asscreedkinkmeme ([personal profile] asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-01-04 10:19 am
Entry tags:

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]


We're about to reach the posting limit on pt.1&2, this is for those who wish to continue/write on prompts on both these parts.

Writers! It is your responsibility to link back to the original prompt.

There are no request in this part of the meme.

List of Kinks
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Discussion

Detention (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-09-05 05:08 pm (UTC)(link)
Original Prompt was 'So I just found this pic on Shaun's tumbler of all places: http://shaunhastings.tumblr.com/post/7529450817 '

Filling here to keep the comments free on the meme itself.

-----

Mr. Hastings was the senior world history teacher. He was a pretty young teacher, which usually meant he was a pretty cool teacher.

“Mr. Miles, could you please tell me, exactly, what happened during the Second Siege of Constantinople?”

Except that he was a complete and total dick.

“Uh, they lost?” I answered, glancing up from my notes with a hopeful smile.

“Yes, Mr. Miles, Maslamah ibn Abd al-Malik lost. Now if you would be so kind as to pay attention instead of disrupting my class, perhaps you would know why.”

I tried to keep the grumble to myself, but Mr. Hastings obviously heard it by the raised eyebrow I got. Dammit. This was the last required class I needed to graduate next month, and if I didn't get a passing grade I wouldn't be able to walk with my friends at graduation. Nevermind the fact that Mr. Hastings was notoriously strict when it came to his grading scale. I couldn't help the sigh that slipped out as I set my pen against my notebook, trying to concentrate.

I didn't notice just how quiet the class was until I heard a rather close whisper in my ear.

“One more outburst, Mr. Miles, and I won't hesitate to keep you after school.”

I jumped, back straightening at I felt the teacher's breath across the shell of my ear. Dammit, dammit, dammit. And the whole class was laughing, including that cute blonde two rows over. This had to be a new record; yelled at by Mr. Hastings within the first ten minutes of class. This was going to be a long day.

-----

As Mr. Hastings droned on about Arabs attacking Turks, I just couldn't focus anymore. At least I wasn't the center of his attention anymore, so I let my mind wander. Unfortunately, as my mind wandered, usually so did my hands. I couldn't get that one song out of my head – the one about Istanbul not being Constantinople or something like that – and when I heard a throat clearing to my right.

“I highly doubt ducks and pigs wore fezzes or rode camels in Turkey.”

My eyes traveled to where my hand was, and I couldn't repress the flinch as I noticed I was not, in fact, doodling in my notebook. Nope. There, in stark black ink, was an image of a cartoon duck and a cartoon pig on a cartoon camel with fucking Shriner hats on. Fuck.

“After class, Mr. Miles.” Mr. Hastings said with finality. “And what the Byzantine people decide to call their capitol city is, as you have so eloquently put it, 'nobody's business but the Turks.'”

Re: Detention (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-09-05 06:27 pm (UTC)(link)
KEEP GOING ANON. Please? I have been dying to have someone fill that (and I'm not even OP). You are going to make a beautiful story.

Re: Detention (1/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-06 19:14 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (2/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-07 02:12 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (2/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-07 02:44 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (2/?)

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Re: Detention (2/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-08 23:57 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (3/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-10 01:51 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (3/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-10 02:13 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (4/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-12 22:15 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (4/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-12 23:35 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (5/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-14 22:09 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (5/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-14 22:55 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (5/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-30 16:07 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (5/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-02 05:43 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (6/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-02 16:03 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (6/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-02 16:17 (UTC) - Expand

writeranon here

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-04 01:54 (UTC) - Expand

Re: writeranon here

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-04 02:37 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (6/6) OP

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-10 05:43 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (6/6) OP

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-12 23:31 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Detention (6/6)

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-12 21:43 (UTC) - Expand

asdfghjkl;

(Anonymous) 2011-09-13 04:27 am (UTC)(link)
ANON. I CAN'T WAIT FOR MORE. HO MY CHRIST. DO EET, DO EET, DO EET. ;3;

FILL: Under the Wide and Starry Sky

[identity profile] hyde-the-body.livejournal.com 2011-09-14 05:28 am (UTC)(link)
Prompt: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=3734008#t3734008

Fill: (prologue) http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=6943736#t6943736

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.a/?

(Anonymous) 2011-09-27 03:28 am (UTC)(link)
original thread: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=5689492#t5689492

Prompt: Mpreg, Malik/Altaïr with Malik as the pregnant partner.

I started this quite some time ago and only finished the first part now... so here we go! First fanfic for these two, though. It's also unbeta'd, so I hope there aren't too many mistakes. Or at least none that take away from reading the story.

Untitled for now, brb as I go listen through iTunes for one.

Also, let's not talk about how horrible I am at breaking up text in an even manner.


*



"God damn it," Malik murmured, his fingers hooked into the belt loop of his pants as he wiggled and moved. The jeans were fine up until they hit his hips, a bit of a squeeze but he could make it. It was the button that was the real trouble--the material stretching taut over his belly as Malik attempted to one-hand wrestled the jeans closed to no avail. He had never had any problem with these jeans before.

That only meant one thing.

"Kadar!" Malik shouted, throwing open the door to his room. He found his brother at the kitchen table, a brownie poised halfway to his mouth, frozen in fear. "What did I tell you about putting your laundry in with mine! Do your own, you lazy asshole!"

Kadar snapped out of his daze quickly, placing his brown down on his plate with a frown. "But I didn't... this time," he defended weakly, not having much merit in his argument. "Well, maybe a sweater or two, but definitely not jeans. Come here."

Malik looked dubious, making his way over to his brother with murder still written over his face. He turned around when Kadar prompted him to, not all that concerned when his brother's hand went into the back of his pants to look at the tag.

"These aren't even my size," Kadar reported. "Here, turn around and I'll try to close them."

A lot of Malik's pride was hanging in the balance of his decision--as a man unwilling to admit he'd gain weight and as a person who was disabled unwilling to admit he needed help. But it was just Kadar, who looked at him with earnest eyes and had even put his brownie down for him, so Malik acquiesced. He turned, tilting his hips out a little so Kadar could grab both sides of the jeans and attempt to pull them together.

Attempt poorly.

"Suck it in," Kadar said through gritted teeth. He jerked Malik closer, pushing him back and forth by the jeans in an attempt to loosen the material and bring it closer together. Malik grunted, resting his hand against Kadar's shoulder to steady himself as his brother shook his hips.

"I am sucking it in! Try harder," Malik hissed instead, staring down between them as he watched Kadar's hands try to force the material together.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

Both brothers' heads snapped up, Malik looked towards the door while Kadar looked over his shoulder to find Altaïr in the open doorway to the apartment. There was a plastic bag on the floor, dropping in his surprise. It took Malik a couple of seconds to register their positions, the way Kadar was moving his hips, and oh... oh.

Malik jerked back and away from his brother, Kadar whining out, "Malik got fat and accused me of sneaking my jeans into his laundry!"

"You keep your genes to yourself!" Altaïr shot back. Malik couldn't help the sour bite of bile that rose into his throat at the thought of... oh god.

Kadar seemed confused at first, face tilted slightly before realization dawned quickly. He let out a chuckle first, turning into a genuine laugh before saying, "Hey! That was funny. And... oh, ew. He's my brother!"

"You're sick," Malik hissed, watching Altaïr shrug and pick up the plastic bag before shutting the door.

"You forget the times I've woken up to find you in his bed instead of ours," Altaïr pointed out. The plastic bag went in front of Kadar, the boy beginning the rustle through it with great interest as he found three sandwiches and some chips in there. The brownie was quickly forgotten, as was the entire pseudo-blowjob issue.

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.b/?

(Anonymous) 2011-09-27 03:30 am (UTC)(link)
"He's afraid of thunder," Malik said through a sigh, looking down at his still open jeans. He couldn't have put on that much weight without noticing. After all, he had just worn the jeans a few weeks ago. Maybe it was just because they were fresh out of the dryer, still practically warm.

Altaïr's hand along his stomach brought him out of his thoughts, his fingers curling in an attempt to tug Malik's jeans close. "No go," Altaïr murmured, humming out after. "What have you been eating lately?"

Malik huffed, tugging his body away from Altaïr. "Oh, you know. I've been sneaking in a pizza and a chicken between breakfast and lunch. It gets me through the day," he responded dryly, disappearing into their room to tug the damned jeans off. He had been wearing nothing but his loose dress pants and sweats for such a long time, too exhausted to do anything beside go to work and then pass out on the couch. Or during sex, as Altaïr had taken to reminding him.

The sweatpants made him feel a little better, tucked into a hoodie he thought to be Altaïr's. He sat down heavily at the island in the kitchen, the stool protesting with a low squeak that had Kadar snickering. "Fuck you," Malik snapped sourly, opening his sandwich and looking at it with little desire.

"We'll go for a run tomorrow morning," Altaïr said through a mouthful of his own sandwich, elbows on the table and eyes on Malik. "It's been a while."

"Fine," Malik answered, pushing his sandwich towards Altaïr to grab an apple and water from the fridge, instead.


*



Malik was dying.

It wasn't as though he was out of shape--no. He was in perfect shape, not even out of breath at all. But every step made his head pound, his stomach constantly tossing and turning to the point where Malik's vision was beginning to blur. Altaïr was talking, a warm presence beside him in the cold winter morning, entirely too early for anyone to be awake and yet there they were, going for a run.

"You okay?" Altaïr huffed out, the touch against Malik's wrist the only reason why he heard him. Well, no, he wasn't okay, but he wasn't going to tell Altaïr that. His pride had taken one too many hits in the past twenty-four hours for him to admit that something didn't feel right in his body. It wasn't even as though Malik hated running. He loved running, he just hadn't had time to as of late. Even after a break he stilled loved running, though, loved the feel of his body getting back into the groove again.

His body just wasn't cooperating.

The first stumble was apparently enough of a warning for Altaïr, Malik trying not to jerk out of the firm hold on his bicep. He stumbled and moved, dragging Altaïr with him until he could manage to find a bush to bury his face in and vomit.

Altaïr was there, rubbing his gloved hand against Malik's back. Suddenly he was too hot and too cold, his body trying to empty his stomach only to find nothing there. The dry heaves were painful and loud in the early morning, his breath foggy with the cold. Altaïr somehow managed to keep them both up, his arms wrapped around Malik and trying to whisper soothing things into his ear.

It took ten minutes of pain and cold sweats before Malik could stand, leaning heavily against Altaïr. His mouth tasted sour and his body was trembling, listening as Altaïr called the apartment four times before Kadar finally picked up. His voice sounded sleepy on the other side of the line, contrasting against Altaïr's concern-rough voice.

Malik's face was hot and painful as he pressed it into the curve of Altaïr's throat. The man's morning stubble hurt, but not nearly as bad as the pounding in his head. It was a strange feeling, the overwhelming sense of confusion and vulnerability that came with vomiting on the side of the road. He couldn't even find it in himself to feel ashamed with how he was attempting to practically burrow into Altaïr, whimpering quietly when his stomach gave another lurch and he was leaning over to pour some more bile over the poor, unsuspecting bush.

"Okay," Altaïr said after he had hung up, using his now-free arm to wrap more securely around Malik. "Now I'm officially worried."

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.c/?

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:33 (UTC) - Expand

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.d/?

