asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-01-04 10:19 am
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
The Moon and the Tide [2/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 04:17 am (UTC)(link)“Where did you get the sword?” Altair asks again, not even waiting for Malik to struggle up on his elbow to meet his gaze.
“I found it,” Malik says, blinking from the sunlight that shines through open ceiling; it is very bright. Twisting around, he takes in the rest of the room, as he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit pallet the night before. He is unable to comprehend most of the things he sees, so he settles for the most familiar sight—which is unfortunately Altair.
“Where?”
“The sea,” Malik snaps, tired of the questions when he has so many of his own. “It fell from a ship where I—ngh!”
He coughs, massaging his throat, and is offended when Altair leaves his side and walks away. With a displeased hiss, Altair pauses to quickly grab something from a nearby shelf before he exits the room and returns a moment later with a cup of water, thrusting it into Malik’s hand.
Malik stares, not understanding.
“Well? Drink,” Altair orders.
“It’s water,” he replies, baffled, but his mouth feels dry, so maybe it makes sense.
“Would you prefer wine, then? Or fresh fruit juice?” Altair drawls, and roughly nudges the cup to Malik’s lips and the liquid sloshes into his open mouth.
The water is not like the sea; it’s warm and clayish, but devoid of salt and Malik drinks it greedily, and learns what thirst means to a human for the first time.
“More,” he gasps, holding the cup out, thumb running over the patterned edges, carved into white bone. He swallows his pride and says, “Please.”
But Altair is already turning around to exit the room. “I am not your nursemaid; go get it yourself. The fountain is in the chamber.”
Malik stills at the tone of his voice. He doesn’t know this human, this stranger who speaks with so little regard or grace. Even the man’s footsteps sound different, gone utterly silent as if ghosting over the ground, while Malik only recognizes them by the gentle creaks on weather-worn wood.
But he refuses to be ignored, not after all he has sacrificed to be here. Without thinking, he hurls the cup at Altair’s head. It is childish and petty, but he can’t help but be glad when Altair whirls around to face him, catching the cup with a speed that can only be made in the world of air.
He takes three steps to cross the room, a breath to grab Malik’s wrist, and a blink to bend it back so that Malik can feel his bones strain in protest.
“I will not hesitate to rid you of your remaining arm,” Altair murmurs, soft and dangerous.
“And why wouldn’t you, when I had—“ Malik stops as his breath hitches for no other reason than sorcery, and bitterly bites back his retort. “…The cup. It’s just a cup.”
“You threw it at my head. And that cup was a gift.”
“From who?” Malik challenges, heart thudding in his chest.
Altair pauses, letting go of Malik’s wrist, and steps back. “It was a gift,” he repeats. “And it is none of your concern.”
“No one would want to give you anything,” Malik sneers, with all his anger and guilt. “You traded for it.”
Something shifts in Altair’s expression, from murderous to hurt to carefully blank. He takes another step back, placing the cup on a shelf of books, and Malik notices a little too late the tiny glass figurine resting there, and the beaded charm that swings from Altair’s hip as he walks out of the room.
“I don’t have time for this,” Altair says, “I am late to meet with my master. Either stay here or get out, it does not matter. Rashad will be in the back room, so do not even think to try anything regrettable.”
Malik doesn’t make promises, but it does not matter; Altair will not wait for them.
Malik’s energies are not made to be confined, sulking in a strange room. There is anger clouding his mind, and the beginning of what he suspects is hatred, making his restlessness unbearable. He thinks of the man he thought he knew, pacing back and forth on the harbor, fearful of the water, but earnest when he speaks to it. The human who had left him here, alone, is not the same man.
It is easy to accept this. It makes him less angry.
For the first time, Malik studies his legs, wiggling his toes and poking at his feet. The muscles beneath his hand are defined, so he assumes that they are reasonably sturdy—a reflection of his strength had he still possessed a tail. Assured that weakness will not be the cause of falling over, Malik braces his hand—only hand—against the wall and stands. He takes one step, another and another, and then he slowly sinks back down to the ground to crawl back to the wall.
The rest of his morning is spent learning to walk back and forth from the room to the fountain, clinging to the wall or tables or bookshelves, and sometimes Rashad.
“I wonder what ails your legs to make you forget how to walk,” the rafiq says, looking amused as Malik slumps over the fountain’s edge for a break.
“What ails me is not my legs, but my own lack of experience,” Malik huffs. He finds that he likes Rashad, who is old but patient and doesn’t mind when Malik asks questions about the weaponry mounted to the walls.
