asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

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assassin's creed

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Not-Anon, I love your writing.
Here's eagerly waiting for more

Well that's understandable, once an idea is fully exhausted then I suppose its hard to carry it on, especially if you've wrote everything you wanted to. Nevermind, I was just curious. :)

If you did write Altair and Malik talking, that would be amazing! But of course, its up to you. :D

Heh, if I had your creativity then I would but I suck with writing.

I have no idea how long this thing is gonna take me, so I'm just going to upload the rest here.

Here's the Prompt:
http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19704.html?thread=3924216#t3924216

He slept and dreamed. Because the alternative was pain and hunger, fear and desperation. He wanted to hide, he wanted to just be left alone, didn’t want the responsibilities anymore, didn’t want the pain. More and more though, the reality outside his mind intruded on the happy dreams, built on the loss that never truly left him.

He shied away from those dreams, not wanting to see those that were most important to him falling to their death, with him unable to prevent it. The dreams twisted to him losing everyone he cared about, and he was unable to remember which was the nightmare and which was the truth.

He began to lock down everything, running from both dream and memory, taking refuge in the darkness. Nothing could hurt him there, and he didn’t want to risk leaving the safety of that darkness for anything.

~:~:~:~:~

Leonardo stared down at Ezio. The assassin was awake, lying still on the tiny bed, but not looking at anything. Those golden eyes were unfocused, and the artist feared that his friend would never fully wake up anymore. Alcina was under the table, twining herself around his ankles and giving him frustrated noises and looks. He’d kept taking her off the workbench, as she’d merely made a nuisance of herself and got in the way as he changed Ezio’s bandages.

The last few days had been touch and go. Leonardo had cleaned the wounds as best he could, stitching them up with the finest thread he could lay his hands on, and bound them to prevent more infection. Ezio had whimpered through the treatment, fever growing so high that Leonardo feared the worst. But after managing to get water and some broth into the injured assassin, Ezio had begun to recover. The fever eventually broke, and that was one worry gone.

Alcina had made use of that the time while he fussed over Ezio to relocate her kittens again. Leonardo despaired at ever being the sole owner of his workshop again. On the first night, the artist had woken up to a kitten staring at him, perched on his chest. He’d almost knocked the poor thing off of the bed as he sat up. He’d been forced to make them a bed, taking the feathers from the basket Ezio had fallen asleep in days previously, and made a pillow with scrap cloth. He reused the large basket and placed it in a corner of the workshop. Alcina then took it from there and firmly placed her kittens inside the bed, though they crawled right back out once she left them.

Alcina was obviously intending to keep her litter here if she couldn’t take Ezio away. Leonardo wondered if he could live up to the trust the cat had with him. Clearly she wanted him to heal her adopted “kitten,” but now, with Ezio not truly there, Leonardo wondered what he could do. The artist buried his face in his hands, struggling to regain control. His friend was still hurt, and he could only hope that with the body healing, so would the mind.

A thump reverberated through the table, and he dropped his hands to see Alcina climbing up onto the cluttered surface. The inventor made to grab her again, but she hissed at him, swiftly picking her way through the mess of medicine and gauze. Leonardo reached for her again, worried that the cat would do something to hurt Ezio accidentally. The cat gave him disgusted look, as if she could hear the thoughts babbling through his head, and curled herself protectively around the bed and Ezio. Leonardo watched as she began to purr, settling her head close to the tiny assassin.

“Ah. You just want to make sure he’s fine, don’t you?” Leonardo murmured, reaching a hand out and gently petting the overprotective calico’s head. “Forgive me, little one. I know you’re as worried as I am.”

Alcina merely gave him another glare, and swept her tongue across Ezio’s ear.

Leonardo sighed as he stared at the tiny calico sleeping on his chest. This seemed to be the new morning ritual of waking up to a kitten snuggled with or on him. The artist found that Alcina would place one with him whenever he managed to sit down, or after he went to sleep. And it was now more often than not the only calico out of her litter. The others were random shades of brown or orange, and Alcina kept those firmly with her when she went to sleep.

“I suppose I should name you, too.”

