No,” he says.

“I need it,” he says with rising urgency, and feels a surge of panic when he begins to tip the hollow gourd. “I'll scream, call the guards!” he warns him. Connor cocks a dark eyebrow.

“Then scream,” he suggests, sardonic, but there's a steel edge to his tone and his eyes glitter dangerously. “Let the guards know what I have done and that you are fully aware and wish to die. I'm sure they will oblige you. That is what you want, is it not?”

Yes. No... he's not sure. He crimps his lips together in a thin, bloodless line. Haytham has nothing to live for, sees the days stretch out before him, a series of tortures, trials and humiliations that will certainly end in death—or, worse, his submission, mind shattered—and despairs. But does he want to kill his son as well? That's what would surely happen, if they were to discover Connor's interference. Or worse, they might do to him what they had done to Haytham, a punishment he wouldn't have wished on even his most hated enemies.

“You heard the guard, boy. We'll be at court today, and I'm not a young man anymore. If I can't...” he shivers. “If I don't preform as expected... they'll know. And then we'll both be dead men.” Or worse, he could have said.

The boy frowns, taking his meaning, he sets the cup back on the tray. “You cannot have the other,” he says, and takes a fist full of the greens to shove under the bed, presumably because his actions would be noticed in the daylight. “It is too dangerous.”

“And what gives you the right to make that decision for me?” demands Haytham acidly.

“You are in no position to stop me,” says the boy coolly. Well, that's apparent. The two men had been of a similar size and build once, but Haytham is but a shadow of his former self, and his son is very clearly in the prime of his physical abilities.

“Very well. You'll have to sleep eventually,” Haytham reminds him darkly. For an instant, there is a flicker of doubt, of fear, but it's gone again, and the boy looks almost smug.

“Even if you had the strength to kill me, you would not,” he says in a matter-of-fact way that makes Haytham bristle further.

“Oh?”

“Because they would know it was you.” He slides Haytham's tray across the pallet. “Better eat. I suspect Washington has missed us. It will be a long day.”

He's hungry, but the thought of what's to come turns Haytham's stomach to knots.

Firstly, I hope your computer troubles are behind you! :) secondly, AHHH-MAZING AS ALWAYS. The vitriolic back and forth between Haytham and Connor is spot on. The detail in the description of how thin Haytham has become is heartbreaking but also very true. Washington is going to have to let Connor train if he doesn't want to lose his prize fighter. And Haytham has a point - he's going to need the aphrodisiac if they expect to survive longer.

The doors to the throne room are thrown open and Haytham is yanked through by his chain, like a misbehaving dog who has not yet learned to heel. There's a little knot of men standing in the center of the room that turn to look his way. There's something strange about the mobility of their faces, about the animation of their gleaming eyes. It hits him; they are not under Washington's control, he realizes. They are still their own men.

They stare at him, dismay and fear plain upon their faces. As the guard leads Haytham towards them, they draw away from him as if he has the pox. He recognizes a few. There—the fat one. Wasn't he... yes. Samuel Chase, one of the Maryland delegates to the Continental Congress. And there, James Wilson, from one of the Carolinas, he couldn't remember which. Others he knew by their faces, but couldn't place names to them.

Two of them whisper behind their hands as Haytham is lead past.

“Good lord, is that—?”

“I think so. I'd heard he was dead.”

“Apparently not. Although he does look like death warmed over...”

“How dare you presume to judge me, Mr Jefferson,” he hears Washington growl, and it's as if someone has dumped freezing water down the back of Haytham's shirt. He's furious. There would be hell to pay; Haytham just prayed that he wouldn't be on the receiving end of it.

The voice that answers him has a soft drawl to it. “I've never judged you, my friend. I was merely suggesting—”

“You haven't the slightest clue what I faced—you sat at home, cozy and warm, while I was at Valley Forge. I sent hundreds of letters to Congress—perhaps a thousand—and I received naught but excuses!”

Haytham sees him. Washington's face looks livid and his eyes glitter dangerously under his furrowed brow. He's the tallest man in the room and looms over almost everyone else, all but the man before him. The other man is nearly as tall, but whereas Washington is powerfully built, this other man is more slender and lanky. Haytham notes the reddish hair, angular nose and long face. Thomas Jefferson. He looks ill-at-ease, but remarkably calm for someone staring death in the face.

“I asked for more soldiers, and was sent half-starved, unruly boys and troublesome miscreants,” Washington continues, pacing back and forth on his dais, “I begged for bandages, blankets, warm clothes—”

“George—” Jefferson pleads, but Washington cuts him off.

“Boots! Even just shoes I would have been grateful. I had to march my men barefoot through the snow. They left their skin behind when they stepped on the ice. There was so much blood on the road you would have thought we were dragging butchered hogs behind us.”

“There were no shoes to be had! Not in New England, not even in Virginia, we sent you all that could be spared!”

“It was not enough! You and your fellow delegates sat in Philadelphia dithering and wringing your hands, and I watched my men die by the hundreds!” he snarls and his eyes flick to the scepter on an ornate stand next to the throne. “I saw an opportunity and I took it! My decision saved thousands of lives, perhaps tens of thousands!”

“Please, George, we just...” Jefferson's words trail off when he sees Haytham lead past.

Haytham shuffles meekly forward, his head bowed. Don't look him in the eyes, never in the eyes. When Haytham and his escort mount the dais, Washington's hand comes up to halt them. Haytham can feel the eyes rove over him, cold and analytical, and Haytham stares determinedly at the ground beneath his bare feet, limbs shaking, teetering on a knife edge between boiling rage and absolute terror. And then, unexpectedly, the moment passes without incident. Washington's eyes flick back to his audience and he waves a hand to Haytham's guard. A hand grips Haytham's shoulder, guides him to his place at the right hand of the throne, and forces him down to his knees, facing the room. The guard snaps the end of his chain to the arm of the ornate throne with a padlock.

