asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Join or Die

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

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

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

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

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

✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.

✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

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

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

The thing is, a lot of LJ and DW kink memes I've seen have had underage fills on them, this one included (although it was back when it was on LJ, it was Al Mualim/Altair if it helps) so I'm not sure why it would be a problem. Yes, I can understand the legal/moral grey area but it hasn't stopped kink memes before (again, this one included) so I don't see why it should now...

I do agree that we should get a mod in to decide though

Malik tops Altair not realizing that it's his first time doing,well, anything really and is his usual charming self after not really noticing that Altair is taking his off handness to heart. During an argument Malik throws that night back at him, basically say he was the worst he had ever had. When he finds out the truth Malik then has to figure out how to get Altair to trust him enough to try again. How Malik finds out that it was Altair's first time is up to Anon. Happy ending preferred.

Bonus points:
- Malik was too rough for a first timer and hurts him.Altair now thinks it was just more punishment and Malik had no feelings for him.
- Altair doesn't trust anyone not to hurt him anymore, Malik had been the last one he thought he could trust.
- Malik is surprised that Altair had never been with anyone before and pampers him when he gets him back in bed.

I'm going with Maltair now XD

THIS IS SWEET PERFECTION

So, does anybody else remember the TV show Liberty's Kids? Well, if you've never heard of it, arm yourselves with knowledge here (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liberty%27s_Kids/) and here (http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/WesternAnimation/LibertysKids).

Frankly, I'm shocked that Liberty's Kids and AC3 haven't been crossed over yet. So, I'd like to see a crossover, please. However you think it would work, I just really wanna see this happen...

And this is so goddamn cute. <3 Thank you so much, anon.

Desmond is apprehensive when he has to get stitches/be plugged into the Animus/etc. Lucy comforts. Shaun pokes fun. Romance is not required, but if your creative spirit yearns for it, I would prefer DesLucy. Give me something cute!

SECONDED LIKE BURNINNGNGGG

This is writer!anon #1, the one who wibbled. Writer!Anon #2, your fill was very cute and I wibbled at that too. :) It didn't discourage me at all, though personally I was a little stunned that you referred to yourself as "write!fag". I know it's a kinkmeme and all, but that was just out of the left field there :S. Anyway, warning: Long fill is long and was hijacked in its earlier stages by Umar and Faheem, Altair and Malik's fathers. Hopefully OP enjoys.

Abbun / Umma = Father / Mother
Abbuni / Ummi = My Father / My Mother
Abu __ = Father of __ (Used as a title)
Sayyid = Sir

~ x ~

When Altair and Malik first met, they were far too young to walk and had to be carried on the shoulders of their fathers. Umar and his friend Faheem Al-Sayf were strolling the gardens of Masyaf, as was their habit on lazy afternoons without much to do. This time, however, the two assassins decided to bring their sons out for some fresh air and sightseeing. Secretly they both wanted to brag about their own sons to each other, but they hid it well under a guise of mutual appreciation.

As the heat of the dry season encroached upon Masyaf with long and tenacious limbs, the glossy leaves of the shrubs and bushes were powdered with white dust. Sour orange trees from northeastern Iran paraded their fruit which swayed back and forth, tempting. It was a moment to be bottled and kept in a box.

“Your son will be a fine assassin,” said Umar to Faheem, who only laughed. Faheem’s son Malik was straddling his neck and gripping his father’s short cropped hair with an unnaturally strong grip. He pressed his chubby little feet onto his father’s chest like he was spurring on a horse. Altair, on the other hand, balanced himself on his father’s shoulders miraculously with both his hands jammed into his mouth. He stared with distracted wonder at all the colors and smells around him, and looked everywhere but at Malik.

“Your son will be better,” Faheem countered, though both men knew that it was only out of politeness.

“And to think… in a few years’ time they will become recruits, if Allah wills, then initiates… then in the blink of an eye, they’ll be killing men.”

The two assassins paused, thinking on this weighty idea. Malik hiccupped and a thin string of saliva dropped from his lips down to Faheem’s nose. Umar saw this and burst into laughter, making Altair jolt up and down on his shoulders. Faheem also laughed, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand and rolling his eyes. Altair, however, was jarred by the laughter which he did not understand. No, only he could make his father laugh! This was not fair! He finally looked at the other boy who was at the moment staring directly at him, so smugly.

Altair took his hands out of his mouth, shiny with his own saliva, and reached out. He touched Malik’s chubby face with his own chubby hand. Then he poked him in the eye and Malik shrieked and Faheem was shouting and all of a sudden his world was turned upside down and Umar was admonishing him and he was being hit on the bottom but at the same time Umar was smiling and so he didn’t understand-

Malik’s first impression of Altair was not very good. Altair did not very much like Malik either, since he could make Umar laugh and only Altair was allowed to do that.

~ x ~

Three years later, Altair and Malik were old enough to run and tumble, and spent every wondrous day exploring Masyaf’s fortress and garden. They, sometimes accompanied by Abbas, found all the hidden crannies and unused rooms and made up elaborate stories to explain their existence. They found hidden treasures wherever they went… like that snapped branch under a bush in the garden that was surely Moses’ own stick! Altair and Abbas made good friends, but since Umar and Faheem were often together, so Altair and Malik made fast friends naturally as well. Well, they were friend-rivals actually, just like their fathers. Today Altair and Malik were sitting in the garden courtyard, ignoring all the beautiful women fluttering about in their silks. They were mirages, colourful things to look at but they had no significance to the young boys. They were by the stone fountain, sitting quietly and waiting for their fathers’ meetings to adjourn so they could go home and have dinner.

Altair was always the more introverted one, who was content with listening to the water’s bubbling and occupied himself with sensory pleasures. Malik, however, became immensely bored very quickly and needed to find some attention or surely he would die!

“Abbuni says I came from ummi's belly.”

Altair was scratching the image of a bird onto the stone with a wet stick when he heard this, and he only shrugged. “That’s not possible. Your father is lying.”

Malik stopped picking at the reed he’d found on the ground and gasped- “what!”