The kitten merely twitched an ear before raising her head and yawning. She stared at him with her golden eyes before carefully standing and picking her way daintily to the pillow. The kitten snuggled down by his neck, high pitched purring thrumming against his skin. Leonardo sighed, glancing over to the table he’d placed by his bed. He’d taken to moving Ezio in here with him at night, so he could keep a better eye on the assassin’s condition.

The tiny bed was empty.

Leonardo jerked upright, kitten hissing a startled protest at her main source of warmth leaving. Leonardo immediately dropped to his knees looking underneath the table and bed, worried that Ezio had rolled off in his sleep, or even worse, finally woken up and had climbed down stubbornly.

His search was turning up nothing, and found the kitten was watching him from over the edge of the bed as he sat up, her tail lashing from side to side. Leonardo rushed out into his workshop, not registering the failed pounce or the other mewed complaint, and nearly ran over to the basket where the cats were. Alcina was there, still curled protectively around her litter, fast asleep. No Ezio.

He could hear tiny mewing behind him. Leonardo turned, seeing a tiny spotted tail disappear behind the stacked canvases by the wall, all thankfully blank. He quickly walked over, blank or not, he didn’t want that kitten to knock them over and possibly hurt herself. As the artist drew near, the mewing grew in volume. There was something else, a strange sound filtering through the kitten’s noise, and Leonardo began carefully leafing through the canvases. Finally he located the calico, and stared at what she’d apparently pounced on.

Ezio was there, hair mussed and dusty...and struggling in the kitten’s grasp. She looked up at Leonardo’s dumfounded expression, and mewed proudly at him. Ezio continued to squirm as the artist set aside the canvases, kneeling next to the two. He reached a hand out, intending on pulling them apart, but froze at the strangled sound Ezio made. The tiny assassin managed to pull free of the kitten, scrambling back from Leonardo, eyes wide and panicked.

Something wrenched in Leonardo’s chest, not seeing any recognition in his friend’s golden eyes. Ezio had scooted back as far as he was able, huddled in the corner made up by the wall and canvas. His movements were stiff, the bandages on his leg and shoulder hindering the assassin. The small dark ears were flattened tightly back against Ezio’s hair, tail tucked in between his legs as he still tried to shift further back.

“Ezio? Ezio, it’s alright.”

Ezio merely whimpered, eyes shutting tight as Leonardo carefully lifted the assassin. The tiny body in his hands trembled, breathing fast and hard with fear.

He couldn’t remember. He was hungry and hurt, and couldn’t remember who he was. Everything was enormous, and he knew that wasn’t right, that he shouldn’t be so tiny. But he couldn’t remember what was normal, either.

He was currently buried underneath soft cloth, not wanting to see the towering being hovering above him. He could hear mewing, and something batted the fabric away from his head. He flinched, but looked up anyway, eyeing the patchwork creature that stared at him. She was the reason that the large golden being had found him, and he growled at her, eyes narrowing. She merely batted at his head again.

It had been a lot of work getting down from that high spot, then more while he tried to keep hidden from the stomping being that had clearly been looking for him. He only wanted to find that comforting warmth that was the only memory he could recall. Warmth and a rumbling sound that settled the fear. The multicolored creature was similar, but far too small. She settled a paw between his ears, her higher thrumming similar to that memory, and it settled him a bit.

Didn’t mean he forgave her for revealing him.

Something large settled on him, and he gave a yelp, struggling as he was picked up. He fought in the grasp, fear pumping through him, ignoring the pain in his limbs. Finally, he twisted and sank his teeth into pale flesh, satisfaction surging as he heard a sharp, startled cry. Unfortunately, the hold on him didn’t loosen, and he found himself glaring into sad, blue eyes.

~:~:~:~:~

Leonardo winced at the sharp pain from Ezio sinking his teeth into his finger. He carefully cradled the small assassin in his palm, managing to not jerk his other hand away from those sharp teeth. He frowned through the pain. He couldn’t remember Ezio’s incisors being altered as well. Only the change had been in his ears and the addition of a tail. The worry began to grow even further, and he hoped this didn’t mean that his friend would continue to shift until there was nothing human left.

Ezio merely glared at him, teeth sinking harder into his finger. Blood welled up, and Leonardo wondered how he was going to get the assassin to let go without hurting him. A loud meow echoed up from under the table, and the artist felt Alcina climb into his lap. He winced as her claws scratched at his bare leg before she managed to grab hold of his loose nightshirt. He dimly thought that he really should have dressed properly, rather than just sitting here in his workshop in his nightclothes. But there hadn’t been any time to spare. Ezio would more than likely have run and hidden himself again once his back was turned.

