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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
Fill Only
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✩ 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 4
Fills Only
Discussion
you can't take the sky from me [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-05-22 09:12 pm (UTC)(link)--
Malik disappears to another back room, and Altair is left alone in the starlight streaming from the lattice. There are no other brothers spending the night in the Bureau tonight, and a part of Altair is glad for it--his outburst had been loud, almost foolish, and verging on panic, none of which were good examples for the Assassin's that used to be of lower rank than him.
(Though, granted, now they're his rank or higher. But that's another matter entirely.)
And now, out of the sight of everyone else, he has leave to practice and learn his limits. He resists the urge to scowl or bite his lip, instead standing and rolling his shoulders, easing the tightness from several days of bedrest out of the muscles, stretches from head to toe, back, legs, arms, reaches for his toes. At every movement of his back, his... wings.... flutter and flare, in movements that feel as easy as swinging his arms and yet foreign at the same time. Everything is lighter--from the swing of his arms, to the pull of gravity when he jumps; Malik was likely right about his bones. That would cause problems of its own, to be dealt with later, but first things first...
Altair takes a bracing breath and spreads both wings wide, turns his head and body to examine them in the moonlight falling from the lattice above; after a moment's hesitation, he touches them, runs his fingers through the feathers down to the skin and muscle and bone below, reaches around to run the tips of his fingers over the junction of wing-base to his back. It feels strange, unfamiliar, and yet perfect, and Altair scowls, before realizing that they're trembling where they're spread, too weak to be held outspread for too long.
He furls them, grumbling mentally, and feels new muscles twinge and quiver underneath the skin of his back, before shaking his head.
This will.... require work.
Sunrise finds Altair still shirtless in the middle of the courtyard, but with the addition of his hidden blade and his sword; his throwing knives are discarded in their sheaths (with the addition of a few more punctures in the tapestries and wooden beams of the Bureau), the Assassin feinting and attacking at invisible enemies, brow furrowed in concentration. He's trying to acclimate himself to the weight of steel again, the way his wings pull at the air and resist forward lunges and swings that turn the body unless they're folded tightly to his back; at some point, Malik comes out into the courtyard, glares at the holes, his knives, and Altair, before throwing his hand up in the air and retreating back into the inner room, grumbling to himself about destructive, self-serving fools.
Altair practices until his arms shake, then during his rest, opens and closes his wings, attempting to strengthen the muscles in his back; whenever he hears the footfalls of a brother overhead, he retreats back into the room he'd recovered in, hiding from their eyes instinctively. There's no question now that this is the work of the Apple, but that's also no reason to spread the word out for anyone to hear--as stoic as the Order is supposed to be, the brothers certainly gossip like women.
(Altair tries to not think about what would happen if he cannot complete his mission to kill de Sable, for Al Mualim has no-doubt heard about his... transformation by this point. He'd apparently made quite the spectacle, and there was no way Malik could have shut the mouths of every Assassin that had passed through the Bureau at that time.)
(Another part of him even wonders if he can even call them brothers anymore; is he even human now? He has the wings and voice and hollow bones of a bird, for all that he's mostly the form of a man, and with the Eagle's Vision, and the way he fights, Altair wonders in the back of his head if he's truly become the demon that the rumors call him.)
(That thought is enough to make him tear at his feathers until he bleeds, scatter down and secondaries across the cushions and rage silently, cursing at the world for it's ill-fortune; it seems to be laughing at him: first Kadar and Malik's friendship, next his rank, then his pride, and now his humanity and abilities. He wonders if there will be anything left of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad by the end of this, or if he'll become as wild as the eagles that nest atop the highest towers and have to be killed the same as any animal gone mad.)
He practices with blades until he cannot, and then with his (accursed)weak wings until he cannot, and eats when Malik storms over and shoves food at him, and then goes back to practice--he refuses to be useless. He refuses to fail.
He cannot fail now. There's too much to do still for him to.
Re: you can't take the sky from me [4/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-05-22 10:12 pm (UTC)(link)OP
(Anonymous) 2013-05-23 06:20 am (UTC)(link)Ah, Altair...damaging Malik's bureau and possessions isn't the best idea in the world atm, even if you do need the new training. ^^; And where are you hiding the feathers you're plucking? I'm sure the larger ones could be hidden w/ the other feathers and mebbe as quills, but down gets *everywhere.* (I had a budgie for a time, and for such a itty bitty bird, we were finding feathers in random places.)
you can't take the sky from me [5/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-05-24 08:55 pm (UTC)(link)---
His sleep is fitful and interrupted by half-remembered dreams; Altair wakes and sleeps and wakes and sleeps through the whole night before giving up around sunrise and rising to practice once again. His arms and back are sore, but he refuses to let the tremor under his skin betray him, limit him, shackle him, and starts off with stretches before moving to swordplay.
When the sun rises and Malik emerges from his room, hair tousled and eyes sleep-bleary, he visibly stops at the doorway to the courtyard, staring at Altair for a moment before shaking his head and moving around him to wash his hands, face, rinse his mouth with the water from one of the fountains; Altair ignores him to the best of his (granted, vast) ability, the same way he chooses to ignore the shake in his arms as he swings.
