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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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.”

Ah fuck. Haytham really needs acting lessons.

Your description of Washingtonl's attempt to get into Haytham's head with the Apple is amazing. It captured all of the madness and disorientation that the Apple scenes give off in the episodes and more. I really do adore your writing - its so good. Thank you again, for filling my prompt!

Again, as always, happy to oblige. Really, I'm just a monkey hammering away at a keyboard. When I should be drawing and working on my portfolio. Gahhh... This is all your fault! :P

“Haytham?”

There's someone touching him, shaking his shoulder. Go away, he wants to protest, but he can't get his throat to make the words.

“Father?” this is soft, barely a whisper in his ear, pleading.

He's curled up on the floor on his side. His throat feels raw. His knees. His back. His... well. His everything, really. Muscles strained and wrenched to the point of uselessness, the skin of his back broken in so many places that the whole of it is on fire beneath his shirt. He is the very definition of wretched.

He cracks one weary eye open. Connor. His son. His... liability. He's kneeling at Haytham's side. The boy's eyes are tense, his face brittle and hard, shoulders drawn bow-string tight. Is he paler than before? Hard to tell, in this dim light.

“It is time for you to eat,” he says, his voice carefully even. He has Haytham's standard calculatedly grim meal with him.

They're in their cell. It's dark. He doesn't remember how he got there. At some point during his beating his body and mind must have decided that he had had enough, and had shut him down to spare him further agony. Haytham looks past Connor; there's the silhouette of a guard standing on the other side of the bars, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.

He's not hungry. Food is the absolute last thing on his mind. He wants to lie on the ground and melt into the floor, never moving again. As always, though, people have other plans for him. Haytham gets an arm underneath himself and tries to push himself up, but his trembling limbs won't cooperate.

“Here, let me help.”

Connor sets down the tray of food. He grasps Haytham under the arm to pull him upright. He puts a hand on Haytham's back to steady him, but Haytham flinches away with a strangled cry. Connor releases him as though burned, holds his hand out to the light to see that the palm is wet with the blood that's seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt. Connor curses in Mohawk, turns his face to the guard.

“He needs bandages.”

“Ain't you heard, half-breed? There's a war goin' on. None to spare on the likes of him—”

“He also needs alcohol.”

“Ha! Don't we all?”

“He is bleeding! His wounds need to be cleaned!” Connor barks impatiently.

“His Highness' bitch needs to be eatin' his dinner. Doctor's orders.”

They know. They know he hasn't been eating the herbs—No, he corrects himself, they suspect. If they knew for a certainty that he was off his diet, they would have separated Haytham and Connor (and perhaps separated Connor's neck from his head) and then forced the stuff down his throat. Washington would have never allowed Haytham anywhere near his... his person if he had known for a certainty that Haytham was lucid. It does mean, however, that if this ruse is to continue, Haytham is going to have to be far more convincing. Which means he's going to have to keep letting... He shudders. God, he can't do this...

“Do you think your king will care what the man ate after he has dropped dead of corruption?”

The guard laughs, tries to make it sound dismissive but there's an edge of nervousness to it. “He dies, then it'll be your head on a pike decoratin' the armory.”

“If there is space for one head, there will be space for two.”

The guard doesn't have a retort for that. He shifts from foot to foot. “He eats. Then I'll see what I can do about the rest.”

“Very well,” says Connor grudgingly. “Eat, Haytham.” He picks up the tray, holding it out for Haytham's perusal. The boy gives the witch-doctor's greens a significant look.

Haytham takes a hand full with trembling fingers and puts it in his mouth. Chews. Tastes bitter, pungent. Swallows. Grimaces at the pain in his throat. The two other men watch him in tense silence as he finishes the herbs and starts in on the gray sludge that is probably meant to be stew.

Apparently the guard is satisfied, because he stalks off down the hall, muttering. Connor waits until the footsteps die away and then grabs the waste bucket, sets it in front of Haytham.

“Get rid of it.”

He's not sure he wants to, thinks perhaps he would be better off drugged, insensate and oblivious the next time Washington... but the look on Connor's face is hard, lips compressed into a thin line. There is an intensity in the boy's eyes that's disturbing, the threat implicit—do as he says, or he'll do it himself. So, Haytham sticks what's left of his fingers down his throat and brings the greens back up. He hopes that whomever is forced to clean up after them doesn't examine the contents of the bucket too carefully.

“I could hear you, earlier,” Connor says quietly as Haytham wipes bile from his lips with the back of his fist. Half of Boston probably heard him, if the rawness of his throat is any indication. “I thought... It sounded like you were being slaughtered. I thought... I did not expect to see you again.”

“Used the Apple,” Haytham croaks, throat burning, before taking the aphrodisiac-laced tea, hoping to wash down the disgusting taste in his mouth. He half expected Connor to give him that familiarly irritating look of befuddlement, but the boy stares at him levelly.

“You resisted him.” Well, yes, of course he did. Otherwise this conversation would be even more one sided. “Why? What made you say no?”

Haytham doesn't answer. He doesn't quite know himself. He shifts, wincing at the pain that shoots up his backside. The boy is damnably persistent, though. Connor's eyes glitter in the torchlight.

“This morning, you were ready to to die, you said there was no hope. Why did you not give in, then?”

Because of you, he should say. Because I couldn't abandon you. Again.

“Because I'm a goddamned fool,” he says instead, voice cracking.

They hear boots, more than one pair. Connor gets to his feet. Haytham does his best to eat as quickly as possible, but trying to consume the hard, flaky bread feels like he's swallowing knives. The guard appears in short order, accompanied by two others.

“I found some blankets. Old, but they're clean,” the original guard says, gruff. He quickly pushes the bundle of rags through the bars and yanks his hand back as quickly as he can, just in case Connor has a mind to seize him through the bars.

Unexpectedly, he then pulls a pistol from his belt; Connor draws back, wary. One of the other men brandishes his musket, the hallway just wide enough front to back for him to aim without leaning on the opposite wall.

“Back of the cell, face against the wall. You try anything smart, you and your friend's gonna have more than a few cuts and a sore arse to worry about,” he growls. “Hands up.”

Connor is slow to comply. Haytham can see the wheels turning in his head; Connor's wondering if he's fast enough to wrench one of the guns away if one of the men gets too close. He does as he's told, though, watching the guard over his shoulder. Haytham doesn't fail to notice that the men are not watching him at all, obviously not anticipating any trouble from the man sitting on the floor. And why would they? He's not Templar Grandmaster Haytham Kenway; he's just some sad, broken thing that eats and shits and bends over for anyone that cares to take him. A danger to no one.

The third man, the youngest of the three, hastily unlocks the barred door. It swings forward into the cell about a foot and a half. He drops a steaming wooden bucket with a rope handle, tips it a little in his haste, splashing water on the floor. It's followed shortly by another gourd cup, this one larger than the one that had contained Haytham's tea. He slams the door, rams the lock home and backs away as quick as he can. Connor turns, staring at the items.

“That's strong whiskey, monkey. You drink any of it, you'll regret it,” the first guard growls.

“I...” Connor hesitates, Haytham can see him struggle between lashing out at the man for the racial slur, or praising him for the favor. He decides on the latter. “Thank you. This will—”

“Just make sure he don't die,” the guard snaps and he and his companions depart.

