asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
Fill Only
Join or Die
✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
DLC! Washington/Charles, master/slave + mind control
(Anonymous) 2013-03-08 10:05 pm (UTC)(link)Then, Washington gets his power, both Apple and political. Now that he's got complete control over this new country and a new way of looking at things, he's going to try a new way of getting Charles to "fall in love" with him aka mind control. It's pretty easy with Haytham out of the way (whether or not Washington killed him or something else is up to writeanon) and so he uses his power to make Charles worship the ground he walks on just like he did with Haytham. Maybe he also uses this "new" Charles as an example to everyone else of what will happen if they oppose him since he must be pretty powerful to bring someone like Charles to his knees.
I would kind of really love it if Washington kept him on a leash and walked him around everywhere like Charles did with his dogs. And also maybe he forces Charles to give him blowjobs in public/do other various sexual things, which of course, mind controlled as he is, Charles is more than happy to do.
I would also love it if maybe Connor sees this and actually feels bad for his once mortal enemy because no one should be put through something like that. Whether or not Connor tries to help is, again, up to writeanon, I just really want Connor to take pity on Charles, at least.
Re: DLC! Washington/Charles, master/slave + mind control
(Anonymous) 2013-03-08 11:38 pm (UTC)(link)Re: DLC! Washington/Charles, master/slave + mind control
(Anonymous) 2013-03-08 11:42 pm (UTC)(link)Re: DLC! Washington/Charles, master/slave + mind control
(Anonymous) 2013-03-09 01:57 am (UTC)(link)Heel [1/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-09 05:55 pm (UTC)(link)Comments and suggestions are adored! This first part is mostly backstory, apologies in advance!
No one denied the king. Men reshaped themselves to follow his word. No inch of the land was beyond his influence and no lord was too powerful to resist his command. Not that anyone had a bad word to say about him – and those who did knew better than to speak it. Former enemies united to be brothers under his reign and everywhere he went he was revered, adored, praised for bringing together the colonies. He was so charismatic, so capable, far superior to King James. Even the uneducated who knew little about his military record or his political policies would always call him wonderful, positively wonderful, even if they hadn’t had a clue why.
Some still fell through the cracks, or were simply too stupid to follow the herd. Rebellions had whipped up around the country when King Washington crowned himself, but upon actually meeting the king, they found themselves quickly appeased. Now and then there were reports of discontented men that would rant in the streets or throw stones at the king’s soldiers. The king had become bored of dealing with these rabble-rousers personally and thus they were always shot or run through with bayonets where they stood. The townspeople always had to step around the corpse, leaving it to be collected by an embarrassed family.
Certain rebellions had put up a bigger fight than others. The Order of the Templars, he recalled smugly, was one of those that went down kicking and shouting. It amazed him how many individuals he had known belonged to this Order – a cult that he now likened to group of schoolchildren squabbling over a matter that was above them.
He’d discovered the Order of the Templars through a lieutenant colonel. No secrets were to be kept from the king and King Washington was thusly regaled with tales of an underground order that sought to create some sort of perfect world. He’d dismissed them as a small group of radicals, but then the brand “Templar” began springing up all over. Veterans of the British army, distinguished politicians, prominent scholars –Templars. The Order of the Templars had even gnawed its way into his own Continental Army. They were like parasites that took root and pretended to fight against their British brothers, but it was all a play, their loyalty was elsewhere.
Clearly this was a matter that required more attention.
As the king began to hack off the Order’s appendages, he’d learned that the Templars were governed by an individual named Haytham Kenway, a man whom he did not know well, and his second-in-command Charles Lee, a man who the king knew... much better.
It had shocked him to hear that his major-general had essentially been a snitch, unfaithful and undermining his orders for reasons that were now clear. Initially Washington had been disbelieving. He may not know Charles Lee as intimately as he thought, but his former major-general was not involved in some cult’s working. Then he’d felt betrayed. Years of reading about Charles’s hatred of him and wondering if there was something he could have done to better facilitate their relationship, and it all came down to the fact that Washington had accidentally gotten in the way of strengthening their Order. He had trusted Charles. Charles was dignified, powerful, intelligent – and his loyalties belonged to someone else.
King Washington realized that he hated Charles Lee.
The American Templars would be eradicated and Charles would realize that he had followed the wrong side.
