Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Altair/Malik: Giving (1/2)

[(Anonymous)]

The hand that came crashing into his face was covered in a heavy iron gauntlet. Altair felt the skin of his cheek split as the sharp edges ripped through his flesh. Next to him in the dimly lit room, he heard a noise, pain half-swallowed. Malik was too stubborn for his own good, not ready to yield an inch and give them the show of fear and pain that they wanted, which just edged them on. But then, Altair had refused to provide that satisfaction as well, so he was not one to demand reason from Malik here.

Altair looked around the small stone house they had been dragged into, an empty back-alley building in a nook of the Jerusalem poor district. One torch hung lopsided in a damaged sconce on the wall, the flames erratic in the wind whistling through windows and cracks. There were half a dozen Templars crowded around Malik and Altair, who were set a couple of feet apart from each other on the ground of trampled earth. The Templars had caught Altair and Malik by surprise as the bureau leader showed him to an informant for his next assassination, on a late errant himself.

At least they seemed to take them for just any two random assassins, or they would have been dragged without pause before the very man Altair looked to kill, Robert de Sade. On the other hand, this left them to be their playthings and apparently their captors had had a particularly boring evening up to now. They were an average lot, Altair had to admit, some skilled fighters, or they couldn’t have taken them, but other than that... a few seemed to delight in the cruelty and control, two stood mostly silent, just holding the prisoners in place, and one of the men had taken to guard the door and pretend he wasn’t involved, yet not raised a finger to stop the game. Gleeful brutality, dumb obedience and cowardice, a common and dangerous mixture.

When the beating stopped, he risked a glance to his side. Malik was bleeding from two gashes on the forehead and his nose. As he saw the dai’s mouth covered in sticky ruby liquid which still flowed freely, he remembered their awkward, fumbling, amazing kiss just yesterday – their first since many years, since before they had grown so widely apart while rising through the ranks – and a sudden flash of anger had him strain against the rope around his wrists with renewed strength.

Malik didn’t notice his gaze. He was looking after a Templar who busied himself by the torch, and eventually, so did Altair. When the Templar turned, an uproar of cheers went through the others. He’d lit a broken table leg from one of the pieces of destroyed furniture and now stepped close, looking between the two of them.

“Which one shall it be, friends?”

“Take the cripple, he’s used to it,” one said, and kicked Malik’s stump as if the man with the makeshift torch needed a pointer. The dai grit his teeth so hard that Altair could see the jutting line of his jaw even under a swelling purple bruise on his dark skin.

“That is no fun,” a Templar with a thick French accent complained. “The other one is going to give a little more fight.”

“The assassin rats are both not too bad at that, I would say.” The Templar now speaking had a sullen look and swollen lips, as Malik had crashed his fist into the man’s face when he tried to restrain him.

Waving his torch too close to their faces, the Templar holding the fire made a show of weighing his options.

“This one,” he said, at last, stopping before Altair, the flames licking at his chin. “Let us see how well our shadow-creeping vermin like the light. First, we will have his skin sizzle and crack. And then... which eye should I take out? The left or the right?”

But before any templar could comment, there was a rough-voiced shout. The resolute ‘no!’ sounded through the room.

Silence fell and all eyes turned to Malik. The Templars looked at him like a mouse in a trap; but if Malik had let the word slip without meaning to, it didn’t show. He gave the lead torturer an obstinate look.

“What was that?”

“No,” Malik repeated. Altair wanted nothing so bad as to shout at him to be silent, but the dai seemed hell-bent on forcing the torturer’s attention on himself – and succeeded.

With his free hand, their (by virtue of most interesting torture device) leader grasped Malik by his short hair and pulled him up.

“Is that not touching?” He asked the men, thrusting his arm out to present Malik like a fat chicken for slaughter on the market. “The cripple does not want us to hurt his lover. Who will warm his bed at night... or his back?”

Altair bit his tongue. It was just unimaginative taunting, he reminded himself. The best insult a dull mind like that one could come up with.

“What will you give us in exchange for your beloved’s eye? It would be very funny to watch running down his face, so make it something good,” the Templar told Malik.

“I know something.” Again the Templar with the split lip. He gave Malik a dark grin that had Altair’s stomach churn with worry. “Take off that other arm. He will not be making any trouble then, either.”

Altair jerked hard against his constraints and earned a crashing hit to the back of his head. He was dazed for a moment; but when the world started to turn solid again, he expected Malik to spit venomous curses at his captors. Instead, his face was pale and blank.

Then Malik said: “Alright.”

Now it was Altair’s turn to yell in protest. However, he was completely ignored.

“Really!” said the Templar and sat Malik down. “Say it again. What do you want us to do?”

“Take...” There was a slight tremble in his voice, a sound of base fear, but he didn’t break eye contact and he didn’t look at Altair widely shaking his head, either. “Take off my arm.”

“You heard the man. Hinrich!” The head torturer shouted to the man at the door who realized he couldn’t play deaf anymore and turned, slowly.

“What do you want?” He muttered.

“Give us that axe of yours. That should take off the arm nice and clean... or as clean as we want it to be.”

For one stupid moment Altair hoped that Hinrich would finally find whatever shred of honor he might have left, but it was for naught, of course. The spineless worm handed over his weapon and resumed his position, staring out of the window hole. The leader handed the torch over to one of the spectators and lifted the axe.