Alcina’s head lifted above the edge of the table, leaning two paws against it and brining her head level with the tiny assassin. She gave another meow at Ezio. The assassin jumped, teeth releasing from Leonardo’s finger. Ezio stared at the calico, golden eyes wide. Alcina jumped fully onto the table, Ezio’s gaze never leaving the cat as she circled around Leonardo’s hands.

Leonardo pulled his hand back, briefly sucking on the injured finger. He watched as Alcina purred, rubbing her head against Ezio. Ezio responded by reaching up and fisting his hands in the fur, burying his face into the cat’s neck. Leonardo’s hand trembled under his friend, eyes blurring with tears. He carefully set Ezio back down on the pile of cloth he’d been using as a makeshift bed for the assassin, Alcina moving with him. She once again wrapped herself around Ezio, and the assassin shifted as close as he was able into the patchwork fur.

The artist sagged back into the chair, head tipping back as he pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. The tears threatened to slip free, but he held them back. Having a breakdown was not going to help him or Ezio. His friend wasn’t reacting like he normally would, joking and trying to downplay how injured he was. Ezio hadn’t said a word since he’d picked him up from the floor and placed him on the table, and then how the assassin had reacted when he’d been picked up again. Just like any feral animal would when they were frightened and cornered.

“What is happening to you, Ezio?” the artist whispered, his mind already coming up with various theories.

Something plopped into his lap, and Leonardo looked down to see the calico kitten staring up at him, paws kneading into his stomach. She mewed at him, and he settled a shaky hand on her head. He glanced up to see Ezio slack against Alcina in sleep. The mother cat purred and settled around the assassin even more. She gave the artist what he could only take as a satisfied expression. Clearly, she considered the fact that Ezio was moving a clear success.

He carefully picked up the kitten, standing shakily. Leonardo allowed the small creature to climb up to his shoulder as he retreated back to his room. The kitten purred in his ear as she rubbed against his cheek. The artist managed a weak smile, gently rubbing a finger between the calico’s ears. Leonardo deposited the kitten back on his pillow before turning and rifling through his clothes. He needed to dress and eat something before tackling this new problem.

~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~

This isn't getting any closer to a resolution, and I'm half afraid of what y'all are gonna think of what I did to Ezio. *cowers* It wouldn't leave me alone! And my muse!Ezio is glaring at me. T_T I think I know how he's gonna change back though. That's a plus.

I will name the kitten. I've already got one picked, but feel free to send me some ideas! (If you do, Italian only (obviously), and add in a meaning of the name.) Your name might be better than mine!

I swear I replied to this, but apparently I didn't? (wut?)
Thank you very much for the compliments! I hopefully won't be swamped too much by work to be able to get more up!

A/N: Boring chapter ahead...

Despite the idea of suspending and isolating Malik's arm that had been spoken of last night in order to keep his open, prone muscle structure from being bared to the dangerous and disease-ridden world, Malik realised in the morning that he and Altaïr had underestimated the rate of growth his arm seemed to be progressing at. He awoke to Altaïr attempting and failing to subtly roll him over and peel the bloody mess of his arm from the sheets beneath him, swatting at flies as he did so.

He slurred a curse at the insects and swatted at them lazily, hissing in pain when Altaïr lay his forearm over his chest and eased the fabric away from it's place stuck to his elbow with a layer of coagulated and quickly drying blood.

“Good morning, Malik.” Altaïr mumbled as he brushed another fly from his messy arm and took up a wet cloth in hand. “It seems I will have to buy you a new robe after this.”

“One without blood stains?”

“One with two sleeves.” Altaïr gave him a knowing look as he gingerly pressed the cloth over the exposed muscle, which unnervingly jumped at the contact. Malik could feel it. He stared at the limb with mild surprise.

“I can do that.” He said, avoiding Altaïr's comment and holding out his right hand for the cloth.

“No, you can eat. I brought you your breakfast.” Malik glanced to his right. Falafel and pita with hummus. He shifted himself up into a slouched position against the pillows and wall and hit a fly away from the sesame-based dip before sluggishly beginning to eat, wincing when the cloth was pressed down too hard.