When King Washington finally tracked down Haytham Kenway, the stubborn man had revealed nothing. He would not list other members of the Order and he would not say where Charles Lee was. The king had found him to be very posh, and furthermore he had the gall to criticize the king even when death stared him in the face. King Washington refused to respect him and thus he killed him with a raise of his staff. The king had long become accustomed to how quickly and suddenly men died, but with Haytham Kenway the feeling was fresh again. Feeling disgusted, he had ordered his men to set fire to the building. And so Haytham Kenway had burned out of history beneath smoking lumber.
The Order fell to Charles, then. Whatever was left of the Order; he didn’t leave Charles with much left to lead. The dockmasters were told to watch for him but Charles didn’t even attempt to leave the country. He was finally sighted in New York and detained until the king arrived. Once there, King Washington was presented with the delightful gift of a bound Charles Lee. The man looked like he had been to hell and back, so exhausted and ragged that King Washington felt pity spark in his chest. Still, there was no sweeter sight than his former general tied to a chair, leering at him and knowing that he had lost.
(Well, or so the king had thought at the time – he’d since seen much sweeter sights.)
He could have killed him. Should have, perhaps, that was debatable at the time. Charles Lee with all of his determination and his bright blue eyes made King Washington feel... human. Most likely Charles did not remember how they’d first met under Braddock and served for a short time period together during the French and Indian War. Washington did; he remembered how eager Charles had been and how capable he was and Washington listened to every stray word he said. When Charles came back from England to serve in the Continental Army, Washington remembered it all over again. They’d fought together and Washington learned that Charles was a quiet man of bottomless secrets: he someone who would run a man through the throat with a bayonet and then after the battle Washington would catch him smiling as he played with his Pomeranian.
And now that he’d hit the bottom of what he’d thought to be infinite, King Washington realized that he didn’t hate Charles Lee. He didn’t hate him; he wanted him. He knew as soon as he saw Charles that he wasn’t going to kill him. Charles Lee was his spoil of war: something that had eluded him for some long and now King Washington was free to take him as he pleased. He’d turned the man inside-out and here he was, glowering with determination and his blue eyes piercing. Charles Lee was a misguided man, King Washington thought. He had been wooed into fighting for this Order and the king had to admire how fiercely he stood at the head of it, teeth gritted, face pinched into a snarl, so ready to die for these beliefs and the orders of a dead man.
And so King Washington had spared him. He could be useful, he told his generals, not that they would ever disagree with him. Charles Lee was a magnificent general and a respected politician. Capturing him would bring security from those who followed Charles’s rants. Had his generals not been so deaf and blind, they would have seen right through his excuses and straight to his greed.
No one denied the king of what he wanted. Not even Charles Lee.
King Washington had taken him home like a lost dog and Charles had taken to his new master very quickly. He tried to resist at first, always jerking away from the king’s influence and demanding to know what fate had befallen “Master Kenway.” His devotion was grating and it brought the king great satisfaction to tell Charles that his grand master had been reduced to ash. After that, Charles’s resistance waned. He was tolerant, then complacent, and finally embraced his new role with appreciated enthusiasm.
Charles’s blue eyes doting and as the sole subject of his dedication, the king decided that despite his excuses, there were exactly two things he wanted with Charles Lee.
The first was a pet.
(The man had made a fool of him. It was quite fitting that he returned the favor. There was a part of him that was fiendishly delighted to see the once-proud man at the end of a leash. He’d pull as hard as he wanted and Charles would stumble as he tried to heel. His pet craved attention, but was never allowed to take.
“Don’t you dare touch yourself,” the king snarled as he caught sight of Charles’s free hand between his legs, desperately rubbing. He jerked the man’s leash for the sake of emphasis and a whine died in Charles’s throat but his hand obediently lifted, massaging against the king’s thigh. King Washington grunted, allowing the leash to slack.
He’d found something else that Charles was extremely capable at. A bit too capable for never having done this before, the king noted absentmindedly. He spurned away jealousy with the knowledge that no matter whom Charles had belonged to before, the man and his mouth were now all his. Charles’s eyes were half-lidded in pleasure and his breaths were coming out in noisy pants. One hand was curled around the base of the king’s member and he sucked dutifully, never disturbed by the guards walking past.
“Swallow it, Charles,” he said in a low voice. His hand holding the bundled leash lunged out, grabbing Charles’s black hair and yanking him forward, forcing himself down his throat. “Swallow it all.”