“Haytham Kenway?” a different voice asks, bewildered. Haytham wants to turn his head, acknowledge that, yes, he's alive, that beneath his tattered clothes, the collar about his neck and the layer of grime coating his skin that he's still a man, not an animal. But he doesn't dare. He can't stop his eyes from flickering to the man, though. The man is another delegate, a head shorter than Jefferson and undistinguished-looking but for his sharp eyes and arched brows. The man stares at him, open mouthed. Confusion, anger, pity and grief battle across his careworn face.

“You rotten bastard, what in the hell have you done?” the man demands, face reddened, and Haytham recognizes him, finally: John Adams. Damn him.

Haytham rode to Philadelphia seeking assistance from the Continental Congress as soon as he knew who had taken possession of the Apple, warned them of the clear danger that Washington represented, and Adams had shouted him down. The lawyer had berated him like a child in front of an audience of some of the most accomplished and wealthy men in America and had named him a traitor for daring to suggest that General Washington was anything other than a capable commander and a dedicated patriot. Haytham had fled the city in disgrace, only narrowly escaping an angry mob with murder on their minds.

So Haytham can't help but feel a little pleased when an officer lurches forward and backhands Adams across the face, sending him spinning to the floor in a most undignified heap.

“You'll keep a civil tongue in that mouth or I'll cut it out meself,” the man snarls and Haytham feels that thrill of pleasure turn to ashes in his mouth.

Thomas Hickey. He hadn't seen him since the incident in the wilderness, when Haytham and his men along with Ziio and her people had tried to take the Apple in a surprise attack. The results had been disastrous. In the chaos that ensued, Haytham had lost sight of both Thomas and Charles. When Thomas failed to reappear, Haytham had assumed with a heavy heart that the man had been killed. He'd gone back to look for him, found a few men of a similar build, but by that point the wolves and scavengers had been at the bodies and it had been impossible to distinguish one man from the other.

But Thomas is far from dead; he looks fine. Better than fine; actually, he looks immaculate—a word that Haytham had never in both of his strange, disordered lives thought he would associate with the man. Gone are the perpetually rumpled clothes, the five o'clock shadow, the busted capillaries across his cheeks and nose, evidence of his hard drinking and fast living. He's clean shaven and his hair is expertly groomed, his clothing well-tailored and cleaned. His boots are so polished that Haytham can see his own reflection in them, if he squints. He looks every inch the perfect officer. If he hadn't stepped out to assault Adams, Haytham was likely to have never noticed him at all.

Adams staggers to his feet, cursing, and Jefferson shakes his head. “George, we came in peace—“

“Load o' bullocks,” Thomas announces and jerks his head at Adams, who spits blood into the carpet, where it is all but swallowed by the red wool underfoot. “Found this one's kin doing 'is best to stir up trouble down at the 'arbor.”

“Sam!” Adams gasps, “What have you done to him?” But Thomas only laughs and settles his hands on the butts of the twin pistols at his hips.

“The same fate that will befall you, if you continue to test me, Mr. Adams,” Washington answers testily. Whatever patience General Washington had possessed, it was greatly diminished the instant he obtained the Apple.

“And my wife? Where is she? What have you done with her?” Adams barks heedlessly, unable to see murder mere inches away.

“Abigail? Why, she's fine. Perfectly content. She tells me she's never been happier,” says Washington, settling himself in his throne, his posture stiff and agitated.

Adams goes pale. Jefferson begins, “George—“

“The words that you are searching for, sir, are 'Your Majesty.' If that strikes you too formal, you may name me 'Sire.'”

Jefferson glares at him. His face betrays his feelings, but his voice is still steady and even, his speech deliberately slow and careful. “The war is over, sire. We... You have won. It's done. Do you not think it time to retire to Virginia? Martha begs you to return to her.”

“What use have I for a half-built manor and some other man's widow when I have all of New England at my feet? Furthermore, it seems you are wrong, concerning the war's end.”

“I don't understand. The British have been repelled,” says Jefferson, shaking his head. “It's over. America is free to do as she pleases.”

“But she is not united. Was that not also our goal? And what of the ten thousand French troops quartered in Philadelphia and their armada lurking just out of mortar range in New York?”

“Ah, well, the French are confused,” says Adams, mockingly blithesome, “You see, Congress sent the French an envoy to press for help in our fight against King George. Well, they got very excited and were very eager to see this new nation and to fight their old enemy—so just try to imagine their surprise and dismay when they arrived and found that there was another King George on this side of the Atlantic that's as tyrannical as he is insane—”

He's cut off when Thomas delivers a hard punch to the guts. Adams doubles over, wheezing.

“Mr Adams, not another word or I will make you wish you had been born a mute,” says Washington.

Jefferson goes to help his fellow delegate, trying to help him stand upright. When he looks back at Washington, his face is alight in cold fury.

“The... whatever it is—The others are right; It has driven you mad.”

“On the contrary; I have never felt more sane.”

“I've had enough of this farce. We're leaving. Now,” he says, his voice not quite a shout.

“Are you? I do not recall giving my leave for you to depart,” Washington growls.

“I do not need it. I am my own man, sir. This meeting is over. You will order General Lee to stand down and withdraw your troops from Pennsylvania.”

Haytham resists a shudder. General Lee. Charles. The man who had doted on Haytham's every whim and command had become Washington's most trusted and capable general.

“I think not; I see a different outcome. You and your fellow delegates will surrender Philadelphia as well as Pennsylvania, following the expulsion of the French from my soil.”

Jefferson's face is grim and pale. “We have seventeen thousand seasoned, rested, experienced men ready to march on New York.”

Haytham can't see Washington's face, not from this angle, but the hand on the right arm of the throne tightens into a fist.

“You would send good men and patriots against their rightful king?”

“They are Americans! They fought a long and bloody war to rid themselves of a king, they will not willingly submit themselves to another!”

“They need me!” shouts Washington, slamming a fist into the arm of his throne. “I've seen your so-called Congress, sir, and I am not impressed! You fight and squabble like fishwives over petty differences, accomplishing nothing! America will not survive without a king! She'll be ripped apart by petty grievances and an easy target for foreign powers!”