“My father,” the other boy explained with all the pride in the world, “says he built me out of the earth and soil. And my father is stronger than yours so he must be right.”

Horrified by Altair’s blatant disrespect for his father, Malik ran at Altair screaming and knocked him to the ground. The two boys fought and wrestled and bit at each other until Umar and Faheem came across them- “Ay! Altair! Malik! Stop this!”

Both boys’ limbs went dumb and they separated shyly from each other, almost sheepishly. “Sorry, abbun,” said Altair very softly, but his endearing act was not about to work on Umar today. He’d just come out of a secret meeting with Faheem, Al Mualim, and the other key members of the Order. Disturbances in the Seljuk and Ayyubid empires called on their forces- there were more men to kill, and missions would resume immediately. Umar and Faheem were about to leave their sons for days at a time, and so it would not do to have them fight against each other!

Normally they were too busy to deal with these tantrums and left the boys to scuff it out and make up as children always did. But this time Umar looked to Faheem and a silent agreement was made. He squatted so that he was at eye level with Altair and Malik, and asked them very gently what was happening.

“I said I came from my mother's belly,” Malik piped up, to which Altair immediately cut in, “and I said he was lying because you told me, abbun, that you made me from the earth.”

Faheem shifted on his feet, torn. Umar turned his head and their eyes met- Faheem’s was apologetic. Poor Umar, whose wife died at childbirth. Poor Altair, who never knew his mother! Of course it made perfect sense that Umar would dismiss the role of the woman altogether when explaining his origin from Altair. Trying to take the focus off the fact that Altair had no mother’s belly to speak of, Faheem tried to get at the root of the issue. “Alright, so why were the two of you fighting?”

His son pointed at Umar’s son. “He said Abbu Altair was stronger than you so he must be right and I got angry because… because you’re my father and you’re strong too.”

Ah. Faheem covered his mouth with his hand, stunned that Altair had said such a thing. Children normally parroted their parents, so did this mean Umar secretly had little respect for him? Was Umar talking about Faheem’s weaknesses when left in the company of his son?

“That’s not very nice,” Umar berated his boy, “and I will have you know that my friend Faheem is as strong, if not stronger, than I!”

“Yes abbun,” Altair surrendered cleanly, a perfect picture of demureness in his father’s presence. He turned to Faheem and lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Abu Malik. And Malik, too, I’m sorry.”

Faheem cleared his throat with some difficulty, and touched Malik`s head. “So what will you say to that?”
“I accept your apology,” Malik said, and then saw that his father was not pleased and quickly corrected himself- “I- I’m sorry too.”

“Good!” breathed Umar, and rose to leave until the boys again stopped him.

“Wait! Then… who is right? Where did we come from?”

The two master assassins stared at each other and balked- they didn’t want to talk to their children about such a topic at such a young age. Quickly, some other myth had to be found. “Oh, I know.” Faheem rubbed his hands together, then clapped to get the boys’ attention. “Both of you heard right, but you both heard incomplete pieces of the same story.” Umar shot him a terrified look, but Faheem continued, “see…Allah created every moving thing from water. He fashioned men out of clay, produced you from the earth like a vegetable growth. That, Altair, is what you heard.”

Catching on that Faheem was reciting the verses of the Qur’an, Umar reluctantly presented what Faheem was hinting at. “And Malik, after Allah fashioned you out of clay, he made you in the belly of your mother, in darkness.”

Malik almost got it, according to the halfway enlightened look on his face. “So… he baked me in my mother? Like bread in an oven?”

“Yes!” Faheem cried with overdone joy, “you’ve got it, my boy! Good! I am proud! Now come with me and let’s go home…” He gripped Malik’s hand and nearly dragged him away from the earth shattering explosion he knew was just moments away… He looked back just once, shooting his friend Umar an apologetic glance before he continued on his way, son in tow.

Umar was beginning to sweat. Altair’s mind was working, his little jaw chewing on the thought before spitting it back out again- “but… where is my mother?”

“I…” the assassin stumbled over his words, “your mother gave all she had for you, and she is with Allah now in Heaven.”

“Do you miss her?”

His heart clenched. Tears welled up in Umar’s eyes; tears which would never be shed. He took a deep breath- yes, yes he missed his wife dearly. He loved her to love’s extreme, almost as much as he loved Allah. But to his son, he would not relay his suffering. “No, Altair. To miss her means to want her here with me, and she is happier where she is now in Heaven.” He would give anything to have her back.

“Okay,” said Altair. “Then if she is happy, I won’t miss her either.”

Umar dropped to his knees and drew Altair into the tightest embrace he’d ever given. He didn’t care about appearances at this point- if some concubine saw him and laughed, then so be it! Altair squirmed against his broad chest before awkwardly embracing him back as best as he was able with his lanky arms. Umar loved this boy with his vast honey-brown eyes, so unimaginably wise at his wee age. “Oh Altair,” he cried, his voice breaking and that first tear breaking the dam of his eyelids for the first time in years. “You are the light of my life.”

~ x ~

~ x ~

Another three years later, and Umar could no longer keep Altair in the house. The children lived in houses in the village, as did the assassins’ wives, and they went to school at the Fortress. Later they would all go to live there once they came of age and became initiates. Altair often went to play at Malik’s house because Malik’s mother had a baby in her, and Altair had never seen anything like it. After his classes (learning to read and write, mostly), Umar allowed Altair to go play at Malik’s house, and sometimes Malik came to play at their house. Most often than not, all three were together at Abbas’ house where they pulled all sorts of shenanigans and tricks. Abbas’ house was closer to the market, which provided a healthy and constantly rotating number of specimens for the boys to test out their latest prank. Malik’s house had his mother Fatimah, who had such enormous culinary talent that Umar imagined Faheem stole her straight out of some Emperor’s kitchen. There was nothing at Altair’s house except a master assassin who was not very funny, nor was he a good cook, nor was he a very patient teacher.

