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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Even the Mad King gets lonely from time to time, and so seeks a companion all the while spreading his destructive power. He has a thrown built next to his for this reason; however, anyone he placed there would be booted out quickly as they came. Washington just can't find anyone he deems WORTHY to sit by him, and is becoming bitter. While spreading his destruction, he is confronted by a native in wolf headdress. At first he thinks nothing of Connor, but after shooting him the apple sends Washington images and memories of Connor from another life. At that moment Washington realizes that this was the one he was searching for, the one worthy to be next to him, but before he can act Connor escapes. Now the hunt is on.

Five months later, Connor awakes and is told of Washington relentless search for him. Not being able to stand innocents suffering because of him, he wants to confront him again, much to his clan's protests. Before he can, he is captured and taken. When they finally meet Washington makes a shocking proposition.(I wonder what it is?XD)

What will Connor decide? What happens thereafter is up to the writer.

OMG Seconding!

I third this so hard!!!!!

uhh

i might have something halfway written that fits this prompt pretty damn well

watch this space

OMG!!!! YES!!!!

This will be a series of very short chapters. There will be creepiness and flashbacks to the King threatening his soon-to-be-Consort.

How Connor had come to be in this situation was not important. It had involved hostages and people he loved at gunpoint and the Apple of Eden, and it had finished with Connor being lead into the King's palace, and shown to a grand room. There was a huge four-poster bed, with drapes. A small dressing-room and a walk-in-wardrobe already filled with expensive-looking clothes. The other items of furniture were lavish and in some ways outright gaudy.

He did not like it.

Unfortunately, it did not particularly matter what he liked or did not like. The King wanted an exotic new pet or trophy or something equally degrading, and he wanted his new possession's high status to be obvious to everybody. He'd even had a secondary throne constructed next to his own. A smaller, less lavish throne, but a throne nonetheless.

It made Connor sick.

The King (he would not call him Washington, he was not the man Connor once had known in another world) made a concentrated effort to be sugar-sweet as he showed Connor round the palace, a twisted thank you.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

Connor wanted so badly to snarl "set me free", but he knew that would only end badly. He had agreed to this, after all- reluctantly agreed, agreed because there had been no other choice, agreed only to prevent unnecessary death but agreed all the same.

"You could give me a task to complete. I do not like doing nothing, sir."

That had, in hindsight, been a mistake. The King was delighted, and agreed set him small jobs- things like helping his clerks with accounting and French for half an hour or so at a time, when he was not required in Court.

"Anything for my Queen," the King said. "And it's George, by the way. Not 'sir'."

Connor nodded politely, and continued to avoid calling him by name.

Connor soon leant that the King talked a lot. He would often lounge upon his throne, and ramble at length about how he had searched for so long for a worthy Queen.

"The Apple showed me that you were the one," the King said, smiling reverently at nothing. Connor watched him from the corner of his eye, sitting stiffly in the formal outfit the King had picked out for him the evening before. It was a simple affair compared to the rest of his wardrobe, a white lace shirt with blue silk waistcoat, cream breeches and a royal blue jacket, offset with silver accents and details.

Connor said nothing, and wished he could properly tie back his hair. That morning's Lady-in-Waiting had been ordered to pin it in a delicate half-chignon, and the King had been overjoyed at the result. It had not been even a whole week, and Connor was already sick of the King and of this false freedom that had been forced upon him.

"We'll need to have a proper coronation for you, of course. It'll give the citizens something more to celebrate."

"Why would they celebrate? They hate me." Connor ignored the King's glare. To the people in the cities, he was nothing more than a savage. Even before this nightmare with the Red Willow and the Mad King, he had been nothing to them, despite his efforts to save them.

"You're the Queen," the King said, on the verge of losing himself in frustration. "The citizens will be delighted to see you."

"They will curse us," Connor argued. "I am no queen. I am a man, I was their enemy."

"They will cheer because I am their monarch and you are my consort!" the King snapped. "You are the Queen because I am the King, and you are whatever I say you are!"

Connor did not argue. The King was clearly unhinged. To push any further would likely result in something terrible happening to the village, to his people. He'd only just gotten them back, he would not be responsible for their deaths.

"I hope you do not expect me to wear a dress to the ceremony," Connor ceded, after a minute. The King was silent a moment before chuckling.

"No, I don't," he said. "But rest assured I'll choose beautiful clothes for you-- not that your clothes aren't already beautiful."

Connor bit his tongue to stop himself pointing out loudly that the King chose all his clothes anyway, so it didn't make any difference.

This!!!! Has made my day!!!!! Thank you!