Charles moaned in compliance, his jaw stretching to accommodate the king’s length but he didn’t protest. With an animalistic groan, the king’s hips snapped forward against Charles’s lips and the former general moaned again, rutting against the air as he did indeed swallow it all. As the king’s hips stilled and his breathing steadied, he released the other man’s hair. Charles let the king’s flaccid member slip from his mouth and his bright blue gaze skirted up to King Washington’s face.
“Greedy,” King Washington purred, reaching down to catch Charles’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. Charles’s brows pinched together in concern at the disapproval, but he leaned into the touch, both of his hands on the king’s knees. “You will not finish until I command. Do not look away.”
Charles grinned and wasted no time in freeing his erection, never looking away from the king’s face. King Washington released his chin, easing back in the throne. Charles ran a hand along his sensitive shaft, giving an unabashed moan and rolling his hips. His knees parted wider and with a glance downwards the king noted smugly how aroused his pet was just from being able to pleasure his master. As his hand quickened, Charles’s gaze slipped, his eyes focused on nothing. King Washington growled immediately, pulled on the leash. Charles’s breath hitched but he corrected his mistake, his eyes snapping open as he watched the king with reverence.
Satisfied, the king jerked his head towards him. “Come now, Charles.”
The man did so obediently, as he did all things. He came with a gasp, keening into the king’s legs and spilling himself into his hand.
“Clean yourself up,” the king told him, his voice always sharp and commanding.
“Yes, sir,” Charles murmured, having recovered his voice. He rested his cheek on the king’s lap, gazing up in sleepy contentment at the king as he licked his palm clean like a languid cat. He sighed as the king reached down to course a hand through his hair.
“Good boy,” King Washington said and Charles positively beamed at the praise.)
The second was a lover.
(The lines between pet and lover were thin, but the king tried to pretend they weren’t. He had trained Charles to act like a man when it was required: a charming, lovesick man who was still very underneath King Washington’s thumb. Typically it made the king feel secure to know that Charles was doing everything just to please him; the man didn’t care about his own pleasure, lest his pleasure please the king. But on occasion that feeling sickened him. This wasn’t the Charles Lee, the man that had ridden eagerly in the French and Indian War and had hollered commands at foot soldiers during the Revolutionary War and had died tied to a chair in New York. This was his Charles Lee, the one that loved him.
“You love me,” the king would murmur as his thumb circled the former general’s cheek. He never asked; despite the fact that he now trusted Charles to say what he wanted to hear, he still always told Charles that he loved him. Sometimes he didn’t want to give Charles the chance to be honest.
“Yes,” Charles breathed as he stared up at him with an adoring expression King Washington had never as a major-general seen on the man’s face.
“To whom does your allegiance belong?” the king would sometimes press.
“You, sir.” His voice was so soft, so sure of himself. He paused, probably just remembering that he wasn’t permitted to call the king “sir” when they were together like this. The king loved him enough to let it pass. “Only you.”
Then King Washington cupped Charles’s cheek and lean in to kiss him gently. Charles sighed and his eyelids fluttered and he kissed the king back softly and patiently like a lover should. His hands gripped clumps of the king’s robes and the king would feel himself becoming just Washington again. The king was always torn by discomfort and how good satisfying his Achilles heel felt.
To the public Charles would be his pet. No one would know how he acted out hungry boyhood fantasies with his blue-eyed general, not even Charles.
And on those nights he would require Charles to be a lover. He required him to sprawl on his back and part his thighs and call him George as he pressed one, two, three fingers inside of him. Charles had been taught that this was not the time to moan to the high heavens and ride against his fingers and plead for his master to use him. He would sigh and grip the blankets and the king would try to forget that that too was an act. When he entered him Charles would wrap his legs around his waist and the king would make love to him like they were in the frontier.
When Charles came, it was with a gasp and a choked “George!” and his shuddering body quickly brought the king to completion.
Afterwards Charles would twist eagerly beneath him, searching the king’s face for approval and any indication that he wished for Charles to become aroused again. The king would snort and roll Charles onto his side so that he couldn’t see his doting face.
“You did well,” he would say in a husky voice and Charles would shiver at the praise.)
And the king found that Charles satisfied both of his desires very, very well.