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:34 (UTC) - Expand

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.e/?

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(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.f/?

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(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.g/?

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:38 (UTC) - Expand

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.h/?

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(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.i/?

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:41 (UTC) - Expand

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.j/?

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:43 (UTC) - Expand

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.k/?

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:44 (UTC) - Expand

(Malik/Altaïr, mpreg) Untitled, 1.l/?/author's notes

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-27 03:46 (UTC) - Expand

author!anon

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-28 05:19 (UTC) - Expand

author!anon

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-28 05:20 (UTC) - Expand

author!anon

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-28 05:22 (UTC) - Expand

author!anon

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-28 05:24 (UTC) - Expand

OP of prompt just noticed

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-23 19:28 (UTC) - Expand

Ageless 1/2

(Anonymous) 2011-09-27 11:39 pm (UTC)(link)
From this prompt: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=7039124#t7039124

--

Malik watches as the man gracefully cuts through mass of Templars like a finely honed knife. He watches, breath held as another Templar falls, throat sliced nicely.

The man turns gracefully, hands quickly going to the knifes strapped to his waist, showing all the signs of being a master with his movements, reminding Malik all too much of people past. The Dai holds back his cry of 'Moron, watch out!' before the assassin falls, arrows protruding jaggedly from his back. The main Templar lowers his bow, a grunting laugh coming from his mouth as he steps up to the fallen man.

Malik squeezes his eyes closed for a brief moment before his fingers wrap around the knife strapped around his thigh. He snaps open his lids, gaze zeroing in on the Templar who toes the man's face with a boot. The knife flies from the Dai's fingers, hitting it's mark right between the Templar's eyes.

Satisfaction washes over him, and he jumps like a ghost among the fallen bodies, feet barely making any nose across the stone floor. Malik stops in front of the man, kneeling down to sweep away dark hair from an aging face. His hand still over the man's lips, and a thumb lightly traces down an eerily familiar scar. The image of a too arrogant novice, lip bleeding and split, flashes before Malik's eyes. He can almost feel the sharp edges of the rock cutting into the palm of his hand, and this causes a small, bitter smile to perk up his mouth.

His wrist is suddenly grabbed; a strangled noise leaves his throat as gold-brown eyes glare up at him coldly. Malik tries to pull away, his heart thuds loudly in his chest as the man's grip tightens. "Who...are..." The assassin's voice is garbled, and the accent colouring the Arabic makes it slightly hard to understand. His grip is like iron until it slackens, allowing Malik to pull his own arm away.

--

A groan leaves his mouth, his mind swimming and his mouth tacky from sleep. The feather pallet under him is comfortable, and Ezio feels safe, something his hasn't felt in years. Suddenly he realizes he's nude.

Ezio snaps up, ignoring the screaming of the wounds on his back, or the protesting of his bruised ribs. His eyes sweep the room, mind coming back into focus quickly.

He is in a small room, a fire blazing to his left. There are pillows, many of them mismatched and most faded with age. A thick woven blanket made of wool covers him, and a soft pallet of feathers cushions him from the hard stone ground. Papers and books are piled everywhere, haphazard and reminding Ezio far too much of Leonardo that it causes a lump to rise in his throat.

The assassin snaps to attention as a short Arabic male strides into the room, a pile of linen wrappings in his one hand. Ezio winds himself up for another attack, not caring that he doesn't have any weapons on his person. As the man steps into the light of the fire, however, the fight suddenly drains from Ezio. He recognizes the narrow face, high cheekbones, shock of midnight black hair, and dark blue eyes (though from the ink drawings, they looked black). He feels his mouth dry and his brain scream in confusion as those eyes snap to meet his. "Malik?"

--

Re: Ageless 1/2

(Anonymous) 2011-09-28 05:54 am (UTC)(link)
OP here...and writeranon, you are A GOD! How the hell did you get into my head? It's perfect, from Malik's wistfulness to Ezio's mention of remebering Leo. Please, please, PLEASE continue!

Re: Ageless 1/2

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-29 22:45 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ageless 2/2 PRT I

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-30 03:40 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ageless 2/2 PRT II

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-30 03:43 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ageless 2/2 PRT III

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-30 03:43 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ageless 2/2 PRT III

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-30 04:15 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Ageless 2/2 PRT III

(Anonymous) - 2011-09-30 18:20 (UTC) - Expand

Thank you everyone!

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-03 22:56 (UTC) - Expand

To the Rescue

(Anonymous) 2011-10-09 07:01 am (UTC)(link)
prompt is here: http:// forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=6250388#t6250388
---

This anon can’t write smut for her life, so have some cute scared-out-of-his-mind!Leo.
---

Leonardo wasn’t too sure how it all happened. He was just aware that he was falling while clinging to Ezio for dear life.

Earlier, he and the aforementioned assassin had been meeting on a bench, discussing a new possible design. Ezio had expressed how much he enjoyed the parachute, and how useful it had proven. Of course, this only made the artist smile profusely at the praise. Which, he couldn’t help but stop and ponder. Ezio always praised his works, or gave constructive criticism where he could, but each time he gave an approving nod, or a encouraging smile, Leonardo felt renewed inspiration.

Still, despite this, he hated having to be so discreet and quiet when meeting his friend. It was annoying, above anything else. But that was entirely Cesare Borgia’s (the name was always spat when he was in private) fault. But, while designing things for Cesare, he’d always spare an extra hour (or four) at night to accommodate for Ezio’s commodities.

“How goes your painting, Leonardo?”

Roused from his musings, Leo turned his head slightly to spare a glance at the hooded man. As usual, his head was tilted down, never showing much of his face – and never showing his eyes.

“Oh, it goes well enough,” Leonardo said was chipper as he could muster. He had this ... aching sensation that something wasn’t too right.

His attempt at seeming happy was quickly caught on to, however.

“What need have you to lie, Leonardo? Do you lack inspiration again? Or the time?”

“Eh... well,” the artist coughed awkwardly. “I just don’t know. I cannot bring myself to paint. I’ll sit down at something, and my mind wanders away before I get two marks down. It is becoming rather obnoxious; when I am not doing that, I’m working on designs for Cesare, if not that, looking for something, and ... well, you get the idea.”

“Have you considered taking a break?” Ezio said suggestively, his head moving ever-so-slightly.

“What do you mean?”

“Go on a walk. Sit by the canals; rest your feet in the water,” Ezio continued. “Do something that will calm your nerves. It’s what I do.”

Oddly, that made Leonardo laugh. He had a hard time picturing the usually stoic, upright assassin just lounging about near the thieves' palazzo, free of his armour, pants rolled up, and feet hanging languidly over the small wall as water sifted around them.

“What?” Ezio said in quiet defense. “I do.”

“I do not doubt you, old friend,” Leonardo chuckled. “I just have a difficult time pic-"

Leonardo stopped short when he saw Ezio’s shoulders and head lift; his whole body tense, listening intently. Part of him wanted to ask what it was, but he dared not speak, or risk jeopardizing something. Ezio turned his head to look over his left shoulder, and Leonardo could see the concern in his eyes. In a flash, the assassin stood up, grabbing Leonardo’s arm and yanking him off the bench.

“Run!”

Leonardo took a second to register the command, but as soon as a throwing knife shot past his face, he immediately obeyed.

It was slightly difficult to run with Ezio; he was doing more pulling along than Leonardo was doing of keeping up. But the rush of adrenaline was a good kick, and helped him keep up (somewhat).

Behind him, he could hear the soldiers shouting.

He’s kidnapped the inventor!

Kidnapped me?

Cesare will have a fit – get him! Kill the assassino!

They must have not been paying attention, because Ezio sure as hell wasn’t “kidnapping” him. How they got that idea was beyond him.

Re: To the Rescue

(Anonymous) 2011-10-09 07:06 am (UTC)(link)
The chase ensued through the suburban sector outside of Rome; people jumped out of the way, and many shouted in the confusion. All Leonardo was really aware of was his heart racing madly in his chest, the sound of blood pumping viciously in his ears, and his lung all but screaming at him to stop. And stop he did – by colliding with Ezio.

In the second he took to re-orientate himself, Leonardo saw that Ezio stopped because of a large cliff a few metres ahead of them. He spun around to see the guards closing in on them. His breath sucked in sharply, and he felt himself being pushed back by a strong arm.

“Do not stray from behind me, Leonardo,” Ezio commanded coolly.

As the three guards got ever closer, Leonardo heard Ezio draw his sword. He always hated that sound; metal sliding on metal, creating a beautifully cacophonous sound. He quickly scrambled back a little bit, not wanting to be caught in the cross fire. He still clutched his hat, while his free arm was shaking and tense at his side. People were speckled about beyond the guards, watching the ensuing fight.

He wasn’t quiet sure who made the first move, but Leonardo was suddenly vividly aware of the three-to-one dual. He couldn’t help but watch with a morbid fascination at how fluid Ezio’s movements were. Years of relentless training proved their worth; every move was calculated, and a perfect answer to it’s opponent. However, despite it all, Ezio clearly was not in the mood to fight, nor was he too thrilled about the odds.

Any normal person would’ve shouted ‘What are you doing?!’ when Ezio sheathed his sword, pulling something out of his many pockets. His arm lifted sharply, and in one quick motion, there was a sudden plume of smoke.

Leonardo coughed, his eyes narrowing as his tried to gain his bearings. Without warning, he felt something shoved into his hand, an arm around his ribcage, and felt himself being forced to run forward.

The second Leonardo’s feet felt nothing beneath them, he felt fear and panic well up in him. His arm shot up around Ezio’s neck, clinging to his hood with no remorse. He felt his legs kick up, brushing against Ezio’s thighs, and his mouth hung open uselessly. He was vaguely away of his hat flying off his head, but beyond all that, he did exactly what he shouldn’t have done.

He looked down.

The grassy earth below was lovely, and looked very inviting – but not to him. It took all of Leonardo’s willpower not to let go of the handle he held and grab onto Ezio, burying his face into his clothes to keep from seeing that horrible site.

Uncoordinated as he was, Leonardo wasn’t aware of Ezio telling him to tug slightly on his side. The next thing he was even remotely aware of was a rough growl, and two powerful legs locking around him. In an unceremonious display of his lack of bravery, Leonardo shrieked when Ezio’s arm let go of him, and forced him to let go of the handle. Had this been under other circumstances, Leonardo might have laughed at how Ezio was holding him with only his legs.

“Leonardo, I’m going to drop you in the hay; I want you to somersault into it!” Ezio commanded.

Re: To the Rescue

(Anonymous) - 2011-10-09 07:08 (UTC) - Expand

Re: To the Rescue

(Anonymous) - 2011-11-22 21:18 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-21 12:19 (UTC) - Expand

Re: To the Rescue

[personal profile] halberdier - 2012-06-02 15:53 (UTC) - Expand

Fill: Fade 28/?

(Anonymous) 2011-10-09 07:36 am (UTC)(link)
http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=818377
Oops. Sorry about the MIA.

---

“... Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

“If we do this, there is no turning back. I cannot lose you.”

“Mi amore, you never will- make me yours.”

“I c- ahh...Ezio...”

“Please...”


