asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.3

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assassin's creed

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.3

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.3
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Get out of my bureau!

☃ 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
(Livejorunal) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Bless this prompt. There has never been one so perfect for a gen Altair prompt. Second SO HARDDDD.

I vote for the cooking!

Omg! Awwwwwww I love! I want to see this! gaaaah! So cute!

Oh~ this prompt is made of love. I sooo~ wanna see this done. I'm also voting for cooking because there isn't enough ~~and it's hot as hell when it's Altair doing the cooking~~.

~~there are a ton of characters and like four different plots going on but unf it's so good and sixteen episodes and yeah you should watch it~~

I'm sorry OP. :C I'm just awful at writing. If I could write I would but alas I cannot.

Anon wanted to apologize for the notes and the panic. I often panic instead of just fixing the problem. I hope I'm still doing okay.

Rebecca was silent as they lay together. She did look a lot like Dana. After a few minutes, he could feel the questions bubbling again.

“So, why did you want to forget Desmond?”

“He was my only friend. The memories are painful.”

She hummed, resting her head against his chest and yawning. “So when will Charles get here?”

“No idea.”

It wasn’t too much longer before he was carrying her back inside the warehouse, fast asleep in his arms. He set her on a sleeping bag, the beds packed and ready to go. He looked to find Lucy typing away at a computer, and Shaun looking over her shoulder, biting his finger. They looked to acknowledge him, and he frowned.

“Why are those not packed?”

“It’s the last computer, and I have to check in with the heads of the Order to let them know that… uh…”

“Instead of a human being, we picked up a freak,” Shaun finished, and Alex chose to ignore the jibe, sitting at a window and watching the night pass.

He woke to the sound of gunfire, and he was on his feet in an instant, armor out as the others woke. He heard the sound of the door breaking down, and he was running out of the room, and pressed against the wall to peer out into the room, changing into the last soldier he had eaten. With little difficulty, he snuck into the crowds, blending in as he searched for Charles in the chaos. The soldiers were marching up toward the room they had slept in, and he hoped they were out.

“Where’s Lieutenant Hannon?” he barked.

One of the soldiers gestured, and he moved forward still, pushing through the masses, and once he saw the man, he could feel the virus stir, ready to make a kill. He was heavily guarded, and had even more armor on, but that wouldn’t be a problem. He dashed forward, pushing passed the bodyguards and grabbing Hannon, pausing only briefly to smash his head into the concrete and absorb him. With a screech, all time seemed to stop for a moment.

There was Rikkin again.

“Sir, Desmond has been successfully infected.”

“Good, good. We’ll see how the legendary assassin does now.”

“Legendary assassin, sir?”

“Warren Vidic stumbled upon a memory with Subject Sixteen. Desmond is going to ‘save the world,’ but if we eliminate him first…”

“Sir.”

Scene switch to hands shuffling through papers.

“You are to take my place while I help in America.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“It’s not my place to ask, sir.”

Again, to a phone. An address book.

“Alan Rikkin?”

Irritation. “Yes?”

“It seems we have a problem, sir.”

Curiosity. “Yes?”

“It seems ZEUS still lives.”

Shock—outrage. “What?”

“Yes, sir. We captured ‘Desmond,’ as you requested, and now Abstergo is falling to the ground.”

“Eliminate that monster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Charles,” said the warning voice, a flash to an office room and several Templar papers, “you’d better be alive when I get back there.”

“If I’m not, sir?”

“That’s an order, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

Without thinking, Alex pounded his fists into the ground and summoned the graveyard spikes with a grunt. He listened to the sick, slick sounds of men being impaled. Still, they were unprepared for a monster. He grabbed the nearest man and consumed him once they disappeared, and he summoned the whipfist, slinging it in a circle to clear out the next wave of men. He looked around—that was it. There were no more. Changing into Charles, he stepped out of the warehouse to find gun pointed at him. He started adjusting the sleeves on the suit.

“Stand down, soldier,” he barked, feeling his personality bleeding through, “it’s Alex Mercer.”

He finished adjusting the cuffs on his sleeves, and he looked coolly at Lucy.

“Bind me and throw me in the back. Let them think you have Charles. Hurry. Here comes a chopper.”

She blinked, but he went with the motions as she tied him up and threw him in the back, hopping in the front and flooring the pedal. He turned back into himself once he heard the first dinging noise.

“Fucking awesome, man,” he heard Rebecca say as he pulled apart the metal to get into the shotgun seat.

“I’m going to take out that chopper,” he said as he kicked open the door and attached himself to the truck.

As he crawled on the roof, he could hear the radio. “Alpha to Subterra, Alpha to Subterra.”

He squatted as the bullets dinged off the truck.

“They have Charles Hannon. I repeat: they have Charles Hannon.”