“...I didn't realise that...I mean-Have you always-” Altaïr took a deep breath and composed himself, “What did you ask the Piece of Eden?”

Malik's chewing slowed significantly, and then stopped, and he sniffed before swallowing thickly and coughing to clear his throat. “It was a fleeting thought, that's all. But the Piece of Eden latched onto it and wouldn't let it go.”

Altaïr washed the cloth of the blood it had collected. And watched Malik's face carefully. “You think about it often?”

“It's hard not to, Altaïr.”

Altaïr was dead silent when he manoeuvred Malik's arm and wiped from the armpit to elbow, fresh deep red muscle losing it's layer of blood. Meanwhile Malik pressed falafel into his mouth and sucked hummus from his fingers, stomach happy to receive food after the lack of it yesterday.

A hand strayed from the skinless flesh of his arm to his shoulder and squeezed briefly, blooming a heat and ache in Malik's chest in just the right amounts to coax out a smile around the pad of his thumb, teeth scraping over calloused flesh.

Altaïr finished cleaning Malik's arm in peace and quiet, careful of the muscle inching from elbow to wrist and mindful of the flaky divide between skin and no skin, where layers could fall away in an instant. By the time he was finished the water in the bowl was stained a brownish red and the cloth shared the same fate. Malik had polished off his food and flexed the bared muscles gingerly and cautiously, watching with fascination the way the flesh contracted and stretched.

“Within days you should be able to use it.” Altaïr said quietly as he too shared the simple joys of watching the new arm move and exist.

Malik grunted his agreement, pulling the limb up so that it would not lie on the bloody robes beneath him. He swatted at another fly. “How do we keep it up?”

“Tired?”

“The muscles are barely formed. They're tiny.” Malik gestured to them to prove his point. In comparison to most of the men in Masyaf and his right arm, the arm was a twig.

Altaïr smirked, a challenging glint to his eye. “Then we will have to train them.” Malik's stomach leapt at the thought, his heart beginning to pound faster at only the thought of being able to climb with ease once more, hold two blades at once, even wield a hidden blade. He broke into a grin at the thought, a softer expression flitting over Altaïr's features.

“Maria has gone to training and Yusef is being cared for by the wet-nurses in the gardens.” He let his hand rest suggestively on Malik's thigh. “We're alone.” Malik cast him a rather disapproving look. But he couldn't deny that the thought was tempting.

“Should she be swinging around a sword in the sun when she is pregnant?” He asked, pretending to ignore the hand smoothing up the blanket on his leg.

“Malik.” Altaïr said pointedly, and slid his hand higher up, closer to his groin.

“What are going it do to keep my arm up?” Malik said in the same pointed tone, attempting to stave off the blatant approach. Though Maria was not close it was still too close to their bed for his liking. He already felt as if he were intruding on their domestic lifestyle by staying in the nursery. Seeing Altaïr in situations he otherwise would not be privy to.

Altaïr sighed and squeezed the well formed thigh beneath his hand, bowing his head. “I suppose we could suspend it.”

“How would we manage that?”

Altaïr shrugged. “There might be a hook somewhere on the ceiling.”

They both searched the unlit and dirty stone above them for signs of something they could hook a tether of rope onto. There weren't any. But a long beam crossed from one wall to another, thick and sturdy.

One rope, two almost-falls, a dust shower, a bloody arm an half an hour later and Malik's arm was strung up by the wrist, dangling oddly, and he wiped the flesh of it's new layer of mess.

“Thank you.” He muttered, wringing out the cloth before returning it to his sticky limb. “Shouldn't you be leaving now? I'm quite sure that there is a mountain of paperwork for you to do. People to debrief. The usual Grand Master affair.”

Altaïr sighed heavily and dragged a cushion in from the bedroom, throwing it to the floor for him to sit on. “Until your guard gets here, no. I will not leave you unattended.” He stared transfixed as Malik carefully stroked the cloth on the inside of his elbow. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really. Not like the bones.” He lay the cloth to rest and leant back in his bed, stretching his legs restlessly.

“Good. Hopefully this means that the skin will be painless.”

“Here's hoping.”