Desmond jolted with a gasp, sweat pooling from his temples and running down the back of the Animus cushion. He turned to Rebecca, pupils dilated.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry! I had no idea that those were the memories we were, uh... gonna... Yeah. No Desmond, just lie back down... Desmond, please- your heart rate was going crazy, there’s no way we can risk keeping you in- I had to pull you out as fast as I could... I just don’t think you’re not ready, especially w- Wait, stop, what are you doing? Desmond? Stop! ”

Desmond fought hard to control the harsh intakes of breath as he tore out the IV’s from his arm, blood splattering the arm rest and the console. He stood up, blinking away the black spots in his vision as he stumbled forward, pushing away Rebecca’s arms none too gently. “I can’t, I need- I need to get away...” He choked out. He felt the blood flushing his face with warmth and travelling down to a region he had not dared to linger upon... Not since...

He hoisted himself up against the wall, wet palms and fingers trailing water marks as he stumbled along as fast as he could. He finally made it- he slammed the door, fumbling at the lock before collapsing forward, sweaty fingers fumbling with his zipper. They finally gave way and he let out a moan, eyelashes fluttering as he threw his head back in relief. He grasped himself, desperate to hold on to the feeling because this time- this time he wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop- not when he was so close. To hell with everything else.

His entire body trembled as he moved his hand, his other forearm braced against the concrete ground. Warm hands covering his hands, his body... Smells of coffee and something else he couldn’t identify but would always remember, one finger of those beautiful hands reaching up to push the bridge of glasses up before he leaned down and pressed his lips to Desmond’s... He bit his lip as he pulled roughly, speeding up as his mind burst with fireworks of warmth and imagined sensations. It was building up inside him, slowly, gradually, but... Warm hands running down the curve of his spine, pressing Desmond tightly against his body- “Make more yours. “ Still pulling faster... And...And...

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, back arched tightly, his legs spread up to the confines of his jeans. But not matter how long he kept going, he couldn’t make it. He tried, and tried but still. The peak- it lay just out of reach, taunting him.

“No, no...Damn it!” He let go and punched the ground, his member already waning but still throbbing with the fury of unsatisfaction. He stood up, the tears of frustration already crawling over his cheeks and down his jaw. He swiped them away with his sleeve. God... The one time, the one time he let himself go, the one time he really needed it... He was just so fucking useless... There he was, standing in an empty room, crying with his pants around his ankles and the inability to release. And what would Shaun think of that?

“Desmond,” came a muffled voice on the other side of the door. “Er, are you alright mate?”

Desmond swallowed, trying to choke back his despair as the tears built up. He pressed his forehead up to the cool, wooden door, imagining that the separation between them would just fall away...“Yeah, Shaun, don’t worry about me. I just needed a breather- get my heart to calm down...”

There was a hesitation of silence- had Shaun figured it out? “Well, come out when you’re ready, Okay?...Becca’s panicking right now.”

Desmond couldn’t bring himself to answer, not when all he wanted to do was to tell Shaun not to leave because he needed him. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. He waited until he heard footsteps echoing down the hall before he slid down to the floor, back against the door. He clasped his hands over his lips to muffle the screaming sobs, tried to push the pain back inside- back where it belonged.

I cannot lose you... You were never mine.

Re: Fill: Fade 28/?

(Anonymous) 2011-10-09 08:54 am (UTC)(link)
I really did squeak when I saw another chapter for this fic. I didn't expect to see it in my inbox. You just made my night writeanon! I really enjoyed this fic (not because of the whole rape portion, but because you didn't sugar coat it and there isn't any magical-healing-cock in it. Things like this take time for a person to recover from, and sometimes there never is any recovery.)

Oh, poor Desmond. ;A; After all that, and he couldn't even finish. D: Shaun, you need to figure this out and help Des.

Re: Fill: Fade 28/?

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Re: Fill: Fade 28/?

(Anonymous) - 2012-06-16 14:50 (UTC) - Expand

I Touch Myself (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-10-09 06:04 pm (UTC)(link)
Fill for this prompt: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=6611348#t6611348

AU, where Malik is a young priest and Altair is one of his altar boys (and of course his irresistible temptation). In this fic Altair has to be younger than Malik, however I don't want shota.

BONUS POINTS for:
- a bit of angst from Malik's side (how he is doing something that is total taboo but at the same time can't resist it, etc.);
- bottom!Altair who struggles a bit at first but actually wants it/is absolute slut.

Authornon's Note: Please forgive any inaccuracies regarding the rites and rituals of the Catholic church. Authornon has not been a Catholic for over 20 years, but has tried to do research when appropriate.

-----

“Altair,” Malik sighed, pushing his fingers against the bridge of his nose in frustration. “The Divinyls are not an appropriate choice of music. Especially not during our catechism study.”

The boy at least had the sense to stop singing along to his iPod, instead opting to just mouth the words at the young priest leading the class. If anything, Altair Ibn-La'Ahad was sent to him as a test: a test of his patience, a test of his compassion – the boy could be just plain infuriating at times, and, worst of all, a test of his faith. As he continued leading the class of five young men, Malik considered just how the seventeen year old was truly his greatest challenge yet.

Altair was a test of his patience, for sure. The boy knew exactly how to push Malik's buttons to make his infamous temper – which he could keep a handle on with everyone but Ibn-La'Ahad – flare with a near righteous anger. Whether it was purposefully disrupting the young priest's classes or performing his duties as an altar boy immaculately after spending all week screwing around, it never failed to strike the match to ignite Malik's ire.

The young man was a test of his compassion as well. Malik supposed this was a kind of an extension of the test of his patience, but for whatever reason, Altair was far too easy to snap at. Perhaps it was his air of superiority, but when Malik's anger was roused, all he wanted to do was knock the boy from the pedestal he placed himself upon just to watch the look on his face as he fell.

Most disturbingly, though, Altair was a test of his faith. Not just his faith in the teachings of the Catholic church, but his faith in the interpretations by man of the word of God, his faith in the infallicy of the dogma, his faith in the rules of his position, and his faith in himself. He first met him when Altair was nine. The wide-eyed, eager to please child looked up to the then seventeen Malik for guidance, the younger boy having just joined the altar service at the request of his guardian. It still was odd to Malik that the boy who lost his parents two years prior seemed no worse for wear by the tragic boating accident, save for a terrible fear of bodies of water.

Malik remembered how he was unsure what to do after he graduated school, but that summer... That was the summer God called him to serve. He and his younger brother Kadar were riding their bikes down to the local city park when one car swerved into another lane, the other car swerving to avoid it and hitting both brothers. Malik didn't remember much of what happened after the accident, save that he knelt next to Kadar's still body, watching the light leave his little brother's eyes as blood pooled behind his head. His left arm hung uselessly at his side as he knelt, listening to his brother tell him how he saw angels, and that Malik shouldn't cry since he was going to live with Jesus, and someday, Malik would join him. He didn't remember anything else until he woke in the hospital, the elderly priest of their parish sitting vigil by his bed. The man told Malik how, when arrived at the accident to perform the Last Rites for Kadar, Malik had already been trying to perform the Viaticum for his brother, using his bottle of water in lieu of the Blessed Sacrament, and how Malik had seemed almost not himself as he spoke words that the young man didn't remember ever learning. That, the elder priest said, was proof that he was being called.

Re: I Touch Myself (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-11-19 07:27 am (UTC)(link)
Will this be finished? I must read more! I love Stephen Lynch, and to read a fill based off one of my favourite songs?

Please come back writeanon!

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OP here!

(Anonymous) 2011-10-14 08:00 pm (UTC)(link)
OP is as always too late to notice new things and is very sorry for late review. The first chapter is very promising. All mentioned characters are so in character (especially the thing that Altair can get on Maliks' nerves so easily. It is exactly like in the game). I am really looking forward for new parts, anon!

Missfire!

(Anonymous) 2011-10-26 03:12 am (UTC)(link)
Originally found here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1105097#t1105097

Continued forever later because someone did ask for it.

Between a Floor and a Dangerous Place [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2011-10-26 03:16 am (UTC)(link)
Some days Shaun wished he'd never heard of Abstergos. Wished that he'd never been arrogant enough to think all the problems in the world could be solved if he just looked at everything logically. That he'd never found that one thread of info that, to his eyes, so clearly lead to one group behind the scenes controlling everything. That he'd never been naive enough to think that by sharing it with the world all the problems would be fixed. If he'd just kept his head down and followed along like an obedient little sheep his life would be simpler to say the least.

Those are the bad days.

When he's been up twenty-four hours, alert only by the power of his own will and the fumes of the coffee pot that temporarily takes up permanent residence in his hand. When the missions go wrong and Shaun swears he can feel every gasp and scream through his audio link with whatever team he's supposed to be helping. When it takes everything he has to cut that link when the echoing silence after the last scream is replaced by mocking voices. Prodding and pressing for any little scrap of info they can drag out of him. Those days are few and far between, thankfully, despite the increasing number of risky missions they've been running lately.

Most days, Shaun is content with his lot in life.

Smugly satisfied with the fact that he was good enough to see something that's been hidden for hundreds of years. Proud of the fact that he is good at the jobs he does. Not that it stops him from complaining about the conditions he's found himself having to put up with, but that's completely normal. Shaun firmly believes that no human on the planet is ever truly happy unless they can bitch and moan about something.

Then there are the other days.

The days when he really wishes the Assassins had never found him in time. That Rebecca had been delayed just five more minutes. That he'd died quickly and peacefully of a bullet to the back of his head. Those are the really bad days. The ones where he finds himself giving serious contemplation to putting a bullet through his own brain to finish what Abstergos started.

Days like today.

Finding himself pinned to the wall --with bloody tentacles-- by Alex Mercer was the perfect start to a spectacularly bad day. In fact, if what little information Shaun had been able to gather was right, it was a fantastic start to getting himself killed.

Or raped. Which had become a possibility disturbingly fast and only increased the longer he stayed pinned. The hysterical part of his mind --firmly locked away in the interest of self-preservation-- pointed out that he had no one to blame for that but himself as he technically seemed to have started it.

"Bastard!" Shaun hissed out ignoring the pain as Alex bit him again, and tried harder to get out of the man's grip. Pain radiated through his neck and he could feel the warm slide of blood as it rolled down his neck.

What he knew about Alex wouldn't be enough to fit into a metaphorical thimble. Even after he'd wasted time hacking into the ridiculously complex communication system the military had set up. What he found only confirmed what anyone could learn within five seconds of seeing the man. Fast, strong, dangerous-

Alex grinned at him, teeth looking startlingly white with Shaun's blood on them. An unnaturally long looking tongue flicked out to catch a drop escaping the corner of his mouth.

-and completely insane.

"Shut up," Alex said, no ordered, and then enforced it. A tendril rose out of his chest to wind tight around Shaun's neck. It was an alien sensation. Slightly cool and dry it slid against his skin with a slight burn that he forgot when he realized the intent.

Shaun gasped a protest that was unintelligible as his airway was abruptly closed. Blind panic gripped him then and he stupidly struggled. Head whipping side to side and hands clawing against what bit of Alex was in reach. Even as adrenaline kicked in, Shaun could feel himself calming down. The burn of his lungs and the way his vision blurred were far too familiar to him.

Re: Between a Floor and a Dangerous Place [2/?]

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Kissing prompt

(Anonymous) 2011-10-29 02:06 am (UTC)(link)
http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1848265#t1848265

Anon asked for a fic that was all about kissing.

