asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 4

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 4

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.4

Welcome to Constantinople

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

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

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

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

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

‡ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

‡ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Red. It was a fragment, a split second, but it was definitely red. Altaïr pulled his cap lower, shadowing his face. Templars. So the bastards had survived after all.

He gritted his teeth, felt for the knife in his boot, and turned away from the Templar. Turned right around to at least ten red splotches in the crowd. They were closing in on him. Altaïr shoved someone out of the way, ignoring their cry of outrage, sprinting down the nearest side-street he could find.

A quick glimpse of his surrounds in Eagle Vision confirmed that the Templars had seen him make a run for it. As Altaïr hurled himself onto the roof something whizzed over his head. For a moment he was back in Syria with guards tossing rocks at him. But this was faster than a rock. This was an impossibly narrow piece of metal - a refined dart - that pricked the skin, the cylinder behind it filled with a liquid that Altaïr did not care to partake. He rolled onto the solid grey dirt and steel, barely avoiding another dart.

It was easier to move on the rooftop but that also meant that it was easier for him to be hit. Flying over obstacles and zig-zagging low, he managed to make it up the next monolith, the slippery glass making his job a fraction harder. Harsh shouts, and a consuming roar filled Altaïr's ears, the wind picking up to grab at his clothing. A huge black shadow passed behind him, blades cutting the air. Altaïr pressed himself closer to the glass.

He looked over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn't. Whatever it was, it was horrible and Altaïr knew he couldn't escape it. Still, he stretched his arms up, his finger tips finding edges to pull himself up by. The flying contraption hovered behind him, ducking closer every now and then, watching, waiting. It was full of Templars.

Altaïr was almost blinded when the Templars beamed a strong light on him, the reflection in the glass bouncing into his eyes. Desperately he rammed his boot against the glass but it failed to even crack. There was nothing soft beneath him to land on. He couldn't slide down, and her certainly couldn't make it to the top. Despite this he kept climbing.

A jolt of pain twinged in his shoulder. Wildly fumbling with one hand, Altaïr discovered the dart, empty, and his hands began to feel numb. The feeling spread, his body feeling heavier by the second, weighed down with the drugs. Another prick kissed his other shoulder, more drugs being pumped into him.

The last thing he remembered was falling, his cap fluttering off, and thick ropes wrapping around him in a distressing embrace. He flopped like a rag-doll, captured in a net hanging from the wind cutting machine. Red filled his vision as Templars slid down the rope to secure him, hauling him into the flying machine. Weakly, he struggled, but the adrenaline of his body had done its job, and his eyelids fluttered. A pungent cloth was pressed to his mouth and Altaïr slumped.

AH! No! Don't leave us hanging right there! oAo

I haven't commented before, writeanon, but I have to say I'm loving this fic! I can't wait to see what's going to happen next, and I hope at the very least Alair does some damage when he wakes up.

Every time I would kill a guard, I would press B (I have an Xbox), crouch for a split second, release, crouch, release, as though I were teabagging the guard. XD

Ezio would.

"For my eyes only" is actually posted on Yaoi Gallery. Here: http://www.y-gallery.net/view/872741/

But again, more of this would be awesome. ^^

I'm curious, so I'm getting into the Hellwagon with you guys.
(And it makes me hate the fact that my brother left home with his ps3... I'd like to try that, Anon... curiosity, cats and all.)

There was a vaguely similar prompt on page 24 - here's the fill:
http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=8408651#cmt8408651

I'm not sure about the awkwardness level though - if it's not what you are looking for, just tell me, I may try to go for something different. Possibly Bartolomeo, because honestly, THAT would be awkward.

(Yes, that was some shameless self-promotion on this anon's part... /shot)

Restraints kept him pinned when he awoke, multiple bands of padded metal pressing against his neck, waist, arms, and legs. The feeling of being captured stressed Altaïr, ever since Al Mualim had him held still while a knife was plunged into his gut, ever since the mentor had held him high with the power of the Apple. He tried not to let this show in his body language, but he was actively fighting off tensing his body to struggle.

"So it wasn't just a glitch," murmured a voice. "You actually have amber eyes."

Altaïr jerked his head. He winced, trying to see where the voice was coming from. Instinctively Eagle Vision kicked in but he couldn't see any red. Or any colour. He swore in Arabic, still looking around.

"Ah, your little second sight ability won't help you here."

This shocked Altaïr into disengaging, disorientated by the awkward shift of vision. He wriggled uncomfortably against the bands. A gentle chuckle taunted him from above. It quickly flicked to his left, then his right, moving around the room, echoing. He gasped as the bonds pressed down on him momentarily.

"What is your name, assassin?" the voice asked.