Re: Gilded Cages 2/?

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-09 08:07 (UTC) - Expand

"I'm not sure I like the way the others stare at you," the King says, abruptly, after an audience with his generals. Connor does not know what to say, he doesn't think they were looking at him at all. Their gazes were firmly on the king, aside from a respectful glance and bow to Connor at the beginning and end of the meeting.

The King shifts in his throne, and stares at him, critically. Connor grits his teeth. The King chose his clothes! If anybody was staring (which they weren't), it wasn't Connor's fault!

"It's your face," the King says, after a few minutes. "It's simply too beautiful. I'll have a mask made for you to wear outside your quarters."

Connor's jaw drops.

"A mask," he says, flatly.

"I'm the only one who deserves to look at all your beauty," the King replies, smiling lovingly. He reaches out and brushes Connor's arm.

Connor represses a shudder and makes a mental note to redouble his efforts to find out where the King keeps the Apple. He hasn't seen it at all since he got here. If he can find the Apple, he can break the King's power and make things right, and the real Washington will be back.

Connor feels uncomfortable, out of place and completely trapped. His clothes are ornate, white and cream and ivory with details and patterns in many shades of grey. His hair and hips and hands are adorned with silver and gold jewellery, and there is a silk scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth.

The crown is a delicate affair, silver and gold carefully shaped and etched so as to be reminiscent of branches and leaves. If it wasn't for the fact it was for him, then Connor would probably have thought it quite nice. Fitting for a queen. It would have looked good on his mother.

He bows his head, and feels the heavy weight settle over his hair. He does not look at the crowds when he stands from his kneel, though he knows many of the indoctrinated faces gazing at them. Charles Lee ought not have such an expression of enthusiastic respect on his face, and Israel Putnam does not suit polite smiles.

Connor recites the words the priest asks him to, and tries not to think of the cool gold ring sliding onto his finger as the collar it really is. The King's smile is not one of love, but one of hungry possession.

He does not want to think about what tonight will bring.

The King slips a finger between the scarf and Connor's cheekbone and tugs the fabric down, and shoves his tongue down Connor's throat as soon as the priest says "you may kiss the bride".

The cheers and clapping from the crowd make him want to retch.

Washington is a psycho!!!!

Re: Gilded Cages 4/?

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-11 01:54 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Gilded Cages 4/?

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-15 07:33 (UTC) - Expand

The King had knelt before him, in the rain, in front of the cave housing the survivors of his village.

"I've searched so long," he said, the expression on his face genuine, honest adoration. "It was the Apple, you know. That showed me you were the one."

"The one?" The way the soldiers pointed their muskets at the men and women huddled in the cave entrance made Connor nervous. He was barely armed, he could not save them all.

"My Queen," the King answers, as though it's obvious. "Tell me your name."

"Ratonhnhaké:ton," Ratonhnhaké:ton replied. The King's smile dropped.

"I can't pronounce that," the King scowled, "Tell me you have a proper name."

Ratonhnhaké:ton shut his eyes.

"I-- some of your kind call me 'Connor'," he said. "Not that I have spent much time away from my people, but--"

"Be my Queen, Connor," the King interrupted. When Connor did not answer immediately, still wondering if he had heard that right, the King frowned. "Be my Queen, or I'll exterminate every last savage in these lands, starting with your half-dead village."

"You would not--" Connor breathed, horrified. "I-- there are no words--"

"Is that a no?" the King asked, mildly. He glanced back at a particular soldier for a moment, still kneeling. "Shoot the old one."

Immediately, a gunshot pierced the air, and the Clan Mother screamed, clutching a bloody arm.

"Stop!" Connor yelled. "How dare you? She did nothing to hurt you!"

"I'm the King," the King said, as though that explained something. "Would you like to change your answer? I have an entire regiment not fifty feet away, and those animals don't look as though they have any weapons."

"I--" Connor began, trying to think of a way out. There had to be something. Some sort of loophole or... or a badly-worded phrase, perhaps. "If-- If I agree, you will not harm any more of my people?"

"They shall be afforded rights and land and all the protection I, their King, can offer," the King said, standing. He drew himself up to his full height, tilted his head back, and glared down his nose at Connor. "And your answer is?"

There wasn't a way out. If he refused or ran, he would doom every Native man and woman, from every tribe and nation and village. Hundreds of thousands of cultures exterminated, more people than he could count slaughtered. Starting with his nearest and dearest.

"Yes," Connor croaked.

"Wonderful," the King smiled and it was not a particularly nice smile. "I must ask you to abide by several rules, though. I am not mad, and you are a very dangerous man."