Desperate [1/2]

(Anonymous) 2011-10-29 02:07 am (UTC)(link)
I almost got it right?

~

Desmond isn't desperate.

Lucy laughs in his face every time he says it though. Earlier that day she hadn't stopped until she was a crying, hiccupping mess on the living room floor. Giggling and shaky from the hiccups she'd told him to stop complaining and put on the pants she'd chosen for him. It was two sizes too small and about one good washing away from turning the fashionable holes into something pornographic.

Desmond isn't desperate.

Rebbecca snorts something alcoholic out of her nose when he says it. Swearing immediate vengeance on him, she'd pushed him into a warped game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. With tearing eyes and a glare that would make even Lucy blanche she'd put his name in the hat being passed around. He isn't surprised when his name is the first called, and he gets shoved into a closet. An occupied closet.

Desmond is not desperate, but he has a sinking feeling that he will be in about five minutes.

Because no one had told him that Shaun Hastings, the gorgeous prick, had unbent enough to allow himself to be talked into going to a party. No one told him that Shaun Hastings, with a few drinks in him, could be talked into playing a silly party game only thirteen year olds played. And no one had told him that Shaun Hastings could kiss.

God could the man kiss. Desmond feels his IQ dropping with each touch of tongue. Because Shaun had gone straight for the kill as soon as the door shut behind Desmond. Cutting off anything Desmond might have said. Not that Desmond would have said much. Shaun had a way of bringing out the stupid Neanderthal in Desmond, and his speech was the first thing to be destroyed.

Shaun smells clean. Freshly showered and shaved smooth. Desmond can smell the slightest trace of his aftershave and he knows he's going out to buy some as soon as the party ends because he is actually that pathetic.

The fact that he can even think any of that with Shaun's tongue doing a damn good job of mapping out Desmond's tonsils is either a sign of imminent brain meltdown or a miracle. He's not sure which since the brainpower needed to figure that out has gone to shoving Shaun's glasses up onto his head and messing up his carefully gelled hair at the same time.

"Four minutes!" Rebbecca sings, the closet door doing very little to muffle her gleeful cackling or the cheers of the people out with her.

"Bint," Shaun breathes against Desmond's lips before his tongue dives right back in.

The thick accent goes straight to Desmond's dick and the tiny part of his brain not engaged in sucking face is cursing Lucy's choice in pants. The worn denim had been comfortably snug around his package, but is very quickly becoming painfully tight.

Shifting and squirming does nothing but push him right up against Shaun. Which doesn't help his problem at all. Shaun breaks off and chuckles, hands sliding down from Desmond's shoulders to grip his hips. Pulling Desmond in closer and grinding against him which makes Desmond moan.

Desmond gathers what little of his brain is left and pulls Shaun down. Sucking on his bottom lip and nipping lightly with his teeth. Loving the shudder each nip gets him. He shifts again until his thigh is between Shaun's leg and rubbing against the Brit's dick. Which is definitely as interested as Desmond's in the proceedings.

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Recruits to the Rescue [prologue]

(Anonymous) 2011-10-31 03:12 am (UTC)(link)
Prompt is here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=7174548#t7174548
I probably shouldn't be listening to Shake Your Groove Thing while writing this, but oh well! This is sort of just one giant chapter broken up into smaller parts. Hopefully it fits what prompter!anon wanted.

-----

They knew something was wrong when he didn't return.

Ezio never took this long on a mission.

Though Ezio’s budding guild had only five members, two of them were already full-fledged assassins. They had insisted someone go with him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It was too dangerous, he said. He would be able to handle it.

Claudia had tried to soothe the tattered nerves of her brother’s recruits by saying he might have gotten side tracked, or he was simply taking a little break on his way back.
It helped.

Sort of.
-----

Ezio didn’t remember how it had all happened. The mission was going well; some resistance from guards, but that was a simple problem to deal with. Then, all of a sudden, the tables turned. Someone got him from behind, and the next thing he was somewhat aware of was himself dropping to the ground, then darkness.

He woke up blindfolded, and in some chair. Alright, not good, but not terrible, either. He had stayed like that for a day, without food, and minimal water, before things took a turn south. His captors taunted him conversationally. They were never mean, nor brash. They were calm voices, but there was something about each – something in the way it accented words, or took long pauses that just drove Ezio up the wall.

Ezio assumed the man was trying to get him weakened, using lack of food, and slight sensory deprivation. However, he was stronger than that. And he assumed his captors would know that, too.

He did. What Ezio didn’t account for was that they knew the one thing that the assassin could actually call a phobia. Things could only get worse when that one man tied a rope around Ezio’s neck.

“No, we do not intend to kill you,” The voices taunted.

“Only... make our point clear.”

The men left Ezio like that for three more days. No matter what he did – no matter how hard he tried – Ezio could not calm himself. Painful memories flooded back all too quickly. Every couple of hours, one of them would sneak up behind him, and tug roughly on the rope, causing the assassin to choke out a dry scream. To add to this, Ezio had been stripped of his shirt, and his back was whipped once ever three hours, three times.

At some point, Ezio would sleep, but it was plagued with nightmares. He’d wake up from his own screaming; he was always sweating profusely, his breathing laboured and every little sound had him fidgeting. Though, there were times of peace. His mind would wonder, imagining Claudia berating him on being late. Niccolo was probably in a twist about it all. Leonardo, most likely, was the one in the middle coming up with the possible excuses as to his tardiness. His recruits... oh, and his recruits. They were most likely the ones Leonardo was placating as best he could.

In those fleeting moments, Ezio would manage a small, miniscule smile. They were always wiped clean in seconds, followed by the sound of approaching footsteps.
-----
I'll upload the next part tomorrow when I get back from school. Have a mini-prologue ~_~

Re: Recruits to the Rescue [prologue]

(Anonymous) 2011-10-31 03:42 am (UTC)(link)
I can't wait to read more. My jaw literally dropped when they put a noose around his neck to torture him ;__;

OP D: :D :D :D :D Re: Recruits to the Rescue [prologue]

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Recruits to the Rescue [1a/?]

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Rebecca x Templar!Lucy (or is she?)

(Anonymous) 2011-11-04 04:43 am (UTC)(link)
Inspired by the old speculation about Lucy based on the infamous trail of red footprints, I... had something in mind but can't write prose to save my life (unless RPing in prose of all things), so I open the pairing idea up to whatever you will do with it, even if it's just a roleplaying fantasy (i.e. Assassin!Rebecca x captive Templar!Lucy) between the two...

Bonus points if Desmond for whatever reason comes across the pairing (i.e. sees them kissing, but Rebecca in blue and Lucy in red) and reacts by fleeing TO the Animus, not from it!

Placed in wrong thread, please delete the above comment if possible!

(Anonymous) 2011-11-04 04:57 am (UTC)(link)
This was meant to go into part 3, not the fills, obviously...

A Perfect Circle [1/3]

(Anonymous) 2011-11-06 01:16 am (UTC)(link)
Original Prompt: There's no way that being an assassin can be good for your mental health, whether it's because they believe they are damned, or never clean again, maybe phobias, etc. I would love to see one of our dear assassins having to deal with all that. I would prefer Desmond, but Ezio or Altair is good too. No pairings, just by themselves, trying to deal. (http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=889289#t889289)

Authoranon here. Finished filling this ages ago, not realizing part 1 had been closed, like, eons ago. Derp derp.

Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad does not think often about religion.

But sometimes, he cannot escape the fact that he is damned.

He is not a man of faith, nor has he ever been. Religion is occasionally interesting, and some of the moral teachings are things that he can agree with, but overall, he finds that religion is no different than any other myths or fairytales or cults that are present in any society, though it is admittedly far more widespread. Altair does, however, acknowledge that everybody must believe in something- in a set of rules, in a moral code.

Because he hadn’t believed. Not when he was a child, alone and learning to fend for himself, not when he was an adolescent, training days without break, and not when he was a master assassin, full of pride at the skill of his blade. He had thought that he only had to follow the rules he wanted to, and that the only thing he needed was his blade. A small part of him wants to excuse this foolish way of thinking- it was how he was raised, he didn’t know any other way- but Altair knows that this is nothing more than self-justification, a remnant of that damning pride that had lost him a friend and nearly his life.

Now. Now he believes in the Creed. It is far from ideal, and coming to accept it fully was a struggle, but he finds it an acceptable code of morals and guide to his actions.

It at least seems a far less ridiculous method than offering up praise to an invisible, omnipotent presence in the sky who watches over everyone. But he does not disdain the people who do. He accepts that it is not his place to judge others of their beliefs. He reserves his condescension for those fools who kill senselessly in the name of religions that supposedly practice peace, because that is a special kind of hypocrisy that is unforgivable, no matter what you believe.

He is mostly sure about all of this. Mostly.

But there are times, occasional, infrequent times, that the world seems to stand still and Altair finds himself on the highest rooftop he can find, staring up into the sky. And then he allows himself the freedom to question himself. He killed those who killed in the name of their religion. Was he not the same as them, then? Did his Creed exempt him from these deaths? Sometimes, the doubt clouds his mind and his heart grows heavy with questions that have no answer and he can see the appeal of talking to Allah or God and simply letting them handle everything.

Altair senses vaguely that there is something treacherous about these thoughts, but he cannot place his finger on it and that makes him uncomfortable. Almost every religion that he has learned teaches of a place of paradise for those who do good, and alternatively, a place of damnation and suffering for those who commit evils. And he wonders, where would he be sent?

He is mostly sure he knows the answer. Mostly.

And because that is that and he doesn’t see how he can change his fate, or whether he even would if he was given the opportunity to, Altair does not think often about religion.

Mostly.

A Perfect Circle [2/3]

(Anonymous) 2011-11-06 01:17 am (UTC)(link)
Ezio Auditore da Firenze sometimes likes to play God.

It is not something he thinks about consciously. He just tends finds himself crouched on crafted tile rooftops, obscured by shadows, vaguely amused by the idea that he could watch people go about their lives without their knowing. It reminds him, a little, of the games that he would play with his brothers. Perhaps it is the last vestiges of a childhood that ended not long ago.

So Ezio sits and observes. To say that the people on the street looked like insects would be an exaggeration. But they don’t seem like people either. From here, from his height, he is reminded of the way a river flows, all whirls and eddies, fast and slow, no underlying pattern to discover. That doesn’t stop him from trying though. It is a fairly pleasant way to pass the time for someone normally so active, so always in motion. Just small moments of watching, fingers absently brushing the leather that encases his wrists.

The hidden blade. The creation that changed him from banker’s son to seasoned killer. Such a small thing. Such a powerful thing. Any of these people below him, they wouldn’t, couldn’t suspect that their life rested on such a thin, carefully sharpened edge. Slipped between the ribs, the vertebrae, through tendon and tissue, they would be dead before they even knew he was there.

Most of the time, when he catches himself thinking like this, a rush of shame rinses him cold and no matter which way he flees across the city, he invariably ends up at Leonardo’s, where his friend is always gentle and kind but also unafraid to knock sense into him, should he need it.

Most of the time, this is what happens. And that is almost okay.

Except that he never does tell Leonardo about his lapses on the rooftops. That single fact betrays him. Because if he was truly ashamed, if there wasn’t something that he enjoyed about his voyeuristic forays, he would tell Leonardo, and the artist would point out the flaws in his arguments and reasoning, and Ezio would let himself be talked out of… whatever he was doing. But he doesn’t.