Clamping his mouth shut, Altaïr turned his head away from the current location of the voice. It sounded older than him, male, tired, but ruthless, and well versed in the ways of verbal combat. Not someone he wanted to engage, then. Plus the voice knew the older Arabic dialects and there was no way that it was a thing that you happened to "pick up".

"I see this is going to be difficult. You're not like the others that we've captured. Considerably more agile, skilled, and resilient. You saw us coming before we were even four hundred metres away in a thick crowd. You're not on the modern database, yet we've found you all the same, Altaïr."

Altaïr's eyes snapped open. They knew his name. But he should have been dead, how did they know it was him, how did they pick out his face amongst the thousands of people in Las Vegas?

"You're far more handsome than the pictures do you justice," said the other. "But then again, art wasn't very advanced during your life, was it?"

Altaïr didn't know what he looked like. Not clearly anyway. There were no mirrors at Masyaf, and while he acknowledged that his younger self had been particularly arrogant, Altaïr wasn't vain. He had scars, and he didn't care for knowing his face. Occasionally a glimpse of it had appeared in water. His body - well his health - was more important. Maria found him pleasant enough to look at without dimming the lights and that satisfied Altaïr.

"Not talking?" sighed the voice. "Then my name is Doctor Vidic."

"I want to see who I'm speaking to," snarled Altaïr, not bothering with English.

He heard a scoff. Well, Doctor Vidic wasn't as stupid as Altaïr might've hoped. A shame - he had just enough movement to his neck that he would have been able to bite Vidic hard enough to draw blood. Altaïr wriggled again, seeing how much give he had against the bonds, the action making them chafe against his skin.

With great displeasure he'd seen that they'd taken his shoes and put him in thin white clothing. A strange black symbol with some writing next to it was painted on the shirt, but Altaïr couldn't read it with his neck pinned. His ankles stuck out of the trousers, which were also painted.

"Time to go under, Mister Ibn-La'Ahad," said Vidic.

"Go under? Under what?" demanded Altaïr.

A high pitched whirring preceded a curved piece of glass sliding over his face. He turned away from it but it had completely encased his face. Images danced across the surface, flickering in lines of blue and white. The Apple was there for a moment and he swore he saw himself in Al Mualim's garden briefly. A man's face appeared on the glass. It was young - younger than Altaïr by a few years - but it had an eerie familiarity. Anxiously, Altaïr licked the edge of the scar on his lips, disturbed by the experience.

"Subject 18, this is Subject 17 - Desmond Miles. Your ratbag of a descendant. And just in case you don't remember your own face -" a click and another image appeared next to Desmond, "- here we go."

Was that really him? Altaïr bared his teeth. But if he had descendants then that meant Maria had gotten pregnant. If she'd gotten pregnant, then he had children. He had children.

"Now our little Desmond escaped recently. So now we have nobody to use for the lovely machine you're lying on. Of course you're entirely inappropriate for looking into the DNA of Ezio Auditore - he's one of Desmond's other ancestors, another capable assassin like yourself - but you are significantly closer to Adam and Eve."

The screen went white and disappeared as Altaïr's entire world dissolved into splotches of geometric pattern. He screamed, alarmed, and found his body free of the bonds that had been holding him. Altaïr sat up, scrambling to his feet, running for the edge of this horrible white and blue world. There wasn't an edge.

"Calm yourself, Subject 18."

Vidic's voice reverberated in this borderless world. That made no sense - there wasn't a wall for it to bounce off. Coming to a halt, Altaïr realised his hands weren't his own, his clothing was of a much older cut than from his native Syria.

"Finding oldest uncorrupted memory," a female voice informed Altaïr. "Accessing memories of ancestor AZRAEL."

"Ah, now that is interesting, my little eagle."

A hand ghosted over Altaïr's forehead. Was the doctor touching him? Altaïr snapped his teeth, trying to bite at the sensations that were caressing his face. But he couldn't reach them. Rubbing his hands over his face, Altaïr couldn't shake Vidic's touch.

"Desyncronisation Imminent."

The world turned blood red. Altaïr reeled back. Buildings shot up around him and somebody was screaming. He was standing on a pile of bodies. A huge pile of bodies. Innocents, enemies, they had no distinction. His arms were covered in blood and feathers and when he opened his mouth, people cowered before him, covering their ears.

The world collapsed in on itself, shrinking to nothing but pictures on the glass again.

"Congratulations, 18. You successfully synced with the Animus."

Vidic's voice left Altaïr's skin prickling. The Animus left him dazed and panting, lying without struggle under the bands of metal. His stomach curled in on itself, threatening to empty by clawing up his throat.

"Ready for a second round?"

"No. Don't-" Altaïr gasped, falling back into the white world again.

To answer your question, you're absolutely correct about the subtlety. The racism is very bad everywhere, sadly...

Anyway, I had just finished ACR and Embers, having a lot of feels, opened up AC kinkmeme, and then... yay! AU!Altair update... *read* *read* *read*

then...

NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!! ALTAIRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!

*curls in a fetal position, sobbing*

YOU WEREN'T KIDDING BY SAYING IT'S GONNA GET MORE DIFFICULT FOR ALTAIR. I'M NOT SURE WHAT TO FEEL NOW. BUT DON'T WORRY I STILL LIKE YOUR STORY, I JUST HAVE TOO MUCH FEELS AT THE MOMENT.

Dessieeeeeeeeeeee, save Altair!!!!

Really, really, REALLY want to see the healing part of Altair... I hope you're still around, authornon!

Captcha - If a person is called Susan, what is their name?

MANDARK HA HA HA HAHAHA HA HA HA!

Oh my goodness, Anon! I'm so sorry I haven't seen your post earlier - the kinkmeme was lost to me for a long time... and I thought no one would ever fill this.
Have my Hell spawn - and gratitude! And cookies with a Volpe on top!

(This made me so insanely happy you have no idea. /grinning like an idiot)

I quite like the dynamic between the two, this is close to what I often imagine it would be like. Both trying to outplay the other. Mmmm Lupo's sharp teeth are always giving me ideas... but I digress.

I also adore the 'catch me if you can' line - Volpe needs to do some running, since he outruns pretty much everyone. (Kudos for the epic vision of Volpe trying to run with a boner... my days!)

And now you made me get all: I want more, please? (This anon is so awfully greedy even a Florentine banker could not compete.)

Thanks again writer!anon!

This sounds amazing!

Dear me, writer!anon, you did an awesome job!
I swear, I am such a slash freak that normally, the prospect of het - or gender!bend - just makes me run away. And I was not even sure I would read your story, and then, bam, I read it all.

You did a very good job - I love how you have Altair and Malik snarking at each other, the novices (I'm in love with these two, the cuddling phase in Jerusalem had me smiling like an idiot.) Pregnant Altair... sounds... scary. It is scary! XD

And also, I really like how you modified bits of the original plotlines to fit your story, amongst which the trip to Arsuf. Bold one, and it surprised me in a very good way. And I quite like Richard here - though really, he knows all about powerful - and dangerous - women... his own mother was not one you'd mess up with.

And the panic attacks, on Altair's part. It was 'nice' to see how fragile she was - well, she's super strong, but to see what was going on from her viewpoint was even more powerful. You conveyed that very well.

I adored the 'would you like to have your husband to strangle'... that sounds fun. (Not planning to have any kids, I think I never could. So I have no idea how it's supposed to be like but... whoa, Momma Altair totally pwms.)

And... the swimming lessons with Abbas. Okay, my mind leapt in a wholly different direction and I was all: wtf is going on! But then, you reassured my panicked brains. Phew.

There are a lot of things I could say, and I am forgetting them as I write this. Just know that your story was wonderfully written, the plot was well-rounded and you managed to build OC and new relationship so well I must call you 'master'. Though 'Master Anon' could apply to many people, so I'll just go for 'Master Fatal-Flaw-Anon'!

Thank you for this epic story, you won my Hell-spawn and you may ask anything, I'll do my best to do it. My week is made! *offers cookies*

ps: MARRY ME! /shot

( Um... Yeah. Hope this is okay. )

I am not really sure what is happening, to say the least. Only a minute ago I was deep in thought, writing in my journal, and now Connor’s head is nestled in between my legs. How and when did he even come in the tent, I wonder? I must have been too emerged in my writing. Today was quite stressful, in fact, and I’ve noticed that more often than not on such nights, my assassin prowls into the tent, and soon enough he is under me, begging for my touch. Perhaps he knew of my stress. Either way, the sudden feeling of a warm, wet tongue moving across my thigh… I immediately forgot what I was thinking and my quill quickly fell to the ground. I could hear quiet, muffled chuckling as I turned to stare down at the hooded figure below me.

“You dropped this,” he whispers in that teasing tone of his. Connor holds up my quill, but before I can grab it he pulls it back, smirking. “Too slow, old man.”

I growl. I am too excited for such a game. I shove his head back down to where it was and where it should be before ripping the quill out of his hands. I set it back onto my desk and look back down at Connor. His hood is covering most of his face, and it is difficult to see him. I pull the hood back so I can watch him properly. Connor blinks in surprise before glancing back up at me, as if asking if he can continue. I only have to raise a brow at him for him to get the message.

He begins to lick the fabric of my breeches once more, starting with the inside of my leg. Clearly, he wants this to last as long as possible. I am not complaining. Connor’s head goes from side to side, from my right leg to my left and back. Part of me wants to grab his hair and drag him to where I want it, but I know he would not react well. He gets nervous that I will shove his head down every time I even get my hand close to him, the poor thing. Then again, I do such things a bit often…

Finally, he has moved to in between my legs. I can feel his hot breath on me, his mouth barely centimeters away. His lips graze across the fabric, and I see his nose wrinkle as it tickles him. I laugh quietly and run my fingers through his dark, braided hair. He tenses, but continues, thankfully. “Come on,” I encourage, “Be a good boy and pick up the pace for me.”