This is creepy and wonderful at the same time and having done some research for skinning people (don't ask me why, I promise I'm not psychotic) just thinking about Malik with NO SKIN on his arm really freaks me out and I'm just totally floored and amazed I'm not turned off by this since usually I am.

"Boring"? Nonsense! This is my lucky day/night/day! XD Of course it would take me so long to comment on Part 2 that you release more, but I'm not complaining.

Ooooh, where to begin. Well first of all, I'm completely grossed out by the description of Malik's arm but I love it. It's fascinating (in a weird way) and I'm a pansy when it comes to blood anyway, but it seemed very realistic to imagine it growing back this way instead of just *poof!* and then arm.

I also love how you're handling Altair/Maria along with Altair/Malik. It is just hitting all my buttons right now so I've very much looking forward to more. <3

Yeah. it's definitely a creepy thought, eh? I just couldn't have Malik regain an arm easily; that would be too kind on the man!

I'll admit that I'm having way too much fun putting Malik through the painful experience of regrowing an arm, layer by layer.

Oh, good! I know that it seems to be more popular either having them all together or having Maria out of the picture, but I just couldn't see it that way...
Also, yet another way to torture Malik ahoy!!

Speaking of torture, by de-anoning you've put me in the cruel position of knowing which fills you're working on, and so I'm forced to decide whether to hope an update for this will come next, or an update for the Apple shenanigans. :< I want both!

Don't worry, both will be updated rather soon, I should hope.

*cheers*

this story is so adorable and baawww at the same time

This is the continuation for the Hooters prompt in part 1, in which Desmond and Shaun have "mucho funfunfun" at Hooters. There are more specifics, so here is the link:
http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/16841.html?replyto=1872073

I will begin where I left off, so, onwards!

For the love of God, this was why he didn't want to come back to America and suffer all her "nationalistic traditions"—drinking rotten beer, scoping women with assets that rivaled those of Barbie, swallowing grease, and whatever the hell Neanderthals did. It was here at this time, chugging his liquor, that he wondered why the hell a bill was taking so long to prepare, why the hell he was feeling so agitated at all of this raucous he experienced everyday in New York. His thoughts soon gravitated towards the extreme, and there was no helping it.

He should never have transferred out of Oxford, never have sold his penthouse in London, never have applied for a long-term visa, never have stepped out of the airport.

Never have given into this idiot who looked at him with confusion at its alpha stage.

"Shaun? Hey?"

Never.

"Shaun?"

"What?" he snapped, downing his fourth bottle. Just how weak was their stash? He was pretty sure a squirrel could finish off two and still hype around. "What do you want?"

"You okay, man?"

"Okay?"

"Yeah." Desmond rubbed at his chin, what Shaun noticed to be a habit he brought around in times of awkwardness, and sighed, his fingers toying with a french-fry. He took a sip of his Coke before he gestured over to poor Kadar, who seemed to want to blend into the counter. "Like I said: I'm sorry about all this. I'm eating really quickly, so—"

"It's fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Miles, I said that I'm fine. I just want the bill to be here."

" … Alright. But—"

Shaun quirked an eyebrow when his shirt was tugged, turning around to address whatever nonsensical problem there was with his current life. No sooner did he gesture for Kadar to hand him another beer was something hot pressed against his lips, something salty and familiar, and before he knew it, his mouth strayed and took it without his mind's consent. He shook his head and rest his gaze on the other as he got ready to admonish the hell out of him—whatever he put into his mouth, he nearly forgot due to his exasperation. However, just as he was about to make his sarcasm be the first stone cast, he stopped in his plans and readjusted his frames, his set beer left unopened.

It was a French fry, he found, chewing on it slowly as he watched the other look at him strangely, like he was concentrating very on something to be concentrated because he could not concentrate on that particular subject before. He distracted himself with the oh-so-intelligent discovery of greasy potatoes and sodium chloride on his tongue in order to not address the gaze that fixated on him. This was awkward, and though Desmond Miles personified awkwardness, Shaun Hastings was not supposed to be in the limelight of the making of this weird lacuna. He expected the latter to go back to eating after the rude shoving of junk against his lips—after all, the idiot had an attention span of a horsefly deciding upon whether it wished to devour horse manure or kitty vomit, and he had been bitching about his black hole of a stomach for ages. To suddenly have his—unwanted, mind you; unwanted—attention for more than forty-seven seconds was terribly uncomfortable.