Sometimes Umar genuinely believed he failed as a father. He was in his yard swinging his sword at a practice dummy when he heard Malik’s shrill voice carrying over his fence, “Abu Altair! Abu Altair!” As he’d come to expect the constant interruptions, Umar sheathed his sword and crossed his arms over his chest while Malik tumbled into his yard. Abbas followed soon after, and both of them heaved for breath. They looked ridiculous- Malik was wearing some sort of white lungi shift that he might have made himself, especially looking at the way it dangled off his thin frame. Abbas was bare-chested and was only in his underwear. The most ridiculous part of it all was that they were both wearing turbans too big for either of them…

“Malik, Abbas,” Umar growled low on his throat, “did you steal from the market stalls?”

“I- I…” Malik wrung his hands and looked to Abbas, who shrugged and would not meet his eyes.

“Where is my son?”

“I don’t know!” Abbas cried, “we lost him!”

Umar roared like a lion, and both boys nearly soiled themselves. “What do you mean, you lost him?” To show how angry he was, he put his hand on the hilt of his sword as if to draw it and slice the boys’ heads off!

Immediately Malik and Abbas began speaking simultaneously over each other, denouncing each other’s claims and arguing differing points. Umar watched this with a sense of quiet amazement and a fair amount of amusement. He was not really angry. Altair was not actually lost. In fact, Altair came home half an hour ago because he was hungry, and had ate and was currently napping somewhere. Umar took this as an opportunity to teach the boys an important life lesson.

“Allah took Altair because you stole wares from honest merchants,” he told them, and watched Malik nearly fall over in fear.

“Will Allah hurt him?” He whispered, to which Umar only shook his head very slowly.

“Allah in His unfathomable Mercy will not harm Altair, but he will only give Altair back if you return what you have stolen.” He patted Malik’s head with his left hand, and then set his right hand on Abbas’ crown. “Both of you.”

The two boys stammered, “w-we will!” and ran off with blinding speed back towards to markets, jumping over fences and nearly bumping into passer-bys as they went. They were a mini dervish hitting the markets of Masyaf, dodging frightened chickens and ducking out of the way of rattling oxcarts. Finally they found the stall from which they’d stolen their clothes, and realized if they gave back their clothes they would return almost completely naked. They thought it would be fun at first to take off their own clothes and put on these garments on sale, and then walk away like they were adults. But now they were back and their old clothes were nowhere to be found!

“I don’t want to go home naked,” Abbas complained, biting his lip and making a big fuss out of himself.

Malik did not want to be naked either, but he thought of Altair being lost somewhere because of him and his eyes welled up. “I want Altair back!”

“But we’d be naked! My abbun says it is bad to be naked…”

“Altair!” Malik shouted at Abbas, “I want Altair back!” And with that, he stripped the lungi off of himself and walked up to the stand, completely naked. The vendor, who was drawing on a pipe and not paying attention, balked when this small boy came forward with a piece of his wares in his hand. The pipe fell from his mouth and dropped into his long and bushy beard, spilling a bit of white ash into it. “Ay!” he cried when Malik dragged the lungi from the ground onto his sales table, “Ay! Where did you get that!?”

“I stole it,” Malik stated bravely, “and if I give it back Allah will give me back my friend.” He reached towards his head, and then his tiny eyes widened. “No… the turban!” It must have fallen off!

“I have it,” another voice came forth, and- O Allah, it was another naked boy. The vendor shut his eyes very tightly and opened them back up again, but the two boys were still there. Some of the marketgoers had stopped to stare at the odd sight, and the vendor was keen on not making a scene. It appeared quite obvious from afar that the vendor was bullying these poor street urchin boys into giving up their only pieces of clothing! What sacrilege, and the judgment was clear as day in the scowls on the onlookers’ faces. The vendor panicked and frankly told the boys they could keep the lungi and the two turbans for all he cared.

Malik and Abbas returned to Umar’s house dejected and confused. They found the master assassin resting under a tree in his yard, and told him what had just happened.

Umar waited until they had finished before he started grinning in earnest. “Then why are the two of you naked?”

“We gave the clothes to that poor woman that lives outside the gate of the fortress,” Malik said, looking down at the ground. Abbas kept shooting disgusted glares at him, and then finally he could not contain himself.

“Malik you idiot, what is she going to do with two turbans and a lungi?”
Hearing this, Malik’s demure attitude shifted immediately and he was fired up again. He attempted to swing a fist at Abbas. “Shut up you bum goat!”

“Both of you shut up!” came a muffled voice from above, and Malik and Abbas abruptly fell silent. “I’m trying to sleep!”

“…Altair?”

Umar smiled from ear to ear, and surreptitiously slipped back into the shade and relative calm of his house. Outside he heard the Malik and Abbas celebrating, shouting things like “Allah has delivered Altair back to us! Altair fell from the sky and landed in a tree! Praise be to Allah! God is Great! Allahu Akbhar!”

Altair peeked out from between the foliage in the trees and honestly had no clue what was going on, but he enjoyed being the center of attention so he said nothing. After a while he noticed Abbas and Malik were naked, and asked them if they’d in fact stolen from that old vendor.

“Yes,” Malik admitted, blushing red to his ears. “And Allah took you away because we did, so we gave it back.” He smiled brightly at Altair, opening his arms wide as if he wanted to embrace him. “So now you are here! We saved you, Altair!”

“Well…” Altair’s face disappeared back behind a thick layer of glossy leaves and reappeared again. “Allah has something for you as well.” He dropped then all the pieces of clothing belonging to Malik and Abbas originally. While Malik and Abbas were busy stealing from the vendor’s stand, Altair took their clothes so they would not get dirty on the ground. Then he got hungry and headed home in a daze, forgetting that he was still holding onto the clothes until he got home. He had hoped Malik and Abbas would not be angry…

“Aie!” Malik and Abbas both caught their clothes like they were blessings from heaven. “Allahu Akbhar! God is Great! He has given us Altair and our clothes back!”