He sprung, latching onto the side of the helicopter and prying the door open before killing the men inside and tilting it away from the flight path.

“Alpha, this is Subterra, come in. Alpha, this is—”

“Tell Alan Rikkin that I’m coming for him,” he growled into the microphone. “And tell him I’ll systematically kill everyone until I find who killed Desmond.”

He leapt from the helicopter and ran after the truck as the chopper crashed into the ground. With a leap, he landed on the truck as it slowed slightly, and he crawled back into shotgun, closing the door.

“That was fucking awesome!” Rebeca shouted, peeking out through the hole in the metal.

Alex looked at her as he buckled the seatbelt. She was grinning like a fool.

“Ever the child, hm, Rebecca?”

He smirked at her as she protested Shaun’s statement. He leaned back in the chair, watching the world go by.

“Where are we going?”

“To our last hide out in Italy.”

“Italy? Why not Manhattan?”

“What?”

“Manhattan is where Alan Rikkin is. I’ve issued my threat. He knows I’m coming for him.”

“What?” Lucy shrieked.

He straightened, then hunched over, clasping his hands as he narrowed his eyes at Lucy. She was sitting rigid in her seat, her hands clamped onto the wheel.

“I will avenge Desmond. He was my only friend when I was alive.”

“I doubt that,” Rebecca said.

“I don’t,” Shaun quipped. “He’s a sociopath. By nature, sociopaths are cold, paranoid people. The fact he got on so well with Desmond is incredible. In fact, how did you get to know him?”

“How did you know I did?” He sent a swift glance at Rebecca, raising an eyebrow at her innocent smile. He rolled his eyes and continued. “I went to his bar.” He winced, flashbacks to their first meeting from Desmond’s point of view flashing through his head. “And he—”

He gripped his head. The bar—the worn down stools, the dinky bar setting—he saw himself walk in and sit down.

“Hey. Whatcha want?”

He frowned. “Something strong. And remember what you make. I’m going to become a regular.”

Desmond laughed and grabbed his chin, looking at him hard. “What’s your name?”

“Jarod Flake.”

“Your real one.”

He looked so surprised.

“I know a paranoid man when I see one. What’s your real name?”

He was hesitant. “Alex Mercer.”

“What time is it?”

“Six forty seven pm.”

He turned his head back and forth a few times. “Consider yourself documented. I’ll have you something by this time every night.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yup. And don’t even try to hide the fact you’re paranoid. As a fellow hunted, I know how you feel.”

He raised an eyebrow as a drink was produced in front of him.

Switch to the bar. He’s sitting there as Desmond hands him his drink.

“They’re killing us off, Desmond.”

“What?”

“The scientists. They’re killing us off.”

“That’s—”

“As to be expected. I’m running, so I probably won’t see you again—”

“Bull.” He saw him scribbled his number on his arm. “Call me once you’re outta here. Tell me where you are.”

“I don’t want to risk your life—”

“I don’t care if you do or not. We can make it on our own.”

“Desmon—”

“Alex.”

He saw his lips curl upward into a smile.

Switch to the military escort. He jumped when he saw himself land on the tank and rip him from the seat.

“A-Alex?”

“Shut up, Desmond. I’m getting you out of here.”

He grunted as he flashed back to reality, holding his head and doubled over. It hurt: fucking damn it—this was why he blocked those memories. It fucking hurt. He could still see the contented smile on Desmond’s face right before he killed him. He could still feel the blood coursing through his body. He could still feel his warmth and his breathing and his skin and—

“Alex?”

He grunted, curling up tighter.

“Alex, what’s wrong?”

“Alex?”

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he grunted, holding his head: he didn’t want these memories resurfacing.

He sat there, remembering all the times he had shared with Desmond (like the one where they both got wasted and woke up in his apartment) from both his point of view and Desmond’s. It hurt worse than anything he had experienced before.

“What do you think’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know.”

He tensed, willing the memories back into the vault he had closed them in. He didn’t want to miss his friend. He needed to move on. He had others to protect. He worked to push them away the entire time they were in the car until they parked. His mind was rapidly playing through that final night with Desmond through Desmond’s point of view, and he gritted his teeth: it would do him no good to look back on it. He had been so happy, so satisfied, and now he was dead thanks to some man overseas. He had locked so many of the other people’s memories away—he wished he could keep Desmond’s at bay.

“Alex?” It was Lucy.

He grunted.

“Alex, we’re here.”

He jerked up and looked around. Lucy looked surprised when he looked at her.

“What?”

“You… you’re crying.”

He pulled back and wiped furiously at his eyes.

“No, it’s just the memories of tears,” he murmured as he slid out of the truck. “I can’t cry.”

He felt her hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay to cry.”

“I can’t. I’m a virus. There is no capa—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” he jumped when he heard Rebecca’s voice, and he looked to see her wink at him. “Betcha were missing Desmond, hm? All those memories are making you human, whether you like it or not.”

