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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2009-12-26 11:46 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2009-12-26 11:46 pm
Entry tags:
Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme
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Welcome to the Animus 2.5
✠ 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.
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✠ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
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(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 2
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Discussion
A Perfect Circle [1/3]
(Anonymous) 2010-07-19 10:57 pm (UTC)(link)Anyway, the first of our dear assassins. Ezio is next.
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad does not think often about religion.
But sometimes, he cannot escape the fact that he is damned.
He is not a man of faith, nor has he ever been. Religion is occasionally interesting, and some of the moral teachings are things that he can agree with, but overall, he finds that religion is no different than any other myths or fairytales or cults that are present in any society, though it is admittedly far more widespread. Altair does, however, acknowledge that everybody must believe in something- in a set of rules, in a moral code.
Because he hadn’t believed. Not when he was a child, alone and learning to fend for himself, not when he was an adolescent, training days without break, and not when he was a master assassin, full of pride at the skill of his blade. He had thought that he only had to follow the rules he wanted to, and that the only thing he needed was his blade. A small part of him wants to excuse this foolish way of thinking- it was how he was raised, he didn’t know any other way- but Altair knows that this is nothing more than self-justification, a remnant of that damning pride that had lost him a friend and nearly his life.
Now. Now he believes in the Creed. It is far from ideal, and coming to accept it fully was a struggle, but he finds it an acceptable code of morals and guide to his actions.
It at least seems a far less ridiculous method than offering up praise to an invisible, omnipotent presence in the sky who watches over everyone. But he does not disdain the people who do. He accepts that it is not his place to judge others of their beliefs. He reserves his condescension for those fools who kill senselessly in the name of religions that supposedly practice peace, because that is a special kind of hypocrisy that is unforgivable, no matter what you believe.
He is mostly sure about all of this. Mostly.
But there are times, occasional, infrequent times, that the world seems to stand still and Altair finds himself on the highest rooftop he can find, staring up into the sky. And then he allows himself the freedom to question himself. He killed those who killed in the name of their religion. Was he not the same as them, then? Did his Creed exempt him from these deaths? Sometimes, the doubt clouds his mind and his heart grows heavy with questions that have no answer and he can see the appeal of talking to Allah or God and simply letting them handle everything.
Altair senses vaguely that there is something treacherous about these thoughts, but he cannot place his finger on it and that makes him uncomfortable. Almost every religion that he has learned teaches of a place of paradise for those who do good, and alternatively, a place of damnation and suffering for those who commit evils. And he wonders, where would he be sent?
He is mostly sure he knows the answer. Mostly.
And because that is that and he doesn’t see how he can change his fate, or whether he even would if he was given the opportunity to, Altair does not think often about religion.
Mostly.
Re: A Perfect Circle [1/3]
(Anonymous) 2010-07-21 12:46 pm (UTC)(link)Re: A Perfect Circle [1/3]
(Anonymous) 2010-07-21 10:53 pm (UTC)(link)Re: A Perfect Circle [1/3]
(Anonymous) 2010-12-13 03:39 am (UTC)(link)More, please? :(
A Perfect Circle [2/3]
(Anonymous) 2011-08-01 05:43 am (UTC)(link)Ezio Auditore da Firenze sometimes likes to play God.
It is not something he thinks about consciously. He just tends finds himself crouched on crafted tile rooftops, obscured by shadows, vaguely amused by the idea that he could watch people go about their lives without their knowing. It reminds him, a little, of the games that he would play with his brothers. Perhaps it is the last vestiges of a childhood that ended not long ago.
So Ezio sits and observes. To say that the people on the street looked like insects would be an exaggeration. But they don’t seem like people either. From here, from his height, he is reminded of the way a river flows, all whirls and eddies, fast and slow, no underlying pattern to discover. That doesn’t stop him from trying though. It is a fairly pleasant way to pass the time for someone normally so active, so always in motion. Just small moments of watching, fingers absently brushing the leather that encases his wrists.
The hidden blade. The creation that changed him from banker’s son to seasoned killer. Such a small thing. Such a powerful thing. Any of these people below him, they wouldn’t, couldn’t suspect that their life rested on such a thin, carefully sharpened edge. Slipped between the ribs, the vertebrae, through tendon and tissue, they would be dead before they even knew he was there.
Most of the time, when he catches himself thinking like this, a rush of shame rinses him cold and no matter which way he flees across the city, he invariably ends up at Leonardo’s, where his friend is always gentle and kind but also unafraid to knock sense into him, should he need it.
