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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
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
Fill 4/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-25 07:52 pm (UTC)(link)IV.
Their dog didn't growl. Desmond knew for a fact that he didn't. He got them a dog the first week of August, partially to help knock Clay out of his You Killed Yourself A Year Ago blues, and partially because it made Desmond feel better about leaving him alone at weird hours when he was at work. They got him at a local shelter, almost a year old, no prior owner because it was a stray, some kind of retriever-shepherd mix; with yellow shaggy hair, curious, and excitable but well behaved, the name they picked for him was immediate and unanimous: Leonardo.
But the point was, he didn't growl. Hell, Leo barely barked. So when Desmond heard him growling loud enough that he could hear it on his way up the stairs to their apartment, arms full of groceries from the bodega down the street, he assumed the worst. Not that he thought Clay couldn't handle a dog attacking him or anything, he had proof otherwise - Russian loyalists evidently really had a thing for siccing attack dogs on the Assassins and their allies in Congress Poland and one Ziven Kaczmarek was particularly efficient at taking care of that without a problem if the Animus recordings he'd seen were at all accurate. But still, Desmond tended to panic when it came to that man's well-being.
When he actually made it through their front door, he had to admit, he was a bit surprised. There was Leonardo standing next to Clay, who stood with his back straight as a rod and his arms folded defiantly over his chest, growling up at Desmond's father of all people. He figured William would find them eventually, but he figured he'd come with a SWAT team to drag them to the Farm rather than by himself.
Desmond closed the door behind him, but neither of the men, nor the dog, reacted in the slightest, so Desmond just started putting things in cabinets like there wasn't a very delicate situation going on in his living room. After an extended silence, William finally spoke. "I have a target for the both of you, if you're interested." His back straightened, just like Clay's, and he paused for a second to let that sink in before putting away the last of the groceries.
"Clay already told me you were both serious about not being involved with us anymore, but I thought I may as well try to convince my own son who's run off once before to stop wasting his second shot at life." He paced, and the younger men glared. "I can understand your desire to have a normal life, but realistically neither of you are ever going to be able to have that. The apartment, the dog, the... Pictures..." Desmond saw the way his father's eyes flicked to a framed photograph hanging above the drafting table he found dumpster diving. It was an artsy black and white picture of them holding each other, just about to kiss. A friend's sister took it, so they'd actually have something to hang up on the otherwise very bare walls, and being a freelance reporter, that girl knew her photography. He always liked that picture of them. Clay looked happy, they looked happy. After regarding the picture for a long moment, Desmond's eyes flicked back to his dad, who had this distinct look of discomfort on his face. Desmond had never wanted to hit him harder than he had at that moment. He almost hoped his father would be stupid enough to say something about it, about them just so Desmond would have a good excuse to give him a black eye. "It's very appealing considering what you've been through. The way you rely on each other is very touching. But what do you honestly expect you can do for each other? It's the blind leading the blind. It might seem helpful, but you're being naive.
"Do you think love conquers all, or something like that? Do you even know how to love someone and take care of another living person, Desmond? Because leaving someone who you know is depressed and has been suicidal in the past all night long is just stupid. And Clay isn't your little housewife so you can run around doing whatever you want." Desmond clenched his hands into fists and scowled. "Besides, I know you, son. From everything I saw about what you were doing the first time you ran off and actual relationships didn't seem to be your forte. And dealing with someone like him, well..."
"Get the fuck out of my house." Clay had been so quiet that until he said those seven words, Desmond almost forgot he was still there. From the look on William's face, he forgot Clay was still standing there too. "You come in here, you try and convince Desmond and I to do your dirty work - so what else is new - and in the process, insult me, insult him, and insult our relationship? Are you fucking kidding me?" The head of the Assassin Order opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted. "No. Shut up. You don't get to do this to us after everything we've been through, after everything your son has been through. You don't get to say another word. Just get. The fuck. Out of my house before I have to remind you how well you trained me. I'm not saying it again."