He frowned at her before wiping his eyes once more for good measure. “What are we doing now?”

“We have to find a way into the safe house.”

“So we can set up Baby and get you cranking out memories. And in thinking of which, this place isn’t secure. Cell phone surveillance can see right through the walls.”

“Don’t you mean satellite surveillance?” Alex asked, thoroughly remembering satellites making his life Hell on earth.

“Are you kidding? Abstergo upgraded to cell towers ages ago. The waves go through everything above ground. They’re gonna find us.”

“No, they aren’t. Come with me.”

He watched as Lucy started walking off, and he followed slowly, looking at the area around him. They walked up a grand set of stairs, passed a ring of brown grass, and started walking along a cobblestone path. He gazed at the surroundings closely.

“Where is this?” he said, his voice cutting through the night.

“Monteriggioni,” Shaun said. “Desmond’s ancestors lived for a brief time in the Italian Renaissance.”

She led them into a dark room, and for the briefest moment, he was reminded of the darkened alleys in Manhattan. He watched as Shaun started examining a desk, and Lucy was peering at a wall with vines and rubble in front of it.

“There’s a beam blocking it from the inside. We’re not getting in this way.”

He quirked an eyebrow. How easily they forgot.

“What’s our next move?” Rebecca asked as she spun to face Lucy.

“The road just loops back into the highway. This is not a good place for us to be right now.”

“Do we have any tarps? We need to cover up the van.”

“I really hate to stress this, yeah, but we are running out of time.”

Shaun stepped forward as Lucy scowled at him. “Well help us then, Shaun. Do you have any ideas?”

Shaun gestured to Alex, and Alex smirked. “Why not use meathead here to muscle his way through the door. It’s not going to be of any use to us if Abstergo finds us, so we may as well get it out of the way permanently.”

Alex nodded when Shaun looked at him, and he walked over. Shaun moved by the door as he transformed his arms into the hammerfists. Moving them behind his head, he gathered power.

“Step back,” he warned.

He smashed his fists into the blocked door, watching as it crumbled in an explosion of stone.

“Incredible,” Lucy said.

“Not really,” Shaun murmured. “The stone is ancient. The wood that was probably blocking it decayed. Nevertheless, congratulations, dunderhead.”
Rebecca stepped inside first, jogging down a couple of paces. Shaun was staring at some symbol on the wall.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Alex said, looking down the passage.

He felt an odd sort of feeling as he gazed at the dark passage. A need—some sort of desire—the virus seemed to take to this place. He could feel the humidity in the air, the stagnancy almost sweet to his nose. Untouched—protected—alone—he could feel a pull inside him.

“Whoa! They really build this place to last! No signs of structural damage. No cell signal either. It should be safe to set up. Let’s get the Animus down there.”

He followed obediently, keeping an eye on the roads, on the skies, his thermal vision active and ready to jump at the first sign of an enemy. They were quick and efficient, and Alex appreciated that. Once they were done, he sat on the red chair and folded his hands together. He could still feel that tugging in the back of his mind, and he thought briefly about Gentek once Greene had taken it over.

“Okay, so, where do we start?” Rebecca asked.

“Okay. Everything’s good here. Shaun, go hide the van in town. And make sure you aren’t followed.”

Shaun grabbed the keys when Rebecca rose. “Wait a second, guys. We need power down here. There’s a line I can hook into, but the wattage is weak.”

She picked up a red box and pressed it into Alex’s hands.

“Oh yeah, of course. Yeah, yeah. Anything else you two would like? You know, some caviar perhaps. Maybe you’d like me to knit you a lovely hat. No. Fine. Follow me.”

Alex was silent as they paced up into the town. He stopped when Shaun did and turned to him. He could feel the odd feeling draining away the father he walked from the building. That was good.

“Right, look around Monteriggioni for circuit boxes. Rebecca’s little doodads they’ll reroute small amounts of electricity to the power line under the Villa. Don’t ask me how they work, if I understood that, I wouldn’t be the fellow hiding the van.”

He gazed at him briefly before fixing the circuit and walking off to find the next four. He found if he walked to the farthest corner of Monteriggioni, the feeling was almost gone. Lighting up his thermal gaze, he followed the heat from the electricity lines from one place to another, finding the boxes easily before heading back. As he paced into the room, Lucy turned around and sighed.

“Just in time. The sun’s rising.”

“Yes! It’s booted. We’re good to go,” Rebecca exclaimed, rising and walking toward him.

Shaun paced in. “Did you miss me? No? Anyone? Hello, am I speaking out loud? Hello? Workaholics.”

Alex smirked as he watched Shaun roll his eyes and walk over to his station.

“Let’s get started,” Lucy said, typing away at a computer.