From inside the house, Umar shook his head in wonder. From that day on, his yard would be considered holy by the three boys. They went on pretend pilgrimages to the tree where Altair apparently fell when Allah dropped him from the sky. They pretended they were Prophets and made elaborate speeches under the tree. They worshipped the tree like it was Moses’ bush, bringing it offerings. One time Malik even dragged his father Faheem to the supposed Holy Tree to show him where Altair fell. Malik suggested –no, he demanded- that his brother be born under this tree!

“Well,” Umar mused to Faheem, who was so confused and stunned that he could not keep his mouth closed, “it seems Abbas has got the market at his door, you’ve got a master chef in your kitchen, and I’ve got a Holy Tree in my yard.”

~ x ~

~ x ~

After Umar was killed two years later, Faheem volunteered to take Altair into his household. His wife argued that their home was too full already- Kadar was taking a lot of space, and then there was Malik, who was a king in his own right. Altair would topple the precarious family dynamic they’d spent so many years perfecting- no, it was too dangerous.

So Malik sought out Altair in Al Mualim’s sitting room, all alone as always. Now not even Abbas shared his company- Altair shut everyone out completely like a scrim had fallen over his very spirit. They were only eleven years old. Malik heard the soft sobbing even in the hall, and his own stomach dropped.

“Altair?”

“Go away,” lamented the miserable voice behind the door, “and don’t come back!”

“It’s me, Malik!”

“I know who you were. Go play with someone else.”

“But… I’m not here to play.”

Slowly, the door opened. Altair’s eyes were red and his nose was puffy. He did not meet Malik’s gaze, just opened the door and drifted away. Al Mualim took over his care after Umar’s death, but it was clear to Malik nonetheless that his friend had neither ate nor slept properly since. The sitting room was a simple affair, with wooden footstools and a string hammock sharing the space with a simple table on which several scrawled-on pieces of parchment were scattered. Malik recognized it as their homework from yesterday’s history lesson. On the side of that was a tray holding a piece of bread and a bowl of curried beans, completely untouched. Seeing Malik’s frown, Altair sniffed and crossed his arms defensively. “I don’t want to hear your pity or your judgment.”

“Why haven’t you eaten anything?” Malik was not trying to feel superior- there was no sense of superiority or ego to be had in a situation as this. While they constantly fought and competed against each other at one time, now Malik was simply concerned for his friend. Now without his father at his side, Malik felt awkward and vulnerable.

Altair shrugged, “I didn’t like it.” He sat down at the table and picked up a quill, but he wasn’t motivated to write either. Despondent, he set down the quill again and sighed. “Malik, what am I going to do?”

And Malik really did not know what to do. He was eleven and did not know how to solve these sorts of problems. He was eleven, and had never known any boy like Altair, who’d suffered one devastating blow after another. But maybe… “Can I get you something?”

The other boy scoffed, “yeah. A cup of snow, maybe.”

“Okay.”

“What?” He dropped his quill and jumped out of his seat. “Malik! What-” but he was too late, and Malik was gone. “What are you going to do, Malik?!?” Altair yelled into the empty hall, “you don’t have enough money to buy snow! Don’t you understand sarcasm, idiot?”

But Malik did not understand sarcasm, and he was already hurtling his way down the halls, jumping off staircases, and running towards his house as fast as his legs could carry him. If a cup of ice was what Altair needed to cheer up, so be it! He was determined to somehow fill his friend’s request on his own, so when he arrived at home he was quiet so as not to wake his mother and brother from their afternoon naps. In a chest under his cot was a bit of money that he’d saved up over the years, whether by finding it in the streets or by receiving them as gifts. He only had a couple of silver and copper coins, but he hoped this would be enough. He dropped the coins in a muslin pouch and hopped off towards the market.

As he neared, he had to shout to make himself known to not be trampled by the goats, sheep, and cattle being driven to market. Carts loaded with timber and crates of chickens ruled the streets, but Malik nimbly picked his way towards the market’s trading centre where he knew the water vendors set up their stands. Masyaf was not a very rich place by any standards, but where there were people there was always thirst. Finding the merchant was not difficult- he was a slender man with a braided beard, sitting in the shade of a brilliant silk pavilion adorned with classical poetry in flowing calligraphy. He was perhaps the richest man here, and it was all from selling water. Jugs of it lined his stalls, and there among the various containers sat a great wooden box lined with jewels and lacquered to a polished shine. Snow.

The boy approached gracelessly, “Sayyid, sayyid!”

The vendor glanced down on Malik and then tried to ignore him. He was a man of business, and had greater things to attend to than some poor thirsty child. But Malik was insistent, and kept calling him and jumping around and making such a fuss that at last Imad had had enough- “what do you want?!” he cried, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

“Sayyid,” Malik began, taking out the pouch that hung at his waist and dumping all its contents on the table, “I have here some money for a cup of snow.”

Imad looked at the sparse number of coins on the table and scoffed. “You little maggot, that bit of coin won’t get you a cup of juice, nevermind snow.”

Devastation, sheer panic- a cold sweat broke out over the boy’s skin. Malik stammered, “what…”

Slowly and cruelly, Imad counted each coin. “Four fulus, copper coins, no longer in circulation… a silver dinar… That’s it. I can sell you a cup of water at this price… maybe with a bit of lemon or orange juice mixed in, but never snow.” He sat back on his seat and crossed his arms. “You’re out of luck, boy.”

“But but… I need snow… Please, sayyid, kind sir. Please have mercy.” Malik got down on his bare knees and prostrated himself in front of the vendor.

Imad jumped up and waved his hands- “no no no! Do not do this, stand up!” If there was one thing he hated, it was a child calling upon God for charity. He ran to the other side of the stand and helped Malik up, mindful of the slight scene the boy was causing. He ushered him back behind the stand, under the shade of the pavilion’s canopy, and asked him why he needed snow.

“Is it to impress a pretty girl?”

“No,” replied Malik, who was so desperate he was starting to tear up. He opened his mouth to speak, then considered his words: should he lie? Should he make up some elaborate story about a starving family and appeal to this man’s sense of charity? But no, there was no way to justify why he needed snow but to tell the truth. “My friend lost his mother when he was born, and now he’s lost his father. He’s all alone, sayyid, and all he wants is a cup of snow.”

