Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 6

[asscreedkinkmeme]

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.6
Open

Sky World

≈ 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
#3 (Delicious.com) Archive <-- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion

Comments

Henna Night

[(Anonymous)]

(this was supposed to evolve into something smutty but it didn't take otl i apologize)

Weddings between assassins were nontraditional and understated by default– the traditions of Islam so intertwined in the practices the assassins knew were either adapted clumsily to the mostly secular beliefs of the followers of the Creed or quietly swept under the rug. And, due to not being the most prosperous of organizations plus the hectic lives assassins lead not affording them much time, the celebrations had to be kept modest and quick.

Altaïr and Malik’s wedding was perhaps more unconventional than most.

Firstly, Malik had asked for Altaïr’s hand directly. Her father was dead, and she had no brothers or uncles for him to go to even simply as a nod to tradition. Even considering her gender, her rank as Mentor made merely thinking of not asking her directly scandalous.

Secondly, there was no celebration of their engagement. That had been an accident– there had been plans for a small one, more for the other assassins than for them (as they were honestly a lot more animated about it than the actual soon-to-be-newlyweds), but trouble had broken out in Jerusalem that required all hands on deck. Neither of them particularly minded losing that part.

Lastly, the Henna Night is usually a time the bride spends surrounded by her family, her groom’s family, and her groom.

Tonight, Altaïr was all but alone.

She focused on the sounds outside as her only company (a civilian from Masyaf– Malik’s aunt whose name she did not recall) drew delicate soaring lines along her calloused and scarred hands. Several of their number were attending to the final preparations for the wedding, and despite her own grousing no expense was being spared on the marriage of their Mentor. The sound of their work was a pleasantly dull roar, if anything.

Altaïr understood, even if she didn’t exactly like it; Al Mualim’s treachery and the troubles of the Crusades had weighed heavily on all of them. A distraction, a celebration to bring their minds away from higher troubles, and some good memories for the hardships to come were clearly what the assassins had been longing for. Who was she to deny them?

She let out a long exhale and resisted wiggling her toes– her attendant had swatted her on the ankle the last time she did that. The assassin was glad to be marrying Malik, that was unquestionable. She’d thought it an impossible dream even before Solomon’s Temple. They had cared for each other, but she had always whispered to herself that when assassins married, it always ended in tears. Evidently, Malik didn’t care about that.

Knowing he still loved her, knowing he still wanted her– she had to push away the thought. It made her ache even now.

But she was a private and quiet person, and she wanted her personal life to be just the same. They had intended it to be that way, but the second they’d spoken to another member of the brotherhood about it the whole affair spiraled well out of their control. The most she ever felt was mortified when her assassins chattered excitedly to her about the wedding preparations.

She looked down at the henna on her feet. Altaïr hadn’t been to many weddings, but she knew the patterns on the brides of assassins were different than those of civilian brides. The floral, dot-filled designs had been traded for a web of sharp sweeping marks, abstract near to the point of nonobjectivity. But Altaïr’s eyes were hard to fool. She could see the suggestion of feathers, wings, blades and the sigil of the Brotherhood. There was script woven into the design, but it was so stylized she could barely read it.

Altaïr was glad for these designs. Floral patterns would have felt wrong on her skin, on a body trained long and hard to match and outmatch men. She supposed that was another reason these traditions didn’t sit well with her. Umar had made it clear Altaïr was the name of the son he’d dreamt of, even if he had not meant to. Altaïr had worked not just to be tolerated but to be accepted. To be thought of simply as an assassin.

It had never really taken, but it had been easy to pretend it had. But now that she was a bride, people could not shut up about how female she was and how she really would look lovely in something more feminine and maybe she should grow her hair out for her marriage at least come now you are a woman Mentor you should look the part–

Altaïr pushed out a sigh through gritted teeth and muttered the mantra she’d been chanting all day: “It’ll all be over after tomorrow.”

“Glad to hear you’re so excited about our marriage.”

Alhamdulillah. Her anchor had returned.

She looked to Malik with a small smirk as he crossed the distance; “I see the situation wasn’t nearly as urgent as I was told.”

Malik chuckled as he and his aunt shared a brief but strong half-hug of greeting; “Perhaps there was an exaggeration or two. Either way, I was able to make use of the situation.”

From his sleeve, the former Dai produced a sheathed dagger hilt-first and held it out to the new Mentor. Altaïr took it in her blank hand, clumsily removed the sheathe and looked it over. The blade was unadorned and unremarkable in its design, but expertly crafted. The metal was a strong and long-lasting one, and she could already hear its sharp edge singing as it sliced through the air towards flesh. It would cut clean and true. Its hilt was decorated with gold inlaid into it, but it wasn’t overly so. Just enough to show this blade was something that had been made with love.

Her smile only grew; “A beautiful blade.”

Malik nodded; “It’s your mahr, Altaïr. To be the blade by your side when I cannot be.”

Then, all she could do was smile. Mahr was an Islamic tradition, so amongst the assassins it was optional, and when taken only symbolic– a gesture that the groom was truly committed to this marriage. Altaïr didn’t need such promises from Malik when they had shed blood beside each other for years. She had told what remained of Malik’s family that she didn’t need any wealth, and had told Malik in private that if he gave her any gold before their wedding the entire thing was off now and forever.

But even still, her heart was soaring. It was just like Malik to defy her and still make her happy somehow.

“I had a feeling you’d do something like this,” Altaïr laughed.

Malik ran his hand through her short hair; “I’m glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Her ochre eyes shone; “You never do.”