Connor felt his stomach sink. This did not bode well.

Wow...poor Connor. King Wash is an ass.

Also, thanks for updating so fast.

The King cannot stop smiling during the ride back to the palace. Once there (it will never be home, never ever ever), the King takes Connor's hand and leads him to the room he is imprisoned in, and attacks his mouth again.

"The ceremony was only half of what needs to be done," the King says, between one-sided kisses. "A marriage unconsummated is a mere facade. A lie. Grounds for annulment, you know."

His hands work at Connor's intricate jacket, then the waistcoat beneath it. Connor tries not to think about what it is exactly the King is suggesting. It isn't that he's particularly repulsed by the idea of being taken in that way by a person he loves. He is repulsed by the idea of being treated as an object, of being fucked unwillingly, of being intimate with a person he hates, with a monster clothed in the body of a man he had once thought so highly of.

"I know you're not happy," the King tries again, halting the kisses. He lays a cool hand on Connor's jaw and smiles reassuringly. "But it has to be done, else we're not properly wedded. I swear to you, I will never ask this of you again."

Connor does not answer and the King sighs.

"If we are not properly wedded, you are not properly Queen. And if you are not properly Queen, you have not fulfilled your promise. That promise is doing a lot to protect your little village."

Connor swallows, flexes his fingers, takes a shallow breath. He has to indulge the King this once. He can do that. He won't enjoy it, but it is a small price to pay for the safety of an entire race of people. He leans forward, and hesitantly kisses the King.

"I-- I do not know what… That is, I have never-- not with another person," Connor tries to explain, to appease the King. The King smiles widely.

"I knew it," he hisses, eyes hungry. "I knew you were pure. Just as a Queen ought to be, before ascending to royalty."

Connor does not try to stop the King's mad tirade about innocence and perfection, just as he does not try to stop the hands stripping him of the clothes he hates (but he hates the vulnerability of nakedness more) and he does not try to stop the oiled fingers or the poisonous mouth or the harsh thrusts of the King's hips or the hot thing embedded too deep inside him in a way he does not want at all.

It is a small sacrifice for his people, he tells himself. He is furthering his goals of gaining the King's trust enough to steal the Apple. He needs only do this once.

When the King spills, he feels sick. When the King recovers, and kisses him, he feels sicker still.

"Thank you, your Highness," the King says, and for several moments Connor has to actively fight to avoid retching.

Poor Connor!!!!

- OP

In case this chapter doesn't make any sense, in Kanien'kehá:ka culture sacred masks are used as part of certain ceremonies and religious rites. They are extremely important, and must be treated with utmost respect. It is considered horrifically disrespectful to draw or photograph these masks (which is why they were not shown in-game). I don't know a lot about Kanien'kehá:ka culture (or any Native American cultures for that matter), but I assumed it's also disrespectful to wear the masks outside of the ceremonies they are supposed to be used in. If I have gotten any information here wrong, then please correct me and I will rewrite. I don't want to fuel misunderstandings or appropriate, trivialise or otherwise disrespect any cultures.

Connor's heart stops when he sees what's in the box the King gives to him. He can feel his hands tremble, and he looks up to meet the King's expectant gaze.

"It's rather beautiful, for something made by your people," the King says. "Go on, put it on."

Connor glances back down to the mask on his lap. It's the kind used in sacred ceremonies, it is not one from his village, though. He wonders what happened to the village this was stolen from (it has to be stolen, he can't imagine any Kanien'kehá:ka man or woman willingly giving it to the King or leaving it behind).

The King seems to be in a good mood today. He can explain, and the mask can be taken back to its home. Or at least given to someone who will look after it properly.

"I cannot," he says. The King frowns.

"Why?"

"It…" Connor hesitates, unsure as to how to explain. "It is a very holy artefact. It would be wrong of me to wear it. Very wrong."

The King's eyes narrow.

"It took a lot of time and effort to find that mask."

"I know," Connor says, quickly. This is bad. He decides to try to appeal to the King's jealousy and pride instead. "I know, and I am very grateful that you took so much time and effort, my liege. Really, I am honoured by your attention. But think: the reason you want me to cover my face is to prevent others from looking upon me as only you should. Surely such an ornate treasure would only serve to attract more stares? A plain mask, of clay or china… that would be better, wouldn't it?"

The King does not say anything for a long, tense moment.

"I suppose you have a point. I'll have the mask disposed of. There's a book-burning to be held in Philadelphia tomorrow."