The two statements did not seem to make sense to Imad. “Why does your friend want snow?”

“I- I don’t know… But he’s been so sad, it makes me sad. Sayyid, these coins are all I have.” Malik motioned to the pieces on the table. “Please, sir, just a cup of snow.”

Imad stroked his beard and considered the strange situation. “I could sell you a bit of snow if you’d come work for me. Do some labour, maybe.”

“What will you have me do?”

“What can you do?”

“I can read and write, I can…”

“Hold,” Imad put up his hand, “you can read? And write?”

“Yes, sayyid. I learned from my master in the fortress.”

His eyes went wide- “You are with the hashashin?”

Malik grinned widely and puffed up his chest, eager always to gloat. “I am son of Faheem Al-Sayf, master assassin!”

Imad froze in his seat, and then got up. He made his way straight towards the chest of snow at the back of his pavilion and undid the clasps. He took a brass goblet from the side and scooped a cup filled with pristine snow from a faraway mountain. “Here,” he held it out to Malik, who was so stunned he couldn’t move. “Take it and go, just leave.” He wanted nothing to do with the son of a master assassin! Bah, who would have known?

Malik thanked him profusely, “you are too kind, sayyid. Allah blesses you and I will tell my father about your charity!”

“No no no.” Imad pushed the goblet into Malik’s dirty hands and waved him away. “Don’t tell your father about me, just give this to your friend and let’s be done with it. Hurry, before it melts!”

So with the cup of snow in his hands, Malik ran as fast as he could towards Masyaf fortress. He had to take care not to bump into anyone on the way, but no matter how careful he was, the snow got less and less in the goblet. His hands were numb from holding it, but Malik was now so close! Malik screwed his eyes closed against the stinging in his hands and ran faster than he ever did before.

But by the time he reached Al Mualim’s sitting room, the goblet of snow was no more. What was originally a full cup of fluffy white snow had turned into barely half a cup of normal water. Devastation did not cover what Malik felt at that moment. He’d spent all his money and tried so hard… but… still he’d failed Altair. He stood there in front of that closed door, wondering how he could face his friend now. Was it better, then, to just turn around and walk away so no one would ever know of his failure?

Before he could make a choice, that door opened and Altair gasped- “Malik?” Altair was just about to go wander around the garden, hoping the beauty of the flowers there could overcome the bitterness inside. He was not expecting to see Malik standing outside his door with a cup of water in his hands. “What’s going on?”

“I… I got you a cup of snow, but…” his lower lip quivered. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Altair chortled good-naturedly, “you lie.” He was flattered that Malik tried to make him feel better, though. He never pinned Malik as the sort of friend who really did care, and definitely not to this extent.

But the other boy did not laugh in return. He was solemn, and appeared utterly desolate. “No, I really… I really got the snow…”

Altair reached for the goblet and Malik passed it on. It was freezing cold! “Malik, you…” He held the cup in wonder, admiring the beautiful engraving on it- Persian designs. This cup belonged to the water vendor in the market. And it was so cold… colder than anything Altair had ever felt, even colder than that pan Umar accidentally set out that night in the winter. There was no doubt in his mind now that the clear water in this cup had once been snow. “How did you…? Malik, did you steal this?”

Affronted that his friend would accuse him of stealing, Malik shook his head violently. “No! I gave him all the coins I saved up and the vendor was charitable… so I guess it was enough.” He was ready for a cutting remark, maybe a jab on his failure, so Malik was definitely not expecting Altair to come barrelling into him. With the cup still in his hand, Altair wrapped both arms tight around Malik’s frame and squeezed.

“Oh Malik, thank you thank you thank you.”

“I… you…” Malik couldn’t breathe, and it was not just because of the tight embrace. He felt a splatter of hot liquid on his neck where Altair rested his chin. Eventually Malik convinced his arms to move and they wound their way up Altair’s back. His nose, too, began to sting and it wasn’t long before Malik was also shedding silent tears. It had been weeks, but Altair was still in deep mourning over the death of his father. Malik, on the other hand, was stunned since Altair never showed such a physical display of affection towards him. If it were anyone else, Malik would have pushed them away and made fun of them, but for Altair to do this was like hearing Al Mualim tell a joke. A melancholic joy took over Malik, and he squeezed back.

“It’s okay, Altair. You’ll be alright.”

Altair pulled away and pressed a kiss to Malik’s cheek, which made the other boy blush all the way up to his hairline. “Do you want to drink this with me?” he swirled the cup of melted snow.

“Okay.”

They shared the drink, two sips each. It was completely anti-climactic to see the water that had brought them together suddenly go away so quickly. But in the end, it was not the snow that was important, but rather the binding friendship the act of bringing it had sealed.

Malik took the first step. “Come to my house for supper?” He reached out his hand.

Altair smiled shyly and agreed. He took Malik’s hand and then yelped- “Ay! Cold!”

~ x ~

~ x ~

When Altair and Malik first met, they were far too young to walk and had to be carried on the shoulders of their fathers. By the time they became recruits, they were twelve years old and neither of them had fathers to carry them. They lived in Masyaf’s fortress and trained there- weapons, geography, warfare, ideology, language, maths and sciences… Nothing was barred to the young men except perhaps friendship.

The recruits held their heads down and worked to carve their own daggers out of horn and wood. Their instructor watched over them, ensuring that each boy knew the procedure proper. These weapons were not to be used for assassination of course, but simply to teach the boys to respect their real blades which they would get years later. These would be practice blades for training. “Who is your best friend, Altair? Me or Abbas?”

“You.”

“That simple?”

“Yes. Abbas hates me now, you know that. You are all I have.” Not once did Altair even look up from his work. “Who is your best friend? Me or Kadar?”

“Kadar is my brother! Obviously I like you more.”

Their muffled chuckles drew the attention of their instructor, who shouted at them to be quiet. Altair made a low whistling sound. Malik sniffled to show he was listening. Altair whispered, “you want to go explore the fortress dungeon afterwards? While I was locked up there with Abbas I found a secret passageway.”