He stood there, for once, uncertain of his next move, until Rebecca laughed. “Come here and lie down. We’ll get you all plugged in. Lucy said that Subject Sixteen—”

He furrowed his brow as he lay back, letting Rebecca fiddle with everything as he changed into Desmond. “Charles’ memories contained something with Subject Sixteen. Who is he?”

The other three looked at each other, then, Lucy spoke. “We’ll tell you later—”

“You’ll tell me now. His memories also had Alan Rikkin saying something about Desmond saving the world.”

Lucy look confused. “What? Subject Sixteen was the one right before Desmond, but we plugged him in the Animus, and he—”

“Went bonkers, scribbled all over the walls in his blood, and died. End of story,” Shaun said.

“From something called the Bleeding Effect—”

“But I doubt we’ll have much trouble with that with you,” Rebecca said, “since you’re a hive of memories all ready.”

Hive—he lurched at the word: a hive is what the virus wanted. It was moist; it was warm; it was protected; it was perfect. The vibrations from the machines seemed to buzz deep in his bones; the amount of heat pushed from the machines, perfect. He dug his fingers into the arms of the chair. Nesting—the virus wanted a hive. As he compartmentalized the need, he realized, when he took the others out of the equation, he didn’t want one as bad.

“To protect them,” he murmured, his brow furrowing.

“What?” Rebecca said. “What’s up?”

He shook his head rapidly. “It’s nothing. How does this work?”

“You’ll live out Desmond’s ancestor’s life, syncing with him until we find the Apple of Eden. Once we do, you won’t need to get in here anymore.”

“How much of his life will I go through?”

“We dunno. We’ve got a relative location of the memory, but not much. Subject Sixteen was the one who insisted on it.”

He nodded. “Let’s get to work.”

To say working through the memories was hard was an understatement. It took forever for him to realize that he had no superpowers, that he had no upgrades—that, for once, he was fully human again. Once he got the hang of it (an hour or so after plugging in) there was no stopping him. He could hear Shaun’s and Rebecca’s voices over the memories, and he was having the time of his life—the others, however, were more than a little concerned that he almost enjoyed passing out from injuries and eating medicine, feeling the pain radiate up his legs when he jumped from too high and running out of breath as he chased a guard. He had forgotten what it felt like. It was impossible to enjoy humanity until it was taken away. He could feel every emotion—pure and sweet—at every memory. Throwing knives, hand-to-hand combat, talking, living, feeling—being human—was something he’d never thought he’d be able to touch again.

“Alex, we’ve got something for you,” he heard Shaun say as he breezed through one of those hacks from Subject Sixteen.

He couldn’t believe that Sixteen thought that he was smart. These were nothing compared to the puzzles he had solved in Gentek. It was probably the easiest thing he had done in a long time. He felt alive in the Animus. He waited, watching the clip briefly and finding himself back atop the tower.

“There’s a person here for you.”

“Look, man, we’re pulling you out,” Rebecca said.

He felt the world start to collapse around him after it finished saving the data, and he twitched as he pulled out. He didn’t want to leave, the feeling of humanity now lodged deep within his veins. He inhaled deeply. He had been human—however briefly. He sat up as the visor was retracted. He felt slightly woozy, considerably weaker. He felt something drawing power from him.

“What’s wrong?” He saw his sister and inhaled sharply. “Dana?”

“Hey, Alex. You’re looking good.”

He rose, and approached her warily, hoping she wouldn’t flinch away. She tilted her head with a nervous smile, and when he got close enough, she hesitantly hugged him. He stiffened at touch, then relaxed slightly and stiffly hugged her back. He could hear Rebecca chuckle and felt Dana relax, and he hugged her tighter, careful of his strength, cupping the back of her head and pressing his nose to her hair, inhaling deeply. Memories of hugs—he was glad he had so many.

“Dana.”

“Hey, Alex. Looks like I’m here to stay with you.”

“Please,” he murmured, “don’t be afraid. I won’t harm you.”

“I know: I know,” Dana said, and he rose. “I’m just… a little freaked out. But, I do have some good news for you.”

“And what is that?”

“That Doctor Ragland man?”

“Yes?”

“He used your blood to make us some antibody shots for your infection. After they found out you were here, they didn’t want us to go in unprotected. With good reason.”

“What do you mean?”

She pulled back and smiled. “We were immunized from you and your virus. Dr. Ragland tested it.”

“Bloodtox?”

“He upgraded it.”

He held onto her arms as she looked at him, and he felt memories of sadness and utter happiness bubble up, a million different memories of the same feelings clogging his mind. She leaned in and hugged him again, a little more confidently.

“Now you can’t leave me again,” she murmured. “You’re stuck.”

“I left because you were so terrified.”

“You are terrifying,” Shaun growled. “Now, explain why you’re turning this Sanctuary to a hive.”