Most of the time, this is what happens. And that is almost okay.
Except that he never does tell Leonardo about his lapses on the rooftops. That single fact betrays him. Because if he was truly ashamed, if there wasn’t something that he enjoyed about his voyeuristic forays, he would tell Leonardo, and the artist would point out the flaws in his arguments and reasoning, and Ezio would let himself be talked out of… whatever he was doing. But he doesn’t.
Because there have been a few times that he lingers on the roof until a guard spots him and gives chase. Ezio runs, but not always as hard or fast as he can, letting the guard come just close enough to make both of their hearts pound. And that’s like a game too, until Ezio turns and drops down from the sky like the fist of God, and just like that, the guard dies.
It always brings a terrifying rush. That man no longer exists. He’s out of the stream. And it took but the tiniest flick of his wrist and the whirr of concealed springs. It’s easy, too easy, so easy that it hurts.
The shame tries to come, but it won’t begin to bother him until later. For now, Ezio Auditore is safe among justification and rationalization. He was being chased (it wasn’t like he forced that guard to follow him), he had the right to defend himself (not that he’d given the guard an equal chance), he was avenging his family (by attacking someone that probably had nothing to do with their deaths anyway).
With time, the doubts multiply to assertion and Ezio is ashamed and dismayed as he realizes what he’s become. With time, his reaction to the power thrust into his hands (strapped to his forearms) becomes tempered with age and experience. With time, Ezio learns that just because he has the power to end lives at will doesn’t mean that he should.
But that time is a long time coming, and until then, Ezio is an omnipresent force crouched on the rooftops.
A Perfect Circle [3/3]
(Anonymous) 2011-08-01 05:42 pm (UTC)(link)Desmond Miles is losing his mind.
It is happening slowly, every second of every day, in the Animus or out. He knows it’s happening, and maybe that is the worst part about it all. Knowing. Knowing that Altair doubted himself more than anyone could truly guess. Knowing that Ezio was almost taken over by his sudden rise in power. Because now he knows these things in a way that he barely understands, and he finds himself wanting to climb to the rooftops and wondering about heaven and hell or simply watch people pass beneath him.
But then he becomes confused, because he also knows that nothing is true, none of it is true.
Not the phantom Templars that run at him with eyes full of hate and swords and spears to run him through, and not the shadow-black horses that come crashing through the walls, screaming, with rolling eyes and foaming mouths and sharps hooves ready to run him over and crush him into the ground. If he didn’t know he was going crazy, then he would throw himself to the side to avoid the apparitions and that would be so much more satisfying than having to stand still, every muscle locked in fear while his instincts scream at him to run move dodge before you get trampled impaled-
He sees enemies everywhere. And the most frightening thing to him is when they aren’t in his mind anymore. When Lucy tells him to get in the Animus, her aura flashes red because her goal is to pick more out of his brain and Desmond’s goal is to keep from getting crazier and these things are no longer compatible.
They want him to lose is mind.
They want to use him. To kill him.
Desmond has to remind himself (frequently, tugging his hood over his hood to hide the frantic whispering movement of his lips) that Lucy and Rebecca and Shaun are the reason he is still alive. They saved him, his paranoia is irrational. So he hides it; he smiles and laughs and shows Shaun how to properly mix a martini, and sometimes just acting normal makes him feel normal and for a few seconds or minutes or hours he can pretend that he is normal and hasn’t gone batshit quite yet.
But then he slips. A shadow dances in the corner of his mind and he jumps, instinct triggering his eagle vision, and then there is red all around and sweat on his brow and his hands shake with adrenaline. Or Rebecca will punch him playfully in the shoulder and he bites his tongue and curls his fingers into fists and has to strive against everything he is not to sweep her legs out from under her. Or Lucy steadies him as he climbs out of the Animus, weak and tired and lost, and he moves to drive the heel of his palm into her chest before he remembers suddenly that there is no hidden blade on his wrist and he changes the motion into an awkward-thankful pat on her shoulder or arm.
And sometimes they notice and that’s the worst of all- when they look at him like that, like they’re doing right now, with eyes full of confused pity. They don’t understand. He doesn’t want their pity, he doesn’t deserve it. They’re red, but he knows that’s a lie and it’s not them that’s wrong, it’s him and they are all good and far better than subject seventeen is.
He doubts himself. He feels dirty and bloody.
He feels like Templars are stabbing him and horses are screaming.
He isn’t losing his mind. He’s already lost it. He just doesn’t know it yet.