“Is Abbas coming?” Malik mouthed back.

“Not asking him. What about Kadar and Amad?”

“Not asking any of them.” The message was clear. “Let’s go to the village after and find the Holy Tree in your yard, too.”

The memory sparked a light in Altair’s eyes, and he nodded. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

The boys, now nearly young men, smiled conspiratorially at each other and turned away as soon as they felt their instructor’s gaze on them. For now, they looked on the half-formed and mutilated daggers in their laps and felt as though they had all the time in the world. If forever had a form, it would be a brass goblet. Altair and Malik decided to keep the goblet. They had wrapped it up in cloth and stowed it away in a secret cache in Al Mualim’s sitting room. It was the only place where it could be safe, since those of the Order could keep no possessions. It was their secret. And as long as they knew it was there, they held eternity in their hands.

~ x ~

About ten years later, the Grand Master of the Assassin Order delivered a gift to the Dai of Jerusalem. Malik undid the pouch with nimble but impatient fingers, and promptly erupted into tears. He reached in and held eternity in his one remaining hand and cried and cried and cried. How silly. When he woke up this morning, he would not have guessed something so absurd such as this could befall upon him. By this one moment, his calm and collected morning was ruined, as was the promise of a blissfully uneventful day.

“Will you come to Masyaf and be my advisor?” Altair lowered his eyes out of respect at the blatant display of raw emotion. He had expected something like this. That goblet was a relic of yesterday, of a time when they were young and aimless and stupid with all the hopes and dreams of the world. Altair had a similar reaction when he came across it while clearing out Al Mualim’s old sitting room.

“W-what about Abdul? Or Sarim?” Malik wiped his tears on the back of his sleeve, overcome with both joy and profound nostalgia. He’d forgotten all about this goblet. They were no longer children. They stood on their own two feet (even though one of them had but one arm), and knew exactly how they were put on this earth. Now the question was not “how was I born?” but “how will I die?” and “why am I here?”. Now after all the trials Altair and Malik had endured, this worthless piece of brass was absolutely everything. Malik was going to treasure it forever, but for now… “Abdul a-and Sarim are certainly more capable t-than I.”

Altair only smiled sweetly and offered Malik a kerchief on which to blow his nose. “Not asking any of them. Let’s go to the village after and find the Holy Tree in my yard, too.”

The adjacent memories slammed into Malik like a punch to the face. He was torn between the need to cry harder and the overwhelming desire to laugh.

“Okay,” he said, taking the cloth and wiping away the liquid remnants of yesterday. “Let’s do it.”

~ x ~

End

~ x ~

I'd appreciate any thoughts or feedback. I wanted to show pieces of Altair and Malik's childhood, whether it be funny or embarrassing or just plain deep. And a lot of people forget that they had parents at one point, so I sort of wanted to bring them out too. I didn't include any slashy implications at all like the other writer!anon did (even though slash is totally my thing hehe), and hopefully OP still likes. :)

SA anon that you replied to.

Unfortunately, it's not a grey area where I live. :( I wasn't even aware of the Al Mualim/Altaïr, and that might be pushing it in terms of being able to stay here.

/NOSEBLEEDS EVERYWHERE/ ... Anon, you are gifted... I wish I could write pr0n like you. You captured evil-perverted!Charles perfectly... and I hope you channel him again for other Charles/Connor prompts /hint.hint.wink.wink.grovels/

This. Just... this. This anon is sooooo bad at writing smut so is apprehensive. :S
Tentatively claiming, though. Other writer!anons are more than welcome to jump in!

Leonardo would be a golden lab and Desmond would be a mutt of some sort!
and... I have no clue who else. :/

come on guys! put your heads together! :)

I do! They'll be introduced soon.

After reading Forsaken, I really didn't think his explanation on why Haytham and Ziio split up matched how she talked about Haytham in the game at all. It seemed more like she just knew he was concentrated on things greater than himself and didn't want her son entangled in them, rather than a huge falling out.
So, basically I'd like a fic that explains why the two split up that makes sense with Ziio's little monologue in the game. Bonus points if it contains her views on the Templar ideology (which from my reading of her monologue, don't seem to be entirely negative, but author can have their own ideas of course) and MEGA BONUS POINTS if fic includes something about what Ziio tells Connor about Haytham.

OP is terribly sorry for starting this odd discussion, I hadn't realized it was such a controversial topic, and I should have known better. Again, I'm very sorry, you guys can drop the subject now since I honestly don't mind if it doesn't get filled..!

(Oh, sorry. I guess I'm just oldfashioned. XD writefag used to be the common to-go term here in the first two parts and it is on another kinkmeme I visit - originating from the 4chan drawfag for people on imageboards who often take requests, I imagine.)

Anyway, this is really cute. <3 I love how it ties into their adult life in the end.

Just an idea that won't stop bothering me.

So Haytham Kenway is actually a woman disguised as a man. She binds her chest, wears clothes that do not accentuate curves, and has broken out of the habit of swaying her hips.

She goes to the Colonies for the Templars, and events happen the same way until she meets Kaniehti:io during the Silas Thatcher Mission. He is a very nice man, but stoic.

Haytham is smitten after spending time together and then after a few very nice nights together the missed periods happen.

So basically what I'm asking for is what would the game be like if Haytham was Connor's mother.

Bonus points if Haytham doesn't really show during the pregnancy and none of the other Templars are privy to the fact until Haytham leaves with Kaniehti:io for a few days and comes back with a baby.

The way Desmond uses the Apple honestly really scares me. He has no remorse- no hesitation. It's hard to believe that goofy, friendly, caring Desmond can be so coldly brutal. Then you take a closer look and see that his eyes glow gold when he uses the Apple, giving him an even more inhuman quality.

I want to see William, or Rebecca and Shaun (or maybe even Desmond himself) reacting to Desmond's behavior while in control of the Apple. Either commenting on it or just thinking about it, about how honestly terrifying it is to see their friendly goof of a bartender unflinchingly kill so many people.