Haytham reaches for the whiskey—he wishes there was a barrel of it and not this meager cup, wishes there was enough to drown in—but Connor is faster, stepping between his father and the alcohol.

“We need to take off your shirt.”

Rather than trusting him to do it, Connor steps in and pulls at the fabric. Haytham gasps. Some of the cuts have dried to the shirt. When Connor gingerly pulls the shirt over Haytham's head, it feels like he's taking his skin with him.

He watches Connor's eyes, assessing the boy as he evaluates Haytham. He looks troubled, but not horrified. Just your standard, run-of-the-mill flogging, then. Connor's eyes linger on the savage bite near his iron collar and the boy flushes, although with anger or embarrassment, Haytham cannot quite discern. Connor tells him to go to the pallet. Haytham doesn't even bother to try to stand up. He crawls the short distance and then flops down on his stomach with a groan. Connor follows him with the bucket, rags, and alcohol.

Connor's not the worst doctor he's ever had. For all his prodigious strength, Haytham's surprised that his son's touch is so gentle. He opts to carefully soak the blood and dirt from Haytham's back, rather than scrub. It still hurts. No amount of codling will prevent that, but the pain could be worse. His son dabs the wounds with the alcohol and Haytham does his best not to flinch. After the wounds are serialized, his son tears the old blankets into long gray strips and lays them delicately over the cuts. Connor says he'll have to wrap him in more bandages to hold them in place when he's done.

“I have a doctor acquaintance,” he says as if reading his father's mind. “He taught me how to treat wounds. Whiskey is not what I would have picked, but it will serve.”

Haytham should be grateful. Grateful that Connor cares enough about him that he's willing to speak out on his behalf, grateful that he's taking such care with his father's body. After everything they've been though, Haytham should be appreciative that the boy even cares whether he lives or dies. He's not, though. The boy's touch just further reminds him how completely and utterly helpless he is, at the mercy of everyone around him. Even though there's nothing even remotely sexual about it, the boy's touch reminds him of Washington, of Hickey, about what they had done to him and why it had made the boy's attentiveness necessary. His skin crawls and even though the water that cleanses his body is warm and soothing, he shudders all the same.

As Connor works his way down, Haytham's anxiety increases. The boy's hands falter at his father's lower back. The bruises at his hips are a livid purple against his pale skin, dark enough to make out the marks of individual fingers.

His son's voice is hesitant, soft. “Do you need me to clean... down there, again?”

God. Oh, God. The first part of that phrase is awful enough, but it's that small word at the end that disturbs him the most. 'Again.' Meaning, this is not the first time Connor's cleaned him up. He buries his face in the stinking mattress, mortified. His throat constricts, eyes and nose feeling hot. He will not weep. He will not. It's bad enough that the boy has seen what Washington does to him, witnessed it first hand, even worse that he's become accustomed to tending to him, afterward. At least he will spare himself the embarrassment and shame of the boy seeing him cry.

“No,” he croaks into the mattress.

Connor has him sit up. He kneels in front of Haytham, taking longer strips of fabric and winding them around his father's body in silence. He hates Washington. Hates Hickey. Church. Lee. Most of all, he hates himself. Hates his weakness, his inability to do anything other than let himself be violated over and over. He's not even human anymore. Just a thing. An object of pity. He wants to sleep, perhaps have a few hours of respite where he dreams of something pleasant—or better, dreams of nothing at all.

But the boy just won't leave him alone.

“We need to come up with a plan,” he says as he finishes wrapping Haytham up.

Haytham goes to run unsteady fingers through his hair, stops when he comes across something crusted. He pulls it out of the strands, examines it, and feels like throwing up—of his own volition, this time. Haytham gives Connor a ragged sigh. He can't meet his eyes.

“Not now, Connor. It's not a good time,” he says hoarsely.

“There is never going to be a good time,” Connor grouses.

“I said, 'not now!'” It comes out as a harsh bark. Connor starts, but does not draw away.

“Look,” Connor says, eyes pleading. “I know you are hurting, that you do not think you are capable, but you must help me. People are dying.”

Oh, lad, you have no idea.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Haytham croaks, irritated that the boy won't just let him be.

Connor gives him an annoyed look that makes him look very much like Ziio.

“Just... Anything. Collect information. You are at Washington's side almost every day; you must have heard something useful.”

“I know nothing that can help you,” Haytham says, and it's the truth. What he witnessed today, what he saw... it will do no good for Connor to know.

“I killed a boy today,” Connor says quietly, face drawn and grim. Haytham stares at him, raises an eyebrow, waiting for him to get to fumble his way to some sort of point. “We were brought into the throne room after you had been taken away. He was like us; the Apple did not control him. He was fourteen, if that. Half my weight. He came at me with a knife.”

“Why?”

“Because he was told to. It amused Washington to send him at me. The boy apologized. Said that if he did not kill me, the guards would let the whole barracks dishonor his sister—his younger sister. I tried to stop him. Took the knife away from him, easily. He still came at me. I fought him off, but, somehow the blade found his stomach. He died in my arms.”

Connor's rendition is uncharacteristicly detached. He has a far away look in his eyes, as if he's somewhere else. “There will be more like him, if we do not stop this.”

So, Washington is still singling out resistant people to fight to the death. Perhaps it's an attempt to break them, make them more susceptible to the Apple's influence, or perhaps just out of pure cruelty and sadism. Washington had tried the same tactic with Haytham, when he'd first been taken prisoner, only to be dismayed by his ruthless efficiency and utter lack of remorse. It was war at it's most primitive and basest level; kill or be killed. So he killed. It was only after he had worked his way through a full dozen other prisoners that Washington had decided to try a different route.

Haytham laughs. It's an awful, cruel sound that's more like a sob than anything else. Poor, tender, dear-hearted Connor. So absurdly unprepared. So naive. His son is one of the most talented, natural killers that Haytham has ever seen, and yet even the slightest bit of collateral damage seems to unnerve him.

“A boy. A single dead boy you didn't even know has you put out.”

Connor tenses, draws back. “He did nothing to deserve what I did to him.”

“They never do. And yet they die just as easily.”

“I should have never expected you to care,” Connor snaps. “There is no room in your heart for anyone but yourself.”

He shouldn't say anything. No good will come of it. But he's hurting, miserable, and frustrated. He wants lash out, hurt someone in some fundamental and irreversible way to prove to himself that he's still a man, that he's something more than just a receptacle for scars and abuse and cum. And the most convenient victim just happens to be his own son. He can't hurt him, not physically, anyway, so he uses the only two weapons he has left—his wit, and his tongue.

“You're absolutely right; I don't care,” growls Haytham, vocal chords protesting, “I am completely depleted of sympathy for your dead boy. And do you know why? Because I watched Washington make a man cut out his own tongue today. Because I learned that Washington intends to round up your people, subjugate them, and then let them be massacred when Lee takes Philadelphia. And there is nothing—absolutely nothing that you or I can do about it.”

Connor stares at him, slack-jawed, dark eyes glittering, threatening to overspill. Haytham is instantly reminded of that wet, horrible night at Valley Forge. The night that Connor threatened to kill him.