OP
(Anonymous) 2013-03-09 08:35 pm (UTC)(link)lmao I don't think anyone ever expected to want gay fanfiction of the people we learn about in grade school, but Assassin's Creed has brought the desire out in all of us :)
Re: OP
(Anonymous) 2013-03-10 06:01 am (UTC)(link)Re: OP
(Anonymous) 2013-03-10 08:22 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Heel [1/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-10 12:12 pm (UTC)(link)Heel [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-11 12:47 am (UTC)(link)As he watched his master’s young messenger stand patiently before them, Charles knew that some things he just wasn’t meant to know. Charles wasn’t the least bit discomfited when his master would talk about things he didn’t understand, or sometimes, things he thought he remembered but couldn’t quite hold onto. He’d fallen into the honey haze that the king positively emanated, and he had no desire to free himself from it. The king was godlike. Charles vaguely remembered not always feeling that way, and though that now felt distant, guilt twisted in his stomach even at the thought of it. Whatever had happened in the past, the king was benevolent enough to forgive him. Charles relished his position at the king’s side. His duty was to please him, and there was satisfaction in knowing the king desired his company.
Had the king deemed it fit, Charles would have remembered months riding exhausted between cities, attempting to cull together what was left of the Order. Before, he had been steadied by Haytham Kenway’s leadership; the man was immovable and he took to the king’s crowning rationally, as he did everything. But as the true nature of King Washington’s popularity and strength became clear, even Master Kenway had begun to grow concerned. Their Order was being cut off. Messages went undelivered. Thomas Hickey was gone from the face of the earth. Every letter Charles sent to Haytham he worried would never reach him. He wondered if Haytham had the same concern, but if he did, he never spoke upon it. He’d once urged Charles to leave the country, but Charles had dug his heels in and refused to abandon him and the Order, so that was that.
And then it had come when he hadn’t received a reply from Haytham. Months without any sort of contact, Charles finally forced himself to assume the worst and take action. It was what Haytham would want from him. Recollecting the Order was like grabbing at strings attached to nothing. Old brothers would look at him puzzled and claim to know nothing of the Order. Those more themselves had been frightened into submission and renounced the Order – for now, they told Charles when he snarled at them, it was just best to lay low for now.
And as he’d expected, no one had heard from Haytham Kenway.
Charles tried not to admit he was fighting a losing battle.
During a drunken night in Virginia, he’d kicked over chairs in his room in the tavern and ranted about idiotic Washington, the poor commander turned insatiable tyrant. It had dissolved into shaking violently over Haytham’s disappearance, over the fear that the American Order would die with him, over the paranoia that the king was coming for his throat next. Charles had never felt so alone. Haytham Kenway and all of his guidance and his blue eyes were gone and everything fell onto Charles’s shoulders. This was how he was going to die, Charles thought. Haytham had died for the Order and he was going to as well.
Fear made him sloppy. The king knew what he looked like and had eyes everywhere, and Charles was finally captured in New York. He had been denied yet again by a Templar printer who had served to twist the news to however they – however Haytham – had dictated. But the coward feared for himself and his wife and his newborn daughter and had shoved Charles out onto the street, where the king’s men found him and surrounded him after he’d managed to shoot just one of them right through his empty skull.
Even worse, when Washington came he didn’t kill him, as Charles had feared and yearned for him to. And Charles couldn’t imagine why. When Washington dragged him back as a prisoner, Charles straddled the line between relieved and horrified. Washington kept him in a furnished guestroom and fed him delicacies that Charles was certain must be poisoned. But they weren’t. Washington never so much laid a finger on him, despite how Charles would pound on the door and threaten him every time he heard Washington’s voice down the hall.
Inside the court, the world seemed strangely static.
Washington would drag him before the throne sometimes and ask him questions about the Order and the events leading up to Charles’s capture, though he never seemed perturbed by Charles’s noncompliant answers. He would make his staff glow and cast light through the room; immersed in his light, Charles felt light-headed and his ears would ring and it was like there was something pounding in his skull, trying to force its way out.
If it was a form of torture, it was weak. He could endure a headache. And if the king was indeed intending to torture answers out of him, he was doing a strangely poor job. Charles had never encountered a captor that kept his prisoners in fine rooms, so perhaps the man had something larger on his mind. He began to wonder if perhaps Haytham was hidden behind one of these doors as well, or Hickey or Johnson or anyone else – if Washington had spared them all for some larger purpose.
Washington must have smelled his budding sense of hope. All illusion was shattered when Washington told him he had murdered Haytham Kenway and left him to burn in a warehouse. Charles vomited onto the floor and the king had chastised him sweetly, apologizing for everything the Templars had done to him.