Very terribly uncomfortable.

"What? Do I have something horrendous on my face?" his voice challenged, the need to break this moment overruling the tiny bit of poise he had. "Like a zit? Or maybe I have a horn growing out of my eye?"

"Shaun—"

"Well, whatever it is that is making you pucker up like a virgin, I don't really care for it. Simply, hurry up." His voice then dropped to a dead whisper. "You know we have a contract tonight. We need to get ready quickly."

The mention of the new assassination mission seemed to bring Desmond back from La La Land, judging by the way he shook his head and took another bite out of his hot dog. This primate may be the clumsiest, graceless, and most ill at ease moron in the universe, but he was a flawless assassin who was one of the highest ranked in the Brotherhood. And surprisingly, an ace when it comes to chemistry and physics. God, Shaun thought as he tasted the remnants of the fry, today was just one big mess.

"I am about to ring up the damn manager if the bill doesn't come in one minute and thirty-nine seconds," he huffed, grimacing at the cheap taste of beer. It seemed as if that Kadar-guy transferred his pansy ways into the alcohol, because this shit was worse than the Kit Kat Bars at the Ninety-Nine Cents Store. "This is just ridiculous—"

And then, it was back again—that eerie look that dominated Desmond's face, made his eyes widen and lock onto him like he was Jesus, or something. He was taken aback at the abrupt change in demeanor, and it made him uneasy when the other's hand latched onto his wrist with strength he took for granted. It was now, bringing his body back as Desmond moved closer, that he was starting to wonder if he really did qualify for a freak-show, or if he caused an idiotic revelation; his mind had dropped the acknowledgement of the annoying buzz of the restaurant, and he didn't even register the monochrome lighting, as he blinked heavily in wary expectancy. Something didn't feel right.

Or maybe his head didn't feel right. He knit his brow when the latter's thumb brushed against his lip, and it didn't take a dolt to know that the touch was prolonged when it neared the tip of his tongue. Probably it was now that his "classy gentlemen" instincts kicked in and warned him that this was a dangerous scene—dangerous, which meant that everyone could see this cursed moment: see how his eyes widened behind his lenses, the Vans that lightly slid over his Converse, the heat that forced him to breathe deeply, the sudden nearness of both of them. He tried to pull out of that hold, but found that he couldn't, and all he could do was sit still as that thumb played over his mouth, ran over it in a way that could only be tagged as obsessive.

"Desmond—"

"You had some salt on your lip," the assassin stated, though his tone was laced with a guttural note that prevented it from being normal. "Some salt … Shit."

"What are you—"

"I'm not stupid, Shaun." A breath. "I see the way you wrap your lips around that beer bottle. I see that clearly, the whole fucking time."

What the he didn't even—

"You left that salt there on purpose?" There was that laugh again. "Yeah, you probably did. You always had those damn D.S.L's, anyway."

What.

The.

Fuck?

The restaurant then seemed much too quiet, much too hushed, as it everyone was watching this Twilight Zone cinema with all the zeal they could muster. Shaun could find no words to throw at that hooded gaze and wicked voice, the thumb that swept one last time over his lips before it made its way to its owner's tongue; he couldn't shake himself, nor could he rebuke this entire diner for this closed moment under the microscope. It was truly a moment where the scaled tipped completely in favor of raw confusion and mortification over that inner conscience that strummed its lyre as fast as it could for some much needed attention.

Was the apocalypse over now?

"I already paid the bill."

No, it was just beginning.

"So lick those pretty lips of yours."

My God this is taking a long to write! I hope I can quench thirst by giving you a part of this long long chapter!

Malik swept his eyes over the figure before him and immediately recognised them for who they were. Altaïr. But he was younger. Much younger. His face and body were fresh and for the most part unscathed. The stubble on his face was still fuzzy and patchy. The scar dissecting his lips was a fresh pink signifying its youth. What can only be months ago this young Altaïr had been smashed in the face by the hilt of an enemy's sword.

Malik and Altaïr stared at each other from across the length of the small room.

“Who are you?” Altaïr finally spat, adjusting his grip on the knife.

“Safety and Peace.” Malik answered, choosing to be entertained by Altaïr's ignorance rather than offended and hoping that the familiar greeting would calm the abrupt tension between them.