“What? You look so surprised. You shouldn't be. This is, what, only the third, forth, fifth time Washington has threatened or managed to destroy your people—?”

“Shut up,” Connor says, dangerously quiet.

“—It's practically a compulsion at this point. I never murdered any of your kin; why did you see fit to kill me and let him live?”

“Shut up!” he repeats, louder.

“Why? You wanted the information. Why sulk over one dead boy when there are thousands to—“

Connor draws back his arm, viper-quick, all the muscles in his arm tense and coiled to strike. But he stops. He glares at Haytham teeth bared, eyes wet, and Haytham cowers, bringing up his hands to protect his face, quaking at the sight of so much naked hate.

The hit doesn't come. Connor's hand wavers, and then drops. He stands, goes to the opposite side of the room, and slides down the wall. Crosses his arms over his chest and buries his head between his knees. His shoulders shudder, but he doesn't make a sound.

Not for the last time that evening, Haytham wonders:

What the hell is wrong with me?

Oh my god, this continues to be so heart-breaking and so amazingly well-done. Your characterization of Haytham is pretty much perfect, especially with Connor, and I love that there's nothing easy about their interaction. Connor's own situation and his attempts to keep going through all this is heartbreaking (all the more so because we only gets hints of it from tight Haytham's POV). In short: this is so good, and I look forward to every update.

*Haytham's tight POV, excuse the typo!

Aww, shucks, thanks, glad to know I've got a few followers =D Yeah, for the moment I'm trying to downplay Connor's suffering; since everything is though Haytham's POV, Haytham would be unlikely to notice anyone else's misery but his own. Things will focus more on the hell that Connor is being put through in the next few chapters--once Haytham stops wallowing quite so much.

OP here! I second all of what the above Anons have said. This continues to be immaculately written, at every twist of plot and every scrap of character. I like Haytham's observations of Connor's personality and ability - he is a naturally fierce killer, yet it's his humanity and ability to empathise that brings him away from the edge of psychopathy. I have to say, my favourite line in this part is the similie with Connor as a viper. The imagery from that line alone is sublime.

“We suspect the Master Assassin is a negro,” Charles says, walking beside Haytham at a leisurely pace, one hand leading his lathered mare by her bridle, the other resting on the pommel of his sword. He looks about him warily, eyes scanning the forest, as if expecting to be ambushed by a pack of wolves or a raiding party of irate natives at any given turn of the path.

“Really? That's... rather brilliant, actually,” Admits Haytham, leading his own horse laden with parcels.

Charles' eyebrows raise. “'Brilliant?' You sound almost impressed.”

Haytham had wondered how the Assassin killed so effectively, completely evading all detection, carrying out their ancient vendetta with surgical precision and the utmost quietude. The recent deaths had been all too carefully planned to not to be the work of the same man. The first incident had been a Justice of the Peace sympathetic to the Templar cause. The papers had reported that the man had become clumsy with drink one night and had fallen off his horse, dashing his head on the cobbled streets of Boston, but Haytham had suspected otherwise. On closer inspection, the man's skull had been broken and face bloodied in a careful, controlled manner; all the better to disguise the knife wound through the eye. They might not have ever discovered the subterfuge had it not been for Benjamin Church's careful examination.

The next had been a Brother that was, all had assured, fast on his way to being appointed the colonial governor of Connecticut. He had excused himself during a ball that Benjamin had hosted at his new Boston manse. Only the upper echelons of society had been permitted entrance. The hope had been that Haytham could generate some interest for their various projects while furthering the Templar agenda. The prospective governor was found an hour later in a servants' privy, still immaculately dressed and powdered, the handsomeness of his clothing somewhat diminished by all the blood from his slashed throat. After that, none of the guests had much cared for what Haytham had to say on the subject of bringing order to the new world, so eager were they to run from the house, screaming.

The most recent had been John Pitcarin's relation, killed in a discrete New York whore house that catered to clientele with a taste for the masculine. He had been initiated only three days prior. One minute the young man had been fine, and the next he had been gasping for breath, sweating and trembling and clutching his stomach, and then had expired shortly thereafter. Haytham suspected poisoned wine, but hadn't been given a chance to investigate; the bottle had been broken and the whore that had entertained the lad had disappeared in the chaos that had ensued. The death had served the dual purposes of thinning Templar ranks and thoroughly embarrassing the prominent Pitcarin clan in a town where reputation was everything.

A negro Assassin was a perfect weapon. Blacks were ubiquitous in the colonies and Caribbean. There was so much construction and demand for labor of all types; an unfamiliar face was a routine sight and few questions were asked when it came to origins. Most would pay the lot of them little or no heed. With the right clothes, the right bearing, and some careful acting, such a man could be practically invisible, if he so wished. After all, who would spare a second glance for a ditch digger walking along the road after a hard day's work, a lower house servant of attending to a gentleman’s privy, yet another exotic prostitute hustling in a place veiled in secrecy?

“I am indeed impressed. It's an excellent strategy; I only wish we were the ones implementing it,” Haytham muses, idly reaching up to run his fingers through the branches of a flowering crab apple tree as the two men pass, creating a flurry of pink petals in their wake. “Very interesting indeed.”

“Not interesting enough, it would seem,” Charles says, “For you to become involved.” His words carry just the slightest burn of acid.

Haytham sighs. “Templar and Assassin have been battling for thousands of years, before there were even names to delineate one order from the other. My involvement would solve little. I've given you all the necessary tools and training to deal with the situation while I engage in other pursuits.”

“You mean like setting up a homestead in the woods,” Charles says, deadpan.

“Like studying the Precursor site,” Is Haytham's clipped reply.

“You do know that there is an inconvenient amount of tension between going on in these parts; a War, I believe it's called,” Charles remarks dryly.

“Why, now that you mention it, I believe I have heard some news to that effect.”

“Perhaps this is not the most opportune time to be prodding about in disputed territories, then. Lest you offend the delicate sensibilities of the locals and they decide to scalp you for your troubles.”

“It's a good thing that I have one of the finest young Captains in His Majesty's army to attend to the well-being of my hair, then,” Haytham says jovially, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder. “It is still 'Captain' Lee?”

“Not for long, I have reason to believe that I will be promoted to Major soon enough, thanks to someone's benevolent influence,” Charles says, and a smile tugs at his lip, but he still looks troubled. “But I don't believe my military advancement was the subject we were discussing.” Haytham sighs. It was worth a shot.

“Yes, well, living up here on a nearly full time basis allows me to focus much effort on contemplating the site,” Haytham replies defensively.

“And, doubtless, the tomato, squash and potato sprouts aid your studies greatly.” Charles' eyes flick behind them to Haytham's package-laden horse.

“If I were to return to civilization every time I required food, I would be constantly on the road and accomplish nothing but wearing out the seat of my breeches. Growing my own sustenance is the most practical course of action.”

“Right. So this retreat from the city—it wouldn't have anything to do with the woman.”

Haytham's heart sinks. He sighs. “You weren't supposed to know.”

“Secrets like that do not keep, sir.”

“I didn't want—damn it, Charles, it isn't as if I planned this to happen.”

“And what does your squaw think of you critiquing her ancestral cave doodlings?”