Because there have been a few times that he lingers on the roof until a guard spots him and gives chase. Ezio runs, but not always as hard or fast as he can, letting the guard come just close enough to make both of their hearts pound. And that’s like a game too, until Ezio turns and drops down from the sky like the fist of God, and just like that, the guard dies.

It always brings a terrifying rush. That man no longer exists. He’s out of the stream. And it took but the tiniest flick of his wrist and the whirr of concealed springs. It’s easy, too easy, so easy that it hurts.

The shame tries to come, but it won’t begin to bother him until later. For now, Ezio Auditore is safe among justification and rationalization. He was being chased (it wasn’t like he forced that guard to follow him), he had the right to defend himself (not that he’d given the guard an equal chance), he was avenging his family (by attacking someone that probably had nothing to do with their deaths anyway).

With time, the doubts multiply to assertion and Ezio is ashamed and dismayed as he realizes what he’s become. With time, his reaction to the power thrust into his hands (strapped to his forearms) becomes tempered with age and experience. With time, Ezio learns that just because he has the power to end lives at will doesn’t mean that he should.

But that time is a long time coming, and until then, Ezio is an omnipresent force crouched on the rooftops.

A Perfect Circle [3/3]

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A Perfect Circle [3/3] (fixed)

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Re: A Perfect Circle [3/3] (fixed)

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Fill; AC1 Action VIrgin! Altair / Experienced! Maria.

(Anonymous) 2011-11-10 01:22 am (UTC)(link)
It's not exactly what the Prompt Master asked for, but I enjoyed filling what I could. I'll probably write more to go with it, but no promises.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7537587/1/

Delivery - Part 1 (1/3)

(Anonymous) 2011-11-10 05:38 am (UTC)(link)
Ahhh, my first time posting a fill. Ahem. This is apparently going to be a multi-chapter ordeal. I... didn't mean for that to happen, but what can you do?

Original prompt is here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=3621880#t3621880

Mafia AU.

Except, it's different; now, in the previous meme, it was based on the Italian branch, with Ezio and Feddy going about, but this time, I want it based on ALL the sects.

Particularly, I want WARFARE. Nikolai pops shit with Cross, Altair is the head honcho of his family, and ...

YOU KNOW.

STUFF.

And Desmond is the unfortunate Domino's pizza guy who comes in at the wrong time and place?

GO WILD.


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Ever since his cousin had (accidentally) gotten him fired from his last job as a bartender, Desmond had been making efforts to avoid the other man. It wasn't that he disliked Ezio -- quite the opposite. Ezio was a fun, intelligent guy, friendly enough when he wasn't set on murdering people -- and those people usually deserved it. It was just that trouble followed the friendly Italian everywhere. Everywhere. He had, after all, managed to get Desmond fired just by being related to him.

So when Desmond, starting on his second week of his new job as a pizza delivery guy, knocked on the door that he knew for a fact did not belong to Ezio, only to have it opened by none other than Ezio himself, he began to seriously consider that maybe the universe had some sort of grudge against him.

"Desmond!" Ezio's exclamation was a happy one, albeit confused. "What are you--" Then he caught sight of the pizza, and he smiled. "Ahh, you've found another employer! I'm glad."

Desmond very seriously considered having an actual conversation with Ezio. It didn't take long for him to decide against it. "That'll be $10.50." He offered the pizza to Ezio, earning himself a confused look from his cousin.

"But I did not order..."

"Sure you did. $10.50." He shoved the pizza forward more insistently. "C'mon, Ezio, I can't afford to get fired again. Whaddaya think is gonna happen when I go back there with a cold pizza and no money"

Relenting, Ezio withdrew his wallet. "My offer from before is still open, you realize."

"Uh-huh. I'll consider it if I ever rethink why I ran away six years ago, alright?"

Ezio looked ready to protest again when someone called from deeper in the house. It was a voice that Desmond both recognized and wasn't eager to hear more of. "Ezio, what is taking so long?"

"Just a minute!" Ezio called over his shoulder, before looking back at Desmond and offering him a 20. "Buona fortuna , Desmond. I should get back to work." Desmond nodded wordlessly and took the twenty from Ezio, eager to be away from the place before the police showed up. He knew from a lot of experience that he wished he didn't have that Ezio was skilled enough to not get caught. Knowing that he wouldn't be called into the station to pick his cousin out of lineup was enough to mollify Desmond somewhat.

"Tell your dad I said hi," Desmond offered, but that was all he said before he took off, eager to be away as soon as possible.

Delivery - Part 1 (2/3)

(Anonymous) 2011-11-10 05:38 am (UTC)(link)
=+=+=+=+=

Ezio set the pizza Desmond had handed him aside just as Machiavelli peered around the corner and into the foyer. There was a frown on the younger man's face. "Ezio, who was that?"

"Desmond," Ezio replied lightly, not as all surprised when Machiavelli's expression darkened.

"And you just let him leave?"

"Desmond will not tell anyone what he saw."

"Really. Then why was he here?"

Ezio hesitated a moment, trying (and failing) to not grin as he gestured towards the pizza. Outside he heard the tell-tale rumble of Desmond's motorcycle starting up. "Making a delivery. Perhaps he thought it would be funny to see the great Machiavelli eating pizza in the middle of a job."

Machiavelli gave the pizza a somewhat disdainful look before shaking his head. "I see he found another job in the wake of your idiocy at the Carolina."

Ezio's smile vanished. "That was not my fault!" It was something like the twentieth time he'd protested his innocence. "It was one of Altaïr's new recruits that decided to pick a fight!"

But Machiavelli was ignoring him, slipping back into the living room. "Of course." He carefully stepped around the man bleeding out on the expensive Persian rug. "Tell me, why did you think it was a good idea to let Desmond leave after he witnessed us here?"

"Desmond will not turn us in," Ezio insisted. He swept after Machiavelli and stepped towards the living room fireplace. "He is a good man and loyal to his family--"

"Which is why he ran away from his home when he sixteen."

"--even if he'd rather not get involved," Ezio finished stubbornly. He approached the fireplace,e where he'd been working before Desmond had shown up. "You are too paranoid, Machiavelli." Ezio knelt and began pushing at the bricks of the fireplace wall. "He stood up for me even at the risk of being fired after the fight, you know, even when-- aha!" One of the bricks revealed itself to be a false wall, and fell inward when Ezio pressed at it. "I found it!" He reached inside and withdrew a small, heavy metal box, about the size of a hardcover novel, from the tiny storage compartment behind the false brick.

Machiavelli stepped forward, not entirely able to hide his eagerness. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Barbarigo was a paranoid man, but he was also cheap." He tapped a logo on the metal box. "This is a Strauss. Bullet resistant, fire proof, resistant to high-speed impacts -- even one as small as this, plus the miniature panic room to hide it in, must have cost thousands of dollars." Ezio reached back into the fireplace and refitted the false brick. "Will take the ones we found in his office and bedroom, of course, but he would not spend so much money on a decoy." Smiling in satisfaction, Ezio rose and turned to face Machiavelli. He offered the box out to the other man. "Now. Shall we?"

Machiavelli hesitated, but then smiled just faintly and took the box from Ezio. "Very well, then."

Delivery - Part 1 (3/3)

(Anonymous) - 2011-11-10 05:40 (UTC) - Expand

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Re: Delivery - Part 1 (3/3)

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Delivery - Part 2 (1/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-11-26 04:57 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Delivery - Part 2 (1/?)

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Delivery - Part 2 (3/?)

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Delivery - Part 2 (4/?)

(Anonymous) - 2011-11-26 04:59 (UTC) - Expand

Delivery - Part 2 (5/5!)

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Re: Delivery - Part 2 (5/5!)

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Re: Delivery - Part 2 (5/5!)

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(Anonymous) 2011-11-22 09:17 pm (UTC)(link)
THIS IS AMAZING. So freaking adorable. I love Leo so much. <3

The Theft of Three (11/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-11-30 09:53 pm (UTC)(link)
Original prompt: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1361353#t1361353



---



It was a perfect day for a walk in the park, Ezio realized, which was much to their advantage - there were many people strolling about and enjoying the sunshine, both in groups and alone. It was a clever place to hold an impromptu meeting without bringing attention to themselves, as anywhere with a security camera would, indeed, possibly cause future problems. All things considered, the Auditore family preferred to maintain the ability to travel to America anonymously if they really needed to get away. It came with the line of work: the more escape routes you had, the better off you were – the safer you were. Ezio could tell Federico was subtly scoping out the terrain as they began to walk, and snorted quietly to himself. Bred and born assassins never strayed from alertness…unless it was to daydream, as it were.


“I’d like to keep our meeting brief,” Lucy said from his side, tilting her face to give the Auditore brothers a sideways glance through her blond bangs, “For obvious reasons, you understand.”


“Of course, Miss Stillman,” Federico nodded, slipping the envelope from Ezio’s hand to pass it to Lucy with the fluidity of a master thief; Ezio saw the glint in his brother’s eye and wrinkled his nose at the elder’s showing-off. Lucy seemed to take not notice of the exchange, and didn’t even take the invitation out of its envelope.


When the Auditore brothers looked up, they found that the blond-haired woman had led them to a small fountain surrounded by trees, which gave them some manner of seclusion from prying eyes.


Lucy turned to face them rather abruptly, all calm pretenses falling momentarily as she eyed them up and down. “I don’t think you know all the details about what’s going on, so I’m going to fill you in. Giovanni has already been in contact with me about his plan for several weeks now. Even I don’t know the particulars yet, but he can rest assured that I will be in Venice soon.”


“That is good to hear,” Federico interjected with a smile, but before he could continue on with formalities, Lucy held up a hand to quiet him.
“That’s not all. Your father knows this already, but you don’t, so I’ll tell you as a warning: I work for Abstergo,” she admitted, eyes hard, “I’m a double agent. Believe me when I say that I have taken every precaution so that my identity will not be revealed and that I can gain the trust of Abstergo and keep the truth hidden. That’s partly why I’ve been so careful about this meeting.”

“I don’t blame you,” Ezio shrugged, “It is no small task to keep secrets in this age of information; we will make sure that we will not speak of you until we return to Italy, for your protection.”


Lucy nodded, “Thank you. The only real piece of information I need you to relay to your father is that I was able to apply to Abstergo for a change in location, so I will be transferred to Italy soon to work there, and therefore I’ll be able to assist with the heist. Even so, there’s a possibility they could trace the theft and question me, but there’s a lot to plan and get through before we reach that point.”


Slipping a hand into her pocket, she pulled out a glossy business card and handed it to Federico, turning to walk away as she did, “In case you need me, contact me with that information. But don’t lose that card. I’m going to leave the park through the south entrance, I’d advise you to move on quickly,” finally, after a moment’s pause, she smiled, “I’ve been waiting a long time for this. Risk to my career or not, I’m in.” With that she turned and walked out of the shady glen, following the paved path into the sunlight and along the edge of a pond, not once looking back at the two Italian men.


“That went well,” Federico said, grinning, “Though unexpected. I believe you have a little sister to call about plane tickets?”


Fill-Altair deathfic-How I Will Let Go

(Anonymous) 2011-12-06 04:18 am (UTC)(link)
Its been a week since Malik has heard from Altair.