That does it for him. He shivers, and I can feel his warm tongue give a long lick from the very bottom to the very top, and then back to the bottom again. He does this repeatedly, alternating from slow, gentle licks to fast, vigorous ones. His eyes are closed in concentration. The only time he opens them is to look up at me, questioning if he is doing a good job. I can only smile and pet his hair, tucking a strand behind his ear.

Only now do I realize that the majority of this is done without his hands. Not to mention that all of these skills he has learned, he learned from me. Fondly I continue to pet his hair, smoothing and combing it. As he licks and lightly sucks on the fabric, I can feel him humming with pleasure. He is just like a puppy whenever I do this; if he had a tail, it would be wagging. It is almost cute.

As he hums I can’t help but let a quiet moan escape my lips, the vibration getting to me. “Connor,” I murmur. The assassin looks up in curiosity. “Hmm?”

I lean over and pick him up, earning a gasp. He is heavy, but I can handle just carrying him to my bed. I want him to be as comfortable as possible. I can’t just let him kneel on the cold, dirty ground!

Carefully, I set him on the bed before lying down beside. “Comfortable?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you.” Connor starts to get back into position, but I pull him up for a few kisses beforehand. The kisses are all chaste; I don’t wish to tire his mouth. Soon enough I am forced to break the kisses, unable to handle having no attention to my nether regions for too long.

His mouth goes back to work, his lips never leaving the fabric. Connor continues this for few more minutes, just licking and sucking, and then I feel his long fingers move up to the buttons of my breeches. While he messes with the buttons he always seems to have trouble with, his rests on my bulge. Whether he is doing this to frustrate me or not I am unsure, as soon enough I am exposed.

Connor wastes no time in dealing with my… needs. I am already dripping with precum, and I can see him wince slightly from the bitterness of it when he takes me in his mouth. I bite my lip hard in an effort to keep quiet. It has been too long since we have been able to do this.

It is hard to believe how skilled he has become in such a short amount of time. He knows when to go slow, when to go fast, how to swirl his tongue around me to get the loudest of my moans… Just the thought makes me grunt. Connor’s mesmerizing hazel eyes meet up to mine, almost sparkling with the light of the candle. I smile faintly and ruffle his hair. “G-Good…”

His lips brush against my sensitive spots and I squirm and moan. I am trying to be quiet so that my men cannot hear me, but loud enough to encourage Connor to keep going. So far, it is working. His tongue leaves no place untouched. He licks me as if I am a tasty lollipop, which makes me chuckle. I almost wonder if he can hear my thoughts, because as soon as I laugh he starts to suck lightly on the head. A groan escapes me and I grip his hair once more, tugging slightly. This is all too much for me to handle.
Connor picks up the pace, rocking his head up and down, occasionally stopping to kiss my underside. I grit my teeth. My face must be as red as the enemy soldiers’ coats. Any stressful thoughts that filled my mind previously were long gone.

I adjust myself, pushing myself a bit farther into Connor’s mouth. It doesn’t faze him as much as I would like it to, so I push in a little more. Finally, he reacts. I can feel him whimper and try to pull back, but I only continue. “Mmmf—“ He claws at my thighs, trying to get me to stop, but that only feels better. I moan, teasingly, and let him go when I’ve had enough.

But Connor only crosses his arms and sits up, after finally catching his breath. He makes no notion of going back to sucking. I clear my throat and try to get his attention.

“Hello? Connor?”

“Hello,” he replies.

I grunt out of frustration. “C-Come on, we don’t have time for you to stop. Please?”

Connor stays silent, just examining a thread on his sleeve. His eyes flicker back to me after what seems like ages. “Maybe if you apologize for almost making me choke.”

“I’m sorry. Will you—“ I speak fast and quietly. I don’t have time for this!

He keeps messing with the stray thread. “You have to mean it.”

At this point, I am almost begging. “I’m very sorry! Really! I really am. Now, please…” My fingernails are digging into the blanket and my eyes keep glancing downwards. I am throbbing, needy. My expression must look almost comedic.

I almost thank God when Connor crawls back down and gives a long, slow lick to my shaft. I have to cover my mouth to keep my moans from being heard. He is much rougher this time, sucking farther down and rocking his head faster and harder. He even hums to give me more pleasure.

My hand rests on the top of his head and I firmly grip his hair once more, and out of instinct, start to push down. I want him to take all of me.