"No!" Connor says. The King glances up at him, clearly irritated. Connor backtracks desperately. "Could you give the mask to my village, please? They are sure to be worried about me, and such a precious gift would be taken as a show of goodwill. It would increase your popularity with my people exponentially."

The King contemplates this for a moment, then nods. It is a small victory, and the King looks less than pleased at the Queen's defiance.

I wanna hug Connor right now.

"Your majesty, we captured some high-ranking rebels!"

The King glances up from the reports he is leisurely perusing, and nods.

"Bring them in."

The men are dirtied and bruised, clearly injured. They are dragged in by bluecoats, and pushed down into something resembling kneeling positions before the thrones. One in particular catches Connor's eye, a man with silver hair cut short and a scarf tied around his face. His eyes are familiar, a dark blue-grey that's almost black.

"They were in New York," the bluecoat officer says, and Connor realises with a jolt of horror that this man is none other than Clipper Wilkinson. "They tried to kill General Lee when he returned there after the Queen's coronation, your majesty."

"Lee, is he well?" the King asks. Today he is relatively sane, in a good mood.

"Yes, sir. A little shocked, but he's been able to return to duty with no further trouble, sir."

"Send him my regards," the King murmurs. Clipper nods, and bows deeply.

Connor recognises the other men in front of him (they glance at him wearily. His pale, featureless mask must be terrifying from where they are). They have changed a lot, but even aged twenty years William Johnson is recognisable. The soldier who helped Arnold… Andre, or something like that. There are a few young men he doesn't know, and it's only at the last moment- when the King calls for their deaths- that he recognises the scarfed man.

"Kill them," the King says. "Display their bodies around the city."

"Wait," Connor says. "Please."

The King turns to glare at him. Clipper stands still, unsure which man to obey. The King has been known to change his mind on occasion. Johnson and the scarfed man do not look up, though the others have hope written all over their faces.

"The one with the scarf, he is my father. And a few of the others I recognise as well. They are good men, but terribly misguided," Connor babbles. "They don't understand that this is all for the best. They're very skilled, very clever men- we could do with some as highly trained as they, an--"

"Shut up," the King says, irritated. "Are you trying to ask me to spare their lives? After what they've done?"

"Not without good reason, my lor-- my love," Connor puts a hand on the King's arm. "And they only tried to kill General Lee, really. You know I only have our- and this nation's- best interests at heart. If nobody else, please spare my father."

The King's gaze is hungry, undecided. He needs something more. Connor lets his head fall forward slightly and his fingers twist in the fabric of the King's coat.

"I beg of you," Connor whispers, putting as much desperation into his voice as possible. He needs allies in this place, else he'll never fix this mess. He can see the King's lips twitch into a sadistic smile at the broken sound of his voice.

"All right, the older three can live. Take them to the cosy cells. Kill the young ones," the King orders. All the men are taken from the room, kicking and screaming as best they can in their injured states. He glances back at Connor. "How do you propose we teach the rebels, my dear?"

"Let me speak with them and reason. You know I have a way with words. If that fails, then we will do as we must. But please let me try reason first. This will be far more useful than accounting or French in the long term, my lord."

The King looks slightly irritated, disliking the thought of his possession spending time with men who are not himself. He gives a small nod, regardless.

"Swear to me three things," the King said. "Three things and you'll never need worry about your village again."

"What are they?" Connor croaked. Despite the King's promises, he could not stop himself continually glancing back at the men and women and children held at gunpoint.

"Firstly, you will never raise a hand against me. Secondly, you will aid and assist me to the best of your abilities. Thirdly, you will honour and obey me, as a Queen ought to obey her King."

Connor opened his mouth, to argue the finer points of the last oath in particular. The King put a finger to his lips.

"Ssh. I don't mean I'll order you about. You'll still have autonomy and you can make your own decisions. But everything you do, you do for me and this land. We'll work together. Create an empire stronger than any before it."

The King smiled, clearly enthralled with his glorious vision of the future. Connor shut his eyes for a moment, before nodding. He had no choice. He could not be responsible for a genocide.

"I swear," he said. The King beamed.

"Wonderful!"

Connor was grabbed by two bluecoat soldiers and hauled to his feet. He found he could not bring himself to look anybody from his village in the eyes as he was dragged away. He wasn't sure why- was he afraid of their pity? That they would be disgusted? The reminder that the King murdered his mother?

He wasn't sure, and despite having naught to do but dwell on such thoughts during the long carriage ride to the King's mostly-constructed palace in New York, he came to no conclusions.