“Yes, we do need a strong leader, but the last thing America needs is a tyrant!”

“The sixty thousand Bostonians and New Yorkers ready to fight to the death to defend their king are quite pleased with my rule.”

Sixty thousand? No. It wasn't possible. The Apple wasn't that powerful... was it? Surely he's exaggerating.

“Yes, and four—forty thou-thousand of them are... are starving women, sick children and old men!” Adams wheezes, having regained just enough wind to sentence his fate. “You cannot hope to defeat us!”

“You have only solders. I have... something more.” He caresses the handle of his scepter gently, lovingly. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

He lifts the scepter lazily. The Apple. The Piece of Eden. He had looked for it for half of both his lives and now here it was, so tantalizingly close, just at arm's length. But it may as well been a thousand miles away, sunk in a bottomless ocean, for all the good it would do him now.

It's like there's a cyclone in the room. Energy snaps in the air, raises the hair on the backs of his arms against his shirt sleeves, and the room goes dark—it's still sunny outside, but the light is so diminished that it may as well be midnight, and the tapers in their sconces give off nothing but the faintest pinpricks of light, like lanterns on a ship far out to sea. The Apple; it's stealing all the light in the world, casting it in upon itself until it glows like a tiny sun. It casts strange patterns on the walls and on the faces in the room.

Adams jerks, gives a cut-off scream, his entire body going ridged and trembling, as if he were struck by lightning, eyes rolling in terror. For an instant, Haytham can see the shine of the Apple reflected in his eyes, almost as if they themselves were glowing—and then he blinks. Adams' expression is mild and relaxed, almost vaguely amused. Jefferson's face is a stark contrast: it is the very picture of horror. Jefferson steps backwards towards the other cowering delegates.

“Mr Adams, how are you feeling?” asks Washington.

“Wonderful,” he says breathlessly, face rapturous. “I... I can't recall ever feeling so... so...”

“At peace?”

“Yes,” he hisses.

“Mr. Adams, do you wish to please me?” Washington asks.

Oh dear God, he wasn't going to make Adams—he wasn't going to use him like he used Haytham, was he? For as much as Adams had infuriated him, he didn't wish that fate on anyone.

“More than anything, Your Grace,” is Adams' emphatic response.

“Very good,” says Washington. He nods to Thomas. “Mr Hickey, lend Mr Adams your knife.”

Thomas unsheathes a squat dagger from his belt and hands it to Adams, hilt first. Adams takes it without hesitation.

“Mr Adams,” says Washington, “I've found you rather boorish, as of late.”

“Please, Your Grace, I never meant offense,” Adams says with utmost sincerity. “What can I do to make amends?”

“I don't think anything would please me more than to have you cut out that offending tongue.”

Adams tilts back his head and opens his mouth as wide as it will stretch, and Haytham knows what is coming, what he means to do even before the man pinches his tongue between thumb and forefingers. Haytham looks away, down at the flagstones, but not before he sees Adams lift the knife to his own face, and he hears the click of steel against teeth as the blade is maneuvered awkwardly into place.

Jefferson screams,“NO!” but he's immobilized, seemingly rooted to the spot, and Haytham is going to be sick, he just knows it, can feel the bile burning his throat at the sound of a sharp blade slicing through meat, accompanied by a sloppy gurgling sound—Adams swallowing his own blood so that he does not choke.

“Oh, very good!” says Washington, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair in approval. Haytham starts at the noise, looks up to see Adams grinning with red teeth, bright blood gushing in a torrent down his chin and staining his cravat. “If you will return Mr Hickey his knife, please.”

The man dutifully wipes the blade on the tail of his coat and hands it back to Thomas who accepts with a cordial nod.

“You see, I don't need soldiers; I have subjects. Sixty thousand souls who will do anything—and I do mean anything—to further my ends.”

“Dear God,” someone, perhaps Jefferson, moans.

“Gentlemen, I now give you my leave to go.”

Washington lowers the scepter. The light is returned to the world. It is only then that Adams begins to scream.

Op here.

Woah. Uhm, give me a moment. I just need to process this chapter. Wow. Wow.

I don't think there's anything I can say, really, except for fantastic job. Washington is completely and utterly insane and this is perfect.

Wow, I absolutely love the way that you're treating this prompt. Just the way that Haytham waking out of his daze doesn't solve everything, the way that Connor is using all his skills to try and deal with the situation and trying not to give up hope, the way that Washington in the last section is so perfectly horrifying because of the hints of the circumstances that drove him to crave that power and control; seriously, this is so well-done.

Insane. Bloody insane.

He supposes that he knew something like that would happen, that he'd be witness to some new and gruesome shade of brutality, but it hadn't made Adams' mutilation any less terrifying to behold.

Had he made an involuntary face? Made a noise? The drugged and complacent whore would probably not have looked on the scene with anything more than mild dismay, but Haytham isn't that good of an actor. He doubts anyone is. He feels sick, panic gnawing at his chest and he jams his hands between his knees to keep them from shaking. Adams makes low guttural noises that may have once been speech but now just dissolve into inarticulate, animal howls of rage and pain, echoing off the walls.

Jefferson takes Adams under the arm and hustles him out. The other delegates have already fled, made a run for the doors before Washington inspired more mutilations. Haytham wonders if the Adams will live to see Philadelphia.

His mind spins around the figure Washington had so casually bandied about: Sixty thousand. He was certain the remaining Philadelphia regiments and French troops were well trained and armed, but what would they do against men that were compelled to keep fighting unto death? Could they bring themselves to kill women bearing muskets? Children wielding knives and axes? And still, the larger question; how was that sort of power even possible? He'd studied accounts of Precursor technologies extensively, the Pieces of Eden in particular, but no where had he ever heard of anything capable of directly controlling more than a few hundred at a time. Washington was bluffing. He had to be. At least, that's Haytham's fervent wish.

Washington sighs, shifts in his seat, leans an elbow on the throne and rests his forehead in his hand, tense.

“Fools. Utter fools,” he growls, “How dare they? What do they even hope to accomplish by defying me?”