Connor jumps out of surprise and punches my arm, making me lose my grip. I don’t bother to try again, as my mind is fully of jumbled thoughts and the feelings I am receiving are all too much. I moan and moan, a bit too loudly than I should have, but I cannot control myself. My back arches as I finally release, the feeling of Connor’s warm mouth intoxicating me.

We both stay still for a few moments; he dealing with the remnants of my pleasure, me just sitting there, calming myself down. Suddenly, Connor yanks my collar forward, pulling me close to his face. I am still breathing heavily, unable to concentrate on anything, my release still having a bit of an impact on me. Connor pecks my lips (he tastes of me, and I can see some of my seed still in the corner of his mouth, which makes me blush), the kiss only lasting for about half a second, and growls at me.

“Shove me down again, George, and next time, I won’t be nice and finish you. I’ll just bite it off.”

:DDDDDDDD I'm so glad you liked it! I'm absolutely flattered!

And as hypocritical as it sounds, I generally hate reading gender-bent fics. XD There's something about them that I just don't like, so taking this up is rather odd for me.

I keep reading everything you wrote, and I keep smiling. I can't stop. XD I love it so much! Thank you so much for that, and I must admit that I really, wholly, and completely enjoy how you isolated parts of the story itself to praise. It makes me smile to know that someone is sitting there, remembering the details and paying attention all things considered. Thank you so much!

This time, Leonardo showed up.

"Ezio!" Exclaimed the artist, pulling his friend into a warm embrace. Ezio froze up, his arms awkwardly hovering over Leonard's shoulders, the unease that he had felt earlier returning with vigor. Thankfully, Leonardo pulled away before Ezio could think upon it further.

"I apologize immensely for neglecting to show up the other evening," Leonardo continued, "I was having difficulty with one of my apprentices, you see!"

Trouble, indeed. Ezio thought rather...bitterly? Instead, he said nothing and allowed Leonardo to continue.

"He has been with me for so long, and it seems that he grows more wild with each passing year! Why, on the day we were supposed to meet, I returned to my workshop to find the little bastardo rifling through my florins." Though he meant to seem scornful, Ezio detected a trace of fondness in his friend's tone, and felt a stab of disdain go through his system. All he could picture was the smug face of that little brat as Leonardo went on and on about what he had done - leaving out the little 'encounter' Ezio had witnessed, of course - and Ezio found himself growing impatient.

"...At any rate, what can I do for you, Ezio? I can repair that damaged blade you mentioned last time, of course-"

Ezio, who had been rather fixated on a small patch of grass while Leonardo spoke of his apprentice, finally managed to look the artist in the eye. How had he never noticed how lovely they were before? Looking away once more, Ezio wondered why the hell he would even be thinking such things about a man?

"I had one of my own apprentices bring it to the blacksmith on the Tiber. It is repaired."

He felt a mixture of guilt and smug pleasure as disappointment and - dare he say it - hurt flashed over the artist's features before returning to a pleasant smile.

"Ah, I see! Bene, is it working well, then?"

"Yes, though it is not as steadfast as your work."

Leonardo seemed relieved at that comment, or so Ezio wanted to believe.

"Leonardo, I actually have a commission for you."

"Oh? Do tell, Ezio."

"The courtesans from the Rosa in Fiore are experiencing increased aggression from the guards that roam their district," Ezio began, stroking the scar on his lip thoughtfully and deliberately trying to avoid looking at his friend. "Claudia wishes to have them outfitted with a more practical concealed weapon. Some of these guards are armored, making throwing knives impractical."

"I see! Hmm, I do think I could work something out for them...but it will cost you."

He winked and patted the assassin on the shoulder. Ezio found himself involuntarily leaning into the touch for a moment.

"Of course, money is not a problem. What I am most interested in is what you will need of me."

Leonardo rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully, "Well, it would be useful if you could help smuggle one or tow of the Rosa in Fiore's ladies into my workshop..." Ezio cringed internally, remembering the other night with displeasure. "I know it might be risky, but the Borgia family has left me in peace as of late. You could easily provide protection for the girls, and I can get a general idea of what would be practical for them."

"Wouldn't your apprentices be unhappy with such an intrusion?"

Leonardo waved a hand dismissively. "Please, Ezio. They are rarely in my own workshop. They will not be a problem."

"Ah. Bene. I will bring two of Claudia's girls by...tomorrow?"

"Yes, excellent! Now, I better return to my workshop. I don't want to be away for too long. I will see you soon, Ezio!"

Leonardo wrapped an arm around the man and gave him a quick squeeze before departing.

Ezio remained on the bench for a while longer, running his fingers over his shoulder absently.

I'm working on another fill right now, but I will try and do this. I like William Miles and have many headcanons about the old Mentor. :D

Shortly after Solomon's temple, Abbas comforts a febrile and depressed Malik just to get into his pants.
Bonus if Altair have feelings for Malik and Abbas knows it.