It isn't until the next morning that Connor is able to visit the Templars. The King had insisted on having a 'romantic' afternoon and evening, which had in reality consisted of Connor pretending to listen to the King rambling at length about various things as they strolled through the grounds of the palace. They'd taken a late supper in Connor's room, though the King had thankfully gotten bored of talking and kissing his queen by the time the meal was over.

Haytham, now unscarfed, gives him only the minutest of glances from the cramped cell as Connor walks past, to the guard's table. There are about ten in this corridor, each not more than two metres square; just enough room for a pallet, a privy bucket and a little space to pace in. At least this place is new, so the blankets are not yet infested with lice, nor the pathetic bed too filthy to sleep on. William is

"When does your shift end?" Connor asks. The guard looks nervous despite the Apple's hold on him, and does not look directly at his mask.

"Got an hour and a half left, your highness. Eight hour shifts, you see, your highness."

"You are dismissed," Connor says, decisively. "You have worked hard, and the nights have been so very cold lately. I am sure you deserve an early breakfast and some extra time to sleep."

"Not meaning any disrespect, your highness, but I ain't supposed to leave the prisoners unattended, especially not with someone as important as yourself, your highness," the guard stammers.

"I shall be fine. I am a skilled warrior and accomplished hunter. There are weapons here, and these men will not harm me."

"The King--" the guard tries again.

"--Is my spouse. I have his permission to be here," Connor interrupts. He pauses, looking at the nervousness evident on the man's face. He sighs, and lays a hand on the man's shoulder, and speaks in his kindest tone. "I did not request that you leave, I ordered it. I am second only to the King himself. Remember that."

The guard nods, calmed by the implication: "you will be protected from the King's wrath, if he becomes irate because of this".

"My deepest apologies, your highness." The guard bows to him.

"It is all right," Connor says, and he does not speak again until he hears the door to this area shut behind the guard. He walks over, bolts it, and pulls the chair from the guard's table, positioning it so he can see into the three cells his father, Johnson and André are currently locked in. Haytham lounges on his pallet, facing the wall, apparently daydreaming but almost certainly carefully observing everything Connor is doing. Johnson simply sits on the floor, head in his arms, knees drawn up to his chest. André is curled up on his pallet, facing away from Connor.

Connor sits down, untying the mask, setting it carefully down beside him. None of the three make any effort to acknowledge his existence.

"I was surprised to hear of your attempt on General Lee's life," Connor says, conversationally. "I was under the impression that Templars were not in the habit of attempting to murder each other."

Haytham's eyes flicker to him for a moment, and Johnson raises his head just a little.

"Was it because you believe death is preferable to being under the power of the Apple?" Connor pressed. "You would probably be right in that assumption, to be honest. I cannot help but feel that it would have been kinder to attempt to free him from the Apple first."

"The things I said yesterday, about showing you the righteousness of the King, they were false. I simply did not want you to die. You are part of the rebellion, I assume. And I want the King dead and gone just as much as you do." Connor tries a different tack. André uncurls slightly, propping himself up a little. Johnson glances at Connor. Haytham's brow furrows just a tad.

"Very well," Connor says. He needs them to understand, to trust him. He picks up the keys next to him, and starts trying them on Haytham's door. There are only twelve keys: one for the main door to the corridor, one for the arms cupboard, and one for each cell, he presumes. They are not labelled, so it takes a few tries to unlock the cell. Haytham looks up at him with shock, mouth agape for a whole second or so before he remembers his gentlemanly manners and closes it. Connor ignores him, and sets to work unlocking Johnson's cell.

It takes about five minutes for each cell to be opened, and Connor takes his seat again.

"I am just as much a prisoner as you," he says. "It is simply that mine is a more comfortable cell."

It takes a long time for the prisoners to accept his story, at least the parts about his forced ascension to royalty. He is no fool, he knows that he will not be believed should he try to tell them about his memories of another sequence of events.

Haytham regards him with cold eyes and interrogates him over his mask and his mother; upon learning of her death, he looks horrified. Johnson makes him repeat certain sections, mostly about his village and the deal. André asks for information regarding the military and the King's actions in Court, and it takes a good forty minutes (if not more) before they are satisfied that he is not a spy, or at least that Connor genuinely believes he is not a spy.

"You're not a Templar," Haytham says, eventually. "How did you come to know about us?"

"Mother kept your journal. I kept stealing it when I was younger, partly to help with my English and partly to feel like I had a father. She did not speak about you much."

Haytham nods, expression half thoughtful and half sorrowful.

"That does sound like her."

After an slight pause, Connor speaks again. "You still did not answer my question. Was General Lee not your comrade? Why kill him, when you could instead free him?"