“Highness?” asks Thomas.

“Yes, Captain Hickey?” is Washington's weary acknowledgment.

“You want we should put a tail on 'em?”

“I doubt that will be necessary. It's an eight day ride to Philadelphia; we'll know their response soon enough.”

He calls out to his servants, to the other soldiers. He barks out commands. Ride into the country and collect all the horses that can be mustered, be they thoroughbreds, plow horses or ponies. Kill as many bears and wolves as they could find; they would dress as Russians if need be for a winter campaign. Have construction halted on his palace; they would need every laborer for the war effort.

Haytham is barely listening, though. He's staring at the last five inches of Adams' tongue on the carpet before the throne. He wonders if Washington specifiably chose red for the carpet in order to better hide the blood. Finally, one of the servants reaches down, covers the bit of human meat in a square of cloth, and takes it away with an offended grimace.

Haytham feels a hand brush against his neck, near the collar, and shivers. The fingers leave a burning trail in their wake thanks to the aphrodisiac that's been reintroduced into his system, but He can't feel the lick of pleasure over the revulsion and fear that churn his guts. Damn. Haytham was hoping that he would be forgotten in all the confusion, but fate was not on his side today.

“Collect as many natives as can be found in the frontier, they can be compelled to serve as cannon fodder if need be. No sense in letting good Christians be killed in the first volley.”

“Aye, Highness.”

Good thing Connor isn't present; no doubt he'd get himself killed upon hearing that. Haytham wonders where his son is. When they marched Haytham into the throne room, the guards had dragged the boy further down the hall.

All thoughts of Connor evaporate when Washington coils Haytham's chain around his fingers and jerks it slightly. Not an attempt to choke him, then, but a command. Wincing, he crawls on hands and knees to the front of the throne.

Washington reaches out and caresses Haytham's stubble-rough jaw, suspiciously, creepily gentle. He can see the tension in the muscles of the man's hand.

“Are you well?” Washington asks, all false concern.

No. He most assuredly is not. He feels nauseous, especially after witnessing Adams' mutilation, still feels weak, lightheaded, and regrettably lucid after being subjected to Connor's 'help.' He nods anyway, though.

“Did you enjoy your little reprieve?” Haytham doesn't know what to do—does he nod 'yes?' Shake his head 'no?' He doesn't know which Washington wants, so he just crimps his lips and stares at Washington's chest. Powerful fingers grip his chin, force his gaze back upwards. He settles his gaze at Washington's mouth, not daring to look him in the eyes. He wills his face to be as blank and his eyes as vapid as possible.

“I asked you a question, pet,” he says, that dangerous bite of steel lurking beneath his mild tone. He grips Haytham's chin tighter. “Did you miss me?”

Haytham nods, guessing that was what Washington wanted. He guessed correctly, apparently, because the self-made king grins and runs his fingers along Haytham's neck, rubs the back of his spine and Haytham feels a weak tingle that might be pleasure beneath his mounting unease.

“Truly? Well, then, perhaps you would like to show me how much?”

It's said as a question, but Haytham knows a command when he hears it. He tries to swallow his anxieties but his throat feels like it's lined with sawdust. He hesitates. This was so much easier when he hadn't the slightest clue what was going on, when he couldn't even remember his own name, much less the abuses that he'd been subjected to the day before.

Connor. Damn him, how was he supposed to be able to do this? Interfering bastard...

He doesn't want to know what the consequences will be if—no, when Washington finds out Haytham isn't the docile, dumb play thing he once was. He has to do it, though, has to make it convincing or they'll realize what Connor has done. He doesn't know why he gives a damn about what happens to the fool boy. Obviously, Connor doesn't exactly hold Haytham in the highest regard, judging from the way the boy stabbed him in the throat in their previous lives. Haytham shouldn't care less what happens to him, but... there's something between them, something that snide comments, hateful words, spilled blood and an all-out war hadn't been able to completely annihilate.

For a moment, Haytham wants to laugh. He must be going insane himself. It's just that the world has become so absurd, so twisted, that his life and the life of his son depend on how well Haytham preforms between Washington's legs.

Speaking of which.

He shuffles forward as Washington sits back and lets his knees fall wide apart. Haytham undoes the front of the man's breeches, his fingers feeling stiff and clumsy. Washington isn't wearing any small clothes. Haytham can't help but dumbly stare at his cock. For a brief moment he panics, mind racing, but if Washington notices he doesn't react. The king reaches down and gives himself a few quick pumps, and it's still only at half mast, but Haytham can tell that it's of an impressive width and length, not unlike the rest of the man.

“Well?” Washington prompts, traces the head of it along Haytham's lips. He can't afford to be reluctant; he has to play the part of the obedient, wanton little whore. Nothing he hasn't done before, apparently. Cursing himself, he leans forward and takes the head into his mouth. Washington sighs appreciatively, bucking his hips.

He doesn't know what to do. He had hoped that some part of him would remember how the act is done, what Washington prefers, but everything is so hazy from the time before, so he thinks further back, tries to remember what he himself had enjoyed, but he can't concentrate hard enough to recall those times either. He remembers to sheath his lips over his teeth, at least, and goes down as far as is comfortable, lapping at the thick shaft as he goes. He bobs his head up and down, trying to take in as much as he can, but when the head touches the back of his throat he recoils. He tries not to think of how much of a whore this makes him. It's one thing to be forced into doing this filthy act, quite another to be a willing—if coerced—participant. He tries to make his mind as blank as his face, to retreat further into himself, to make it as if this is happening to some unfortunate stranger.

Washington sighs. It's not the sigh of someone deeply contented and in the throws of passion—it's disappointed, agitated, the sound one might make while waiting for a carriage that's late. Haytham looks up at him discretely though his lashes. And against all common sense, all reason, and despite the fear that constricts his chest and threatens to strangle him, Haytham feels—well, weirdly indignant, because Washington looks apathetic—bored, even. More bored than anyone with their cock in someone's mouth had any right to look.

That, Haytham thinks, is a very bad sign.