“That isn't an answer.” Altaïr growled, and glanced to where Malik's left arm should have been. Malik decided that the tension wasn't going to go away that quickly, then. Judging by Altaïr's young age he was likely to still own the brashness that had managed to force him up the fighting ranks, and the distrust of all who wielded blades against him that had turned him into the perfect weapon to be used by Al Mualim. And anyway, it has been all too long since he had managed to have a good physical brawl with Altaïr, the Apple having turned him into a tired and stubborn man.

“You're right; it isn't, Altaïr.”

Altaïr's hold on his knife slackened momentarily at the shock of hearing his name and Malik pounced, swiping at the young man's feet with a kick and swinging at Altaïr's shoulder simultaneously. The swipe was easily blocked, but Altaïr stumbled when toughened leather hit his ankles and Malik forced the boy to the wall behind him, their blade grinding together in the space between their necks.

“Distracted? A novice's mistake.” Malik breathed into his face, and watched as Altaïr's expression twisted with anger and felt the rawness of the emotion in his next lunge, forcing him backwards. He stumbled slightly despite himself and only just managed to block a fierce swing at his disadvantaged left side. They parried quick and precise blows, Malik recovering with haste from his mistake, before an opening was revealed and Malik swept to Altaïr's right and span around 180 degrees to face his back. The edge of his dagger pressed lightly at Altaïr's neck and his elbow jammed between the adolescent's shoulder blades as he swung them both around so that Altaïr was pressed to the wall, breathing heavily and frozen at the touch of metal on his vulnerable neck. They recovered their breath.

Slowly Malik eased some of the pressure he was using to grin Altaïr into the wall, warningly pressing the blade against his delicate flesh. He dragged it feather light and fleeting until the tip rested warningly at the back of his neck just above the nape. He eyes mapped out the expanse of flesh that made Altaïr's back. It looked so clear. Gone were the whip scars he had gained at 20. Gone was the burn from the explosion in Damascus. Gone was the long, jagged scar of a dagger curling from beneath his armpit to the centre of his back, which had taken months to heal properly as he had continued to rip the stitches out. Or rather not 'gone' but not yet there.

“What are you, some cowardly Templar? Afraid to even wear your own colours? Come to kill me in my bed after walking amongst my brothers?” Altaïr hissed into the stone wall, frame tense and ready to spring into another attack.

Malik snorted a little. He had no idea at all, had he?

“No such thing, novice.” He replied, and moved the dagger down the back. He wondered, if he made a scar, would he see it again when he went back to current day Masyaf? The thought was tempting, but foolish and possessive. Altaïr would no doubt not approve, here in front of him and there as Grand Master. He drew the knife away from the flesh as if to dampen the temptation. In an instant the young assassin twisted like a flame and hit a blow to his ear, thankfully without a weapon. Malik swore violently and leapt back as Altaïr swung in a wide arc, slicing through the air his chest had occupied. Malik veered to the right in a stumble, hip banging into the plain wooden desk and scraping the legs across the floor slightly before it hit the wall behind. Malik brought his blade up to block an attack as his ear throbbed hotly and painfully. He groaned through clenched teeth. A clumsy slash at the joint where arm met shoulder allowed him to knock the knife from Altaïr's hands and to the floor.

Altaïr sprung back confused as Malik threw his own weapon in the same direction and then flung himself at the young man, pressing them both to the opposite wall. A knee bruised his hip and he let out a huff of air. Hands hit at his sides and back. In what escalated to blind panic Altaïr's blows had become sloppy and unrefined. Malik managed to use his writhing to his advantage and press Altaïr's front to the wall and pin his hands behind his back. In his grasp Altaïr continued to pant, snarl and struggle.

“Always so determined, Altaïr. So ready to throw yourself wildly into the situation at hand.” Malik mumbled behind Altaïr's squirming form. “Hardly the best of traits. You should know the limits of your capabilities.”

Altaïr hissed and thrashed, Malik's grip tightening in compensation. “In a fair fight I could easily beat you; a cripple.”

Malik blinked slowly, brushing the insult aside. Altaïr, he knew, would one day change. He still tightened his grip on this Altaïr, though, grinding his wrists together. “What is unfair about this fight?”