"That's what we were trying to do," André says. "Trying to save him. It might've looked like an assassination attempt, but if it'd worked, we'd have an inside man in the King's military."

"That was the plan all along," Johnson adds. "We didn't realise that the King swore them in using the Apple before it was too late."

"But how were you saving him?" Connor asks. "The reports said you attempted to hang him."

André hesitates. Johnson exchanges glances with Haytham. There is silence for a moment, the men clearly agonising over whether telling Connor the full story is worth the risk that he is a liar and the King will discover the information.

"Near death experiences can break the power of the Apple," Haytham answers. "Or at least we think they do. We've killed a few of Washington's lackeys, and before passing, they've all had a few moments of lucidity before dying. We hoped that if we could half-choke Charles, he'd make a full recovery from the supposed assassination attempt and be able to carry on his duties as a general while working for us on the side, as originally planned."

"It is a good plan. I suppose that there were complications. Such as too few of your men, and more bluecoats than anticipated?"

Haytham nods at Connor.

"Unfortunately."

"Then I shall bring the general to his senses for you," Connor says. "We can strengthen the rebellion from inside the King's own stronghold."

Haytham allows himself a small quirk of the lips.

"If you bring us Charles, we have a deal. I suppose we'll be imprisoned until you win us over with your oh so persuasive ways?"

Connor nods and apologises, eager to finally get somewhere with toppling the King's rule. He can scarcely believe that Haytham is desperate enough to tell him so much. The rebellion must be in a sorry state indeed if he is willing to share such sensitive information so quickly.

"Don't disappoint me, boy," are Haytham's final words, as Connor locks them back in the cells, and ties his mask back on.

fairly graphic non-con ahead.

"I spoke to the rebels earlier," Connor says that evening, when the King insists that they must simply sit together, sipping wine. His gaze is hungry, and Connor is glad now that the King had forbidden him to cut his hair in the first few days he had been in the palace. It means he has something to obscure the look in the King's eyes.

"Have you had any luck?" the King asks.

"It seems they were once associates of General Lee, and held him in high esteem. They targeted him because they believed that he deserved death for deciding to follow you instead of their misguided ideals. I thought perhaps if they were to speak with Lee, they would see reason sooner."

"You're clever," the King says, and the smile on his face is not comforting. "I like that. I'm incredibly lucky to have you."

"You speak highly of me, sir," Connor replies, bowing his head modestly, before rising. "Unfortunately, I must go to the library now."

Connor hopes the King will nod, and go back to his paperwork. He does not. Instead, he rises as well, and steps around his desk, running his hands through the loose locks of Connor's hair.

"You can read books any time," he says, one hand snaking down Connor's back, squeezing his arse hard enough to hurt. "Stay with me a while longer."

"You promised you would never ask me to--" Connor starts, mouth suddenly dry with apprehension. "I already did as you asked."

"I am not asking," the King replies, and leans in for a kiss. Connor backs away, bringing up a hand to stop the King. He feels the jolt run through his hand, to his wrist, barely reaching his elbow, and he knows he's in trouble now. The King halts, drawing back. Connor keeps his hand where it is, hoping that the fingers the King touches to his nose won't come back bloody.

They do.

"Ow," the King breathes. "You promised you'd never harm me."

"I-- I apologise," Connor stammers. Perhaps if he backtracks enough, the King will be appeased. (In his head, he knows that won't happen and the King will demand more than a simple apology.)

"It seems you don't really love those savages, after all," the King says. His expression is almost blank, and that's more terrifying than if he were to shriek in fury. "I'll have each one burnt alive."

"No, no," Connor says, desperately, knowing what the King is going to demand of him. "No, I am so sorry to have hurt you, my lord, you know I would never--"

"Enough," the King snaps, and this time his voice trembles in ire. "Lean over the desk."

Connor squeezes his eyes shut and balls his hands into fists. He only needs to appease this madman for a few weeks more-- just a few weeks, he can do that. Focus on the future. On his goals of fixing this mess.

The King, drunk on fury and lust, does a shoddy job preparing him and it burns. Connor bites his lip and tries to plan, tries to ignore the slapping of skin against skin, the fading pain in his arse, the hands tangled in his hair and the forceful thrusts that drive his hips into the hard edge of the desk. He can't block out King's heavy breathing or his sighs and moans, and he feels sick when the King finally comes, curling his fists into Connor's hair painfully.

"Know your place," the King hisses, when he withdraws. "Clean yourself up, you look a mess."

He leaves, shutting the door with more force than is necessary. Connor hurriedly yanks his breeches back up and into place, making his way back to his quarter on legs that feel as though they're going to give way beneath him at any moment. He bathes and retires to bed early, and tries very hard to refrain from thinking at all.