“Were you a prince, then? Who rode upon the backs of men to get from one room to the next?”
“No, I was carried on a dais made from gold,” Malik replies, giving his most regal expression, despite that he is covered in dust and his hair drips from dunking his head into the fountain.
Rashad laughs, and, unexpectedly, Malik allows himself to smile.
He does not see Altair again for a week, but by then Malik has learned several things. He has to, or else his mind will wander to its own aches and pains. For now, Malik wants to focus on what is physical.
He learns that sitting too long in the sun will make him dizzy, and that all things will eventually fall, no matter how light they are, and that horses are not to be smacked around like dolphins. He also learns that crying is harder to hide, and requires a great deal of dry cloth to muffle the noise, even when no one is around to hear. The days are too hot, and nights are too cold. Clothes are always necessary.
Tiny knives, like the one Altair had given him, are more likely to be thrown at enemies than given as a gift. Malik finds this amusing.
As the days pass, Malik fills his time with the chores Rashad is kind enough to assign him. The menial tasks help him learn how to move his legs, his arm, and how to balance and settle his weight on his feet. He finds comfort in the distractions until he lays on his pallet at night with the half-moon shining through the lattice rooftop.
A week — that is a quarter of his time spent without regard to the spell, the curse. Malik regrets so much already, and he knows that, given the chance, he would dive back into the ocean if only he did not have to hold his breath. But even though he is trapped here, walking on land and breathing air, he does not want to regret anymore by wasting his time, counting days and keeping a constant, pathetic vigil over the moon.
Malik turns on his side, away from the night sky, and stares at the blades hanging from the far wall, glinting dimly in the dark. In the corner is Altair’s old sword, untouched since that first morning.
Malik shuts his eyes, unhappy but determined. He wants to return home, but he will not allow himself to squander his remaining time in this world.
The noise outside has been going on for several minutes. It is beginning to annoy Malik, but Rashad only glances up at the open ceiling, as if waiting for something to fall through it.
“What is it?” Malik asks, prying off the throwing knives from the wooden beam he has been using to practice with.
“The city’s bells,” Rashad says, pulling a heavy book from a shelf. “Something is troubling the guards.”
“But it does not trouble you.”
Rashad grins. “On the contrary,” he begins, just as a figure drops from the roof and into the chamber.
Altair strides into the main room, a triumphant gleam in his eyes despite looking worse for wear. He pulls out a feather from his belt, gaze settling on Malik for a moment before he looks back up to hand Rashad the feather. Half the bristles are stained dark red and Malik does not doubt for a moment that it is blood.
To Malik’s wry pleasure, Rashad does not acknowledge Altair’s quiet posturing. He takes the feather, pressing it into the voluminous book with a businesslike air. Malik has seen this happen for the last few days with other men who visit the bureau, keeping quiet and observing when Rashad does not wave him out of the room.
The work that these people do is secretive and dangerous. Malik does not particularly want to get himself involved, but he does not need to see or smell the blood on Altair’s robes to know the man’s occupation. He has guessed long ago from the weapons in the bureau and its patrons, and perhaps he has known ever since Altair threatened him on the beach with that strange hidden blade.
“No, I have told you before, I have no more contracts for you to fill,” Rashad says to the assassin. He gives Altair a hard stare, silently pointing out Altair’s ragged state; the man’s robes are frayed and torn at the edges, his face is rough with a couple of day’s worth of stubble, and he could do for a wash. “You frequent this city enough as it is. Rest, Altair, and if you do not feel the need then tend to your injuries and weapons.”
Altair growls something too low to be heard from Malik’s spot on the other side of the room. Rashad remains indifferent, though there is a warning note in his tone that makes Malik look up from his throwing knives.
“You will not earn back your rank by being impervious and impudent,” the rafiq replies. “I thought you had learned this.”
Rashad cannot see from behind the counter, but Malik catches how Altair’s hands curl into fists. It does not last more than a couple of seconds before Altair nods, once, and says in a subdued voice, “Then if you have no need for me-”
“I do not,” Rashad says dismissively, and Malik bites the inside of his cheek to keep quiet, feeling that it was a mistake for Rashad to interrupt Altair when the man was about to concede a point, however ungraciously done.
Malik watches Altair draw himself up, closing off and backing away. It is not anything visible outright, but Malik has spent hours listening to the sound of Altair’s voice, staring at his wavering silhouette on the water from under the pier; Malik does not need to look at Altair at all to understand, a little, where the arrogance comes from and why it circles despite the chiding and harsh reminders.