A fill for http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=7598411#cmt7598411 because we can't have enough Malik+Tazim interactions.

---

There are times when his mind is kind to him, and grants him what he wants to see. These dreams were the good ones.

The dreams would start out like any other; perhaps he would be sitting outdoors, in an endlessly green field or by some crystal clear lake, with the bright sky stretching above him. Perhaps he would be sitting in some stuffy room, either in the fortress or otherwise, writing out something on a scroll of vellum. Usually, he was alone; the first (hopeful) indication that he would have one of his kinder dreams.

He was by the lake this time around, much younger than he is now. He was playing with some of the rocks in the shore, throwing the stones at the calm waters to make splashes. He was young enough that he was amused by the sounds that his actions caused, and yet old enough to know that he should not try to retrieve the stones he has tossed. Besides, searching for newer, interesting ones was fun.

The first real indication that this would be a kinder dream was the feeling of safety, of security, that warmed his entire form. Like something was guarding him, even if he could not yet see what it was. A presence that kept him from straying too far towards the waters, too far away from the lake. Something that kept him guarded, but not caged. Free to enjoy himself, but will help him if he needs it.

Then, when he held up a stone that glittered in the sunlight, there was a feeling of excitement. Not because it was good for throwing into the lake; the shape wouldn’t make a good splash, but because it was beautifully milky in some places, and vaguely clear in others. A swirl of blues, whites and greens, with just a hint of purple, all condensed into a tiny stone that fit in the palm of his hand. Something that would be wonderful to show to someone. To his protector.

He turned, and he could see a man lounging on the grass. In the haze of the dream, it’s difficult for him to see what the older man looked like, but he knew enough from the recollections of his elders. Enough for his mind to piece together an image, one enough for him to cling onto, to haunt him even when he’s awake. The missing left arm was the most obvious detail that his mind gave him, but there were also the dark robes of a high ranking assassin over a slender frame. Dark hair and features that matched his own in almost every way except for the eyes. His father’s was supposedly darker; he matched an uncle he never met when it came to his eyes, perhaps by some odd quirk of fate.

He would run to his father, tripping a little on the wet grass in his excitement. Though he didn’t see it in his dream, he would know his father would worry, make a move as if he would catch his son if he fell. But he didn’t, not until he reached the older man, and lay down on his lap, smiling brightly. “Baba!” He would greet as he holds up his precious little stone for his father to see. This close, he could imagine the details of his father’s face, and in this short instance, he worked in his dream to commit the image to his memory. The small little patch of hair on his father’s chin, the lines that time had etched on the elder’s face from an ever-present scowl, and the warm, rare smile that would be on his lips. Then, his father would reach up and take the stone from him as his younger self would quip up joyfully “For you!” just as the dream fades.

His eyes opened, and all he saw above him was a dark, cold ceiling. Then he would shut them tightly, to try and hold onto the image of his kind, smiling father while he held back his tears. He would lose his grip on both.

The Rosa in Fiore was his next stop.

"So you have made arrangements with Leonardo?"

"Si, sister. I need to borrow a couple of your girls - not for that" Ezio added, upon recieving a nasty look from his sister. "No, Leonardo would like to work with them and come up with a solution for your problem."

Claudia nodded, "Bene, I will send two of my girls with you tomorrow."

Ezio smiled slightly, and turned to leave.

"Ezio?"

He paused. "Si, Claudia?"

"You seem unwell."

"I am perfectly fine."

"Hmn. If you say so."

As he placed his palm on the door, Claudia cleared her throat and said:

"Ezio, if you need anything, please ask."

"I...I will. Thank you, Claudia."

He left without another word, too uncomfortable by his sister's sudden show of affection to say much more.

---

In bed, Ezio was plagued by strange dreams.

'Won't you model for me, Ezio?'

Leonardo's hands run over his cheekbones, his jawline, his throat, his chest. It was agonizing for him, too much to bear.

'I am so glad to see you in this light, Ezio Auditore.'

Ezio is backed against a table, hands gripping the surface for dear life, unable to process what was transpiring. Leonardo smiled at him ever-so-slightly, and brought his hands up to cup the assassin's face.

Ezio's mouth suddenly felt very dry. He swallowed hard, and tried to keep himself from shaking as Leonardo drew closer and closer-

"Shit!" He thrashed awake, sweating and feeling as though he had sprinted endlessly. His whole body felt as though it were on fire, and his pants felt far too tight.

With a groan, his forced himself out of bed and stumbled to the washbasin, he would need an ice-cold bath.

http://forkinsocket.livejournal.com/19860.html?thread=5886868#t5886868

You might be interested in this wonderful full fill from part 3, featuring prostitute!Altair bellydancing for Malik. It's a 20th century AU, and I'm pretty sure an abandoned WiP, but what's there is amazing.