As if it was the fault of his brothers that he was here, imprisoned for an indiscernible reason. But Charles hadn’t the will to argue with him anymore. Haytham was dead. He wasn’t in hiding, he hadn’t fled the country, and he wasn’t locked up in Washington’s court – that was a suffering meant for Charles alone, apparently. Charles wondered what Haytham had done to convince King Washington to murder him. There were times when he founding himself wishing for death, but the unknown of it terrified him even more than the secrets of the king.
Then he began to realize that perhaps the king was right. The Order of the Templars was a farce in comparison to the power that the king wielded. They felt distant and pathetic when every day he witnessed the king with his doting followers and his golden staff. And the Order hadn’t brought him any good, either; he’d sacrificed his military career for the sake of the Templars and he’d put his life on hold for Haytham Kenway’s lofty goals. In the end they’d all abandoned him. Johnson, Hickey, Pitcairn, and Church had all vanished. Haytham had died alone. The printer had shut him out.
Poor Charles, devoted Charles, unappreciated Charles.
But the king appreciated him, despite the cruelty Charles had served to him before. When King Washington was around, Charles found that the words tumbled out of him. He spoke about his wants and his insecurities and he didn’t even mind when the king set the room alight with his staff and the light cast out from behind him made him look like a god. Charles wanted to fall to his knees and thank him for sparing his life. The king chased away the pain, the fear, the paranoia. When King Washington was around, Charles felt bliss.
Bliss and bliss and bliss. The past and the future were foggy, uncertain things. The present was the sweetest thing Charles had ever tasted and he wanted to drown in the king’s golden light.
Because his master did not want for him to remember, Charles had forgotten. He did not hate the Templars anymore than he loved them. The very word had become like an itching memory; it coaxed to mind a man in a blue coat and a mansion painted with blood. But Charles knew his master would be displeased that he recalled these things at all and so he didn’t dwell on them. He was content with ignorance, if that was what the king wished. He no longer felt guilt, or fear, or hatred. Sometimes they’d nibble at him, but then his master would stroke his hair and Charles would be content and know that he was right where he belonged.
Where he particularly preferred to belong was right at the foot of the king’s throne. His master seemed to enjoy him there as well. It was just the two of them then, and Charles would happily lean up against his master’s legs or against the throne. He would hear nothing but murmurs of matters that didn’t concern him, and he’d feel his master’s affectionate touch and watch the men in blue enter and leave the room. The king’s men wore blue. Blue was a good color.
“We’ll be making preparations for Virginia, then,” the king was saying.
The young messenger in blue bowed as deeply as he could. Charles lazily watched him trot from the room.
“Charles.”
Charles’s head rose when from his master’s knee he heard his name. His master was addressing him now, though the king’s eyes were still upon the unfolded letter in his hand.
“Do you have siblings?”
He sounded faintly amused, or perhaps exasperated, Charles thought. Charles furrowed his brows as he tried to recall. He couldn’t remember any family. He must have had a family at one time, of course. But not anymore. Not anyone that mattered.
“No I don’t, sir,” he said finally and honestly.
His master arched a brow and for a moment Charles worried that he’d said something wrong. But then the king laughed. Charles liked it when he laughed. The king’s laughter was praise enough and he smiled up at the king without knowing quite why he was smiling.
“Fortunate,” his master murmured. “More of an inconvenience than they’re worth.”
He leaned back against the throne, refolding the letter. He seemed distressed. By what, it was not Charles’s place to question. The king shared with him what he wanted; Charles’s duty was merely to please him. Shifting, he craned his head so that he could plant tentative kisses along the side of the king’s knee, slowly traveling upwards along his inner thigh. Charles watched his master’s face for approval or disapproval.
The king’s distracted expression faded into one of pleasant surprise as he jerked his head down to gaze at Charles, evidently realizing how his thrall intended to cheer him up. “Charles,” he whispered fondly, raking his hand through Charles’s hair and tightly gripping it in back. He only spoke to Charles in that voice and it made Charles tremble with delight. His eyes lidded as he rasped his tongue against the fabric of the king’s breeches and he propped himself up onto his knees so that he could nuzzle his head further between his master’s thighs.
In these moments, Charles couldn’t imagine a life as anything but an inferior kneeling before his master’s throne, breathing in light, no need to think, only to listen.
OP
(Anonymous) 2013-03-11 05:52 am (UTC)(link)Re: Heel [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-03-11 11:17 pm (UTC)(link)