The assassin left his bureau a week ago, promising to return soon with the information he needed to proceed with the assassination. It would be easy, the man had boasted. Just like any other contract he had taken.

Two days passed and Malik went about his normal business. Making maps, recording things that needed to be recorded. He went to the market on the second day, returning with new parchment and ink, a stunning eagle feather quill that had caught his eye, and some fruit as a treat for himself. And then he went back to his maps.

On the third day a novice recruit came in seeking a map of the rich district. An easy request for the dai to fill. The fourth day after Altair left was exceptionally hot and all Malik did was laze around, sans robe, and ate the fruit he purchased two days earlier. It would soon spoil in the heat, anyway.

After five days Malik began to admit to himself that he might have been a little worried, but he didn’t have to admit it to anyone else. No one else really knew that the assassin had left on the mission, anyway. On the sixth day Malik went to the market again, needing more ink. His slight stress about Altair the previous day had caused much furious scribbling late into the night. But it wasn’t the stress, he told himself. That novice from a few days ago had taken his last map of the rich district of Jerusalem, and one could never know when another assassin could drop by asking for one. His late night scribbling session resulted in five new maps.

On the seventh day the novice returned, and returned the map to the dai. It was a bit dirty, but salvageable. He bid a curt, tense reply to the novice, but no one would think that unusual. He had never been the friendliest to novices, anyway.

He’s thought about what he would do if Altair d—
He would be sad, inconsolably sad, but no one would ever know. Altair was really the only one who talked to him beyond asking for advice on a mission or a map of Jerusalem. He wonders what will happen to the order after its best assassin is go—

It’s been a week, and Malik hasn’t heard from Altair.

Author Notes

(Anonymous) 2011-12-06 04:19 am (UTC)(link)
From this prompt-http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=1176265#t1176265

Didn't exactly follow the prompt but eh. It was old as fuck anyway. Whipped this up in maybe 20 minutes. I'm a huge sucker for sad fics.

Childhood Fantasies

(Anonymous) 2011-12-06 05:25 am (UTC)(link)
The prompt's original title was "Imagination"
http:// forkinsocket.livejournal. com/19860.html?thread=6890132#t6890132

"When Desmond was younger he was probably left alone, nobody to play with him, no love, got nothing but a cold shoulder. So he made his own parental figure, someone to love him and cherish him, protect and play with him. Altair. But when he is forced to go to school and meet new people. He gets scared and runs away to... let's say... a park.

He walks around with Altair in the park for a while, before eventually sitting on a bench. Next thing he knows he meets two other boys, Leonardo and Kadar. Leonardo has an imaginary friend Ezio, and Kadar a brother named Malik. Desmond is scared to admit he has one (mostly due to his father doing something to him if he caught him talking to "himself"), so he lies. Malik and Ezio notice him fibbing but do not tell Kadar and Leo. Eventually, Desmond tells the truth and is able to see Malik and Ezio (and vise-versa (meaning Malik and Ezio were able to see each other but not Altair)). >Enter happy ending< right? WRONG!

Sadly they are split apart and don't meet until years later, but they still have their I.F. (imaginary friends) Enter happy reunion? Nope. Desmond's father notices that his son starts to talk to himself more frequently when he comes back from meeting the boys. >Enter trip to a psychologist and another trip to an asylum<

Desmond eventually is FORCED to forget Altair, causing him to fade. (but still remain) Altair then actually has to find Leo and Kadar and beg (*shock*) them to rescue Desmond.

What happens next is up to writer!anon.

Bonuses:
+20: Malik and Ezio arguing
+30: Malik and Ezio somehow get into a fist-fight
+40: Desmond's dad somehow getting arrested...
+50: Kadar (or Leo) getting a child's crush on Desmond (They'll be little kids, and Desmond's adorable. Who WOULDN'T get a puppy love crush on him?)
+80: Altair being temptation made "solid" (AKA... Ezio and Malik trying to gain his attention through any means.)
+100: Altair play mother!figure to Desmond (something about it makes my inner fangirl squeal)
My soul and internet babies: Somehow have Altair "thank" Ezio and Malik... *wink* *wink* *nudge* *nudge*

-----

I did not follow the prompt exactly, which is why this isn't being posted in Part 3. This fill is fragmented and unfinished, and will probably always remain so, but maybe the OP will see this and know that an anon tried.

Childhood Fantasies, Part 1

(Anonymous) 2011-12-06 05:30 am (UTC)(link)
Mama was really soft. Dad said that's why she died. Altair said that it wasn't. Desmond wasn't sure what the truth was, but it was confusing to sit at the breakfast table and not have her sitting next to him. He had to add his own sugar on his wheat puffs, and the first time he put in too much and Dad had to smack him for it. Altair helped him measure after that.

Altair said that Mama would want him to work hard in school, and to clean up his room, and to brush his teeth and bathe. Desmond knew she would, and he wanted to do good things so Mama wouldn't have to worry while she was gone, but doing all that stuff would take time away from playing. So Altair said they would 'compromise', and Altair would clean up his room if Desmond did his homework and brushed his teeth. He still didn't like to take baths, though.

One morning -because all the important things in Desmond's life seemed to happen in the morning- he asked Dad if they could go to the park for a while to play. Desmond loved the park; he loved climbing to the top of the slide and sitting up there on top of the world, he loved being pushed on the swings until the chains bounced from going too high, he even loved just hanging from the monkey bars until his fingers started to tingle, then swinging back and forth, travelling without even touching the ground.

The thing he loved most of all, though, was watching Altair at the park. He never used the ladders, or the stairs, and he could move so fast from the top of the lookout tower to the bottom of the sandbox and back again. Desmond tried to follow him all the time, but he was never as fast. Altair didn't mind though, and taught him how to grab a ledge, how to jump to the tricky spots, and how to tuck-and-roll if he missed. The old ladies in the red hats who came to sit on the picnic tables would point at him and call him a monkey. Desmond liked being a monkey. Dad didn't.

That morning -the important one- when Desmond asked if they could go to the park Dad looked at Desmond carefully. It was the look that Desmond knew he got when Dad had heard him talking to Altair again. Dad said he didn't like Altair. Altair said he didn't like Dad. It made his insides feel funny, so he tried not to think about it.

"Fine Desmond, we can go. But I have important phone calls to make, so don’t bother me." Dad said. Desmond didn't mind, and ran to get his shoes. Altair would play with him, if he asked nicely.

The park was really close to their house, but Dad always drove them there. Desmond liked it, because once in a while if he was good and quiet and didn't bother Dad, they would go and get ice cream after. Desmond loved chocolate ice cream, but Altair said it was too sweet for him, so sometimes Desmond got vanilla instead so they could share.

When they arrived at the park that morning there were some people already on the swings, so Desmond followed Altair over to the play structures to practice climbing. The old ladies with the red hats weren't at the picnic tables today, so Desmond knew that Altair would be jumping from there to the structure. Desmond couldn't jump that far yet, but Altair said that someday soon he'd be able to.

He had been hanging in the middle of the monkey bars for a while, but his fingers weren't tingling yet when someone poked him in the leg. He turned around and looked down at two kids. The one with the floppy red hat had poked him, but Desmond could tell they both wanted to know what he was doing. Sometimes this happened.

"I'm hanging 'cause I like it." He explained. The one with the red hat wrinkled his nose like he'd licked the inside of a lemon, and the other one with the funny chin looked surprised. Desmond adjusted his grip a bit, and waited for them to go away.

"Why?" Funny-chin asked. Desmond tried to remember what Altair had told him.

"'Cause it promotes patience, endurance, and upper body strength'."

Both boys looked behind them and up, at thin air. They seemed to be listening to something, and Desmond suddenly felt worried. Altair was at the top of the play structure, but when Desmond looked over at him, he jumped down and came over right away.

Childhood Fantasies, Part 2

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Childhood Fantasies, Part 3

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 05:39 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, Part 4

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Childhood Fantasies, Part 5

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Childhood Fantasies, Part 6

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 05:52 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, Part 7

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 05:57 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, Part 8

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 06:01 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, Part 9

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 06:14 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, Part 10

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 06:18 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, Part 11

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 06:22 (UTC) - Expand

Childhood Fantasies, The Rest

(Anonymous) - 2011-12-06 06:38 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Childhood Fantasies, The Rest

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OP

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A Box of Scraps (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-12-09 12:00 am (UTC)(link)
Original Prompt Here --> http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=6766740#t6766740

Call of Duty / Iron Man / Assassin's Creed

LEONARDO IN A CAVE! WITH A BOX OF SCRAPS! (At least there will be...)

-----

“Yes, Mama, I will be back in time for the holidays.”

“You better be, Ezio,” the woman on the other end of the call threatened cheerfully. “You know how Claudia gets when she sets her mind to something, and this year she wants to make sure we have the 'perfect' Christmas.” There was a pause and Ezio could swear he heard his mother's smile widen just a little more. “She's even sent an invitation to Cristina to meet us at the cabin...”

“Mama....” the man sighed, leaning against the wall of his hotel room. “Cristina and I broke up years ago. She's married to Manfredo.”

“It's never stopped her from loving you.”

“You are an evil woman, mother.”

The woman on the other end of the line laughed heartily, and Ezio couldn't help but join her. If he was honest with himself, he did still love Cristina, but their circumstances made their relationship impossible. He was an accomplished sniper, and as a Lieutenant Colonel of the United States Marine Corps Forces Special Operation Command, his skills were called upon more often than not in these troubling times. His command of a several languages, as well as his mastery of the Marine Corps martial arts training, made him a force to be reckoned with at close range if need be. If this one last mission went well, he would find himself retiring just as decorated, if not more so, than his father, Major General Giovanni Auditore.

“So, since you're not bringing Cristina, are you bringing someone else? Perhaps someone who will someday provide me with lots of grandkids to spoil?”

“Evil. Woman. Mother,” Ezio repeated before pausing when his phone beeped that he had another call. He glanced at the smartphone, then spoke to his mother again. “I gotta go, Mama. Duty calls. Love you.”

“Love you, too, son. Make me proud—er.”

Ezio chuckled to himself, composing himself before he switched over to the other call.

“Lieutenant Colonel Auditore?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“This is Sergeant Frank Woods. Passing the word along, sir. Something's come up, and the briefing's been moved to tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I'll see you tomorrow.”

Ezio pressed the screen on his phone, disconnecting the call, and sighed. He was planning on finishing his holiday shopping before his final mission, but it looked like that would have to wait. With a glance around, he pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, put his hands in his pockets, and walked towards the parking garage where his car waited to take him home.

Re: A Box of Scraps (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2011-12-09 12:13 am (UTC)(link)
Not-op but....


THIS.

Great start anon~!!!!

Can't wait for more~~~~!!!!!

Re: A Box of Scraps (1/?)

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A Box of Scraps (2/?)

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Re: A Box of Scraps (2/?)

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Re: A Box of Scraps (2/?)

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Re: A Box of Scraps (3/?)

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Re: A Box of Scraps (3/?)

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FILL: Alt/Mal Aftercare

(Anonymous) 2011-12-10 04:47 pm (UTC)(link)
Prompt can be found here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=3315704#t3315704

This must be the oddest (and maybe meanest) thing I've ever requested, but we're all friend here right...?