“What?”

He saw Rebecca point at the wall, and he followed her finger, only to freeze. There, on the wall, was a hunter’s spore. It was huge, massive, oozing with yellow DNA. It must have been there a while, because it fleshy and filled out, and he could see the life inside, worming and kicking. That must have been drawing power from him. Alex stood there, paralyzed. He couldn’t believe that had happened while he was in the Animus—this put everything at jeopardy. He should be happy—his sister was here; he felt human, and things were going good, but now that.

He wasn’t going to risk the only people he had left, and he most certainly wasn’t going to force them into a life like his. He summoned his claws, steeling his gaze, and walked over to the spore, raising his hand to strike it down.

“This is bad news.”

“Wait!”

He looked over his shoulder, resting his hand on the spore. “What?”

Rebecca squirmed under his gaze. “We… you should keep it. I mean: we’re immune—”

“I’m not taking the chance. This needs to be destroyed.”

Shaun stepped up. “You can control it, correct? Just like that Greene girl.”

He gave him a level gaze. “I’m not risking your lives.”

“I’m just saying,” Shaun began, adjusting his glasses, “that you’ve been out for over two weeks, much to Lucy’s chagrin. If what you say is true, then Rikkin has all ready assembled an army and is coming toward us as we speak. This army will have the world military, the Blackwatch, and quite a few others to take us down. As inhuman as you are, Alex, there’s only so much you can do.”

He frowned.

“And if we’re immune from your strain, and all these… monsters come from you, we can deal with our fears long enough to let you turn this place into a hive, providing you still crank out the memories. Then, once we get the Apple, we’ll have both that and your army of zombies.”

“No. It’ll spread too—”

Lucy offered a weak smile. “I know you’re concerned about the world, but if we get defeated, then the world will be gone anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“She means,” Rebecca began, walking over to her desk, and he almost winced when he saw two chairs, “is that if you don’t destroy the world? The Templars will. Using the Apple. So, you either make yourself an army, since we’re immune, and get ready to fight, or you let them beat us to the Apple. With the Apple, you could make replicas of yourself, and kill all the Infected yourself.”

He blinked, once, looking around at them.

“Besides, how bad could it be?”

“I’m not giving in to my instincts. A hive would put all of this village at danger.”

“But you’re not Miss Greene, Alex, so, surely you can keep them from harming the villagers.”

“It’s a virus.”

“And we’re getting the vaccine in. Don’t worry about it, Alex.”

He gazed at his sister, the semi-frightened look making him wonder why she was going with it.

“‘Sides,” Rebecca said, leaning back in her chair, “if what Dana showed me
is true, I can claim one of those tee-shirts that boast I survived the zombie apocalypse.”

She laughed, and Dana laughed with her. Alex looked at the ground, weighing his options.

“Look, Alex,” Shaun said, walking over and placing his hands on his shoulders, “as much as I’d enjoy letting you think on this, the army is on the move, and it’s quickly assembling in Europe. You need to start now, if those spores are going to take a while.”

“They won’t,” Alex said, looking him in the eyes, “not if I’m not in the Animus. They can produce hunters every few hours, and walkers even quicker.”

“What about those Leader Hunters?” he heard Lucy ask.

Alex stepped back a pace. “I can do so much more than that.”

He frowned. They were seriously telling him to start the Infection in open ground.

“Do it,” Dana said, offering a small smile. “We’ll still be here, and I know that you’ll protect us.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I failed you in Manhattan.”

“That doesn’t count: you couldn’t control them.”

“Yeah, listen to your sister,” Rebecca said. “We have faith.”

He was silent for a moment, looking at the spore on the wall and feeling it drain power from him.

“How long was I out again?”

“Two weeks,” Rebecca said. “Lucy insisted on pulling you out earlier, but you seemed to be having fun, and you certainly aren’t suffering any side effects.”

Insecure!Anon is insecure. Is this okay so far, OP?

So strange I lol'ed.

Florence is super gay!!!! :---D AC2 never the same again!
Needless to say, OP is super happy and waiting for more!

aahh, this is such a lovely prompt! i really want to write it and i already have an idea; let's see how it goes after i've finished with other requests. (:

w-w-waaaaaaant... D:

Oh~ so cute! I so wanna see the gardening or cooking one! (maybe something to do with animals mixed in?)

Well, it's actually something I have read sometime ago, but I can't seem to find it anywhere! So either the URL or a new version from any author-anon will be very much appreciated!

It goes like this; Altair and Malik are out in the city, and for some reason(because of Altair, no doubt), Malik is pissed and wanders away and gets caught by the Templars(...this bit's a little blurry, actually). Then he is taken to Robert de Sable and is tortured and....you know. In the process, Robert determines to make Malik submit to him, break him. When de Sable violates him, Malik tries to pretend that it's Altair in front of him. When Altair finally arrives on a rainy day to save Malik, although he's still breathing, it is too late and he dies in Altair's arms.