If nothing else, Desmond was at least thankful that his dad knew when he'd worn out his welcome and should get the fuck out of dodge before a rather unstable blond murdered his ass. He crossed the room, towards the front door, not sparing the still growling dog a second glance. Before he crossed the threshold, though, he looked back at the two men and with a wry smirk said, "It's not any of the training I gave you that I'm worried about. It's all that extra training you both got thanks to the Bleeding Effect."
Leonardo, loyal like the man they named him after, barked at William on his way out and sat at the door growling for the next two days until he was sure he wasn't coming back.
Fill 5/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-25 08:07 pm (UTC)(link)They hated to admit it, but William was right. They needed help. Psychiatric help. And a great deal of it. They woke each other up with their screams, occasionally they both still heard things, saw things, spoke in different languages under stress... It hadn't affected Desmond nearly as much, but he only had to deal with the Bleeding Effect for two months before getting a Sync Nexus, which helped quite a lot. Clay had a little over a year and a half to cope with. He needed the help more than Desmond did, and they couldn't really afford to send both of them to therapy with no insurance and no money. Desmond just hoped Obamacare kicked in soon and they could get insurance finally.
But they found a place where Clay could go for the time being, at least. The office was in a nice little brownstone in Brooklyn, and while the hike and subway ride took half an hour, it was a lot cheaper than anywhere else Desmond could find without going even farther out of their neighborhood to Queens or Long Island, and there was no way they were going to manage to afford a shrink in Manhattan.
Desmond was flipping through a magazine in the waiting room - he scoffed when he found an ad for one of Abstergo's personal Animuses, or was it Animi? Lucy never actually told him what the plural of it would be. Based on the way Clay had been fidgeting earlier before his appointment, Desmond figured he'd come out looking either extremely relieved or at least slightly less nervous. What he got instead was Clay walking out of the back room with his therapist, his face white as a sheet and his pupils blown so wide it made his eyes look black. Desmond had seen nervousness, he'd seen startled, but he'd never seen actual fear on Clay's face before and Desmond couldn't actually think of a more terrifying thing.
The therapist said something and Clay nodded automatically, his face completely unreadable other than the look in his eyes. With a slight frown, Desmond switched over to Eagle Vision, just to see. Nothing on the secretary and Clay was blue as always, but the doctor... He glowed bright red as he handed Clay a piece of paper, probably a prescription. Desmond could hear his heartbeat thudding in his ears as he took a few steps closer and grabbed the other Assassin by the hand, pulling him out of the office as casually as he could.
They didn't speak at all until they were on the train.
"He's the target your dad was trying to get us to kill," Clay said at last, still clutching Desmond's hand for dear life. "He showed up gold to me. Bill told me... Told me there were dozens of doctors in this city that were Templars. That if I tried to fix myself on my own, I'd get us caught. They have our address now, where you work, phone numbers... I knew filling out all that paperwork was a bad idea."
Desmond stayed quiet, mulling that over, hoping to find a sliver of hope. "Just because he's a Templar doesn't mean he'll recognize us by name or anything, though."
Before Desmond had even closed his mouth, Clay shot that idea dead. "There was a picture in his office of him standing next to Vidic. And when I mentioned the hallucinations, he smirked. I think he knows who we are."
Desmond didn't bother looking for a bright side after that, and stayed quiet the entire way back to their stop. He was so lost in just sitting there, listening to the sounds of the subway clacking along the tracks, Clay's breathing, the occasional chatter of people around them, a mariachi band that came onto their car one stop, that Desmond hadn't even realized it was their stop until Clay started walking, tugging him along with their still entwined hands.
They didn't speak between 1st and Avenue C either. It wasn't until they passed by the laundromat down the block from their place that Desmond actually found something to say. He stopped walking suddenly and wrapped his other arm around Clay and just stood there with him for several long seconds before giving him a quick kiss on his forehead and finding the words he wanted to say. "We'll break in. Steal their records on you, shred the copies, hack the computer just in case they have it digitally too. It'll be okay."
It sounded absolutely ridiculous to say out loud, but they actually did have the perfect skill set to pull that off.