“Her name is Ziio,” Haytham says sharply, “And, to be frank, sir, I find your lack of respect for her people appalling.”

Charles lowers his eyes to the forest floor. “Apologies, Master Kenway,” he says, stiffly.

Haytham sighs. “Don't be like that, Charles.”

“I was under the impression that we were friends. Friends do not keep secrets from each other, not of this magnitude.”

“I didn't tell you because I knew you wouldn't approve,” Haytham says, almost a grumble. What he wanted to do was make some snide comment about Charles' own secretive activities, but he didn't dare. It would ruin an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Not that, Haytham suspected, things were to remain pleasant for much longer.

“But I would have understood. And I would have respected your decision. I always do.”

“And yet you see fit to question me now.”

“You made me your second-in-command because you wanted me to be free with my opinions with respect to the Order. All men have needs, desires, but this move into the wilderness is detrimental to our other objectives.”

“I have a feeling that if I can solve the cave's riddle—everything else will be inconsequential.”

“It's been there for thousands of years, what's a few more months? Mr Johnson is seeing to the acquisition of the lands; once the war quiets down and you'll be able to study in safety. But for now, you are needed in Boston. Bring your woman, if you must. I assume she knows...” A pause. “You have told her of your intentions?”

The silence between them lasts a dozen steps. “She doesn't know,” Haytham says.

“You are not going to be able to keep something of this import from her for very long, Haytham. She's going to find out.”

He sighs. “I know.”

“If—when she discovers your deceit, she will be most wroth,” Charles says, frowning, eyes beseeching. He's sympathetic—no, he looks sympathetic, Haytham has to remind himself. Even though they have been friends for years, Haytham has always been at a slight disadvantage when it comes to truly knowing what the other man is thinking. Charles has a masterful command of his face when it's required of him; he would make a fine actor and an even finer politician, had he not such a short and fiery temper.

“Better to end it now, to minimize the damage. Come back with me, Haytham. There are ample women in the Colonies. John has—”

“Oh, doubtless Captain Pitcarin has a gaggle of eligible female relations that would be stabbing each other in the back for the opportunity of spending my father's fortune,” Haytham grumbles. “I do not want a simpering, flighty, painted fool of a woman, Charles, I want her.”

He'd had other women before Ziio, that was true enough, but none had ever kept his interest for longer than a few weeks at most. Once he had satisfied himself in bed and cleared his head of judgment-skewing lust, there was often little about them to hold his interest. Many he found downright detestable. Ziio is different in every aspect. She is not servile and chaste, not drenched in unguents and cloying perfume, not sequestered in pounds of ridiculous petticoats and slathered in ceruse. She's practical, athletic, fearless. Beautiful, inside and out.

“Well, we can't always have what we want,” says Charles, a touch sadly. His words are poignant because Haytham knows the emotion behind them is a real one. “Leave her, Haytham, before you're found out. It's for the best. For both of you.”

“I cannot. Things have become... complicated.”

“What kind of complica...” Charles trails off, frowning, crimping his lips together. Charles is very bright. It was this useful trait among many others that had attracted Grandmaster Reginald Birch's attention. He is quick to infer, to make connections. He clears his throat. “Is it a boy or girl?” he asks, reluctantly.

“You know, most gentlemen would offer congratulations upon discovering that their closest friend is a father,” Haytham grumbles testily.

“You and I are a far cry from being like 'most gentlemen,'” he points out, his frown deepening. “Haytham, you told me you never wanted to have children.”

“No, I believe I said that I didn't want children brought into this sort of life,” Haytham says, mirroring his frown. He doesn't like this, being on the defense. He much prefers to be leading the attack.

Charles looks at him with no small amount of alarm. “Are you saying that you are leaving the Order?” He's quiet, almost a whisper, as if he's worried that the trees have ears.

“No! Don't be ridiculous,” Haytham snaps at him, actually insulted that Charles would ever dare suggest such an unthinkable act. “I'm saying I don't want to push my son to be a...” He trails off. What does he want? He shakes his head. “I don't know, Charles. I just—perhaps I want to give him the opportunity to say 'no'. To make his own decisions, decide his own fate. It was a consideration and luxury that I was never afforded,” he points out, glumly.

“Master Birch will not be pleased to hear it,” Charles says. Haytham's hands tighten into fists.

“I don't give a good Goddamn what Reginald thinks—I'm not a child anymore! I can do as I see fit! I'm still carrying out his instructions; he sent me here to investigate the Precursor site and that is precisely what I am doing.”

Charles gives a ragged sigh. “This will not end well, Haytham. For anyone involved—You belong with us. In the civilized world, not out here in these god-forsaken woods. There's so much more to accomplish—”

Haytham whirls on him, eyes flashing. “You have made your opinions known, sir! Another word on the matter and I'll bloody your nose!” Charles stops as well, narrows his eyes, and squares himself. Haytham has to incline his head slightly upwards to meet Charles' glare; the man's height is intimidating, and Haytham is by no means a small man.

“If the sight of my blood would make you see sense, sir, then go right ahead.”

They both know he will do no such thing, but Charles obviously has no intention of dropping the subject. It's unusual for him to be so obstinate. A different tactic, then. He just hopes that it will have the desired effect without too much collateral damage.

“Oh, come off it, Charles. This jealousy of yours is very unbecoming.”

Charles glowers at him, brow beetled. “What in the devil are you talking about?” He scoffs. “Do you really think it my most earnest wish to traipse about in the woods, hunting squirrels, scrabbling in the dirt, chopping wood and fending off wolves?”

“You and I both know it's not my living in the woods that has you out of sorts.”

Charles' feigned ignorance is perfect. “You think I'm jealous? Of you and your wild woman?” Even his chuckle is carefully contrived.

“You can drop the act, Charles. I know how you truly feel about me.”

I forgot to mention at the top of the chapter that I'm going to do a few back story chapters interspersed in the story. I apologize if this threw you off.
--------------------------------------------

He didn't know, not entirely, but when all the color drains from the man's face, Haytham realizes his suspicions were correct. He's treated to the rare sight of Charles Lee's true emotions. His light green eyes widen and his mouth is slack with abject horror. Haytham flushes, mutually uncomfortable. Ambushing his friend is a new low... this is the last thing he wants to do to the man, but he needs to put Charles in his place.

“I—I—” Charles sputters, his face this time flushing with embarrassment, “But—how?”

“I made inquiries,” Haytham says, gently.

Charles' mouth bows wretchedly and he looks past Haytham to the creek beyond that the path follows, the trees, his horse—in short, looking everywhere but at Haytham's face. Finally, his gaze settles on the ground.

“Who was it?” He asks quietly, voice quavering. Oh dear lord, please, don't let him start to weep...

“Does it matter?”

“Who, sir?” He demands. Haytham doesn't care for the tone of that. He hopes he's not going to be on the receiving end of Charles' temper.

“Thomas.”

When Haytham had brought Thomas Hickey into the fold, Captain Pitcarin had privately voiced his dissent. “Mr Hickey,” He had said, “Is brutish, vulgar, and has a hand in almost every unseemly business in Boston, legal or no.” Haytham had responded, “You are most correct, sir. Which is why we need him on our side.” With Thomas' invaluable knowledge, Haytham had his finger on the pulse of the seedier aspect of the colonies; who was evading their taxes, who was flouting the Navigation Acts and smuggling in goods not produced in England, who was running protection rackets, pyramid schemes, engaging in blackmail, killing for profit, ad infinitum.