BENE.

So cute! dawwwwwwww! I must see!

Thank you, anon! I can't wait for the fic!

Gah, sorry I haven't posted your requests yet. >_< Life's been kicking me in the ass lately. I'll try to get it done as quickly as possible. TT -TT

02: the fall

It doesn’t take long until he starts forgetting things. He thinks nothing of this; People forget all the time, he says, why can’t he forget as well? If he doesn’t remember it, then it means it’s nothing worth recording. It’s normal, he says. I’m alright, trust me, guys. It’s just his mind locking up the useless information (“You don’t want me walking around thinking about how to mix a martini, right? It’s useless information, now”), to keep what really matters inside. He lets his memory fade away and fall and chip off like cracked plates of paint on an old wall.

It’s nothing much. He’s incorporating them into him, and that is good.

Then again, Rebecca says, “It isn’t when you forget our names, Desmond.”

But names are small things. Names are temporary.

~

Eventually, she stops coming to him in the night. He figures his mistakes when it comes to calling out for her have broken her enough already.

~

Desmond becomes a distant childhood friend, a doppelganger that lives his life from afar, a title which they use to call him out. It gets harder and harder to respond to that call. Feels dislocated, somehow; but he can’t exactly come up and say, Please stop calling me Desmond. I’m not Desmond. He doesn’t though; they will be worried and it’d be unbearable. Who he is, what he is, what he thinks—these things become forgotten, because apparently Desmond was only a recent acquaintance, never had trust enough, or the time, to confide these little things. Oh, pity.

He stalks the others and learns a thing or other about himself; like that he used to be a bartender. But that’s hardly helpful. That much he can remember. “It’s alright,” the Black Hair Green Eyes says. “You’ll remember it soon.”

‘Or not, we’ll see.’

Soon, he thinks about giving up on this Desmond idea; he is Desmond, so he shouldn’t need any past model of himself to be himself. Maybe Desmond was a mistake, maybe Desmond was a fake. He is the true thing, rising from the broken shambles and used up blood of Desmond. Maybe he’s like the phoenix, a flower blooming from the garbage, who knows. Maybe this is needed, this is the only thing that will work for him and make that feeling stop, that feeling that somehow this body doesn’t belong to him.

He walks up to the statue of Altaïr and remembers the time when he’d sneak past the bookcase and spend hours staring at it, just taking in the legend that the man was, until Mario came in and stared at the statue with him as well for countless hours.

~

He just wants to sleep.

And maybe dream a little bit, too. Yes, that would be nice.

In sleep, the darkness holds him, soothes him, anaesthetizes him, and even dies a little bit with him. He dies very peacefully in the makeshift bed and in the morning he feels as good as new, if everything goes as expected. Just like the phoenix, reborn from the ashes. And that is beautiful and everyone will be happy. If not, it will amount to nothing and he’ll continue feeling displaced from this body.

But he stops sleeping, stops dying and stops rebirthing too. And that’s no good. He’s just dying while he’s awake, losing track of everything around him.

Even these walls that surround him don’t feel the same anymore. These people that work with machines and question him about his welfare seem aliens in the Sanctuary. They shouldn’t be here. This isn’t their place. He starts seeing things that shouldn’t be there, now. Although that’s not entirely strange to him: he remembers having these illusions of himself and others in past times. After some time without sleeping, everything just disjoints and becomes a new reality altogether. It’s like his sensory notion of this place is sent through him as seen from an opaque glass. Like every time he looks at anything it’s as if it were seen by someone else in a dream.

He watches as Rebecca works on the currently retired Baby, her hands quick but careful as she does the work of updating, fixing bugs and all those things she talks about, but they really go over his head.

Poof.

Lucy stares at a computer screen and thinks about what she should do to avoid the slaughter of more teams on the field. It’s like she’s sinking into a well of problems she can’t quite find the solution to on her own, but is too damn proud to ask for help.

Poof.

There’s Shaun mumbling things he can’t quite understand; words of conspiracies, how much he is busy and even the occasional curse.

Poof.

And he is lost.

~

“He can’t go on like this,” he hears him whisper to the other two when they think he’s dozing or at least abstracted enough to not notice.

He can’t help but agree.

~

Sometimes when he’s on the verge of falling asleep, he remembers things. Only when he’s in that almost asleep almost awake stupor does he remember them. This discomfort doesn’t allow him rest at any moment. He feels like he’s standing in an iron maiden; like his whole being is stuffed in this tight coffin ready to attack him if he’s not careful. He must be half awake so he won’t fall and risk being impaled by the countless sharp spikes waiting to bite his flesh; he must be half asleep so he won’t think too much about the danger and become edgier.

