Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only

Join or Die

✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion

Comments

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

[(Anonymous)]

'You must be rather important if you were given your own escort.' It's a sudden query, one that makes the teenager flinch despite himself.

'In a way. He strikes me as someone who wants his property well protected.'

'A sound assessment. You've met him?'

'Seen him.' Connor corrects, bitterness rising like bile and constricting his throat. 'Slaves don't exactly get an introduction to the prospective master.'

One of the man's gloved hands reaches over, carefully wrapping over one of the native's own. 'You won't have to suffer him further, you have my word.'

Shocked, but not unpleasantly so, Connor finds himself making no attempt to shy away from the contact. It isn't that he dislikes people touching him as such, rather it's a matter of cultural etiquette. Among the Iroquois it is not normal, not polite. Only those you've known and trusted for years, those with whom you are truly familiar, are supposed to touch you. Yet Colonists and foreigners alike have such an extreme tendency towards casual contact, even with virtual strangers, it has always remained somewhat confusing to him. Not quite as confusing to him as his own reaction now, or lack thereof, to such a gesture of intimacy however. Even after the somehow reassuring pressure of the hand is gone he can still feel its ghost burning into his skin. He isn't as embarrassed, or even angered, as he probably should be.

How long he just stares down at his hands he doesn't know. Everyone seems to have lapsed into silence, allowing his ears to pick up every creak of the harness, every shift of the other captives. He senses the approaching checkpoint before the backs of the false escort begin to tellingly tense up. Understandably so, one wrong move and the rescue, or whatever this is, will be over before it has even begun. Glancing up, he sees the frown that darkens the face of one of the guards. Trouble.

With a quick word to one of his fellows, the redcoat moves forward from his post and into the path of the convoy with a hand readied on the hilt of his sword. 'Halt! Identify yourselves! Where is Lieutenant Jones? What is the meaning of this?'

A gesture from the watcher has the soldiers swiftly dispatched with ruthless efficiency. The horses get barely any rest as a result of the hold-up, the cart having stayed in motion. Impressively the delivery is almost back on schedule. Half of the escort make themselves scarce again, ready to be called back into action at a moment's notice. One reappears barely twenty yards further on in order to silence a rather canny patrol dog, closely followed by the accompanying redcoat. It is almost a shame that none of the patrols or clumps of soldiers have had the presence of mind to realise that anything is wrong until they already have a blade buried in their backs. It it too easy for them this way. More enemies fall without a sound. Connor soon stops watching and instead focuses on giving his increasingly sore wrists a ginger, slow flex.

'Aha; bringing fresh meat hey?'

It's a tone that he has become increasingly used to in the last few days, it is one that tends to be directed at him more than any of the other captives. Partly he blames it on the absence of women from the shipment, leaving him as apparently the next best thing. He already knows what is coming and does his best to keep his attention focused elsewhere. A glance is chanced just in time to catch the way his companion's jaw tightens and the almost imperceptible nod that follows.

'Pull over. I want to take a look before Silas-' Mercifully the redcoat's throat is slit before he gets to finish.

Connor is painfully aware of what could have easily happened to him were circumstances somewhat different, could still easily happen to him even. He may be more than capable of defending himself normally but in his current state, restrained as he is, he wouldn't be able to do much. That the cart's former driver landed a blow is indication enough of his relative helplessness. A bruise beneath one eye and the soreness of his wrists acting as a constant reminder. The thought of what he would be unable to fight off is enough to make him shudder anew. Freedom cannot come too soon.

Beside him the watcher heaves a shallow sigh, remorseful in tone; 'We must seem despicable.'

'No.' He shakes his head, speaking honestly as he turns slightly in order to meet the man's eyes. 'Not all of you.'

From there it doesn't take long to reach the fort, although the number of corpses dressed in scarlet continues to pile rapidly up. Not one sound escapes to raise the alarm, every new soldier just as surprised by his fate as the last. Any thought of talk ceases as the wagon draws nearer to its destination, tension catching faster as the other members of the escort move back into formation. Nerves are causing Connor's stomach to twist unpleasantly, all the more so as the ominously thick and tall stone walls of the fort loom large. Instinctively his hands twitch, unable as they are to indulge in his habitual fidgeting.

Several redcoats stand around the open gates, conversing amongst themselves but undeniably alert all the same. One catches sight of the approaching convoy and gives a knowing smirk as he elbows the grenadier who appears to be in charge. Sluggishly he moves forward, raising a weary hand to signal the wagon to stop. He doesn't seem especially suspicious or even particularly interested; indifference makes for a nice change.

'Evening gentlemen.' Connor's companion on the cart reins in the horses, cool and calm as he addresses the guard.