Mr Hickey also knew who visited whore houses, which ones they frequented, and what sort of services the client asked for. It had taken almost no prompting at all for Thomas to supply the name and location of Charles' favorite haunt; a place in Boston that was similar in reputation to the establishment where Captain Pitcarin's relation would later be murdered. Thomas had been most reluctant to volunteer anything else, though. When Haytham went to go investigate himself, he bribed the madam quite liberally and had asked about Charles' habits. She had pointed out a man that had looked as if he could have passed as Haytham's brother. He had thought the resemblance too strong to be mere coincidence.

“That uncouth, disingenuous, whoreson!” Charles growls.

“Don't blame him, Charles. He was just following orders.” Haytham goes to place a placating hand on Charles' shoulder but he jerks away.

“You had no right,” He says miserably, “My... what I do it—it was a matter that did not concern you!”

“I had a right to know if you were engaging in any activities that would compromise our Order,” Haytham tells him, a gentle reprimand, “We investigate every man and woman who seeks to join us, recommendation from a Grandmaster or no. The Assassins would have wiped us out centuries ago if we didn't take such precautions. I looked into you and didn't find anything about you that suggested that you had divided loyalties. Thus, when the time was appropriate, I made you my Brother.”

Charles looks at him sharply, shocked. “You—you knew, all this time?”

“I did.”

“And you said nothing.”

“As you said, it's a private matter. I didn't want to be having this conversation. I knew it would upset you.”

“And yet we are still having it. And you have upset me.”

“To illustrate a point, Charles,” Says Haytham, and he tugs on the lead of his horse, beginning their slow walk again.

“And that is?” Charles asks, voice rough, following.

“That we can't always choose who we care about.”

They walk. They had been walking side by side, when the width of the path had allowed it, but now the younger man hangs back. Haytham can scarcely recall a more deafening silence; the void between them drowns out the birdsong, the gurgle of the stream, and the hooves of their horses until all Haytham can hear is the words that they are not saying to each other.

“I'm sorry, Charles,” Haytham says, trying to defuse the tension. When Charles doesn't reply Haytham looks at him back over his shoulder. The other man watches the ground, shoulders slumped. Haytham shoots him a smile that is supposed to look warm and comforting but in all likelihood is wan and anxious. “If it's any consolation, I don't mind. I've never thought ill of you for it. I'm actually rather flattered.” He isn't lying. Had he found the information disturbing? Yes, but only at first, really. The knowledge had explained quite a bit about Charles' behavior towards him.

Evidently, it is not consoling. Charles' eyes flick to his and he looks away again, shamefaced. “Oh, good lord...” Charles moans.

“I did not wish for any awkwardness between us, that's why I waited so long to tell you—”

“Sir, please,” He begs, “May we just change the subject?”

Whole minutes pass in silence. Haytham fingers the odd bit of metal that is hanging from a leather cord around his neck.

“I sent to Reginald for an expert about a fortnight ago,” He says, trying to broach the silence once more. “The markings in that cave are indeed consistent with other Precursor antiquities. This pendant—it is connected in all of this, somehow. When I brought it inside the cave, the markings glowed, Charles. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

He's told him all this before; Haytham's just trying to bridge the void between them. Charles makes no indication that he's even listening. He continues anyway, perhaps hoping that their work will take Charles' mind from the bomb that Haytham had so casually and tactlessly thrown into his lap.

“It's a door, I'm almost certain of it; there's a seam in the wall where air escapes from the other side. There's a hollow in the wall, smooth and even as the finest porcelain bowl, a little larger than a fist. I think, maybe, that is the lock. All we need is a different key. I have my suspicions on what that key may be, but I wanted to get a second opinion from someone more scholarly.”

“Very good, sir,” Charles says stiffly. Obviously, he could care less about the cave at this point.

More silence passes.

“The crab apple blossoms are lovely,” Haytham observes when he can stand it no longer.

“Yes,” Charles agrees glumly, “Yes, they are quite lovely.”

Haytham sighs. Well. This is perfectly disastrous.

Neither man says another word for the rest of their walk.

------------------

Alright, since it looks like my chapters are getting longer and longer, I'll probably start posting links to the chapters at AO3 when I update here, unless someone objects.

Holy fuck, anon, I've probably said this before, but your characterization is so good. Haytham's loyalty to the templar order and to Ziio, and his attempts to negotiate a path that can accommodate both is perfect (and so sad, given how we know it will end up), and I love the way you handled the awkwardness between Charles and Haytham. (Also, the hints of Achilles being a total BAMF? YES. YESSS.) I'm so looking forward to seeing how these flashbacks fit into the story.

Yeah. I was kinda disappointed by how they never fleshed out Achilles' character. Maybe in Black Flag? I dunno, haven't done the math. But, yeah, I wanted to emphasize that both timelines didn't really treat the Kenways too well even if they made different choices. Thanks for reading!

And by fleshed out character I mean that they didn't have much of a backstory for him.

OP here. I like this change of pace! It's interesting to see the cracks and the fractures that you've out into the characters which really adds depth and a layer of sadness to it. (I'm sorry if none of this makes sense, I'm bout to doze off.)

Thanks :D There'll be a couple more backstory chapters (although not necessarily back to back) that'll explain the conflicts that lead up to Haytham's and Connor's imprisonment

Oh dear this is just perfection! Connor here is awesome, and very Connor! Haytham, Arrrggghhh, I just want to give him a big hug!
I think there's one thing must be said as to how good author!anon is: I basically skipped any part that involved bodily or psychological cruelty (like the tongue, and using the Apple on Haytham), because it's just brutal...
I'll probably wait a bit longer for a more positive plot twist to continue reading it. But Geez! Well done!

Oh! Well, don't read it if it makes you too uncomfortable. But, yeah, I sort of do my best to make it a more visceral fic. I PROMISE there'll be at least a somewhat happy ending, but yes there's gonna be some fucked up things that happen between now and then. Thanks for reading!

just dropping by to say this is great and i cannot wait for the next instalment! <3

Thanks! I'll get on that, might fill another prompt or two in the meantime though.

“You live here?” Charles asks as they emerge out of the tree line.

Haytham's protégé sounds dismayed and more than a little concerned, as if his Grandmaster had just presented him with a lean-to piled with rags and straw in some dirty London back-alley and pronounced it his home. The tone plays on Haytham's nerves, but he doesn't comment. Haytham had built the structure himself, armed with nothing more than raw wood, sweat, and stubborn determination. He couldn't risk bringing in carpenters, so Ziio had suggested that the house be built in the fashion of her people, to better throw off snow and suspicion. Haytham's wooded retreat is a far cry from Benjamin Church's splendid manse but it's warm and snug and he's immensely proud of it.

Ziio sits cross legged in front of the cook fire. There are rabbits roasting on a spit and a freshly eviscerated deer hanging in a nearby tree, the contents of its chest cavity draining into a bucket. Even with her hair a mess from hunting and skin bloody up to the elbows, she's still beautiful.