Like that time just after they’ve arrived at Monteriggioni and they’re still setting in and it’s their first time sleeping there; in a time that seems kept in a sanctuary in his memories, unscathed by whatever corruption he may be suffering.

It’s kind of late, really, and it’s quite and as cold as it can get in the region around late October. The girls are sleeping, already, tired from moving boxes and setting all their equipment; finally the hours of stress after their escape catching up with them. Desmond is peering moodily up into the sky to catch the soft frail moonlight on his skin, shivering with how cold it is in the unyielding stone room. From the crown of the Sanctuary Altaïr’s gaze pierces even the darkness, threatening to become more than just a statue. Shaun has gathered as many blankets and whatnot he could muster up around his person and sits in front of some computer doing something Desmond doesn’t really care about.

(Of course, the prat says, “It seems I have to do all the bloody work around here.”)

Desmond has recently made the somewhat strange discovery that after all Shaun isn’t as much as a dick as he had thought. And that he is quite enchanting when he actually tries to be nice.

“Desmond, cover yourself will you?” Shit, he must have heard his teeth clinkering together.

He wants to snap, You stole all the damn covers, you idiot.

But he shrugs and says, loud enough that Shaun can hear him and low enough to let Rebecca and Lucy sleep, “I’m fine.”

Of course Shaun knows better than this, weren’t he goddamn master of knowing all things uninteresting. So he gets up and walks to where Desmond is sitting, hugging his blankets close to him, careful to not trip on any wire or limb of the sleeping women; because that would be nasty. Desmond has no time to react, because if he had, really, he’d react; but he doesn’t, so he just stands there as the other pulls the blankets off, leaving only the thinnest for himself, and throws them around Desmond’s shoulders. Shaun even nudges the ends of the blankets so Desmond is nice and toasty.

“Can’t let our dear Subject 17 go ill, can we, Miles?”

How nice of you to ask.

But Desmond smiles and means to thank you. Shaun smiles to, and it’s beautiful. Excruciatingly brief, terrifyingly beautiful.

They kiss. Shaun’s face invades his face, leaving Desmond’s head boxed between him and the white hoodie. Soft and kind of warm; slow; and then they pull apart and in silence (silence, or it’s all ruined) Shaun walks away with his blanket behind. Desmond feels lost at that, hugging the warm layers of fabric to his body, feeling maybe guilt and some other vague emotion he’s too sleepy to place.

~

When he wakes up (really, when did he actually sleep?, he doesn’t remember it), he feels like his palms are sticky.

He looks down to find them covered in red.

~

It’s the start of a fourth week and he says, “It’s not working anymore.”

It’s not. For once he’s aware enough to realize that. He’s sitting on the stone floor of the Sanctuary. Bright autumn sun streams in from the grates high above. The sun’s dripping onto her hair making it the most lovely shade of yellow and she asks, “What’s not working, Desmond?”

This. Everything. It’s not working. It’s not getting better; I don’t belong here in this body.

“Everything.”

~

He watches as she returns to the Sanctuary just as the dawn begins to approach.

She says, “I don’t think we’re alone; they found a girl dead yesterday.”

“Abstergo?”

For a moment, she hesitates; her lips turn into a thin, nervous line as her gaze lingers on him for a moment before replying, “No …I don’t think so, Rebecca.”

His heartbeat drums against the stretched skin above his ribs, his body sculpted leaner because of the feeding regimen. And he breathes, just breathes, as the blonde walks up to him, gingerly sits by his side and looks at him with her two blue, owl-like eyes. Just sits, doesn’t expect anything from him—not anymore, not when every time he forgets her name it breaks her more and more.

“I can’t sleep. Not anymore.”

She whispers, “Calm. Go to sleep. Just go to sleep and don’t worry, Desmond.”

He means to repeat, But I can’t, not now, not ever. It’s over. You don’t want me to do a brand new paint job to this place, do you?

She holds him. “Just …have a little faith.”

Because she doesn’t anymore.

She holds him and he is terrified, because he’s lost hold of what is real and what isn’t; he barely remembers the time when she’d take him to make a pathway to the Sanctuary; he doesn’t even know what day it is or when is his birthday. He is terrified, confused, and this ache in his bones makes him feel incredibly unwelcome. She strokes his hair, hums into it. She dies a little.

He dies a little, too.

Just like that girl. But she didn’t die just a little bit. He swears he can almost remember her; and her blood, the searching for his displacement. He almost means to tell her about this. But there will be time later for that.

He’s barely falling asleep.

~

In the middle of the night, he wants to escape.

No, not escape, actually. He will return, he swears. It’s just that his bones and the regular spasms in his muscles are begging for the effort he was used to, once. The fall from the highest point of the highest tower, the curling of the air around him and the landing on a lonely bale of hay. They wouldn’t understand it, really.