Starting a fill here: http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1611.html?thread=8593739#cmt8593739

Hope that OP likes it.

Anything based on this pic by dokyakutu: i1135.photobucket.com/albums/m622/enrissiangurl/dokyakutu-AssassinsTaken.jpg
(here if you don't have a y!gal: i1135.photobucket.com/albums/m622/enrissiangurl/dokyakutu-AssassinsTaken.jpg)

Maybe Des gets captured by Abstergo early AC3, or after the whole "saving the world" (honestly, I don't think the whole Templar/Assassin war is gonna end at the same time as Des and Co figure out how to save the world...)

As long as it has some n/c with Des and Abstergo, plus some kinda rescue, I'll be a happy anon.

There are times when his mind is horrible to him, and grants him images of what he fears. These dreams are often, and they plague his mind.

In these dreams, he is a non-entity. He watches events unfold, but he cannot influence anything. He does not even have a form, he is simply a presence, observing a sequence he has heard of (from a grieving Grandmaster who had too much to drink) and thought about often enough for his mind to piece together what had happened. He watched as the Grandmaster entered the small little room, with an emancipated old man's only arm slung over his shoulders. Altair set his father down on a pile of pillows, ignoring the smell of filth that he would no doubt leave. (Of course, he would leave something far worse in the end) Altair's wife left to fetch a cup of water, which his father drank greedily, thanking her simply. It looked like he was ashamed of accepting a woman's help, and somehow, this amused the spectator. (It was one of the only funny things about this situation. God, why are you showing this to me)

They spoke, but he tried to ignore the words that told him what he already knew, heard about so often. The events that lead up to the situation the Order was in back then. His father spoke about how Sef was murdered, how he was imprisoned by Abbas's deception. (maythattraitorousfuckburnforallhesdonetakingawayhisfather) Then his father blamed himself ("It would not have happened to a better leader. It would not have happened to you" you're wrongfather it's not your fault you are not to blame ohpleasedon'tthinkthat), and the spectator wanted to shut his eyes and his ears, to stop from watching the events unfold, (andtostopallthistomakeitsothatitneverhappenedohgodstopplease) but all he could do was watch.

The grandmaster and his wife left, and now it was just his imaginaton that picked up the pieces. To put together a string of events that he knew about. His father was resting now, dozing off while his friend left to deal with the traitor to the Creed. This gave him just a small window of time to watch, to study his father once more. This was how he looked when he died; His beard grown out greatly, covered in his own filth, weakened by years of abuse from being wrongly imprisoned. Rage flooded his senses, fury at how his father was treated and how he did not deserve it... but still, there was no chance for him to act, no form to stop what was to come.

He could only watch as another slipped into the room. His mind made it so that his father woke up at the entrance of his killer, but in his weakness, he could do little but raise his hand weakly, as if that would stop the hidden blade from sinking into his flesh. The killer had a small, twisted grin on his face as he stabbed again, then again, deliberately avoiding the spots that they were trained to strike at. The spots that would grant a quick death. The spectator could only watch. He coul not even shut his eyes to the sight that made him mentally scream.

Perhaps there was a mercy in his father being so weak, for he perished after the fourth. His murderer seemed disappointed, frowning at how quickly his target expired, but the spectator didn't care anymore. He just wanted to wakeupwakeupwakeUP. The murderer took out a woodcutter's axe, and started to hack. The sounds that filled the air as his father's body was further abused echoed in the tiny room. StopitstopitstopitSTOPIT The head came away after a few moments, (Butitfeltlikeforeverjustpleaseletmewakeup) and the killer just casually stared at blank, dead eyes, before dropping the head in a burlap sack, as though it was a stone or a fruit he was cleaning up.

As the killer left the room, only then did his mind release him from the vision. He woke up screaming, and it took the comfort of his father's old friend to dry his eyes. He could not sleep again for a long time.

A large, callused hand jabbed Desmond's side. Reacting by instinct alone, the man rolled over, snatching at the air to grab his sleep-disturbing assailant. He failed by a narrow margin, skin brushing against skin.

"Hey, mate, I just got in," whispered a British voice. "'Becca needs you."

Desmond immediately sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes. It wasn't unusual for him to be woken in the middle of the night - even before he'd been captured by Abstergo - and subsequently could shake the haze of dreams quite easily. The Bleeding Effect was another thing entirely.

As he'd thought, Shaun was leaning over him, eyes shadowed by grief and jet-lag. It took Desmond a moment to recognise the historian, changed as he was by the melanchony that haunted all of the team.

"It's good to see you again," said Desmond, raising his hand to pat Shaun's shoulder.

Shaun flinched back, avoiding contact.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Shaun said. "We can - and we will - talk later. But there's a new development - Altaïr was taken by Abstergo."