She looks up at the sound of approaching hoof beats and the rattle of packs. Her smile is sphinx-like, mysterious, says so many things that words cannot convey. Even though he has spent months at her side, shared her bed and even had a child with her, his heart still skips a beat. Every fiber of his being wants to go to her. He wants to envelop her in his arms and kiss her until she either pokes him in the ribs and laughs at him for being so foolishly romantic, or moans into his mouth and sinks under his welcome weight.

He can't, though. Not with Charles there. Haytham hadn't expected her back for at least another week, hence Charles' presence. Haytham and Charles had decided that the best way to waste Charles' furlough was to spend it hunting and fishing around Haytham's homestead, something that the younger man had been keen to explore. Now Haytham sees that his subterfuge was pointless; there's no way he would have been able to hide his secret double life.

Ziio's eyes turn cool as they fall on Captain Charles Lee. She knows that the man is Haytham's closest friend, but she does not trust him. She has her reasons. Young George Washington had been granted the rank of Colonel after General Braddock's assassination, as well as the dead man's command. Why, Haytham wasn't entirely sure. Probably because it had been deemed appropriate that a son of Virginia should lead a Virginian regiment of militiamen, and also he was one of the few officers to survive the disastrous ambush at the Monongahela River. Lieutenant Charles Lee had been a member of Braddock's regiment and thus placed under Colonel Washington's command. That association alone would have been enough to color Ziio's opinion of Charles, but her wariness and distaste for him would be compounded by yet more events beyond Charles' control.

Earlier that year Colonel Washington had arrived at Ziio's village, soldiers in tow, irrefutably with hostile intentions. Haytham had been there that day, visiting Ziio and their son. It had been only himself and Ziio's people (mostly farmers and a few hunters) against more than a hundred seasoned soldiers. Ziio had been furious. He could tell that she'd wanted to take the fight to them, but she was more concerned about their child. Talented as she and Haytham were, it would have been suicide to attempt to fight them in the open. He bid her and her people to get into their long boats and paddle out as far as they could into the lake; he did not go with them. Outnumbered and out-maneuvered, he implemented a different plan of attack—the truth.

Charles was there beside Washington, arguing against razing the village to the ground when Haytham had stomped out into the snow from beyond the palisade, alone and unarmed. Washington had looked startled; perhaps he recognized Haytham as the man who had killed his predecessor, but equally it could have been the fact that an Englishman had just materialized out of an Indian village leagues from anywhere that could have been called civilization. Charles looked just as surprised, and more than a little alarmed.

Haytham, without preamble, proceeded to berate Washington, loudly and scathingly, in front of the colonel's entire company. He made sure that every man heard how this man, all six-foot-two of him, had been beaten down and brought low by a woman—a savage woman, at that, and less than half his size—who had wanted to do nothing but avenge the indiscriminate slaughter and enslavement of her people. And for that unseemly humiliation Washington was willing to murder a village of innocent women and children that had resided peaceably in their little valley since time began. And, he pointed out, they had not participated in the war in the slightest.

Washington had stammered, made some excuse that he was there to avenge the death of his former commander. The colonel flinched at Haytham's harsh laughter. Washington's men shifted uncomfortably behind their commander; the ones that had been present the day of Braddock's death no doubt recalled how the general had shot one of his own men in the face for the high crime of asking questions. For the soldiers that were not there that day, Haytham summarized as well as recited a litany of General Braddock's other crimes both in the colonies and abroad. Haytham named Washington a fool for trying to defend the legacy of such a man, and for squandering precious resources and man-power on a pointless personal vendetta to avenge a scoundrel of the lowest caliber.

For a moment, Haytham thought that the ploy wouldn't work, but Washington had looked back at the men under his command and blanched; most of the men appeared uncertain and there were some that met Washington's gaze with outright contempt. Americans made fickle soldiers. There was no love lost between the colonists and the natives, certainly, but outright slaughter of non-combatants was still frowned upon, heathens or no. There were tensions stirring between the colonists and their less-than-benevolent British overlords as the war stretched into its sixth year with no end in sight; doubtless the tales of Braddock's cruelties inflicted upon both Indians and Americans still rankled.

Unexpectedly, it was Charles that had come to Washington's rescue, suggesting that perhaps if Master Kenway could assure them of the tribe's continued neutrality, there would be no need to put the village to the torch. “Besides, there have been reports that the French are attempting to establish a fort to the North of here; surely victory over a more certain enemy would bring more lasting commendation and glory than slaughtering a bunch of godless dirt-worshipers, would it not?”

Washington had stared at the two of them for a moment, ashen-faced, not speaking, and then had flushed, abruptly turned his horse around, and gave the orders to march. His normally ram-rod posture had been bowed by the weight of his humiliation. Haytham almost felt sorry for Washington. Almost. Browbeating him into retreating had been child's play. Gentlemen did not belittle and criticize each other in public, especially not in front of their subordinates. It was simply not done. The young colonel had been completely unprepared for such a spontaneous and vicious attack on his character.

If Haytham and Charles hadn't been there that day... Haytham shuddered at the thought. He knew that Ziio's village was far from safe so long as Washington held even the slightest modicum of power. He would need to be dealt with as well. He could kill him, Haytham supposes, but that could be messy and all too easily draw attention to their Order, which is the last thing he wants. A character assassination, though, that was another thing entirely. A botched engagement or two and a few strategically placed words in the right ears and Colonel Washington's reputation could be ruined. If Washington was painted as incapable, indecisive and reckless, they would have no choice but to assign the command of the regiment to the next most senior officer—and that would be Captain, soon to be Major Charles Lee.

Ziio rises to wash her hands in a bucket. Charles halts, doffs his soldier's tricorne and bows slightly at the waist.

“Madam, a pleasure,” he says. He sounds as if he has recovered himself somewhat and his words sound sincere.

She nods in turn. “Lee.”

“I hadn't expected you back so soon, my dear,” Haytham admits, turning to his horse and fiddling with the straps to release the animal from her burden. In a few short strides Ziio is at his side. Neither one of them are people that show their affection publicly; rather than making any move to embrace him she starts helping him with the packages. Their hands brush against each other whilst undoing a knot and her touch is agonizing after so many weeks apart.

“There is a fever in the village. I did not want to expose Ratonhnhaké:ton.” In case Charles has missed her meaning, she elaborates, “Our son.”

“Rah... Radon...” Charles frowns. Like Haytham, his tongue can't seem to form the words.

“Don't bother.” Haytham grins. “I just call him Hayden.”

Ziio rolls her eyes but smiles indulgently. “That is because you are lazy and can only pronounce the last parts. And not even that well.”

Just as Haytham was unable to articulate Ziio's true name, he had been equally unable to pronounce his son's. He would have preferred to name the boy something else, but Ziio would have none of it. She wanted the boy to have a native upbringing, at least for the first few years. Haytham had to call the boy something, though, and Hayden had been the closest name in English that the last two syllables—“ké:ton”—had resembled, at least to his British ears. He also liked how the name closely mirrored his own exotic Arabic name. Thus the colloquialism stuck; the boy was Ratonhnhaké:ton in his mother's world and Hayden in his father's.

“Speak of the little devil, where is he?”