Re: Gilded Cages 12/?

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-25 10:04 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Gilded Cages 12/?

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-26 11:31 (UTC) - Expand

Connor stays as far away from the King as he can for the few days it takes for Charles Lee to journey from Philadelphia. He hides away in the unexplored, half-built parts of the castle, only staying in Court and by the King's side for shortest amount of time he can get away with. He is nearly silent, and politely draws back from any touches the King tries to inflict upon him- even the lightest of caresses on the back of his wrist.

"You're not still mad at me, are you?" His Majesty asks once, during a terse dinner. "You're my wife, it's what you're supposed to do."

"You broke your promise," Connor replies, quietly, head bowed.

"And you broke yours. An eye for an eye."

Connor grits his teeth. A few weeks. A few weeks and he can have Haytham and the others tail the guards who carry the sceptre back and forth from its hiding place. A few weeks and the Apple will belong to the resistance. A few weeks and he will be free.

The King takes note of his foul mood and showers him with gifts and less unpleasant attention. It does not make Connor feel better. He would like to be treated consistently, not merely as an object who is personified when it suits its owner. He does not want to be a pet, to be primped and pampered in apology for shoddy care. He is a human being, not a doll or a toy or even a fetish. Why is it so hard for the King to understand? How can he be so far removed from Washington? They share the same history, don't they?

Still, he pretends to forgive the King for the wrongs that have been done to him, and visits the prisoners once more.

His father hardly knows him in this version of events, but he knows something is wrong as soon as Connor sits down in front of the cells, pulling off his mask. Connor must not be as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks.

"You seem troubled," he comments, staring at the wall of his cell.

Connor wonders what to tell him. Truthfully, he hadn't wanted to bring it up at all. Obviously Haytham and the others must suspect that, as the King's lawful wedded husband, he must do… certain things, but he does not want to speak of it (or do it at all), much less admit that he is not as strong or capable as he wants to be. As he thought he was.

"Promise me something, will you? When we retrieve the Apple, I will be the one to kill the King."

Connor does not look his father in the eyes, but Haytham seems to understand that the King has overstepped a boundary, even if he does not know exactly what that boundary is.

"Of course," Haytham replies.

Connor lets out a sigh of relief. Good.

"Lee should be arriving tomorrow," he says, after a few silent minutes. "I will visit with him before nightfall."

The King makes him ride into the city before meeting Lee. Apparently there's some sort of ruckus in the bay, and the King wants to watch his ships defeat the enemy. Connor sits side-saddle, not because he wants to, and prays to any gods, spirits or supernatural creatures that might be listening that the King's ships will fail.

It is the Aquila.

The ship is beautiful as always, though in severe disrepair. It goes down fighting, ramming into the largest of the King's fleet, and Connor feels his heart sink. A suicide mission, a last-ditch attempt at weakening the King's forces. His ship, his beautiful ship-- no, not his, not here-- disappears beneath the ocean.

The King laughs.

"What fools, thinking an act of petty rebellion could harm us."

Before Connor can answer, the King is knocked off his horse by a furious Kanen'tó:kon. He brandishes a tomahawk, and screams in Kanien'kehá:ka. The soldiers raise their rifles, and as much as Connor wishes the King dead, he does not want Kanen'tó:kon to die.

He slides off his horse, grabs his friend and pulls him backward, putting himself between the soldiers and Kanen'tó:kon.

"Kanen'tó:kon!" Connor yells, also in Kanien'kehá:ka. "Stop! I know you want the King dead, but this is not the way to do it! I already have a plan to steal his sceptre, and I need your help."

Kanen'tó:kon stares at him-- no, his mask-- with wide eyes, trying to figure out what is happening, who this man is. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

"Ratonhnhaké:ton?"

Connor does not dare not, not while the King is watching. He grabs his friend's wrists, and shouts instead.

"Yes, but am not here because I want to be! I am working with the resistance, and I will tell you everything later. I need to stop the king from killing you. Please play along!"

"All right," Kanen'tó:kon replies after a long split second, pretending to struggle against the grip Connor has around his arms. "Shall I carry on shouting like this?"

"Yes!" Connor replies, before turning to the King, speaking English. "This man is from my village. He thinks you have slaughtered everybody. I am trying to tell him that you merely moved the people, but he will not listen so long as there are so many muskets pointed his way."

"We ought to just kill him," the King says.

"He is a respected leader," Connor says. "Killing him will only anger the native peoples of this land. But to have him willingly serve you… most of your troubles regarding my people would cease. If I can simply explain to him that you are the rightful king and leader of this nation, I am certain he will be a great asset to us."