“Safety and peace,” Altair says, and stalks out of the room.
Rashad does not look up until he hears the sound of a whetstone dragging against steel, barely audible over the ringing alarm bells. Malik walks forward with the careful, quiet steps he has learned and peers into the waiting chamber to see Altair by the fountain, sharpening his sword — a new one, since the one Malik took still rests in the corner. Altair’s head lifts by a fraction, knowing that Malik is there, but he remains stubbornly silent.
Malik does not know what to make of it, of sulking humans and ruffled tempers, so he turns away and finishes retrieving the embedded knives from the wooden post.
They only notice Altair’s absence when the bells stop their clanging and no sound comes from the waiting chamber. Rashad leaves his desk to look into the room and scowls to find it empty with only the lingering scent of polish and oil to prove that Altair had indeed taken Rashad’s advice to the word, but not to heart.
“That fool,” Rashad hisses.
Beneath the anger the rafiq is worried. Malik enters the chamber, sees the cushions where Altair would normally rest in, and looks up at the open ceiling. It is a sunny day.
“What does he plan to do?” He does not ask why, precisely, because even Malik can see the appeal of going outside, though it does not explain the lack of caution on Altair’s part, leaving the bureau so soon after the city’s alarm was called off.
Rashad heaves a sigh. “He has fallen out of favor with our master recently, and seeks to redeem himself. I suppose he considers resting an idle waste of his time,” he says wryly. “But while I do not doubt his determination, I would rather not have him kill himself from exhaustion.”
Malik looks up again, raising a hand against the warm sunlight, and feels as if the decision has already been made.
“I will go and get him,” he says, leaving little room to argue when he strings a belt of knives over his shoulder.
“You know your way around the city?” Rashad asks, since it is better than pointing out that, a week ago, Malik could barely even walk.
“I am confident,” Malik replies, having studied the maps tacked on the walls. He has a good memory, but he knows it still does not guarantee that he will not run into trouble.
He makes sure to bring Altair’s sword.
The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-11 04:19 am (UTC)(link)The streets around the bureau are no longer as strange and foreign to Malik as they were when he first accompanied Rashad to the market many days ago. This is the first time he has been left to his own devices, and he feels a tiny thrill of excitement, venturing out further than he has been allowed to. Though he has no time to stand and gawk at his surroundings, it always amazes Malik how filled the streets are, with merchant stalls and all sorts of people, crowded into narrow paths.
Back home, there are so such things. The mer are not confined to the ground; they swim around and over their buildings, have stalls on top of other stalls, and glide past each other overhead and undertail. It is sometimes chaotic to see, but it is rarely ever cluttered or crowded like it is on land.
Strangely, though, Malik does not think of wasted space when he looks at the gap between the rooftops and the sky. He sees a stillness that is calm and inviting, where animals of flight are given free reign over its vastness. He does not wish for wings, but with his legs he can marvel at the sky more clearly than he did in the water.
There is a tower in the distance that seems to almost reach the clouds. Malik uses it as a marker, knowing where it stands in relation to where he is; on the map, it is a symbol of a bird — an eagle, he remembers Rashad telling him. It is fitting, since Malik can see the bird circling around the tower where it also has a perch, which is a curious thing to have.
But what’s even more curious is the figure occupying it. At first, Malik thinks it is a statue, but the shadow moves, and it is much too large to be another eagle. When it jumps, it falls instead of flies, and has the shape of a man.
Malik frowns, glancing around to see if anyone has noticed, but the people on the streets are far too busy looking ahead or down, never upwards. Or perhaps men leaping off from towers is a natural occurrence; maybe it is another animal of flight Malik does not know about.
The tower is far, but he is prepared to walk all the way to find out.
It takes him far longer than he thinks to navigate around the city. He has the map in his mind’s eye, but Malik underestimates his susceptibility to the different sights, sounds, and smells of Acre. Everything draws his attention for the quickest of moments and it all adds up into minutes spent observing the food sellers, the weaponsmiths, the beggars and hawkers. He once changed his path just to run his hand over the patterns carved into a bubbling fountain, though he keeps walking as if only passing by. Occasionally he will catch the scent of the sea and turn his head, but the only blue he sees is the sky, and there is always the tower to guide him back.
It is ironic that he never reaches it in the end.