Gruff and to the point, he demands; 'State your business.'

'Delivery, for Silas.' If nothing else, the accent is certainly in order.

The redcoat moves closer, expression unreadable beneath the shade of his cap, and gives the vehicle a quick once-over glance. He doesn't bother paying any particular attention to the escort, which is quite fortunate as every one of them is guaranteed to be an unfamiliar face. Finally, with a rough jerk of the head, he steps back. 'Go on then.'

And just like that the fort's defences are breached. It has proven to be a surprisingly simple and, dare he say it, easy feat. Getting back out again, now that part might prove tricky. For Connor, and for the ambushers-cum-infiltrators. Rather than plotting an escape route, his first priority, upon regaining full usage of his hands and legs that is, will be to find himself a weapon. There are guaranteed to be plenty of spare muskets lying around the fort, so pilfering one shouldn't be too difficult. While he is quite capable of defending himself with his hands he still feels rather naked and exposed without something more substantial at his disposal. Once he is armed he is sure that things will start to feel significantly more under control again. But then, he reminds himself, he still doesn't know what the plans of his apparent rescuer and the false escort are. The situation has been complicated; he isn't prepared for this.

Within the fort is quiet. As the night begins to draw in the guards are getting ready for a change in shifts, the other redcoats gathering in round their fires to discuss whatever it is that such men discuss. The perfect time. Up on the battlements eyes are directed outwards, towards the town and the sea, for fear of attack by the French armies. So preoccupied with the more obvious, more distant threat that they completely overlook those much closer to home. There is nobody nearby as the convoy pulls to its final stop, no one to give them as much as a second glance. It's almost tempting to think that the hardest part of this infiltration, rescue, or escape is already over.

'Well, here we are.' Throwing down the reins gladly, his companion turns fully to him and reaches over to work at gently removing the restraints. 'There is no need for this any longer.'

Even with the care taken it still stings, Connor is unable to hold back a hiss of pain despite the relief of being freed. The damage is worse than he had expected, his wrists are bruised with the skin rubbed raw in places. He's going to have to watch that he doesn't exacerbate it. 'Thank you, I appreciate the help.'

'The pleasure was mine.' A small smile accompanies the response as the man draws his hands back, hesitating slightly.

Acutely aware that time is wasting fast and that the other members of the false escort are paying an increasing amount of attention to him, Connor swings himself down from the cart only a little reluctantly. It feels as if weeks have passed since he was last able to properly stretch his legs, which are somewhat stiff but will soon enough remember their strength. If things are to get back on track he needs to get moving.

As he is turning to leave that same commanding voice calls out; 'It would be best if you were to lay low for the time being.'

'Believe me, I am in no hurry to draw attention to myself.' He gives a quick smile and incline of the head as he takes a tentative step backwards, pivoting into a less than dignified sprint for cover.

Luckily British officers do not seem to much concern themselves with ridding their strongholds of vegetation. Pressing himself down to the ground under the nearest of many clumps of bushes Connor closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. Counting slowly to a hundred should give them time to move off, so he stays still and tries not to listen to the low voices of their discussion as he waits. Disregarding any personal feelings he might have regarding his companion on the cart, the teenager is almost certain that he knows who, or rather what, they are. He sincerely hopes that he is mistaken, for more than one reason.

Footsteps move away as his count reaches fifty. It has already been too long a delay, he is sure, so he pulls himself slowly from his hiding spot. Keeping low and a good step away from the water that edges the area, as some poor form of natural defence no doubt, Connor makes for the wall. The others will be waiting for the signal, getting more anxious with every extra moment that passes before his call. He wonders if they will know of the complication yet, unsure as to how close an eye they have been keeping on him. A lot of time will be saved if they have, needless to say. As he casts a quick look back towards the tents and fires of the fort, he is all too aware that time may be very much of the essence now.

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Oooh this looks promising, Haytham is already hitting on teen-assassin!Connor ;p I wonder, does Connor still have eagle vision if he's not related to Haytham?

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Glad you think so Anon. And, well, the whole point of the Southgate mission is to get on good terms with the natives after all. ;) Got to admit that I hadn't really thought about the eagle vision issue before. This Connor does certainly have naturally attuned senses due to years of hunting, etc... My thinking is that he is still a descendant of Altair, just not a particularly close relation of Haytham's (similar to how Ezio is both Desmond and Clay's ancestor, even though the two of them aren't 'relatives'). So, he probably does have it still, we'll just have to wait and see.

Sorry for the rather rambling reply. (Part 2 should hopefully be ready in the next couple of days).

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

[(Anonymous)]

Yes! Very excited for the rest.