He doesn't think any more of the Dai until Malik reappears in his line of sight once again, scowling this time and fully dressed, with a bundle of cloth in one hand. Altair stops, lets the point of his sword fall (he tells himself it's because Malik will not leave him in peace until he pays him mind and less because of the way everything is moving from sore to hurting), fixes him with a questioning look.
In silent reply, Malik shoves the bundle of cloth at him, letting go so that Altair's only option is to catch it or let it all fall onto the floor; he scowls at the Dai for that, who only smirks back at him.
"Go to the market. You're not doing anything useful here and are being a distraction; get out of the Bureau for a bit." Altair untangles the cloth as Malik speaks, eventually deciphering the clothes out as an open-backed shirt and white robes, vast and resembling gear for the desert. He looks up in confusion in time for Malik to shove a coin purse and folded piece of parchment at him. "Get dressed and fetch the items on that list. I don't want to see you here for another hour. Practice climbing if you must."
And with that, he disappears back into the inner room, leaving Altair with a bundle of clothes, a coin purse, a shopping list, a naked blade, and a furrowed brow.
...
Fine. Malik wins that round.
Altair has to admit that it is some sort of relief to be outside of the Bureau again; even if he's sent off to do menial errands, Malik has also provided him with an opportunity to get out into the fresh air (which, Altair admits to himself, is probably what he'd actually intended for him; not that he'd ever tell the Dai that this strategy worked).
The white robes are something he's not used to, though, and it takes a moment for Altair to adjust to the way they fall and hamper some movements, the way it's harder to draw his sword from underneath, a second or two that could be fatal if he wasn't just going to the market. (There's nothing more dangerous at the market than a merchant willing to rip him off.)
Malik's list is small groceries and another pot of ink, things that Altair likely shouldn't take climbing, so he aims for the nearest tower first, avoiding guards by circling around them and timing his jumps; today is not the day to garner their attention.
Altair stands at the base of the tower for a long heartbeat, staring up at its walls and the sky above it, before jumping for his first handhold; the pull and burn of climbing, the moments of weightlessness, are like coming home. This, this is familiar to him, learned almost as soon as he'd started walking, running, he was climbing, walls, ropes, the occasional tree, small buildings; when he'd arrived at Masyaf, the instructors only built upon what was already there. Pulling himself up is easier now, being lighter as he is, the jumps have the added float of gravity's loosened hold, and, as Altair stands at the top of the tower, he revels in the urge to jump. There's no cart of hay below this tower, so he shouldn't, won't, but the urge is still there.
He still wants to jump and, underneath his robes, his wings flex and surge, flutter and twitch, and the fantastic thought that maybe he can now crosses his mind, he can actually jump off and live and fly....
Altair shakes his head. No; he can't just yet. Maybe if his wings turn out to not be liabilities, if he can get their strength up, if, if, if.
He shakes his head and begins his descent.
Altair returns to the Bureau with supplies in tow, spirit lighter inside his chest; Malik looks him up and down when he hands him his supplies and smiles to himself. Altair doesn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it, instead retreating back to the courtyard to strip off the robes and unlace the back of his shirt so he can wriggle out of it.
His arms and back still hurt, but he's had a taste of the sky, and for the first time in the past days, he feels like there's hope, that he can still belong, that this will work out. He can still fight.
He can do this.
OP
(Anonymous) 2013-05-26 08:20 am (UTC)(link)Still loving where you're going w/ this fill, writeanon! <3
you can't take the sky from me [6/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-05-30 08:27 am (UTC)(link)---
The next day has Malik sending him off to check the pigeon coops where the birds used by the Order flock; Altair wonders if they will react poorly to his unfamiliarity or his new... state--and they do. Just not in the manner that he expects; the birds cower at his approach, sit as silent and as still as he's ever seen them, huddled in the back of their holes like so many mice. Removing messages from them is no hard task, even with his bulky robes (and it cannot be a hard task, for Malik, with one less arm than he possess, can manage it, do it every day, or several times a day), and Altair drops back down into the Bureau with a small bag filled with rolled parchment.
Malik is standing at the counter, cutting feathers for quills; on second glance, the feathers he's using are very familiar, and Altair asks as he sets the bag down, "Are those mine?"
The Dai gives him a flat sort of look and replies with, "You certainly didn't seem to have use of them anymore, as you left them scattered all over the cushions," which makes Altair scowl.
"That still does not mean that they are yours to use!"
"Then inform me before you lose them next time." Malik punctuates the statement with the knife he's using, chopping off the end of the feather weighed down in front of him.
Altair eyeballs the blade warily, then gives it up as a lost cause, retreating back to the courtyard. Malik can have his messages and his feathers; Altair isn't going to risk his neck fighting with him over them. There are easier battles to be had.