Malik is on another unplanned detour when he finally finds Altair, thinking that the sounds of ringing metal and steel will lead him to another blacksmith’s shop. He rounds the corner into a smaller street, a little too late in hearing the shouts and cries of men fighting over the regular noise of the city.
Altair is in the thick of it, snarling and grinning with no one at his side except for the dagger in his hand. He is a good fighter, Malik can see the proof already — the bodies of several guards on the ground — but Malik does not care if Altair has been wading over a thousand corpses; the assassin is still fighting outnumbered. Malik does not hesitate to put his self-taught aim to test.
He throws his knives, taking down two guards, while his third knife bounces off the harder armor of the one Altair is fighting. It is not perfect, but Malik unsheathes his sword, slightly taken aback at how light it feels when he swings it at his next opponent.
It is a difficult battle, different from what he is used to. The flow and rhythm of the fight is faster, and Malik stumbles over his feet many times, but makes it up by the forceful, controlled strokes of his sword, following through it’s momentum and using it to his advantage, just as he does underwater.
His technique must be odd to the guards, and he catches Altair taking quick glances in his direction, almost curious. Malik has no time to wonder if Altair is impressed or baffled, as he is continuously startled and becoming irritated by the things he is discovering in the fight. Things like the slippery mess of blood and thick scent of it, the missing drag of water, or how the dead do not possess the grace to float up or sink down to keep out of the way.
Malik runs his sword through a guard and almost falls with the body, unprepared by the weight dragging him down. His missing left arm moves as if to brace against it, but Malik has no hand to grab with. Instead, he falls back against Altair, who is suddenly there beside him, though the assassin is busy locking blades with another of the enemy. Altair presses his back against him, a nudge, then, and Malik is back on his feet, trying to yank his sword free against gravity. He goes back to fighting.
Before he knows it, there is no one left to fight. The guards stop coming, and the street is empty and filled with the noise of the dying and the fleeing — and yet Malik is still breathing too loud for his ears.
He looks down at the bodies, wearily kneeling over one of them to see if they have any valuables. It is an ingrained habit, one that Altair apparently does not see the meaning of.
“What are you doing? We have to leave,” Altair says impatiently, frowning when Malik stares at his dripping sword and robes, furtively trying to wipe it clean.
Stilling, Malik thinks for a moment. His mouth is dry and he licks his lips, recoiling from the tang of copper, not knowing if it is his. “Does the blood...” and he makes an awkward gesture at the carnage as a whole, wondering if he should mention anything about sharks. “Does it attract anything?”
Altair does not answer right away, but when he does, he sounds curt and exasperated. “Only more guards to fight, if that is what you want.”
Both relieved and irked, Malik sheaths his sword and follows Altair away from the street, taking the lesser used routes that Malik had been to wary to take on his own.
Altair moves at a brisk pace, fast to get away from where the fight took place but slow enough to not draw unwanted attention. Malik tries to regain his breath in the meanwhile, finding it hard to ignore the stickiness of the drying blood on his hand and the heavy smell of it on his clothes. He remembers seeing how it pools on the ground during the fight, very dark and viscous compared to the bright red wisps he sees when he has to deal with it in the water. Without knowing it, he stops, putting a hand to the wall of a ramshackle building to steady himself.
Altair looks over his shoulder, raising his voice in disbelief. “Are you sick?”
Malik is embarrassed. “I am not used to so much blood.”
Altair scoffs. “You fight as though you were.”
Malik thinks it might have been a compliment, the tiniest hint of appraisal from a warrior to another, but before he can say anything, Altair shakes his head.
“How did you learn to fight?” the assassin asks, a shade incredulously. “It is obvious that you are trained, but you hold and wave that sword as if it weighed twice as much as it does, your posture is all wrong, and I still have yet to figure how you managed to not gut yourself, tripping over your own two feet as you did. Who taught you your footwork?”
Malik holds back a bark of laughter. “No one. It is practically nonexistent,” he says dryly, but he is oddly pleased by Altair’s assessment. He will improve. Letting his hand drop from the wall, he inhales, and lets the air out slowly through his mouth. “Well? Perhaps next time I will find a bench and watch you surround yourself with guards instead.”
“Yes, that is a good way to learn,” Altair says, smirking. He begins to walk again, a thoughtful look crossing his expression before he mutters, “Though I admit your movements are interesting. It flows well.”
Malik nearly misses it, throat closing up as Altair brushes past and he smells of old blood. He nods, once, begins to gather himself for the long trek back to the bureau, but Altair leads him in the opposite direction.