“Behind you,” A child's sing-song voice announces. Haytham turns. The boy grins up at him. There are crab apple petals in his tangled, shoulder-length hair. The knees of his deerskin pants are caked with dirt and his face is similarly smudged. Charles stares at the boy as if coming upon a species previously unknown to man. Inwardly, Haytham cringes; he hadn't wanted Charles' opinion of the boy to be colored by the boy's dirty clothing and bird's nest hair, but he reminds himself that his boy is indeed that, a boy, and male children in particular seek dirt like camels to water no matter their upbringing, culture or class.

When Haytham had first been presented with the squalling, wrinkled babe, he'd been rather shocked at the resemblance to Edward, his own father. Now, though, he only resembles Haytham about the set of his jaw, the bridge of his nose, and his lighter skin. It's in the nature of children's faces to change as they grow older, but for now he is decidedly his mother's creature. His apparent stealthiness is something the lad inherited from both parents.

“C'mere, you,” Haytham growls, seizes the four-year-old about the waist and hoists him into the air. Hayden squeals in delight. He sets the boy back down before him, facing a decidedly ill-at-ease Charles. “I've someone I want you to meet, Hayden.”

Charles squats down so that he's eye-level with the boy. The two stare at each other, their faces equally mystified.

“Hello,” Charles says, smile tentative, and presents his large right hand to the boy. “I'm Charles. I'm a friend of your father's.”

The boy does not take the proffered hand. He continues to stare at Charles full in the face with those large, dark, piercing eyes. Hayden says something incomprehensible.

“English, please,” Haytham commands gently.

“You have grass eyes,” the boy declares with utmost solemnity.

Charles looks up at Haytham, brow beetled.

“Green, Hayden,” Haytham says.

“Green,” the boy agrees.

“We're working on his English vocabulary,” Haytham says, mussing his son's hair affectionately. “And his manners, apparently. Hayden, take his hand.” The boy's hand all but disappears in Charles' gloved one. “You're the first white man he's encountered aside from myself, I suppose.”

“Firm grip,” Charles notes, releasing the boy's hand. “Very good. You'll be as strong as your father one day.”

Hayden beams at him. Charles grins bemusedly back.

“Ratonhnhaké:ton,” says Ziio.

“Hen, ista?”

She says something in Mohawk to the boy. Haytham makes out the words for potato, onion, and carrot. The boy sheepishly replies, makes some word of protest, but Ziio gives him that look, the face that all women learn the instant they become mothers and the boy submits. Hayden gives Charles another searching look, and then scampers off to the house, vanishing behind the bearskin that serves for a door.

“I sent him to gather the makings for a stew,” Ziio explains, “It will be ready shortly.”

“Will there be enough for four?”

“Of course,” she says.

“Oh, no. I wouldn't want to be a bother,” Charles says quickly, straightening, donning his hat once more. “I should probably be on my way.”

“Don't be ridiculous, you only just got here!” Haytham objects merrily. “It's nearly evening; it'll be full dark sooner than you think. There's room enough for all of us.”

“I think not,” Charles says, frowning and shifting uneasily, his hand already on the pommel of his saddle. “I have business in the city.”

Ziio looks at Charles and manages a small smile. “Please, stay. Any friend of the Brotherhood is a friend of mine.”

Haytham's blood turns to ice in his veins. He looks at Charles. A muscle in his cheek spasms, a twitch so slight that had Haytham not been watching for it he might have missed it entirely.

“A hot meal would be delightful, madam,” He says, his voice carefully neutral, “But I'm afraid duty calls.”

“At least let me walk you back to the path,” Haytham offers. Charles' nod is reluctant. Haytham hesitates, looking at the packs, but Ziio tells him to go; she'll take care of it.

They are fifty yards into the trees before either man says anything.

“Which 'Brotherhood' is she referring to?” Charles asks, voice bow-string tight.

“The wrong one,” Is Haytham's soft reply.

“She thinks we're Assassins,” Charles growls, grimacing in disgust, “My God, Haytham, this is—I don't have words to describe what this is. It's depraved. What were you thinking?”

Haytham's gut roils. “I wasn't thinking, Charles, is that what you wish to hear?” He hisses back. “I never told her I was an Assassin.”

“No. You just let her see that damned hidden blade of yours and let her think—”

“To get access to the site, yes,” He said sharply. Ziio had noticed the broken symbol on his bracer when he had tracked her down in the wilderness. She had seemed to respond rather more warmly to him after that, confirming his suspicions that there were Assassins active nearby. So he had never lied, not technically, but letting her make her own assumptions about his affiliations... Well. That had perhaps been worse.

“And when were you going to correct her misconception?” He demands, eyes flashing.

“I never intended to,” Says Haytham, stammering, “She was just supposed to be a means to an end. I never intended to love her, it just sort of... happened. I thought about telling her, but... it just...”

“No, I rather suppose telling her the truth would ruin your delusional portrait of domestic bliss,” Charles growls back. “I stand corrected. She won't leave you, when she finds out—she's more like to slit your throat.”

And this gives Haytham pause. She wouldn't. No. No. Of course not. Because—

“She loves me,” Haytham reminds Charles, reminds himself.

“She can't love you, Haytham, she doesn't even know you!” Charles snaps loudly enough that his words reverberate in the trees and cause the birds to pause in their song.

“And I suppose you do?” Haytham responds, just as vitriolic. Charles' mouth thins and Haytham watches the blood rise in his cheeks but it's not enough to cow him.

“I do know you, sir. Sometimes I think I know you better than you know yourself,” Charles says more quietly. “You're so blinded by sentiment that you cannot see that you've built yourself a life on a powder keg. It's only a matter of time before it explodes and takes you with it.”

“Then in the mean time I'll put out as many fires as I can,” Haytham replies curtly.

Charles stares at him, frowning. There's that sympathy in his eyes again, mingled with regret. He then shakes his head, looks at Haytham again, and his eyes are cold. He's no longer Charles; he's Captain Lee, the soldier, the tactician. He mounts his horse. The poor beast looks half exhausted already; he'll probably need to make camp before nightfall.

“I've assigned men in Lexington and Concord, should you have need to get me a message.”

“Very well,” He replies. “Safe travels, Charles.” His protégé nods stiffly and then gives the horse a nudge with his spurs.

Haytham watches the man's retreating back for quite some time and then continues to stare long after he disappears from view. It was a good decision, naming Charles his second-in-command; the man was devoted to Haytham, but he was equally devoted to the Order and didn't shirk from speaking his mind. Charles was right. Damn it, he was always right. Charles managed to put into words all the disjointed feelings and pessimistic notions that have been plaguing Haytham for—well, years now. Part of him knew all along that this was a foolish endeavor; that he was letting sentimentality and weakness cloud his unerring judgment, but he had never wanted to believe—to even consider—that he was making the wrong decisions.

For one of the few times in his strange, driven life, Haytham Edward Kenway doesn't know what to do. He stands there, idly stroking the Precursor artifact at his neck. He can't live between two worlds; he has to pick one before the other forces his hand and makes his choice for him. Birds sing and chirp, squirrels flit after one another in the trees. There is the slap of water in the distance, maybe a trout, maybe a beaver. He wants a distraction from his own thoughts but cannot find one. He grinds through scenarios and courses of action in his head, but each one is more grim and abhorrent than the last and his stomach clenches at the idea of all of the potential loss.