He thinks back to what Church had said that morning, about how Haytham had “ceased to be amusing” and how he doubted that he would need to see to the king's pet much longer. Were they going to replace him with someone else? He didn't want to know what happened to Washington's cast offs.

He tries to redouble his efforts, to make up for his evident lack of finesse with faked enthusiasm, but it's apparently not enough. The man grabs Haytham by the hair and pulls him back. Haytham lets the flesh slide from his mouth. A strand of saliva and precome connect his lips to the head of Washington's cock. The fist clenches and Haytham's face is forced upwards. For the briefest of moments, their eyes meet. Washington stares at him, frowning, brow furrowed, and Haytham can feel the panic rise in his throat and set his heart to pounding—he knows, good God, he knows everything—but the man says nothing and Haytham forces his face to be as inscrutable as stone.

“Captain Hickey,” Washington says, and Thomas emerges from behind the throne.

“Y'Highness?”

“You did very well today. Would you like a little reward for your service?” asks Washington.

Oh, no, Thomas would never... But the eyes that rake over Haytham are hungry and malicious. Haytham had never in his life anticipated being on the receiving end of his Brother's lascivious smile; it makes his skin crawl.

“I think tha'd be right generous of you,” he replies and ambles forward with a swagger.

Washington smiles in a way that makes Haytham even more uneasy. He pushes Haytham's head back down. Haytham takes the hint and reluctantly resumes. Haytham flinches when Thomas yanks down his pants down around knees, exposing him to the chill of the air and the scrutiny of the entire room.

“Not bad, for an old bloke,” he chuckles, and Haytham can feel the panic starting to bubble inside him. It's Thomas Hickey, for God's sake. He would never... he preferred women, exclusively. Thomas may not have been especially discerning about the quality of the wenches he would take to bed, but it was always women. But it's not Thomas anymore, not really, Haytham has to remind himself. It's a highly dexterous marionette; Washington using Thomas' body as yet another object of abuse, as effective and hurtful as any whip or thumbscrew. It's really Washington's burning touch that skims possessively from the small of Haytham's back to his ass cheek, Washington's hand that gives his skin a ringing slap, Washington's dark chuckle when Haytham flinches.

Nothing I haven't done before. Nothing I haven't...

He hears Thomas spit into his hand, presumably to slick himself, then wet fingers slide along the cleft of Haytham's spread cheeks, making him shiver. Thomas gives his entrance only the most cursory of attention, almost as an afterthought. Then, Haytham feels something blunt and hot and far, far thicker than fingers press against his hole.

He can't mean to... Oh, no. No no no that wasn't nearly enough preparation he couldn't—

When Thomas' cock presses forward he feels the burn of skin against skin. He pushes and pushes, slow but unfaltering, relentless, sinking himself deeper by fractions of inches. The aphrodisiac isn't enough to mask the pain of it, not even close, and he wants to bite and scream, kick and punch out, but he can't, has to settle for clenching his fists in the fabric of Washington's breeches and moaning pleadingly around the flesh in his mouth.

He can't pretend to enjoy this. It's not possible. But Haytham's pleasure had never been the point, had it? Thomas sinks to the hilt with a grunt, his coarse hair ticking Haytham's overly sensitive flesh. Thomas pulls up Haytham's shirt and runs his hands over his scarred, quivering back, like he's trying to gentle a skittish horse. So this is what it's come to; on his knees, in public, one man in his mouth, the other in his ass, taken like a whore—no, worse, like an animal. Hickey pulls back, and part of Haytham feels like he's being pulled back along with him and he stifles a whimper at the friction.

“Always thought 'e was a tight-arse,” Hickey chuckles darkly. “Won't be, time I'm done wit' 'im.”

The hands settle on his hips, thumbs caressing the sharp ridge of bone for an instant, and then Thomas grips him hard enough to bruise, and mercilessly impales him.

He gasps around the cock in his mouth, thrashes, but Washington grabs a fistful of his hair, keeping him in place.

“Mind those teeth,” he growls, “or I'll take them from you one by one.”

He tries to scrabble forward, to escape the severity of Hickey's thrusts, only to have Washington's cock strike his tonsils, making him choke and sputter, eyes welling with tears. Washington's fingers knot in his hair and force his head up and down on the length of his cock.

“You like that, 'Atham?” Hickey hisses. “How's it feel to be the one gettin' fucked for once?”

Hickey's thrusts are agonizing. It's not the most pain he's ever endured before, but God, every push feels like the man is rubbing sand into an open wound. He's trapped between the two men, rocked back and forth between them, Hickey setting a brutal pace that Washington mirrors exactly.

“Always looked down on me and mine, didn't'cha?” he continues, “Walked around like your shit didn' stink. Treated us like we was scum. Well who's the scum now?”

It's not Thomas. It's not. They were never close enough to be friends, certainly, but Thomas had been loyal, one of the most effective tools in Haytham's arsenal, and Haytham had always given him credit where credit was due, always compensated him generously. He'd never misused him, treated him badly... had he?

“Whas that word you bandied about? Ah. Expendable.” He rests his weight on Haytham's back, the cold buttons and buckles of his uniform digging into his skin. He feels Hickey's hot breath against the shell of his ear. “You left me an' Charlie in the woods to die. Was worried more about that savage slut o' yours then your own Brothers.”

No, he wants to tell him, it's not true, I tried—but he knows better than to try to respond. Hickey's mouth goes to where Haytham's neck meets his shoulder, tongue lathing at his racing pulse.

“You brought this upon yourself, you know,” Washington says, a touch breathlessly. “If you were not so damnably willful and stubborn...”

Hickey then bites down, hard, sucking, gnawing at his flesh until the skin splits, and Haytham shudders, repressing the urge to scream.

“I wouldn't have to do this, if you would just let me in...”

And despite it all, Haytham wants to laugh—let him in? Good God, Haytham can feel the man's cock nudging his tonsils; how much further in did he expect to get? Washington's hand yanks at his hair, forcing him to arch his back, spit-slick cock sliding from Haytham's mouth.