“You need to wash up. Rashad will not appreciate it if you stain his carpet,” Altair explains, glancing at the sorry state of Malik’s tunic — his lack of finesse with a sword shows. Malik grumbles; he is supposed to bring Altair back, not join him in gallivanting all over Acre. “And I will be even less so if you are sick all over me,” Altair adds.
Ignoring the jab, Malik glances at the tower, his marker, but he already knows where the are. He can smell it in the air, salty and cool, and hear the call of seagulls and ships’ bells in the distance. They move past the line of barrels and boxes and the streets converge into a larger area, opening up into the harbor.
Off to the side, Malik catches a glimpse of the tiny pier he used to hide under. It is strange, seeing it above water. Altair stops in front of him, blocking his path, and ushers Malik towards a well instead.
“Go on,” Altair says, and leaves Malik to puzzle out the well for himself.
It is not a difficult concept once Malik sees the rope and the bucket, but it is a rather tedious one, especially with one hand. He holds the bucket, frowns, and throws it into the well. It takes five pulls of the rope for him to drop it again in exasperation.
“This is a waste of time,” he says to Altair.
Altair glances at him, and Malik realizes that the assassin hasn’t been paying attention to him at all, only staring in the direction of the pier. “Do you need help?” he asks belatedly.
“No,” Malik says, and walks past Altair, towards the pier. He strips off his outer tunic, bundling it up under his arm. Every step sends the wooden floorboards creaking.
Altair hurries after him and yanks him back. “What do you think you are doing?”
Malik shakes him off.
“Washing up,” he answers, as if it was the most obvious thing, and hops off the pier.
Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-15 08:22 am (UTC)(link)Malik's worry over sharks that might be drawn by blood on land is just hilarious XD Great job!
Can't wait to read more!
And though this might be an irrelevant question, but anon is curious about how write!anon pictures the mer-version of Malik. Black tail fins perhaps? At first it's certainly hard for anon to picture such a gruff and masculine male such as our one-armed Dai as a mer, but write!anon has done an excellent job on keeping them to character and making the storyline believable! Please please do write more, anon can't wait!
writeranon
(Anonymous) 2012-02-19 09:07 pm (UTC)(link)And it's not an irrelevant question at all! for mer!malik I'm just really bland and terrible -- I've always imagine him with a grey dolphin-ish tail, but I haven't given it much thought! A black tail would probably be better, ahah. But the only thing for sure is that he has gill slits over the sides of his neck and slightly webbed hands. :B
Re: writeranon
(Anonymous) 2012-02-20 04:06 pm (UTC)(link)Also, the image of Mer!Malik with black tail got stuck in anon's head, so here is the result... (anon can't really draw humans, and decided to cover up Mer!Malik's upper body with his Dai outfit, so this picture makes absolutely no sense.. let's just pretend he's naked from waist up xD) Anon isn't a great artist, so please bear with anon >_<
http://i40.tinypic.com/14v2na.jpg
Re: writeranon
(Anonymous) 2012-02-21 06:29 am (UTC)(link)OH, WOW. GOSH. Thank you so much! Yee, Malik looks so grumpy and ack, his tail is super gorgeous and I love that it's frayed at the edges
omg. THANK YOU. saving it right now to have forever and ever ahhhh
Re: writeranon
(Anonymous) 2012-02-21 01:28 pm (UTC)(link)Grumpy Malik is the Malik we all know hehe XD
I guess the grayed edges are from wrestling sharks? xD I can totally picture him giving a hammerhead some good tail-slapping lol
Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-17 09:59 pm (UTC)(link)Keep going!
Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-18 01:54 am (UTC)(link)Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-02-19 07:36 pm (UTC)(link)Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-04-05 06:28 am (UTC)(link)I love how you put everything into perspective, how you put these small reminders embedded with the story (shark smelling, drag of water, and so forth) that constantly remind us that Malik is indeed from the sea and not from land.
And god. The story follows the canonical personalities of both men from the game so well that I'm feeling another headcanon au forming in my mind this very moment.
Another thing I absolutely love is the way you write - it flows, connects, and paces itself well. We're seeing the world, and yet time is moving enough that we're interested and never tired of this AU you're making.
Did I mention you're awesome? because you are. If you de-anoned right now, I would stalk you and your writings for the rest of your and my life.
I HOPE I SEE ANOTHER FILL SOON! 8DDD
Re: The Moon and the Tide [3/?]
(Anonymous) 2012-07-07 07:32 am (UTC)(link)