So happy. *bites nails with anticipation*

Ahh I want this

So I'm hoping that I finally got the HTML right this time. ^^; I want to thank all of you wonderful, wonderful anons (and OP!) who have been reading this fill so far. You're all lovely people and your comments never fail to make my day. Here, have some more fic!

It seems every time I work on this story, Haytham and Connor only want to argue with each instead of advancing the plot... -.-

--

Haytham woke up from a fitful, restless sleep just as dawn was breaking over the horizon, faintly pinkish-orange light streaming in through the filthy window just above him. For one brief moment he hoped that last night had just been a truly awful dream, and he would find himself back in his own warm, comfortable bed at Fort George. That hope was ruthlessly squashed the second Haytham had fully opened his eyes to find himself on the floor of a dirty little inn, Connor’s crumpled and now rather smelly Assassin’s robe on the floor next to him. Haytham sat up, groaning, and slowly stretched out his (Connor’s) arm and leg muscles. He grimaced as he felt his (Connor’s) back pop. The Templar Grandmaster hated not having a proper bed to sleep in at the end of each day. It always left him feeling quite out of sorts the following morning.

Connor’s body was obviously quite well taken care of, the product of years of intense training and combat. It was very similar to Haytham’s body in terms of build, with broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist. He could feel the strong cords of muscle in Connor’s abdomen, and frowned slightly. The boy’s body was filled with the power and vitality of a young fighter. Haytham’s body, although far from useless, had nevertheless passed its’ peak.

There were more similarities between father and son as well, Haytham noted while getting dressed in front of the dusty, cracked old mirror propped up in a corner of the room. Connor and he shared the same large hands with long, blunt fingers. Connor’s face was shaped similarly to his own. Haytham could see parts of himself in the shape of Connor’s jaw and the set of the boy’s mouth. They even had similar lips, for goodness sake! Yet Haytham could also see Ziio in Connor’s soft brown eyes, in his thick dark hair and bronze skin. He’d never admit it, but Haytham missed Ziio. He’d missed her every single day since he left her side. And here he’d somehow gotten stuck in the body of his son, the living, breathing product of their union. He tried hard not to think about how very, very wrong that was.

Haytham looked over at his son, still asleep on the floor. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to see his body in slumber like this – half-naked, curled up into a ball, graying hair slipping free of its’ tie fall across Connor’s (Haytham’s) cheek. He looked so peaceful asleep, with an expression of calm on his face. It was as if all the fighting, killing, and bloodshed Haytham had experienced and witnessed for most of his life had never happened. The Templar grandmaster wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Did he always look like this when he slept, or was it just because Connor currently inhabited his body?

Haytham didn’t bother to wake Connor up as he opened the window and leapt out. The boy would only be difficult and start arguments again with his many questions and doubts. He wanted some time to himself in order to process his thoughts. And Haytham needed to buy new clothes as well. He and Connor had taken most of theirs off last night before going to sleep, as the inn was filthy and smelly enough without having to wear things that were covered in bile. The boy had probably completely ruined what had been a perfectly good waistcoat.

Haytham was relieved to find that moving about in Connor’s body was fairly easy. Since Connor was still young, Haytham found he could use the kind of speed and strength that his body had lost with age, moving swiftly across rooftops and scaling walls with ease. He briefly felt sorry for his son, who’d undoubtedly gotten the raw end of the deal by getting stuck in an older body. Haytham wondered what sorts of things he could do with his keen mind, sharp with age and experience, when paired with a young, strong body.

He heard a child cry up from the street, “Look Mommy, there’s a man on the roof! What’s he doing up there?”

Haytham quickly went behind a chimney, cursing himself for having been so careless in the novelty of Connor’s body as to be spotted by a child. The girl’s mother must have caught a glimpse of him too, though, because Haytham heard her respond: “Oh, that’s just a savage man, dear. They do strange things sometimes. Don’t mind him, I’m sure the militia will take care of it.”

Haytham frowned. The woman’s words stung, and the fact that no one would have dared to speak to Haytham like that if he were in his body didn’t make it any better. He remembered the innkeeper’s words from last night about savages and half-breeds. Did Connor have to put up with this sort of thing every day? Perhaps Haytham had gotten a rawer deal than he’d first thought.

--

Haytham reached a general store just as it was opening, and selected a few shirts and breeches from their rather pitiful stock. The clothes were cheaply made and rather plain, but in this case beggars couldn’t be choosers. He paid the shop’s owner using Connor’s money – it was only fair, after Connor had handed over all of Haytham’s money to that bloody innkeeper woman. He was surprised at how much Connor had on him. There had to be at least a few hundred pounds in the boy’s purse, maybe even more. Haytham wondered where Connor had gotten it all. Had he stolen the money? Did Achilles give it to him? He resolved to ask upon returning to the inn.

On his way back, Haytham had used his second sight to check for enemies twice out of habit, before he realized that being able to use it at all right now meant that Connor also possessed Eagle Vision. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised – after all, one of the few things known about the strange ability was that it was passed down through the male family line. He’d used Eagle Vision last night too, now that he thought about it, although it hadn’t registered amidst his shock and panic. Using his second sight to periodically check his surroundings had become second nature to Haytham over the years, so much so that slipping in and out of it was ingrained into him like a reflex. It was a useful skill to have. He wondered how often the boy used it, or if he was even aware of the ability at all without a father to tell him…

Haytham felt a brief pang of guilt at that last thought, but it was quickly smothered upon reaching the inn and seeing Connor halfway out of the open window, clearly preparing to leap out onto the nearby rooftop. In Haytham’s body. Haytham’s half-naked body. The boy clearly hadn’t wanted to put the waistcoat back on.

“What are you doing, boy?!” He hissed, leaping forward and bodily dragging Connor away from the window. The two of them tumbled backwards, landing in a heap on the hard wooden floor of their room. A few grunts and muffled curses were uttered as the two disentangled themselves and got back to their feet.