“Do you want me to make him stop?” Washington growls just as Hickey punctuates with a particularly sharp thrust that shoots pain all the way up his spine and wrenches a cry from Haytham's throat.

“Yes!” Haytham gasps, unable to help himself.

“Look at me,” he commands. Haytham does so, bright blue meeting dark, stormy gray. Washington's eyes are glazed with lust. “Will you let me inside?”

“Yes!” he gasps again on reflex, mind whirling—Washington could have gotten him to agree to anything at that point, it just seems like the right thing to say in the moment. He doesn’t even know what he's agreed to do, but he's beyond caring either way. He just wants it to end. Almost anything is better than this.

Almost.

What he forgets is that there are things far worse. Washington is quick to remind him of it. The king reaches for his scepter and Haytham immediately regrets saying anything at all.

Suddenly his head is invaded by burning, scathing gold, bright and merciless. The world is gone, burnt away to Haytham, Washington, and the Apple. It's pain beyond reasoning, beyond words, more excruciating than anything he's ever felt before. He can't even feel Hickey anymore—whatever rude punishment he's inflicting is nothing compared to this, to Washington thrusting himself against him, battering at him with his power, assaulting him, stabbing him behind his eyes and twisting until the knives scrape bone. Washington boils Haytham's brain inside his own skull, burns down his spine, rips him with claws of fire that threaten to rend him into a million pieces.

Below all the pain, Haytham feels something else, something freezing that oozes into all those fresh cracks in his armor, makes him tremble with a queer sort of mixture of disgust and pleasure, caresses a familiar, icy finger against his startled and horrified mind. It prods and winkles, tries to gain access to something that Haytham wants desperately to keep hidden away.

No no no PLEASE—He screams but he's trapped, paralyzed, Washington encompassing him in a cage made of pain, crushing him under an impossible weight, moaning at Haytham's distress and lapping up his terror with tongues of knives. He can't think, can't breathe, rendered utterly helpless. This is worse than what Hickey is surely still doing to him, so much more intimately violating. It isn't about pleasure, pain, humiliation—this is Washington wanting to destroy him from the inside out.

“Just relax, pet,” Washington croons, but Haytham doesn't hear it with his ears, he hears him in his mind and it's not just Washington but hundreds, thousands of voices, screaming, laughing, muttering, shouting, all at the same volume, loud enough that he must be bleeding from the ears, and if it doesn't cease he's going to be driven mad—

“You don't have to fight me, Haytham. There's nothing left to fight for. Just let it happen. Just let me in.”

He feels that cold thing insist, promising instant relief, strokes him as gently and soothingly as a mother. It can all stop, right now, he can go back to being a mindless, pliant drone, like before Connor found him. Better, because he won't be all alone, he'll be one with all of the others he can hear, be useful, be part of something larger than himself. The pain, the humiliation, the constant violation will stop, it will be as if it had never happened. He can have everything he ever wanted, he won't have to think, or feel, or remember anything ever again.

And he wants it, doesn't he? It would be so easy to give in. He wants it all to stop, needs to, but...

But the boy.

No. He can't. He'd already walked away from his blood more times than he could count. He couldn't do it again. Not to Ziio's son.

“Let me in,” Washington insists.

No.

At once Haytham feels the cold power recoil, as if it has come against some sort of barrier, feels Washington scream with a rage that grinds glass into his spine, threatens to split his head apart at the fissures.

“Let me in, Haytham!” the legion of voices growl and hiss and scream.

And then something does break, and all at once Haytham is filled with something else, something that he clutches to himself that's as familiar and comfortable as his old cloak. Haytham's rage drowns out the terror, blocks out the voices, turns the pain back on itself. Haytham stabs out in all directions, howling—

Get out. GET OUT.

Haytham's back on his knees in the throne room, no, is still on his knees, because that's where he's been the entire time, and Hickey's thrusts have grown erratic, breathing labored, and the thighs beneath Haytham's hands are trembling, hard as stone beneath the fine linen. Washington's hand is before his face, cock in his rapidly-pumping fist, and Haytham cries out when the burst of cum strikes his cheek, Washington grunting in answer above him.

Haytham's still disoriented by the attack, limbs trembling and chest heaving for air, amazed that there's anything left for the two men to abuse, because the echos of what Washington did still rankle in his mind, tell him that his flesh should have sloughed off his bones like over cooked meat, that he should be bleeding from a thousand cuts, dead on the floor with his brain boiled out of his ears, but Haytham is still alive and whole. Sort of.

Hickey pounds at him, fingernails leaving crescents of blood where he grips Haytham's hips, and it hurts, of course it does, but the pain seems a trifling thing compared to what was just inflicted upon him. Hickey curses and sinks himself hilt-deep. Haytham's guts churn in disgust as he feels his former associate let go.

“It is very unwise,” Washington says, voice low and dangerous, “to promise what you cannot deliver, pet.”

Haytham glances up to see Washington's cold fury. His heart pounds in his chest.

“Captain Hickey.”

Hickey pulls out. Haytham feels his former Brother's seed ooze down his thigh.

“Highness?” asks Hickey, a touch winded.

“Fetch me my riding crop.”

Re: FILL ---------7 of ? -------Enthralled

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Re: FILL ---------7 of ? -------Enthralled

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FILL ---------8 of ? -------Enthralled

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(Forgive me. I was a huge fan of this thread when it was new, and recently have been thinking about it. I checked for new contributions, and at seeing none, I felt the need to write. Original Anon, if you return, feel free to ignore my contributions and continue where you left off. I am just so inspired, even years later. Thank you!)