I'd like to se some aftercare, especially if it's the kind where the sexings are interrupted because one uses the safe-word or something similar. Hopefully it could be Alt/Mal, since I'm very fond of them and think they would have an interesting emotional-awkward-genuinely-concerned-thing goin' on.

So yeah, just make one really uncomfortable, to the point of wanting to stop, and then go from there.


FILL can be found here: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=7561720#t7561720

The Moon and the Tide [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2012-01-16 11:11 pm (UTC)(link)
Prompt link: http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=3529976#t3529976
Prompt: Malik is a merman who is in love with the mortal Altair.
AN: Ooh, boy. It has been a while, has it? I've gotten the original posted fic tweaked and edited, though if there are still mistakes that'll be on me, not the two lovely betas i've roped into it.
------

It starts with a storm.

The water rolls with a flurry of air and bubbles that would suffocate a mer if he or she is too careless. Malik never intends to see what he does, but he happens to turn his gaze upwards to the sight of the dark shadow of a ship, coming dangerously close to the sharp reefs where he sometimes visits to gather fish and clams, and occasionally the trinkets from bodies of dead, half eaten sailors.

He is almost eager to have the ship crash into the hills of coral. Malik knows what the humans carry with them—fascinating things like metals and gems and spices, items not found anywhere within the ocean—though it’s the steel that Malik loves collecting. The precious metal fetches a high price in the market, and if he ever has the chance to talk with a human, he would surely ask how they are made, hard and sharp and nearly unbreakable, nothing like glass at all.

Malik tails the ship as closely as possible, still keeping low and away from the reef. Lightning flashes and he can make out the outline of sails, already yearning to feel the strange fabric in his hands. He has read once that the cloth is made from cotton, and that it sprouts from the ground like seagrass and kelp. Such a baffling place the world above must be, he thinks, craning his neck to look up.

There is another flash of lightning and Malik catches a glimpse of a small shadow falling into the sea. It is a human, but humans are forever falling into the ocean, so Malik doesn’t think to pay it any attention until he sees the glint of metal strapped to the human’s hip.

Judging from the panicked way the human’s limbs are flailing, it doesn’t have long to live, and Malik, ever practical, swims towards it.

In hindsight, it would have been a better idea to at least wait for the human to expire before trying to wrench the sword away. All it does is send mixed messages, and it’s rather hard to communicate with a drowning human underwater, especially when the human is incoherent with fear and doesn’t know any better than to wrap it’s arms and—ugh, legs—around Malik’s torso. Malik shouts, angry, and tries to pull away.

For a second, the human stills, startled, and looks at him.

Many things happen after that. Things like a hand on the back of Malik’s head, clinging and desperate, the sliver of golden eyes before they squeeze back shut, and muffled words that take the form of bubbles, but Malik can hear each plea that tickles by his ear, fleeting and growing weaker by the moment.

Malik doesn’t intend to save the human, but he does, though he has to knock it over the head first to stop the stupid thing from struggling. Above them the storm rages on and there are many times when Malik starts to think the human is not worth the trouble, dragging and pulling and trying to keep its head above the water. It becomes even more difficult as the water starts to become shallow and Malik has to flop awkwardly on the beach, his tail thrashing in frustration since his arms are full of unconscious human.

The air makes him feel lightheaded, but Malik sits up to check the rise and fall of the man’s chest, amused to find that humans and mer are oddly similar in some ways. He looks into the pale face, noting the scar on its lips, the strands of hair slicked from its forehead, and almost wishes he could see more of the strange golden eyes.

“I saved your life, so it is only fair that I am rewarded,” Malik says instead, tilting his head at the curious sound of his voice, how sharp and clear it is, like a blade.

And it all ends on the shore, with the sun shining against his back and the sword in his hand.

+++


The fish tell him that there is a man who stands by the pier, dropping copper coins into the water.

They are annoyed because they have no use for copper and they’d rather have breadcrumbs or slop and dirty swill to nibble on. Malik only listens because they mention the man has golden eyes.

He only follows them because he wants the coins.

And he only stays beneath the pier, hidden and quiet, because the man with the golden eyes speaks to the ocean like a crazy person.

The man says, “My master tells me I should be grateful that the spirits of the sea seem to favor me.”

A coin plops into the water, and Malik waits for it to sink all the way to the floor before picking it up. Meanwhile, the human recites a prayer of some sort, dull and monotonous like memorized lines from a text he has only learned to appease his master. The moment he is finished, his words become colored with sarcasm and arrogance.

“So, merciful sea spirits, I offer you four—no, five copper coins in thanks. May I never have the misfortune to be swept away by your waves again,” he drawls, and tosses a small pouch into the water.

This, Malik darts out for, snatching the pouch and retreating back to the shadows of the pier. He tugs it open, looking at the copper coins; they are small and round, but beautiful in the palm of his hand. The man starts to walk away, wooden boards creaking despite the lightness of his steps.

Malik doesn’t know the worth of five copper coins on land, but they are precious underwater. He digs through the pouch he carries, fingers tangling with the string of glass beads he keeps as a decorative charm. The glass comes from the volcano that bubbles and steams in the deepest part of the ocean, so maybe it might be something special to humans. In any case, a part of him just wants to prove the man wrong—Malik might not be a sea spirit, but the human seems to think that it was only luck that has saved him the night of the storm.

Peeking above the murky water, he squints at the man’s retreating back and tosses the charm.

Malik’s aim is horrible—he forgets that air is thinner than water—and the charm hits the human on the head. He ducks back down, torn between mortification and having to stifle his snickering at the man’s yelp of surprise.

He doesn’t end up staying, as the human grows suspicious enough to start peering into the water, but the weight of the coins feel pleasant in Malik’s hand, even long after he dives back into the depths where the sunlight can’t touch him.

+++


Malik visits the pier for the second day in the row. Somehow, he is unsurprised to find the man there.

The man doesn’t say his prayer of thanks, but he drops a small knife, silver and shining, into the water.

Malik searches through his pouch again and waits until the human looks away so that he could slip his own blade, made from blue coral, through the cracks of the wooden beams. Its jagged edges scrape loudly on the wood, causing the human to turn quickly.

The man gets on all fours, trying to see through the cracks, but Malik is long gone by then, clutching the silver knife with a grin that doesn’t fade for a long while.

+++


On the third day, the human leaves out a necklace with a single pearl, sounding smug about how he has managed to obtain it from a thief. (And he adamant in telling Malik—or the sea spirit, really—that he has had no luck in finding its owner, and that the pearl is better off back in the sea.)

Malik scoffs from his spot in the shadows, leaning against the mossy support beams. He throws pebbles when the man is not looking, and is pleased to find that his aim has gotten much better.

+++


The next day the human drops tiny parcels of spices and tea from a place called China. They blossom and bloom in the water, leaving behind an earthy, pleasant scent.

Malik places a cup, carved from the white bone of a whale with patterned edges of waves, on the far edge of the pier for the man—whose eyes have gotten far too swift as of late—and watches, this time, as the man kneels to pick it up with a smile.

+++


The fifth day—a dagger, inlaid with gold veins and purely ornamental. The hilt may be pretty, but the blade is too weak to be used in battles, the man says, as if he wants to explain the expensive gift. The human is a warrior, a fighter, and Malik feels himself draw closer, internally, despite that he keeps perfectly still beneath the water.

All he has in return is a little glass figurine of a flower—hardly adequate for a fighter—but next time he visits, he’ll be prepared.

+++


A week later, the man gives Malik his name.

Malik doesn’t answer, and only begins to see how far he has fallen.

+++


Kadar says, “You’ve been visiting the harbor again. It’s that human, isn’t it?”

His gaze shifts to the sword resting in Malik’s hands and flickers to the other foreign trinkets scattered around the cavern. Unlike all the other times he has said this, his voice takes on an accusatory tone, hurt and not able to understand what the realm of air and sun has to offer, the mysterious beauty it holds—things like fire and clouds and the strange invisible force that pulls you down to the ground. The human plays a part in it, yes, but it is not the only thing that captivates Malik about the world above.

He lifts his head from the bed of coral, feeling the shudder of sea anemones as they retreat back into themselves. Kadar stares back at him, mouth drawn into an unhappy line. For a moment, Malik considers lying, not to ease his brother’s worries, but to prevent him from asking anymore than he should, because they both know that the answer will always be the same.

“If you had been there, maybe you would see,” he says, giving the sword a practiced swing; the metal is all too heavy in the water, and the momentum drives him back, pulling at his arm like a graceless, retreating wave.

Kadar says something in return, but Malik is too busy wondering what it would be like if he could wield the sword in air, with Altair at his side, guiding him through the motions.

+++


The next gift Malik receives from the world above is not from Altair, but from the sky.

It splashes into the water, round and golden, and distracts Malik from visiting the pier that day. He holds out his hand, curious, and stares as it glows with a light of its own.

“I am called the Apple,” the sphere says in a voice that reminds him of rolling thunder.

He can feel its power, heavy and oppressing. It should scare him, but Malik finds himself entranced, and quickly takes the Apple into his cavern, glad that Kadar is out for the day.

In the darkness, the Apple promises him a wish, though it reads his heart and knows what Malik desires.

“If it is your wish to become human, I shall grant it,” it tells him, “but only if the conditions are met.”

“What do you require?”

“Your arm.”

Malik frowns, suspicious. “An arm does not equal two legs.”

The Apple shimmers, almost as if it was laughing. It clarifies, “Your arm and your blood.”

“How much blood?”

“Your smallest blood,” the Apple says, much too cryptic—but Malik is already thinking of fires and metals and the wind on his face. Blood is a paltry payment. The Apple shimmers again.

“If you can find a person who loves the sea as much as you love the land within a moon’s cycle, and seal the spell with a shared breath of air and water, a human you will remain. But you cannot tell anyone of your true nature, or else your throat will close and turn against you; I will make sure of that.”

Malik can feel himself trembling. He wants this, wants despite the price.

“Yes,” he breaths, just as Kadar drifts into the cavern, eyes wide.

Malik—“

He drops the Apple, shouting, but it’s all too late.

+++


Malik washes up on the shore, coughing and thrashing. The air is too light and comes in too quickly to fill in his new lungs, only to rush out again when he tries to stifle his sobs. He cannot wipe his tears because his single hand is gripping on a sword—Altair’s—and how he manages to keep it, when he cannot even keep his brother, is nearly laughable if it isn’t for the pain.

His legs are bare, scraped raw and bleeding from when he drags himself over the sand, which feels unnatural and sharp against the skin. Malik knows he should stand, or at least try to, but he’s hurting all over.

“Hey, that’s my sword.”

Altair is there, suddenly, towering over him with a scowl. His movements are precise and forceful, using the heel of his boot to nudge Malik over. This isn’t the same man who has spent hours talking to the sea, though Malik can smell the spices from the pouch at Altair’s hip—and maybe he had been on his way to the pier, or was coming back from it, disappointed and angry that the sea spirit did not show up.

Malik tries to explain, but his throat closes and he gags, just like the Apple promises.

“Oh,” Altair says, sounding surprised. “Did your ship sink? Or did you fall off it?” Even his worried expression looks condescending.

Malik wants nothing more than to strike him and blame him for everything.

“You,” he cries, and swings the sword at the man’s throat, but, as always on land, his aim is off and Malik can’t keep to his feet on the uneven sand. He wobbles, and the sword buries itself into the ground.