But they never actually had to.
Later that night, Clay got an email from Rebecca saying simply, "Shaun'll drop those files you needed off in your mailbox tomorrow. Hope you guys are doing well. We should get together soon if you and Des are up to it. P.S. Bill's sorry about the other day. Just thought the two of you should know that." They were both incredibly confused what she was even talking about until they saw page two of the paper the next day: Brookyln Psychiatrist Found Dead in Condo. Police Suspect Foul Play Due to Injuries Sustained. As promised, Clay's medical records showed up in their mailbox in the afternoon.
That next Friday, the four of them went out to dinner. The two ex-Assassins thought it would only be fair to remind their old friends to what normal life was like.
Re: Fill 5/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 02:05 am (UTC)(link)Fill 6/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-28 11:51 pm (UTC)(link)+1.
Desmond could sleep through a bomb going off ten feet away from him. Clay, on the other hand, could be woken up by a sheet of paper rustling in their neighbor's apartment. It was great for Desmond, because the twitching and yelling in their sleep that they were both prone to didn't disturb him at all. Clay barely slept most nights, but he rarely complained about it. He was content enough to just watch Desmond sleep through the night instead. Besides, with the whole semi-permanently unemployed thing, it meant if he did get tired enough to sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, he actually could.
On the rare occasions something managed to wake Desmond up, they had a ritual. It took a little while for them to decide that it was alright, it was okay, that they didn't have to actively stamp out the temptation, and once they deemed this as therapeutic rather than a bad idea, they were happier for it. Wordlessly, they'd both get out of bed, throw on clothes, and quietly crept out their bedroom window onto their building's fire escape. They'd walk up the stairs to the highest floor calmly, slowly, so they didn't wake up their upstairs neighbors with their footsteps on the old metal, and climb the rest of the building to get onto the roof.
If it was cold outside, Clay would always mumble about how he should have brought a bigger jacket, Desmond would offer his hoodie, and Clay would stubbornly refuse it, saying it would get in the way in a few minutes anyway. If it was warm, neither of them said anything, at least not in English; sometimes they'd talk a bit in Italian. Usually though, they'd just appreciate the limited view the roof of their little five story building gave them for a long while. But, like clockwork, once they were done admiring, all it took was them glancing at each other, a raise of the eyebrows from Desmond, a tug of the lips from Clay, and then they'd start running.
They'd run to the next building, and then the next one, cross the street using the poles for stoplights, and they'd keep running. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From the East Village to Harlem. Run through the trees at Central Park, across buildings in SoHo, past marquee signs in Times Squares. They'd run until their arms and legs burned, until breathing hurt. Until they weren't in New York anymore, but Jerusalem, Florence, Xianyang, Moscow, Rome, Boston, Paris, Istanbul, the Farm, and until it became New York again. They'd run until they could hear long-dead people below them speaking a flurry of languages, commenting on the strange men in white climbing all over their buildings.
They'd run until they could hear the footfalls of Templars and guards alike chasing them, until they could hear La Volpe urging them to run faster, Yusef's laughter, Uncle Mario's words of advice, until they could almost see them. They'd run until the Bleeding Effect took hold, and until it let them go again. They'd run until they could see the faintest sliver of the sun peaking over the horizon between the skyscrapers. They'd run until they were perched on top of the Empire State Building, watching the city come alive below them, until the city swirled around them in all directions, until they could picture eagles soaring around them as they watched the world turn.
They'd run until they forgot the war with the Templars, until they forgot Juno, the Pieces of Eden, until they forgot their deaths. They'd run until they remembered it all again with stunning clarity. They'd run until they accepted it was okay that they weren't okay, until they damned the fact that they were so utterly fucked up.
They'd run and they'd keep running because, once upon a time, they were Assassins, and running is how their Brotherhood survived. As long as they could keep running, the Assassins could handle everything the world, the Templars, and The Ones Who Came Before threw at them.
They'd make their way back home, and while they'd always be too exhausted to speak, the sentiment was always there in the tired smiles and hushed laughter as they ducked back through their bedroom window. They could live with this, with all the shit that happened to them, the same way their ancestors always did: Fight when you can win, run when you can't.