It was abnormal for Washington to take his pet back through the filth and darkness that was essentially a dungeon. Haytham usually walked with the guards, but at his side, Haytham had to crawl. The floor was unfinished, so dirt and pebbles pressed painfully into his knees and hands. Washington would tug on his lead if his pet was not keeping pace. Haytham felt his blood boil, but he continued to precariously crawl, his eyes helping him to avoid jagged pieces of glass from old bottles.
Connor had already been placed in his cell, still handcuffed, sitting on the pallet they called a bed. His face was contorted with disgust before Washington began down the hall, Connor aware something "special" had to be going on if Haytham was not brought back with him earlier. When he listened for the footsteps, he paused. They were different, better, nicer shoes that never walked on this kind of floor, no semblance of stealth in the way the ground snapped. Haytham's slow crawling almost sounded like a person being dragged, and Connor's chest became tighter. His face returned to its state of disgust when the well dressed "King" came into view. "You had best not be stealing from my pet's plate. He may be my toy, but he is worlds beyond an animal like you," Washington started, two guards who had been standing watch opening the lock of their cell for him. Haytham had remained on his knees just out of view of the cell, but Washington soon yanked him forward. Connor's disgust turned to sternness, trying to mask his rage.
"I do not eat his food," Connor said flatly, concerned his responses would make Haytham pay in the end.
"Still such fight in your eyes, almost like this one once was..." He trailed off and began to pet Haytham's head. Haytham gritted his teeth as warmth spread in the wake of Washington's touch. Connor looked away, but Washington grasped his face, and pulled it close, "No, animal. Watch. Watch how you will be one day..." Haytham's gut turned upside down, his eyes blinking over and over to avoid holding them wide in dismay. His son would be next...Haytham had to do something. Haytham mewed at Washington, rubbing his face against the clean, but clammy hand that had caressed him. "What is it? Jealous pet? No need for that, I will show him why you're always my favorite," a grin that sickened the other two pulled gingerly at Washington's pale face.
His pointer painted Haytham's lips, sending chills down his spine he allowed to shake him, wanting to put on a better show. Connor watching was degrading and deplorable, but now...Connor had seen it all, and Haytham would do what he had to in order to prevent the boy from experiencing it too.
It had been easy for Connor to look away whenever his father was forced to shamefully please self-absorbed men. Haytham expected it, though he would always glance from the corner of his eye, to ensure his boy saw as little of his shame as possible.
"No. Watch us," Washington started, "Beast, I am talking to you," he said with more force, a slight echo making his words ring more sickeningly in Haytham's ears. Connor glared downward and then lifted his eyes, despite how much he wanted to close or avert them.
Haytham felt the burn of those soft brown eyes watching his lascivious acts. His breath increased in pace as he continued to carefully lick the throbbing shaft that bulged with need. Grey eyes looked through pained slits at the brown, innocent eyes that were fully taking in his father's skill. Connor stood so tall above Haytham, a small form on his knees. His eyes watched Haytham's tongue, the dark pink circling Washington's tip with increasing speed and pressure.
Connor's own breathing became faster, and not from nerves like Haytham. Though he had no tea to blame, his pants began to grow tight, and he shifted uncomfortably, well aware his endowment would not be easy to hide. Haytham had focused enough on his task to not notice yet, but he felt the burn and tingling over his form to a greater degree than normal. He cursed himself. He dripped in his rags, knowing it was mainly because of how dirty and lowered he felt from his son, his strong, impressive son, watching him.
Washington's fingers knotted themselves in Haytham's messy locks, his fist pushing Haytham down onto his length. Connor took in a breath. Haytham gagged momentarily before bobbing in an experienced rhythm, taking the man to the hilt each time. Connor's eyes followed his lips up and down the shaft, his father's sultry moans making his own cock twitch against its confinement.
"Good boy..." Washington moaned, his hips moving up with need at the knowing mouth that pleasured him. Haytham opened his fogged eyes enough to peer at Connor again, almost wanting the shame of his judgment.
He lost his rhythm when he noticed the incredible boner pointing straight at him through his son's tattered trousers. Washington forced him back into a faster pace, Haytham's hand moving between his own leg to put pressure on his now throbbing cock. He knew better than to play with it without permission, but something in him, something he hated himself for, something that was more than the tea, made him want to play with himself in clear view of Connor. Connor licked his dry lips, trying to keep from moaning himself as he heard his father moan with each bob of his hungry mouth. The man was imagining Connor was in his mouth instead, which was coincidentally what Connor too fantasized as he watched with shameful envy.
Washington was getting closer, Haytham knowingly increasing his speed, his tongue massaging the underside of the mushroom head as he swallowed the dribbling precum. Washington's knees became weak and his hips bucked wildly as his fist pulled Haytham's head down. Shot after shot of bitter cum hit the back of his throat, shooting straight down, his gagging turning Connor on more.
Connor could no longer hide his panting, and with Washington calming down, all three were made fully aware of his arousal. "Turned on? Of course, a beast like you would be. Seeing someone like me, with how powerful I am, it makes you want to bow too, doesn't it?" Haytham cringed. He knew Connor was aroused by watching, yet Haytham was quite confident, and oddly hopeful, that it was his own skill and submission that sent all of Connor's blood south.
"I should increase your rations..." Washington started as he put himself away and moved toward Connor. The native shifted in his chains, Haytham's heart racing as Washington reached for Connor's erection. A deep grunt burst from the boy when it was grabbed, Washington chuckling as he lightly squeezed, "We will need to sustain you for later...Maybe more will be required to break you, like that one." A chill moved down Connor's spine, one of disgust, his muscles shaking with the urge to resist. Haytham crawled over, sitting at Washington's feet, his eyes on the man's hand, the urge to tear it off consuming him.
A single finger traced the shaft, Haytham nearly drooling as he became distracted with a better visual of his boy's hidden bulging shape. Despite his tanned skin, Connor's deep blush was apparent, Washington smirking as he began to exit the cell, petting Haytham on his way out. The guards that had waited to the side and out of direct view left behind Washington after securing the cell, their footsteps soon out of earshot.