“What in bloody hell were you doing, Connor?!” Haytham cried. “You could have – ” He abruptly stopped. Telling Connor, “You could have injured my body,” was probably not the most…tactful thing to say, given the circumstances. “You could have been hurt,” he said instead.

“I was going to look for you!” Connor yelled back. “Last night you were talking about how we needed to start looking for the crystal first thing in the morning, and then when I wake up, you are not here! What was I supposed to do, sit here in the inn and hope you came back?”

“That was exactly what you were supposed to do! I only went out to get some decent clothing for us to wear. I couldn’t have been gone for more than an hour, and you were already prepared to go running about New York half-dressed! What do you think that would have looked like to the general public?”

Connor’s (Haytham’s) eyes narrowed, and his (Haytham’s) mouth turned downwards in contempt. “Yes, father,” he said, voice full of quiet anger. “I would hate to have damaged the body and ruined the reputation of a proper Englishman, obviously.”

“Connor…” Haytham trailed off as the Assassin turned and went to stand in front of the window at the other side of the room, his back to Haytham, one hand running through Haytham’s hair in a clear sign of irritation. “Oh fine, be a petulant child, then. At least put some clothes on.” Haytham tossed a pair of breeches and a shirt in Connor’s direction, before changing out of the boy’s Assassin robes himself.

Connor reluctantly picked up the clothes. They would be better than going around in just Haytham’s breeches, at least. As he put them on, Connor couldn’t help but notice the many scars that littered his father’s body. Haytham’s stomach was crisscrossed in a myriad of lines from swords and knives. The puckered flesh just above his right pectoral appeared to be from a bullet wound. The pink scar tissue on Haytham’s right shin looked like a stab wound, and Connor could feel part of a very long, raised scar on the Templar’s back as well. He glanced quickly over at Haytham, who was currently yanking on a pair of breeches. How long had his father been a Templar, Connor wondered. What sorts of things had he done? Haytham obviously felt strongly for the Templar Order and its’ cause, strongly enough to leave Ziio and her unborn child for them. What had enticed the man over to their side?

“Alright,” Haytham said, effectively breaking Connor out of his thoughts. “We need to start looking for the crystal.”

“Obviously,” Connor muttered. Haytham glared at him.

“Don’t interrupt me, child. Now, you should go down to the docks by the harbor. They’re a hive of gossip. Anything new or interesting item in the city, like that crystal, is bound to get noticed and talked about at the docks. Poke around, listen to people’s conversations, and see what you can uncover. And for God’s sake, be discreet! We don’t need you blundering about like you were when we were trying to find Church.”

“And what will you be doing, father?” Connor asked, with a pointed glare at Haytham. He was at the end of his patience with Haytham constantly ordering him about and demanding that he do things. This time, Connor wanted to make sure that he wasn’t the one stuck doing all the dirty work.

“Never you mind,” Haytham said, casually waving his hand in dismissal. “Just get going, and - ”

“No,” Connor interrupted. He couldn’t believe that Haytham had the gall to order his son around while occupying said son’s body. That smarmy, holier-than-thou attitude of his was definitely not something Connor was happy about seeing in his own body. “Either you tell me what you are planning to do today, or I really will go around town naked today. And I won’t just stick to the rooftops, either.”

Haytham went visibly pale at the thought. “Alright, alright,” he said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. “If you must know, I’m going back to the alleyway we woke up in last night. It’s the last place we saw the crystal, after all, and I want to check the area thoroughly. There may be some clues as to what happened to the crystal there.”

Connor nodded his assent, and Haytham inwardly marveled at just how easy it was to get the boy to believe him. Did his son’s naivete know no bounds? Achilles Davenport must be a poor teacher indeed, if his student was still this gullible.

“I suppose we should be leaving now, then?” Connor reached out for his bow and quiver, both of which Haytham had propped up against the bed before going to sleep.

“Are you mad, Connor?” You can’t take those with you! In case you haven’t noticed, the people of New York do not regularly carry Native weapons with them. You’ll only attract attention this way.”

“So you would have me go unarmed?” Connor said through gritted teeth. Inwardly, he chafed at how Haytham spoke to him, as if Connor was an idiot who didn’t know any better, and not a Master Assassin deserving of respect.

“We’re doing undercover work today, child, not going into a fight. I believe that just bringing along our hidden blades should suffice for today. Unless, of course, you believe yourself so incompetent that you require a full arsenal of weaponry with you at all times?”

Connor didn’t trust himself to speak at the moment, he was so angry. The Assassin reached past Haytham and picked his bracers up off of the rotting hunk of wood masquerading as a storage chest in the corner. He made especially sure that they were his bracers and not Haytham’s before putting them on. Connor already felt uncomfortable enough in Haytham’s body; he didn’t need to be using his father’s weapons as well.

“We meet back here at noon to plan further,” Haytham said as he put on his bracers. Without so much as wishing Connor luck, he leapt out of the still open window and was gone.

Connor growled angrily and punched the bed, his (Haytham’s) fist going straight through the mattress to its’ straw stuffing. It seemed that only Haytham could drive him to the point of feeling angry enough to throttle the first living thing he saw. As he leapt out the window and over the rooftops towards the docks, Connor wondered how in the world he was going to survive being stuck around (and in!) Haytham. He fervently hoped that they found the strange glowing crystal soon, or else he might go mad.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Re: Haytham/Connor, underage!Connor

First time

Re: OP

Not!OP

The crossover I'm shocked hasn't happened

This is OP!

Desmond is afraid of needles

Re: Connor selfcest

Eternity in the Hands (1)

Eternity in the Hands (2)

Eternity in the Hands (3)

Eternity in the Hands (4) [End]

Re: Haytham/Connor, underage!Connor

Re: Fill: A Sweet Litany on Your Lips [ 2/2 ]

This.

Re: Assassin Puppies!

Re: all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 3/?

Sort of Fix-it on Haytham and Ziio's split

Re: Haytham/Connor, underage!Connor

Anon 1

Haytham/Kaniehti:io, Genderswap AU

Not Like You At All

OP here

Re: Not Like You At All

Fill: Body Swap Part 4a/?