Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

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Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
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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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And From Her Womb Crawled a Demon in Blood, Flesh and Bones (Fill Part 3/4)

[(Anonymous)]

Part 3/4

Altaïr was an assassin, a handcrafter. He was an artist, and blood was his paint, the dust of Jerusalem his canvas. And who knew better about his tools than the artisan himself? His Eagle Vision let him see the pulse of his victims, a steady flickering like a candle licked by a cold breeze. He could feel the heat of the blood rushing through their veins, how it seemed to freeze for a second when they realised who and what he was. This was why he liked to kill while using Eagle Vision.

But it was just as good without.

They had cornered him in an alley after playing cat and mouse for quite a while, oblivious to the fact that Altaïr had long since taken over the role of the cat. There he stood, a shadowy figure clad in white, surrounded by heavily armed guards, smiling. Judging by the hesitation in their eyes, they already had some experience with his kin. Their blood was both boiling from the chase and cold from fear, and Altaïr knew this was a fatal combination.

The first guard charged at him, his chain mail announcing his movements. Altaïr took a quick step back so that the force of the man’s blow threw him out of balance, and he stumbled. Altaïr was right there, stepping between the man’s flailing arms as if waiting for an embrace, and let his Eagle Vision take over like a wild beast let out of its cage. Then he felt the urge. No, it was an itch in the nape of his neck, an itch he’d always felt - ever since the kitten - when all he wanted to do was to cut, to kill, to devastate.

He could have rammed his blade into the guard’s armpit. Blood: a lot. Death: slow. Silent: no. The man’s thigh almost presented itself to him, as it was outstretched to keep the man from falling, the vein underneath glowing brightly in his Vision. It would have been nice to slice it open, just to watch it spitting out gulps of blood, just to watch the man sprawling to the ground, crying for mercy and clutching his leg with trembling hands. Blood: a lot. Death: slow. Silent: no. But unfortunately, an enemy who was defeated and weak and almost dead was sometimes more dangerous than one still hoping to live. So Altaïr went for the third option.

His short blade slashed across the guard’s throat, slicing it open, the wound weeping blood in big waves of crimson all over the hilt of the blade, his hands, his robes, his face. Death: almost immediate. Silent: yes.

He didn’t even watch him fall. He stepped forward, parrying the next man’s two blows with ease. The guard was trembling, his hands shaking while trying his luck and probably praying to Allah. Altaïr grinned at him, his tongue sneaking out to catch the drop of blood that clung to the corner of his mouth, collecting it, savouring the sickly sweet taste, and the man’s eyes widened in horror. His sword clattered to the floor, and Altaïr took his chance, slapping him in the face with his left hand so hard that he was bent over before him from the force of the blow. With a satisfied growl, he buried his blade in the nape of his neck, just where the tender flesh joined skull. The guard choked, he could feel the muscles of his throat tensing and contracting around the blade in his fist, the warm spill of spit and blood over his boots; the man tumbled into the dust, grunting and drooling, a wet rasp leaving his throat whenever he gasped for air.

The next two guards attacked him together, one with a fierce shout. Altaïr ducked their blades, dancing around them, laughing silently, and dealt weak blows to their arms and hands, just enough to draw wounds in ornate patterns over their skin. They bled shallowly, soaking into the fabric of their caftans. His hands were all moist and slippery from the blood that crawled down the curve of his blade.

They grew desperate quickly, their swords cutting through the thick air, sweat dripping down their temples. Exhaustion was gnawing on their arms, weighing them down. Altaïr decided to have… mercy on them, slashing his blade in a vicious arch through the torso of the younger guard, who didn’t wear chain mail. Agony disfigured the man as he screamed and clutched his yawning front weakly, almost disbelievingly, before his knees gave out and the juices of his bowels mixed with the sandy ground. The other man looked terrified when he attacked with a yelp that almost sounded like a sob. Altaïr slipped through under his sword and stepped closer with a fierce snarl, about to deal a blow to the guard’s leg to bring him down, when something moved all too quickly in the corner of his eye. He snapped his head around, but before he even realised what happened, something hit him in his right shoulder with so much force that it pushed him backwards. Pain shot through his body and a bark left his throat when his heels bumped into a limb and sent him tumbling over onto his back. His fingers gripped his blade tightly, threatening to give out from the pain in his shoulder, and his left hand clutched at the bolt that had dug itself into his clenching muscles. Altaïr hissed, swallowing down the cry of agony when he pulled it out, and felt his pupils contracting. There was hot blood, and this time it was his own, dribbling down his chest, cold seeping into his right arm as it quickly grew numb. Now he was mad. Really mad.