"Fuck! I knew we should have sent the LA team for him!"

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Shaun nodded, letting his glasses sit askew on his face. Getting to his feet, Desmond finally managed to touch Shaun. It was brief. Almost as if Shaun was afraid of something.

Realisation hit Desmond like a baseball bat to the gut - Shaun was afraid of him.

"We'll talk later," he mumbled in agreeance. "Rebecca is probably getting antsy."

He didn't see the expression of the Brit's horrified regret. After Lucy, Shaun had found himself jittery and anxious, expecting an attack at every corner by anyone. Touching him was a privilege nobody had at the moment - even before Lucy, before he became an assassin, Shaun had never been fond of touch. He opened his mouth to apologise, but by then it was too late. Desmond had left.

***
White - clinical white - became boring quickly. Altaïr had not seen a single person since he'd been captured, only heard various voices from the walls, underlings to Vidic, no doubt. At least he was allowed to walk around the room now. Well. He was allowed to "play" - clearly they had some use for Altaïr that they didn't want his body to diminish in strength and skill. "Playing" involved the floor disappearing from under his feet, the walls that slid down and forced him to keep climbing, "ghosts" attacking him at any time of the day or night (there was no indication of natural light, but the undulating torches were extinguished) - it kept him fit. And while Altaïr was loathe to give in to Vidic's requests - the doctor had to knock him out with gas to get him back into the Animus - he was more loathe for his body to rot. At least this way there was a challenge and a chance for him to escape.

The room had been used before - red Templar marks were all over it. More than one person had been forced into the nightmares and taught the ways of the assassin. Altaïr wasn't sure whether to pity or hate them.

There had been a bed at one stage but Altaïr hated things of such permanence and immediately pulled all of the sheets and pillows off to make a nest on the floor. More pillows had been provided after that. They were white too.

Bathing came in the form of another room in a glass and metal box that rained water from a tap. Altaïr's first washing session had not gone well. After the initial shock of running water, it had gone from bad to worse. As Altaïr had leaned over in the cold water to scrub his legs, he felt a soreness in his lower back, just on his tailbone. He rubbed a hand over it, and upon feeling that the skin was raised, twisted his head over his shoulder to look at it. It appeared to be some sort of mark - a bruise? Further examination in the mirror revealed that he'd been tattooed with the same symbol as on his shirts and trousers.

How dare they mark him like an animal. Rage flowed through Altaïr's veins (an emotion that was easier to access with each passing 'day') and he punched the mirror. It didn't give but he thought he saw the flash of a face and a stifled squeak. To think that they had marked him and were spying on him even in the shower made him attack the mirror again.

They gassed the room.

Azrael - Altaïr's strange, not quite human ancestor - was apparently an archangel. Hence the feathers. But what the humans called archangels were really just a group of long living, weird looking, nutters with extraordinary abilities. They lived off offerings - Azrael had a particular craving for the life energy of humans, and humans were obliging to him. In return, he kept them safe from the darkness for a little bit longer. They called him Death sometimes, but there were many Deaths in he world - Azrael just happened to be the strongest.

There were souls in there somewhere, but Azrael didn't eat those. And if someone was already dead before their full capacity had been achieved, then it hurt nobody if Azrael ate the left over life. It didn't matter when, where, or who.

The feathers that covered Azrael's arms were real.

They made Altaïr's arms itch. It was something called the Bleeding Effect. It wasn't real, according to the voices, it was merely an afterimage, nothing to concern himself about.

Altaïr glared at the ceiling as the glass slid over his face. While the feathers might not be real, he had a plan concerned other abilities that Vidic had chalked up as "glitches" and "memory corruption".

The white, he decided, wouldn't be boring soon.

****
I missed copying a line from my document. Damnit.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 4

Fill: Anyone's Ghost 5/?

Re: Fill: Anyone's Ghost 5/?

Re: Dead bodies are fun

Re: connor/washington, blowjob

Re: Dead bodies are fun

Re: Ezio PTSD and H/C. ManlyPain kink

Fill: Anyone's Ghost 6/? (Trigger Warnings: mental torture, dubious medical touching, restraints)

Re: Fill: Anyone's Ghost (formerly "Second Life") 4/?

Re: Bound by Lust 9

OP here!

Re: Altair/genderswap!Malik

Driverby!Anon

From The Inside (1/1)

Re: Driverby!Anon

He Fits You - 4

potential author

Abbas/Malik- dubcon?

Fill: Reaching 1/6

He Fits You - 5

Very RTYI

Re: Malik&Tazim

Abstergo/Des

Fill: Reaching 2/6

Fill: Anyone's Ghost /? (Trigger Warnings: mental torture, dubious medical touching, restraints)

Fill: Anyone's Ghost 7/? (Trigger Warnings: mental torture, dubious medical touching, restraints)