“You steal into my room with god's speed and stealth, call me by my first name and refuse to tell me yours, tease me and string me along in some game. You could have killed me yet instead you discard your weapon.”

Malik felt bitter mirth bubble up within his stomach. The number of times that he had awoken to Altaïr in his room in a cold sweat, mumbling to himself some insanity the Apple had pressed upon him, held knowledge above his head and teased him with snippets of truth – but of course Nothing is True, and so why should he 'burden' Malik with such terrible knowledge? – were too many to count. This was merely catching up on such times with a ten year head start to Malik.

He leant in closer and rested his lips on the shell of Altaïr's ear, forcing the young man to grind his cheek further into the stone wall, his jaw clenching. “Now where is the fun in killing you?” He sighed and made to explain himself further; that he did not aim to torture or hurt Altaïr in any way, but Altaïr kicked up between his legs fiercely. His thighs clamped together lightning fast on the ankle, preventing the heel from slamming up into it's destined point. For one terrifying moment his stomach disappeared into his ribcage and he thought that he had lost his advantage, but Altaïr struggled once more and attempted to wrench his foot from between Malik's legs without success and it settled back into place. He laughed breathlessly with relief.

“Peace, Altaïr, peace. I really mean you no harm. I do believe that we got off on the wrong foot.”

Altaïr wrenched his foot free at last and knocked his knee into the wall, no doubt creating a new bruise under his breeches. Malik released him completely and took a few steps backwards until he leant back on the desk, relaxed.

“I am an assassin, you needn't worry.”

Altaïr span to face him, rubbing at his wrists and stretching out his knee whilst gingerly fingering the cut made on his wrist by Malik's throwing knife. “Yet you come into my room and attack me? I have not even seen you here before.”

“I tend to stick around Jerusalem.” Malik replied shortly and crossed one leg over the other.

“You still do not answer all of my questions.” Altaïr spat, and anger was written clearly on his face again. If there was one thing he hated it was being made a fool of, and not only had Malik pinned him down more than once in their tussle but he was now twisting words to create an air of intellectual superiority.

Malik hesitated, remembering just how he had managed to find himself in a much younger Altaïr's quarters and about ten years into the past. The Apple was a godforsaken and evil tool. It was well enough that it had turned Altaïr into a stoic scholarly figure, forever chained to his desk physically whilst his psyche plundered vast fields of knowledge, but now it had brought Malik into such areas of confusion. He stared at the man before him with a frown on his face. There was such a possibility that this was all a hallucination of such realism it was painful, and yet he could not be sure. His hand tightened on the desk beneath it, feeling the roughness of the grain and the bite of the hard edges into his fingers.

“I do not suppose that you have seen a golden sphere at all, have you?” He finally asked, and he knew that it was not an answer but it was all he could say for fear of messing with what could be the past.

Altaïr scowled at him, “How mysterious of you.”

“I do not know how I got here or why, or even how I get back. I just appeared.” Malik sighed.

“And still that is not the answer I was looking for.”

“So I appeared in a place that seemed foreign at first, and I hear movement behind me. If I was captured by anyone they would need to die, no? So I struck.” The Dai explained and then brought up his hand to rub at his ear with was tender to the touch. “Of course I recognised you immediately for an assassin, and I try to make peace, but you are not so happy to back down.”

Altaïr's eyes flickered to the pile of blades he had left on the bed, his belt which held those cleaned and polished and then finally over the weapons that had left their hands not too long ago.

“I should hope you aren't planning at coming at me with a knife again. Your blade work is so messy at times it's a wonder you have not decapitated yourself.”

Eyes narrowed tightly at Malik but instead of turning back to the knives sitting on the rug they remained trained on his face, and Altaïr made no move towards the weapons, instead relaxing ever so slightly. Malik raised his eyebrows surprised.

“I had thought that your head was so big anything anyone said to you other than praise would have merely bounced off the flesh enclosing your ears.”

Determined not to cave to Malik's jibes, Altaïr clenched his jaw tight and his scowl grew heavier.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed [Fills]

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Adopted

Adopted 10/??

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FILL [3.a/?]

FILL [3.b/?]

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Hooters

Bound (1/3) of [5/?]

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2; The wound [2/?]

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2; The wound [4/?]