Re: Fill 6/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-29 10:07 pm (UTC)(link)This whole part is breathtaking, but that line in particular is beautiful.
Fill 6/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-28 11:52 pm (UTC)(link)+1.
Desmond could sleep through a bomb going off ten feet away from him. Clay, on the other hand, could be woken up by a sheet of paper rustling in their neighbor's apartment. It was great for Desmond, because the twitching and yelling in their sleep that they were both prone to didn't disturb him at all. Clay barely slept most nights, but he rarely complained about it. He was content enough to just watch Desmond sleep through the night instead. Besides, with the whole semi-permanently unemployed thing, it meant if he did get tired enough to sleep for a few hours in the middle of the day, he actually could.
On the rare occasions something managed to wake Desmond up, they had a ritual. It took a little while for them to decide that it was alright, it was okay, that they didn't have to actively stamp out the temptation, and once they deemed this as therapeutic rather than a bad idea, they were happier for it. Wordlessly, they'd both get out of bed, throw on clothes, and quietly crept out their bedroom window onto their building's fire escape. They'd walk up the stairs to the highest floor calmly, slowly, so they didn't wake up their upstairs neighbors with their footsteps on the old metal, and climb the rest of the building to get onto the roof.
If it was cold outside, Clay would always mumble about how he should have brought a bigger jacket, Desmond would offer his hoodie, and Clay would stubbornly refuse it, saying it would get in the way in a few minutes anyway. If it was warm, neither of them said anything, at least not in English; sometimes they'd talk a bit in Italian. Usually though, they'd just appreciate the limited view the roof of their little five story building gave them for a long while. But, like clockwork, once they were done admiring, all it took was them glancing at each other, a raise of the eyebrows from Desmond, a tug of the lips from Clay, and then they'd start running.
They'd run to the next building, and then the next one, cross the street using the poles for stoplights, and they'd keep running. From neighborhood to neighborhood. From the East Village to Harlem. Run through the trees at Central Park, across buildings in SoHo, past marquee signs in Times Squares. They'd run until their arms and legs burned, until breathing hurt. Until they weren't in New York anymore, but Jerusalem, Florence, Xianyang, Moscow, Rome, Boston, Paris, Istanbul, the Farm, and until it became New York again. They'd run until they could hear long-dead people below them speaking a flurry of languages, commenting on the strange men in white climbing all over their buildings.
They'd run until they could hear the footfalls of Templars and guards alike chasing them, until they could hear La Volpe urging them to run faster, Yusef's laughter, Uncle Mario's words of advice, until they could almost see them. They'd run until the Bleeding Effect took hold, and until it let them go again. They'd run until they could see the faintest sliver of the sun peaking over the horizon between the skyscrapers. They'd run until they were perched on top of the Empire State Building, watching the city come alive below them, until the city swirled around them in all directions, until they could picture eagles soaring around them as they watched the world turn.
They'd run until they forgot the war with the Templars, until they forgot Juno, the Pieces of Eden, until they forgot their deaths. They'd run until they remembered it all again with stunning clarity. They'd run until they accepted it was okay that they weren't okay, until they damned the fact that they were so utterly fucked up.
They'd run and they'd keep running because, once upon a time, they were Assassins, and running is how their Brotherhood survived. As long as they could keep running, the Assassins could handle everything the world, the Templars, and The Ones Who Came Before threw at them.
They'd make their way back home, and while they'd always be too exhausted to speak, the sentiment was always there in the tired smiles and hushed laughter as they ducked back through their bedroom window. They could live with this, with all the shit that happened to them, the same way their ancestors always did: Fight when you can win, run when you can't.
Re: Fill 6/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-29 01:05 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill 6/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-30 12:38 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill 6/6
(Anonymous) 2013-03-10 04:00 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill 4/6
(Anonymous) 2012-11-26 12:32 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill 4/6
(Anonymous) 2013-02-27 11:39 pm (UTC)(link)