"I suppose they are leaving me chained..." Connor said to break the silence, his erection having decreased, but not enough to make it justifiable.
"At least you can sit for now, your limbs are bound, but just enough that you cannot lift them over your hips when you stand..." Haytham could not remove his eyes from his son's erection, his own throbbing between his thighs. The goosebumps and warmth from his aphrodisiac had not subsided, maybe even grown, at Washington's absence, and the shame was overwhelming.
Connor slowly sat, his brown eyes avoiding Haytham's gaze. He knew mentioning it would open the door for Haytham to question why he became hard to begin with. The two sat in near silence for over an hour before guards returned with food. The two servings were near identical, though Connor had an even darker tea than Haytham, as though more herbs were used. The guards unlocked Connor's cuffs and he rubbed his wrists and ankles to return the blood flow to his hands and feet. They left in a hurry, whispering about a party and news, but nothing more of note they could decipher.
Connor immediately grasped both sets of greens on their plates, tossing them out the barred window. Haytham looked with uncertainty at Connor's tea as he lifted his own to sip at it. "He is giving you my diet...That, means he has plans for you. The fights clearly get to you, but perhaps he enjoys this way of breaking men more..." Haytham sipped at his tea again, a bit unsure of his own motivation. He was concerned for Connor, but also consumed with curiosity at how ferocious his boy would be after drinking that strong tea.
"His chuckling and his...actions..." Connor said as a chill of disgust interrupted him, "I already suspected." Connor took a few begrudging bites of bread. The food was bad overall, but having that much of the slop was so much more than he had been receiving.
Regardless of how much he enjoyed getting closer to full, he felt like a whore. Connor glanced down at the forest green tea on his tray. He felt guilt crawl down his neck, knowing Haytham would have the better idea of true sexual shame. The man had no right to feel so much shame he thought, but besides his father's sleepy misbehavior, Connor was entirely virginal. His inexperience made all of this the more serious, it made his cock throb with a different kind of need and his shame hit a different nerve, yet he would not allow himself to consider his lot worse than Haytham's. He took a few small sips and then returned to chewing at the stale bread.
Connor had savored his slop stew, Haytham eventually falling asleep on the pallet under their thin blanket. Connor continued to stare into his tea, occasionally taking cautious sips, fear welling in his gut at the warmth spreading between his legs. He licked his bowl clean and washed it down with the tea. Yawning and feeling his lids weighing, Connor moved beside Haytham, laying to provide the elder warmth, or so he would have sworn.
Connor's lids pursed before opening to confused slits as he awoke from a pleasant dream. There was a nice feeling, a strange feeling. Haytham's hand was moving slowly up and down his naked shaft. His soft breathing let Connor know he was still asleep, and had somehow pulled Connor's length free while they both dreamt.
His breathing hitched, it was so much better than the other times Haytham had tried to touch him while in a horny haze. He had not actually touched Connor's flesh in his sleep before, and his son was already so needy from the aphrodisiac and what he had witnessed Haytham do earlier, that it was hard to move. Connor audibly moaned, believing he should stop it, feeling it should be easy, but the pleasure stopped him in his tracks. He could not stop thinking about how good it felt before when Haytham touched him in the past, how he denied the extreme pleasure for his sanity, but knowing how wrong it was with Haytham made it inexplicably hotter to be getting off in his hand.
He pushed his hips forward, allowing Haytham's attentive hand to have more access. Connor moved his hips, Haytham's hand moving faster as he sighed with pleasure in his sleep. Soft hums and pleasurable noises escaped Haytham with each breath, the sound almost like music to Connor's sensitive ears.
Connor's strong right arm wrapped around Haytham, pulling him close. Haytham's breath hitched, his hand opening and releasing Connor's erection, his subconscious afraid he had done something wrong like always seems to be the case with Washington.
The younger man inhaled deeply, Haytham's scent still distinctly his, despite the filth and sweat that always seemed to coat his skin. Without any punishment to sway him, Haytham's hand returned to its soft ministrations of Connor. A quiet gasp slipped from Connor's lips when Haytham returned to touching him. He left some room between his groin and Haytham's back, for his father's hand to touch him with more freedom. However, he could not let him go. He had to hold the man close, take in his smell, listen to his breath. It was more than the aphrodisiac, there was a part of him that wanted Haytham close to him. More than that, he wanted to offer his father comfort too, and only after having the strong tea did he understand exactly what was driving him.
A rough hand gently played with Haytham's hair, lost in the sensations between his legs. Small changes in Haytham's breath spurred him forward, his fingertips dancing down Haytham's neck, and then feeling his chest and the scars that littered his abdomen. Lovingly he traced the healed scars, many he had washed and tended to with his own hands.
After caring for Haytham in the ways he had, there was even more of a possessiveness he had for the man. Connor did not expect his father to feel so good against his body. He could not use him, or at least, in the ways all those men had. He could not resist him any longer either, but should Haytham wake and want it to stop, Connor would not think twice.
There were goosebumps soon left in the wake of his fingers as he felt his father's lower back and hips. The bone jutted farther from his body than it should have, but it added to Haytham's current state of femininity. Though he would never admit to the elder man, Connor found it oddly attractive, the still firmness of his ass and thighs, the softness of much of his body which was once calloused or rough.
Even if it were wrong, there could be nothing worse one could do to Haytham now. The soft caresses and knowing touches brought him sweet dreams. There was a warm fire, Ziio raking her nails down his chest, nuzzling his neck.
"Please..." Haytham whispered to her, crystal eyes hopeful and wanting as they gazed with longing at his lover who sat on a bearskin rug beside his half naked frame.
"Please...?" She asked with mock confusion, her nails tracing lower and lower on his abdomen with each sweep, but still avoiding the growing mass between his legs, just barely dipping under his britches with her most recent caresses. Haytham moaned, his hips bucking at the touch, a soft, almost yelp of protest as she avoided his most sensitive area. She smirked as she carefully undid his belt, taking ages on the button.
"Please..." he whispered again, more of a whine to his voice, his brows furrowing upward, the teasing feeling good, but his need more powerful than he could remember. In his haze he closed his eyes, the warmth of the fire comforting him as he felt himself freed from his painfully constricting pants. Soft chuckles died in her chest as her fingertips barely touched the shaft, tickling upward with their tracing.
"Oh yes!" He moaned, her soft chuckles quieting as his cock twitched and bobbed with need.

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