“Are you insane?” Altair asks, unimpressed. He hasn’t moved from his spot, and that enrages Malik even further.

He is helpless and everything just hurts so much. Malik tries to attack him again, but Altair moves with a grace that Malik has only seen underwater, flowing and smooth, and twists his arm so that the sword falls from his hand.

“I should kill you,” Altair growls, placing his palm under Malik’s chin—it is only later that Malik realizes the missing finger and hidden blade at his forearm—and pushes forward. “But you are lucky my master does not allow me to kill an innocent, if you are indeed innocent, and… what are you doing?”

Malik is not yet used to his new legs, so he grips Altair’s shoulder with his arm and leans against him, propping his chin on Altair’s palm.

“I can’t stand,” he hisses, hating this weakness, however new it is to him.

Altair’s hand twitches, his fingers brushing over Malik’s cheek, before it draws away. There is pity in his eyes. Malik stumbles, but Altair brings himself closer, cautious, and puts Malik’s arm over his shoulders to hold him up.

“Where did you come from?” he demands, kneeling to retrieve his sword.

The quick movement makes Malik dizzy, and he realizes how tired he is. He opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an incoherent gurgle until he coughs and says, “I cannot tell you.”

Altair frowns, but he starts to walk; Malik watches his feet, observing how they move. The first step they take together, Malik nearly trips and Altair has to pull him back up.

“Are you injured?” he asks, but when he checks Malik’s legs he only finds tiny cuts and bruises.

“I can’t walk,” Malik says, exasperated that he has to repeat himself, and that he can’t explain why. “But I will learn.”

Altair throws him an odd look.

“What’s your name?”

“Malik,” he says, and is surprised that he can.

“I am Altair.”

I know, Malik wants to say, but walking is difficult and Altair does not seem to mind the silence.

He doesn’t ask where they are going, but he looks over his shoulder to watch the ocean disappear from sight, taking the last of the sun’s waning glow with it. Tonight will be moonless, Malik thinks numbly, and turns away to see the world of humans and air and fire spread out before him.

+++

Re: The Moon and the Tide [1/?]

(Anonymous) 2012-01-17 08:20 am (UTC)(link)
EEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! *massive-flailing*

I completely forgot about this fic, and you're continuing it--!

I still love how they were giving each other gifts, though the price that Malik had to pay in order to get his legs is horrible. But...is the Apple still at the bottom of the ocean?

writeranon

(Anonymous) - 2012-01-17 08:30 (UTC) - Expand

The Moon and the Tide [2/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-11 04:17 (UTC) - Expand

The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-11 04:19 (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-15 08:22 (UTC) - Expand

writeranon

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-19 21:07 (UTC) - Expand

Re: writeranon

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-20 16:06 (UTC) - Expand

Re: writeranon

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-21 06:29 (UTC) - Expand

Re: writeranon

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-21 13:28 (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-17 21:59 (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-18 01:54 (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-02-19 19:36 (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-04-05 06:28 (UTC) - Expand

Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]

(Anonymous) - 2012-07-07 07:32 (UTC) - Expand

Moments in Time (1-3)

(Anonymous) 2012-02-19 05:25 pm (UTC)(link)
Fill for this prompt here: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=7917643#cmt7917643

"I know there is this wondefully epic fill with Altair being immortal and joining Ezio's brotherhood to keep track of him.

I'd love to see something like that, only with Altair and Malik both having become immortal and watching over the brotherhood.

Can be Alt/Mal slash or friendship. You can also pair them up otherwise, I would only ask for no het pairings with Malik.
Naturally, it would have to be an AU concerning every game canon post-Brotherhood (includig Secret Crusade).

Bonus points for:
- People underestimating Malik constantly and BAMF Malik
- Interaction with La Volpe, Macchiavelli, Leonardo and the other important NPCs and/or the Assassin recruits
- Leonardo figuring out who Altair and Malik are"

I'm going to be filling this in a series of prompts. Honestly really wanted to make this a slice of life fic, but the plot bunnies just...GAH. However, there will probably be a lot prompts that will have nothing to do with the plot, and that's where the slice of life with be.

--
1. Introduction

There were times when people regret choices made by themselves or others. To Malik, Altair was a very bad choice. The man had no limits in which he would do to save the brotherhood. Which apparently includes turning them both immortal.

It was too bad at first, but after centuries of not aging, Malik grew tired, restless. The nightmares began. Most of the time, he couldn’t remember them, but just knew that they left him sweating with ice in his veins as he shook with terror. Altair didn’t help much, the man was too busy watching over the brotherhood to even notice Malik.

The dreams he did remembered usually happened. He saw how Marco Polo had found Altair’s codices and taken them elsewhere. He saw that they would follow him. He saw technology being invented before it’s time. He saw death, death that came with rats and large swollen skins. He saw how powerful the Christians and their religion would get. He saw the near end of the world and how there was only one man who could stop it.

It the midst of the horrors that will be put upon this world, he saw the Renaissance. An enlightenment age, full of art and research. For a while, the dreams stop as if to give him a break to just enjoy life. Even Altair seemed to have changed with the period. Everyone seemed happier, brighter.

However, in the middle of all that was a man. A man Malik knew they had to protect, he just didn’t realize how difficult it would be.

--
2. Complicated

“Altair!” Malik ran up the stairs to the grandmaster’s desk, a panicked look across his face.

The man looked up, stilling the movements of his pen as Malik bent over to catch his breath. He merely stared, waiting for Malik to speak again.

“We must leave.” Gasping out, Malik stared determinedly at Altair as his breath evened.

“...What?” The man furrowed his eyebrows, confusion evident on his face.

“That man! He needs us, he’s not going to make it if we don’t help. We don’t have much time!” Malik looks down, mumbling to himself. “Italy is at least a month or two away. His family will be dead by 3...”

“Malik! Slow down, I don’t understand what you’re saying.” The grandmaster drops his pen, grabbing his friend’s shoulders and shaking them.

“We have to leave!” The panicked look returned, seeming even stronger this time.

“Why?” Altair soothes out calmly, rubbing the shoulders gently in his grip.

“It’s...It’s complicated, but please just trust me on this.” He pleaded, hand gripping the grandmaster’s robe.

Altair sighed, releasing the hold and walking around the desk to hold Malik in a hug. “Alright. We will leave if that is what you wish.” He takes a deep breath, a hand stroking Malik’s hair and holding his head to his chest.

Finally, Malik smiles, expression calming as he also breathes in deeply. “Thank you, Altair.”

--
3. Making History

The rooftops of Florence were free of archers during this time. Everything was in order and the city was safe enough that only a handful of guards patrolled the streets. It was a wonderful time to be here. Courtesans flitted every corner, flirting with and seducing men. Thieves camped out on the roofs and mercenaries laid in the streets, talking amongst themselves.

Young men were meeting with their love, as her father tried to protect her to no avail. People filled the bustling streets with talk and rumors. Shops yelled out prices, inviting customers to buy.

The city was as much alive as Malik felt. He lifted his arm up, feeling the breeze through his robes. Altair sat beside him, smirking knowingly at Malik. They would need to get new robes and clothes soon to blend into the crowd. But for now, Malik would like to have the pleasure of the calm winds as he stood on top of the roofs.

A boy, no older than eighteen, stared up at them in wonder, his brown hair swaying around his face with the wind.

“Ezio! We are going to be late!” He turned towards the voice, face breaking out into a grin as he rushed off down the street.

Malik smiled, relieved that they had found their mark so soon. He turned towards Altair, and settled down beside him. The assassin wraps an arm around him, holding him close.

“Let’s make history together, Malik” Altair laughs, watching the oblivious city below.

“Yes, I’m sure this will be remembered in times to come. Let us enjoy it.”

--
The fluff is rotting my teeth, but I can't help it. I'm such a sucker for AltMal fluff...OTL

Re: Moments in Time (1-3)

(Anonymous) 2012-02-19 07:41 pm (UTC)(link)
Not OP but I like the slice of life snippets. It's an interesting take to filling the prompt and the fandom can always use more Alt/Mal. And fluff. <3

Re: Moments in Time (1-3)

(Anonymous) - 2012-03-03 17:04 (UTC) - Expand

Short Ezio/Salai (w Leonardo mentioned, of course)

(Anonymous) 2012-04-10 12:51 pm (UTC)(link)
This prompt:

http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?thread=832713#t832713

Leonardo and Salai are together, and Ezio does not like it because he has a huge crush on artist. Of course Leonardo is clueless about that little fact.

So in a fit of jealousy/rage Ezio takes it out on poor Salai. Any kink is welcome. Go wild, have fun. XD Bonus points for naughty stuff like spankings.

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

Yes, this is from part 1, and my first fill. I'm ignoring the fact I promised 2 other fills for part 1 and decided to fill this instead.

Also, no spankings, though they really did want to work their way in there, and Dark!Ezio didn't really end up Dark!

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

"Ngh! Everyone thinks it's his fingers he's talented with, because he's - aagh! - an artist," laughed Salai breathlessly into the table. "But they've all - oh, Dio! - got no imagination, because when he starts using his tongue, cazzo!"

Not sure if that last bit of cussing and convulsing was from his own little monologue or from the extra finger inside the already filled hole, and also not particularly caring, Ezio snarled and shoved both appendages in to the hilt, grinding mercilessly against the spot that made the little diavolo writhe and scream beneath him, no matter how much he bit his lip to silence himself.

"Beg for it, puttano!" he groaned putting his weight onto Salai's pinned arms for extra leverage. "Beg for it like the little slut I know you are, parading yourself around in front of mio angeli innocenti."

Salai convulsed around him again, but this time in mirth. "Innocent what? For being yours, assassino, his thick, hard pene seems to find its way into il mio-"

Ezio laughed at the broken sob from the young man beneath him as he arched and came again. "Puttano." He began thrusting harder and deeper into the clenching body, and bared his teeth in something resembling a grin when Salai's voice finally broke and he shut up, reduced to wordless sounds of pleaseure as his body bucked helplessly back onto the cock fucking him through his master's worktable. "Beg!"

"Cazzo! Pezzo d-di mer... merda! I will never beg you! Arrrngh! For mercy!"

"Who said anything about mercy?" Ezio was disgustingly coherent still, but leaned forward to laugh breathlessly, cruelly, into Salai's ear. "You've come three times and are still fucking yourself onto my cock, clenching around it like you can't get enough."

Ezio wiggled the finger forgotten inside Salai's body and chuckled at the way the whore's legs spread further. "So I'm going to give you what you want, piccino. I'm goint to give you everything you could want and more. And your going to beg for it, as you come from being spread wide enough to have several men using you simultaneo."

Salai gasped and rutted against the table. "And you're going to love it," Ezio hissed. "Even as I ruin you for one man alone. You'll be spread so wide Leonardo won't even be able to feel you around his 'thick, hard pene', diavolo."

Re: Short Ezio/Salai (w Leonardo mentioned, of course)

(Anonymous) 2012-07-24 12:07 pm (UTC)(link)
Apologies to anyone reading it, just found the your/you're mistake, and it's one of my pet peeves. Can't believe I did that!

Re: Short Ezio/Salai (w Leonardo mentioned, of course)

(Anonymous) - 2012-09-05 09:21 (UTC) - Expand

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