For that matter, Altair needs to begin collecting information--Majd's funeral is in half a week now, and solidifying his plan of action concerning his target needs to begin soon, wings or no.
Altair spreads them at the thought, shaking out the feathers, and then grimaces at the feeling; it's still strange. For all that he's accepted their existence (for the moment) and the futility of attempting to wish them away (for the moment), getting used to them being there is a work in progress. But, again, his mission does not wait for him, and he must begin where he left off.
He furls them again, adjusts his robes, and calls out to Malik, "If I were to hunt for information on Robert de Sable, where would I begin?"
"What is the point, if you intend to intercept him at the funeral?"
"In case things do not go to plan at it."
"What's that: a glimmer of foresight from you?" There was a pause, then, "Hunt for where his entourage rests at night. That is the only advice I may offer."
"Very well. I'll go listen then."
"Be careful! I do not want the streets to be full of words of an eagle brought down by steel. Such rumors only cause trouble for the rest of us."
Altair smirks to himself at the warning before clambering back out through the lattice.
That day bears no fruit, and Altair begins the next day with sword exercises; the flow and ebb of battle is returning to him, finally. It's still too slow for Altair's taste, but at least it is progress.
He's sweaty afterwards, flexes his shoulders as he ducks his head underneath the water in the fountain, then hisses at the feeling of feathers sticking to his skin. He twists his head to stare at his wings, twists further to see at his back, then sighs, grumbling to himself. He can't wash feathers, right? It doesn't work that way, if he can remember correctly. That's why eagles don't swim.
Right?
Hmmm.
Malik scuffs his foot as he comes out into the courtyard, and raises an eyebrow at him as Altair glances at him; he looks away after a moment and rolls his shoulders, feeling his wings attempt to flex before the feathers get too tacky and fail to separate. He hisses in annoyance at the sensation; just as he was starting to get used to the feelings of wings, he runs into this.
"Have you been preening?"
Altair's head snaps back to Malik at that, brow furrowed; the Dai shrugs at him in response.
"It's a fair question. You do know about preening, yes? What birds do with their feathers?"
Silence stretches between them, and Malik sighs at the sheepish sort of expression on Altair's face. "I had figured as much." He pushes off of the frame, gestures for the Assassin to sit down. "Pick a wing; I will help you with the other."
Altair considers resisting for a moment, before sheathing his sword and sitting, plopping down on the cushions next to the fountain; Malik sits himself behind him, and Altair feels his hand pull and open his wing, tugging it out so he can reach.
Fingers begin easing through his feathers, teasing out loose ones and bits of down, rearranging and aligning them comfortably; Altair resists the sudden urge to twitter at the pleasant sensation, the cessation of the discomfort that he'd been aware of but unable to pinpoint enough to alleviate--he blames being unfamiliar with his new appendages.
"Do you intend for me to do all the work, lazy novice?"
He jerks back into awareness, hisses and grumbles at Malik, before unfurling his other wing and bending it forward to comb his fingers through his feathers as well, attempting to imitate the motions Malik is making; he tosses the down and small feathers away from himself carelessly, rubs his fingers together at one point, peering at the powdery substance covering the tips. It does a fair job of absorbing the moisture from his exercising, clumps and falls away with each comb of his fingers, each swipe covering the feather once again with more powder, which eases the itch and discomfort.
Altair works his way up from the longest feathers back, attempts to reach further before jerking to a halt, arrested by the still-healing arrow injury on his upper arm; he growls in frustration, strains against it, before the back of Malik's hand impacts with the back of his skull, and he yelps.
"Wh--"
"Leave it alone; I can reach it. Collect the feathers you dropped instead."
He pulls Altair's wing back, buries his fingers in, and Altair collects the feathers that he can reach, puts it in a small pile before him, all the down and small ones, and Malik remarks as he rearranges, "With all the feathers that you leave around, I could stuff two more cushions."
Altair feels Malik's fingers skate over a patch where he'd torn out the feathers by the handful in the days after his waking again; they slow but do not stop, and Altair appreciates the lack of verbal acknowledgement, knowing that Malik had passed by more on the other wing. The Dai just rearranges his feathers over the empty space, skates his fingertips over the faint, rough stubble of where the feathers will grow back in, before pulling away and standing to dunk his hand into the fountain, rinsing away the powder that his efforts have gathered; Altair spreads his wings, ruffles the feathers to make them stand on-end, fluffing them up, rattles them, before folding them again.
"Better?"
"Better."
Malik collects the dropped feathers into a corner of his robe, holds it out for Altair's pile, and retreats into in the interior room of the Bureau again, calling back to him, "We eat in an hour."
Altair resists the urge to smile, reveling instead in the soft, rather warm feeling of contentment that remained.
---
also, thank you OP; everyone's comments encourage me greatly! ;v;
OP
(Anonymous) 2013-06-02 07:39 am (UTC)(link)And this is an amazing, well written fic, writeanon! You deserve all the praise for it! >:D
Re: you can't take the sky from me [6/?]
(Anonymous) 2013-06-10 01:27 am (UTC)(link)