He looked up just in time to see the guard towering over him, drawing back his sword to bring it down through his chest, and he threw himself forward, shoving his blade and the bloodied bolt into the man’s stomach. He groaned hoarsely, his blood and juices spilling over Altaïr from above, one drop hitting the corner of his eye, tinting the white of his eyeball a deep red. Rolling away before he could be buried underneath the dying man, he caught the sweaty hilt of the guard’s sword, getting to his feet and stabbing him in the back for good measure.

A gasp brought his attention to the last man that turned away, deciding to do the reasonable thing and try to save his own life as long as he could. His eyes zeroed in on the crossbow in the soldier’s hands. With a snort he closed his fist around the tip of his short blade and threw it with all the strength in his left arm, growling quietly. It sliced through the air with a hiss and embedded itself to the hilt in the man’s side. Altaïr wrinkled his nose irritably. Not his best throw, but his left hand had always been his weaker side after they had taken his ring finger.

The guard stumbled and slid to the ground with a groan. Altaïr’s strides were angry as he stalked towards his victim, who tried to crawl away from him, breaking down whimpering when he moved. He nudged his wounded side with his foot so he was forced to turn over, and perched himself on the man’s chest, tucking his legs to his sides and pinning him down by his shoulders with his knees. The guard mewled in fear and pain, his wide eyes terrified, lips parted in distress. Altaïr could smell the panic in the blood curling from the gash in the man’s side. He pulled out his blade from the other’s flesh, grabbing him by his hair, his nails scratching over his scalp, and pulled his head back, wild glare fixated on the guard’s face, baring his teeth in a sneer.

So many possibilities. So many ways to kill the man; some of them slowly, all of them cruel. He could smash the hilt of his blade into the guard’s Adam’s apple, damaging his trachea, and leave him to suffocate in the middle of the alleyway. He could scratch the man’s artery slightly and watch him bleed to death drop by drop. Or he could simply give in to his fury and slice through his neck so his business would be done quickly. But he didn’t want to let this opportunity slip.

The man whimpered again when Altaïr pushed up his chin and set down the tip of his blade just below, halfway between his jaw and the moving bump of his Adam’s apple. He gasped for air, but didn’t dare thrashing about. A grin spread over Altaïr’s face, his scar tugging at his lips stretching wide and pale. His eyes gleamed, pupils blown wide, when he leaned down. “Tisbah `ala khair, bastard.” And his hand started pressing upwards slowly.

The tip of the blade parted the skin easily, the man crying out hoarsely. Blood spilled over Altaïr’s hand and the man’s chest, soiling Altaïr’s pants at the crotch. When his throat tightened against the intruder, he started trembling, tears flowing down his cheeks and into his hairline to gather in the shell of his ear. Altaïr though was too far gone to hear anything. He pushed up quickly, through the resisting flesh, feeling the muscles pulsing and clinging themselves around the blade, and his breath rushed over the dying man’s face in a hot wave. The guard’s voice dissolved into nothing as he choked, his throat rattling and slurping when he tried and failed to gasp for air, the blade having torn his airways. The blood dripped from the corners of his mouth over his chin, and finally, finally, Altaïr pushed the blade all the way in, to the hilt. His shoulder screamed in pain, still weeping blood, but he didn’t feel it. His gaze was focused on the way his victim’s eyes turned grey and into his skull, his body arching one last time, before his face froze in a grotesque grimace of pure agony.

Altaïr pushed out a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding in. A light smile still tugged at his parted lips, bloodied fingerprints and stains all over his face and robes, when he collected himself from the body, getting up and pulling the blade out with the movement, producing a sound like a boot stuck in mud. Without so much as one glance back on the massacre he’d created, he sheathed his short sword and took off in a sprint.

Soon enough the mess he’d made would alert every living soul of Jerusalem to his presence.



A/N: “Tisbah `ala khair” is Arabic for “Good night” and can only be used towards males.