I—I don’t think you understand, he means to say. But I think I killed someone. To find out what is it that’s inside that makes me feel quite like this; if there’s anyone out there that feels like I do.

Anyone who’s not dead, that is.

~

Sometimes he still sees them.

Altaïr paces around in circles, anger and boredom becoming one emotion and fueling every single of his movements. His wrist flicks every now and then and the quiet slide of the blade replies, quickly and lethally. His whole body screams one single desire.

Kill.

Ezio entertains himself. He sits here and there and whispers low strings of Italian. Probably because he’s just fond of the sound of his own voice. However, his apparent inertia does nothing to mask the fact that the air around him breathes death and how he can bring it.

Kill.

Kill.

This desire, it’s in his blood—

—Kill.

~

He’s washing the dried blood off his hands to the best of his ability, using a puddle of rainwater just outside to serve his purpose. In the darkness just before the first rays of light, he can’t see much, so he fumbles and fumbles until he can do a decent job.

He looks over his shoulder and Malik’s face, a lot different from what he remembers, looks back at him, only a little bit surprised. He stops what he’s doing, and he thinks, This is it, it’s over; it’s all over. For a moment they say absolutely nothing, just stare at each other as if otherwise it would disrupt the moment.

He doesn’t even try to disrupt what happens between the two of them.

Eventually, he gets up from his crouching position with a pleasant tingling of his legs and walks up to him, nudges him against the wall.

Are you fucking bloody insane? Malik snaps, and he brings a hand to pin his wrist against the wall as Malik’s breaths come in sporadic gasps, looking at his still red hands. It smells like blood, iron, tangy. He feels Malik’s eyes roving wildly on his face, looking for a sign—any sign—of life, any that he recognizes who he is. But, he realizes, there must be none but the smile spreading across his lips, and how much dazed he looks.

He asks, Don’t you recognize me, habibi? It’s me, Altaïr.

It’s Malik. Malik. After all this time.

It’s intoxicating. He feels better than he has for a long time. Even if he feels the mental weariness weighing down on his body, after all these years.

“You always manage to screw things right up, don’t you?” He asks.

“No, no, no Malik. Stop speaking like that, that’s not your accent; stop speaking like Maria’s country people.”

He—no, Altaïr—steals a kiss. He steals another, and steals his neck.

He steals his clothing.

He steals Malik’s body, even, for a while.

He tries to not think too much about it, because it would give this too much meaning. He doesn’t want to think about how willingly Malik throws his head back to give him free access to his neck as he runs teeth and lips down his skin. (Even as he whispers, “Shaun, Shaun. Not Malik.”) He keeps his armed arm positioned just below his neck throughout this whole ordeal, won’t he do anything strange. He doesn’t think about the way Malik slips a leg up and around his waist and how he stays still as he does with him as he will.

He doesn’t think about Malik gives him control.

All he can think about is how good it feels, how much blood he can smell and how intoxicating it is.

The blood.

It feels goddamn liberating.

He bites the slant of Malik’s shoulder and draws blood and licks it with the broad of his tongue. His left hand is planted against Malik’s sternum, carefully so he won’t trigger the hidden blade, pressing him into the cold wall.

Altaïr sighs and closes his eyes, dreams of the colors of Masyaf and not the white and the black and the red. He tries not to lose himself.

Maybe this is therapy, maybe he—

—he leaves, afterwards.

~

Soon, he learns that there is no one that can help him unveil how to die fully and be reborn in a vessel without these scars.

a/n: Hopefully it's getting darker? I enjoyed writing this part. And I'm sorry if OP didn't like the Altaïr/Malik channeling through Desmond and Shaun. :/
I've posted the first part in my personal journal (beeskies.livejournal.com/6212.html#cutid1) in case anyone wants to go for some non-anon comments. Maybe tomorrow I'll post the second part and link it to that post.
Anyway, I hope this part satisfied you guys despite the size and possible fail! :D

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Page 199 of 322

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.3

Re: Hobby

Re: Hobby

Re: To The Air

Re: Hobby

Re: The roaring 20's

Viral 8

Anon wanted to apologize for the notes and the panic. I often panic instead of just fixing the problem. I hope I'm still doing okay.

Viral 9

Viral 10

Viral 11

Viral 12

Viral 13

Insecure!Anon is insecure. Is this okay so far, OP?

Not!OP

OP

Re: In your clothes

Re: I am missing a kink

Re: Hobby

Robert de Sable/Malik + Altair/Malik

Re: In your clothes

Re: Hobby

OP

Re: OP here (writeranon here)

i grow tired of my flesh and bones (2a/3)

i grow tired of my flesh and bones (2b/3)

Re: i grow tired of my flesh and bones (2c/3)

i grow tired of my flesh and bones (2c/3)