The King cocks his head to one side, thinking hard. He waves a hand, and half the guns are lowered.

"Please, my love," Connor adds, in his most pleading tone. "I guarantee this will be worth the time and effort."

The King's lips twitch into a smile, and it is not a smile that Connor feels comfortable with.

"All right," he says, after a few tense moments, "But no more of that damned monkey language. He'll have to learn English, like a proper man. I'll even let you teach him if you want. …But."

There's a catch. There's always a damned catch.

"But what, my lord?" Connor asks.

"But you'll need to prove to me that your attentions with all these damned rebels are as innocent as you say they are."

Connor's stomach sinks, and he starts to feel sick. Damn it! Damn it all!

"Yes, my lord," he says, and the look of puzzlement on Kanen'tó:kon's face only adds to his shame. What must his mother's spirit think of him, the whore of her murderer?

"Take him away," the King says. "Put him in with the old rebels from last week."

Kanen'tó:kon is lead away by men with muskets, and Connor can only pray that his English isn't quite good enough to disclose the details of the exchange. He does not want to picture the expression on Haytham's face, on anybody's face should they find out exactly what the King now asks of him.

"Now that's been take care of, I believe Lee will be arriving at the north gate any minute now," the King smiles. "Shall we be off?"

"Yes, my lord," Connor says, getting back on his horse. "Thank you for sparing Kanen, my lord."

"Anything for you, my Queen."

Charles Lee seems happy and healthy, nothing like the bitter, sick-looking man who had followed Haytham around like a dog. For half a second, Connor almost considers letting him stay under The King's influence, unknowing of the atrocities he is helping to commit.

No, he needs the man too much.

Connor nods politely when the King introduces them both.

"Your highnesses. It is truly an honour to see you both. I understand you wanted my help with the rebels who attempted to assassinate me the other week?"

"That's right," the King says. "The Queen can fill you in later. But first, let me show you around. The construction of the pyramid has come quite a way since you were last here."

The King spends several hours happily gloating his successes to Lee, who is blissful in his Apple-induced rapture. When they get back to the main living quarters of the palace, the King shows Lee to his room, and Connor arranges to meet him outside the cell hall an hour afterwards.

"It's a shame," Lee says, when at last he arrives, having unpacked his belongings. "I wish I'd been able to show them everything the King showed me. We could've done so much good together."

"You still can," Connor replies, inclining his head politely. He locks the door to the hall behind them, and gestures for Lee to move ahead, before using the power of the wolf.

It feels good. He hasn't used it since the start of his confinement; there have been few opportunities to use it, and those opportunities have all been ruined by having company: a servant or the King (plus guards) himself.

His fingers dig into Lee's throat, and the man gasps and flails, hitting out very close to where Connor has positioned himself. It takes less than a minute to strangle the man into unconsciousness, though Lee makes an admirable attempt at fighting back, kicking and jerking in a futile attempt to hit what he cannot see.

When Lee goes limp, Connor wonders how close to death he's supposed to take the man. He's had plenty of practice with slaughter and murder, but none by strangulation alone, and none with near misses. He squeezes until Lee's body starts to shake and gasp involuntarily (that's a sign they're close to death, right?) and releases the man, doing his best to ensure he does not fall in such a way that will injure him further. He lets the power of the wolf dissipate, dizziness overcoming him for a moment.

Lee gasps and chokes, finally sucking in deep breaths as his body twitches helplessly. Connor takes away his visible weapons and waits patiently for his breathing to even. When Lee awakens and pulls himself up onto shaky hands and knees, his posture is that of a man on guard, his fingers feeling the damage Connor's fingers have done. He glances around, for whatever phantom nearly killed him, and his expression visibly darkens when his eyes land upon Connor.

"Your Majesty?" he croaks, with suspicious eyes. He looks nauseous, as though he's trying to push away a bad memory.

"General Lee," Connor replies. "How are you feeling?"

"…What just happened?" Lee ignores Connor's question.

"I did what my comrades could not," Connor replies, hand meaningfully brushing down to the stiletto lying next to where he kneels on the floor. Lee's eyes follow his hand, and he somehow manages to turn even paler than he was already.

Re: Gilded Cages 15/?

(Anonymous) - 2014-10-12 05:02 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

King Washington wants Connor to be his queen.

Re: King Washington wants Connor to be his queen.

Re: King Washington wants Connor to be his queen.

Re: King Washington wants Connor to be his queen.

Re: King Washington wants Connor to be his queen.

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