Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed

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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.

✠ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.

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✠ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!

List of Kinks
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
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Discussion

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Bound (1/2} of [4/?]

[(Anonymous)]

She was gone.

At least, for now.

Quietly, his mind going as hysterical as random Eskimos on Mars, Shaun twiddled his thumbs and planned his next possible assassination in standards that did not consist of cartoon gore, no doubt that the bimbonette was the ideal sacrifice to throw into a large volcano off of Honolulu. The sigh that had come after Desmond gave his order—"a cheeseburger … wait, no: the other one I just said … or what about … Shaun? What should I—"—was the best one he had ever experienced in his entire oppressed existence: Maybe, he crabbily thought, taking another deep swig of his disgusting American beer, that anger management class Lucy coerced him to go to were working out …

"What are you thinking about?"

I am meticulously attempting to kill a horde of specific persons who contaminate this atrocious facility, thank you very much, so please do not interrupt my planning processes. Actual rubbish that came out of his mouth: "Oh, I don't know, Desmond dearest. I was just thinking about how lovely you look at the moment—the makeup truly suits your caramel complexion."

A scoff. "Appreciate you too, asshole."

"Indubitably."

The other took a sip of his beverage before cracking his knuckles—the latter looked very appealing to the moody Brit. "No, really, Shaun: What's got you spacing out?"

"Spacing out?"

"Yeah: You're scaring the bartender over there—about to drill a hole in his head; take it easy."

Oh, the irony—actions did speak louder than words, but it wasn't as if he could adapt to the former when a particular pair of Vans were poking at his Converse. "Maybe if your goddamn happy meal came eight minutes ago, I'd be finishing up the rest of my term paper."

" … you do realize that you already completed your assignment?"

"Shut it," he ground out, hunching his shoulders as he subjected himself to a larger amount of so-called liquor. "I could do further editing and revising."

"Right."

Ignoring Desmond rolling his eyes, Shaun drummed his fingers on the counter and gave an even deadlier glare to some bartender named Kadar, snorting when the employee meekly winced and shuffled over to hand him a Corona. The dire taste that hit his tongue was now a familiar buzz, and he found himself being more and more exasperated as time went on—never again was he coming to this joint, friend's request or no: The wait was enough time to get rid of constipation, forty damn whores were crushing the meals onto their assets, the alcohol was enough to make a kiddy pool have rainbows, and the furniture was fucking distasteful; he might have lived with Grandmother Hester, who saw a cow as a squirrel and a Viagra bottle as a vaginal douche, but he sure as hell knew what class was.

And this Neanderthal cave was the opposite of normal.

Bound (2/2} of [4/?]

[(Anonymous)]

"Hey, boys—here you go." Oh, damn—if it wasn't the next Tifa Lockhart again. "One gourmet hot dog." The tacky blonde licked her lips as she enunciated the last two words with her eyes hooded in mischief.

Blinking, Desmond pulled back the sleeves of his hoodie and gave his thanks, unaware of Shaunzilla shooting his mega laser-beams of doom at the meretricious female, his hands already reaching for the ketchup. He picked up the food item with careful hands and squirted the sauce onto it. "Thanks …"

"It's Cindy." A laugh. "Cindy Burgess."

Your damn mother, thought Shaun.

"Do you want it 'All the Way'?" she saucily continued, making the agitated man want to rip out her black mascara-caked eyelashes.

The parkour nearly choked on his meal. "What?" Maybe he did have the brain cells to comprehend that this turn of conversation was straying from the palatable.

Shaun's mind: Oh hell damn what the fucking Saint Peter as you doing Desmond you idiot close your mouth you have ketchup on your lip did you learn any manners when you were young you nitwit—

"'All the Way'—it's not too expensive, Desmond; I can give it to you right now, if you want me to." Obviously, Ms. Bitch, here, was not talking about the actual upgrade to chili, cheese, relish, and onions, by any means. Why the hell did they even have menus, in this godforsaken hellhole? "It won't take long." Deviance. "Unless, of course, you finish quickly—"

"I want my bill," Shaun snapped. He found his hands automatically slamming the innocent beer bottle onto the counter with a menace that had that Kadar-guy intimidated enough to retreat into the kitchen—interruption was the new black. "And, yes, I'll pay for his little hot dog, too."

The other paused. "Hey, man: It's all good; I'm the one eating, anyway. I'll pay—"

"Shut up and finish eating—let Mr. Hastings take care of this."

Oh, damn straight he was taking care of this.

Shaun Hastings vs. Chinchilla Burger.

It was on.