Something touches his elbow and he flinches, instantly on guard, but it's Ziio.

“Ah! You startled me.”

“Not an easy thing to do,” she says. She's smiling in that enigmatic way of hers. Charles is right, but this is right too, the way she fits so well against his body, the way she instinctively tilts her face just so to meet his when he leans down for a kiss. He enfolds her in his arms, smiling back, and Charles' recriminations and admonishments melt away, a vague and disquieting dream only remembered in fragments after waking. Even just the smell of her is intoxicating—earthy, dark and exotic. “You must have been far away.”

“I suppose so,” he says. She cannot know how true her statement is.

“Are you and Lee fighting?”

“Not exactly,” he says, and smooths a hand over her ebony hair. “Just a difference of opinion.”

“Mmm.” Her hand rests on the small of his back. “Sounded like you were arguing.”

He wonders how much she had heard. Not much, he supposes, otherwise she wouldn't be smiling at him. “Charles is having some troubles, that's all.”

“Anything I need to concern myself with?”

“If you're asking if I need to leave, then no. I'm sure he can handle it.”

“Good,” She says, grinning slyly, and gives him a playful swat to the ass.

“Madam! Contain yourself!” He gasps in mock outrage.

“I will not,” Ziio laughs, grinning like a girl half her age, and pinches the back of his thigh through the fabric of his breeches.

“Then I will have to restrain you,” He purrs in her ear.

“You can try,” She says provocatively, and grabs him about the waist.

Somehow they end up on the ground, gasping, breathless from laughter, Haytham's back wet from moss and leaves and Ziio is straddling him, her knees to either side of his waist. His groin is pressed tantalizingly beneath her and he can feel the want stirring in his gut.

“Ah, it appears you win, my darling.”

“Only because you let me,” She teases. Then her smile fades and her face becomes more solemn, her dark brown eyes searching the steel gray of his. “Haytham?”

“What is it?” He replies cautiously.

“You would not...” This time she frowns outright. “I do not ask about the nature of your work because I do not think I want to know, but... You would not keep something from me, would you?”

“Never,” He whispers without a moment's hesitation. He reaches a hand up to stroke the side of her face. She leans into his touch.

He's appalled by the way the lie falls so easily from his lips, hates himself for how convincing it sounds. It shouldn't be this easy to mislead her; she should have been able to see right through it. He can see it in her face that she's turning the word over in her head, considering. And just like that, she smiles again. The storm passes gently by. She's shrugged off whatever suspicions she might have because she wants to believe him, doesn't want to think of the alternative and all that implies. Ziio bends down; her hair falling around him, her lips brushing the shell of his ear in a way that she knows makes him shiver in delight.

“I am a terrible mother,” She says.

“You are no such thing,” He counters, not letting his relief show on his face. His hands find her firm, slim waist under her loose-fitting garment.

“I am,” Ziio insists, “I told Ratonhnhaké:ton to gather carrots from the larder for the stew.”

“So?”

“There are none. But he is stubborn, like you. He will search for a quarter of an hour before thinking of looking for help.”

Haytham stares up into her mischievous eyes, puzzled. “But why would you—” She rolls her hips against his and he grunts, blood immediately rushing to the area. “Oh,” He gasps.

“'Oh,'” She agrees, smirking.

In two months it will be summer. The expert that Haytham had requested, Mr. Thompson, will arrive in the Colonies and Haytham will show him the site. The Templar scholar will tell him yes, that the diameter of the hole in the cave is indeed similar to the dimensions of an Apple, the most powerful of the Pieces of Eden. Later, Ziio will find Mr. Thompson at the Precursor site making rubbings of the hieroglyphic-like markings. Thompson'll put up a fight, but in the end she'll pin him to the ground with a knife to his throat and he'll tell her everything—about the Templars, their ambitions to buy the land upon which the cave sits, and how Haytham had been the one to mastermind it all.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, she'll slit the man's throat right there in the cave. Ziio will come back to their little homestead, screaming and raging, her hands still covered in blood. She'll take their sobbing and terrified son into the forest, deaf to all of Haytham's pleas and excuses, and whirl on him when he tries to follow. She’ll slash his arm with a blade so keen that he won't realize he's cut until his arm is hot and slick with his own blood.

Haytham will abandon the homestead. He'll turn up at Charles' quarters in Boston, weeping and insensate with drink, and Charles won't even comment about how right he had been, he'll just welcome his broken friend with open arms. He'll let Haytham's grief run its course and he'll be there to put the pieces back together. He'll admit to Charles that the younger man had been right all along, that he'd been a fool to even try to pursue anything outside of the Order. Charles will merely nod, and then he will tell Haytham about some interesting rumors that Hickey had heard from smugglers passing through Boston. Stories about strange lights in the ruins of an ancient temple in the heart of the deepest, densest jungle.

But Haytham doesn't know any of this, of course. Couldn't even be persuaded to give a damn. Not now, not with her body so close to his, not after so long apart. Her body is lithe and strong beneath his hands, her skin silky and soft over hard, supple muscle. He kisses her and she melts, spreading her body over his. Even through the layers of fabric he can feel the heat of her core near his straining flesh. He pushes aside her tunic and eases a hand into her loose-fitting trousers and Ziio knows what he's about immediately because she moans, pushing up her hips so that he can sink his fingers inside. He marvels at the wet, silky heat of her, delights in how the muscles tremble and flutter around his fingers and he groans to think what she'll feel like when he's sheathed himself inside her.

“Haytham,” She hisses, breathy, ever impatient, but there's something... off about it. Her voice is too deep, bears an edge of irritation. His hand stills and he opens his eyes. Ziio is still staring down at him, long dark hair framing her face, lips parted and flushed, pupils blown with lust.

“Is something wrong?” He murmurs.

“Don't stop,” She gasps, clenching down on his fingers, so he adds a third, his thumb caressing her clit and she shudders. Her moan is pure aphrodisiac. Then she snaps, “Stop that!” and this time it's clearly not her voice, it's a man's voice, sharp and aggravated. Before he can ask what in hell is going on her hand snakes inside his breeches, finds his cock, strokes him until he's rolling his hips to meet her, gasping and completely at her mercy.

And then he really is gasping, because someone drives a sharp elbow into his guts.

Haytham's eyes fly open and it's not Ziio. It's Connor. And he looks none too pleased.

OP here!

Wow, this was a great peek into Haytham's past. I like that ToKW Haytham managed to spend some time raising Ratonhnhaké:ton with Ziio. And Charles is utterly amazing - cold, but loyal, and perhaps a bit jealous? He doesn't seem too upset that Haytham returned to his home.

And the twist at the end? Fantastic!

Holy fuck, anon, I absolutely love the way you wrote the relation between Ziio and Haytham, and oh, the precarious happiness of the flashback (and Haytham being able to see his son grow up, even if just for a short period of time!) combined with the inevitable heartbreak is so well-done, and the flashforward to Ziio finding out about Haytham is succinct and completely gutwrenching. Seriously, this is amazingly written, and I just can't get over how good this is.

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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