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.

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☃ 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 1
Part 2
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

“We have lost a few of our brothers, even already. I doubt he will want to see our number diminish more. I will talk to him,” he squeezed her shoulder when she did not reply and then released her. She heard him take his place in the chair at her bedside. She fell back asleep with her back towards him.

—

She spent the next few days in the infirmary. Rauf rarely left her bedside, he gave no reason as to why though, and she did not ask. The woman who treated her came by now and then before saying she was allowed to get out of bed. Her wound was not as deep as it first appeared, but it was long and had bled a great deal. Altair bit through the pain and left the ward on her own accord, though Rauf offered to help her. She went to her room and dressed in her white robes, then acted as normal. None of her brothers knew her secret and the Master was too busy dealing with the Templars. They’d set up base in the village and killed anyone who got near since Altair had woken, but had not breached the walls of the fortress, which was loud and crowded with people from the village, most of them scared.

She did her best to keep her distance from her brothers, her paranoia suppling that they all knew, they could all see what she was, despite Rauf saying he had only told the Master. Thankfully her wound did not hurt her anymore.

Two days after she was let out of the infirmary one of the older Assassins came up to her. “Altair,” she only nodded, she did not trust her voice to not give her away anymore. “The Master has given me a mission, you’re on it,” and he motioned for her to follow him. She did so without comment. They met up with a few of their brothers before he spoke again. “The Master sent word to our brothers out in the field, summoning them home. They have returned home to Masyaf, but are stuck in the inlaying valley.”

“What are we to do then?” asked one.

“We are to distract the Templars for the—

They all turned and looked when they saw the rest of their brothers running towards the entrance of the fortress, novices too. He furrowed his brow before motioning the group of them to follow. As they exited the fortress Altair saw the battlements lined with Assassins, most of them wielded crossbows, or bows of some kind, pointed down from the wall. “Shit,” one of them muttered.

“I think the mission is delayed,” Altair said gruffly. None of them argued with her assessment and they made for the wall as well. Altair took the stairs up to the battlements two at a time before she stood with her brothers on the wall. Below them was the column of Templars. At it’s head was Robert de Sable, his bald head free of his helm.

“You have something that belongs to me old man!” he yelled up to them and she looked down the line where the Master stood above the portcullis.

“I have nothing of yours de Sable. Leave this place before I must use force.”

“Ha! You cannot hold this place forever and—

After that Altair stopped listening. Her eyes became trained on the tower on the side of the road. It was one of their trap towers. But to get to it you needed to go through the side door. Her eyes darted along the tower before moving back along the wall, leaving her place to move to the side and looked out onto the gorge that surrounded their mountain. Her eyes tracked a path to the tower, following it along a set of planks put there as an alternate escape route if needed.

“What are you looking at Altair?” she looked and saw Halal standing beside her.

“There,” she pointed, not too obviously, “If someone can get down there, we could release the trap tower. The Templars wouldn’t know what hit them.”

“How would we get there? That area has been out of mind for some-” he followed her hand up to point at one of the Leaping points. “Ah. I will return,” and he was suddenly gone. Halal returned a few moments later with another man. “Come,” and he gently pushed her towards the tower. They went quickly across the wall to the tower and climbed up the ladder to the Leaping point. “Listen for the signal,” he told them both as they took their places on the jutting walks.

“You think my men are afraid to die to protect their home de Sable?” the Master yelled. “My men are not afraid of death,” and she glanced down at him. They all looked so small from up here. The Master had his arm outstretched to them, “I will show you what it is like to not have fear de Sable. Go to God my warriors,” he yelled. That was the signal if she ever heard it.

Altair jumped. The ground and the hay below rushed to meet her. Her body twisted on it’s own, hardly being consciously of the motion, so she landed on her back. Nearby someone screamed. “Be quiet, they will hear,” snapped Jamir. She stood up quickly and dusted hay off her going over to where Jamir was with their brother who’s leg was twisted in a way it shouldn’t have been. “Go, I will stay with him,” Jamir told him. Altair did not move at first. “Altair, go, you must deal this blow,” he told her firmly.

At that she fled. She ran along the first set of planks, arms out to steady her, before making her way along the rocks, leading her closer to the tower. Then there was a short plank and she was below the tower. She didn’t have time to waste and found her first hand hold. She groaned, her side burning as she stretched out the sore and damaged muscle, but didn’t allow herself to slow. She scrambled up the tower and onto the deck, her breathing harsh, her side killing her. She looked out across the the men, all tightly packed in front of the fortress, and smiled. On the wall she knew that her brothers could see her, or her figure at least.

“This is payback Robert,” she said softly to no one and sprung the trap. The top hatch opened and the logs rolled out. She heard the screams and the horses whinning as they were crushed under the falling mass of timber. She just sat on the edge of the ledge, her hand on her side with a wince. Damn that hurt.

I'm trying to find words here, haha.

God, this fic. I love you, writeranon. <33333333333333333333

Oh, Al Mualim isn't going to out Altair in front of everybody is he?? *worried* That would be bad. Really, really bad. (Though he probably would.)

And Rauf is being so very awesome, even if he's bothered by the fact that he found out Altair's secret. (I'm loving Rauf more and more. As much as I want to see Malik/Altair, I'm starting to want Rauf/Altair. XD)

Thank you, writeanon for posting more. (Sorry my comments aren't very long or detailed. By the time I get to the end, I'm gleeing too much to be very coherent.)

=w= That was nice. Short and sweet and while I always wish good fills are longer than they are this is a very pleasant treat.

Excellent job, authoranon!

Malik has always known his little brother was weird. But lately, Kadar has been overly weird. He was definitely quite above the standard “Kadar weird”. During the day (About noon), Kadar would disappear for no reason. Always at the same time. Which led Malik to believe his little brother was doing drugs and having a set time to meet his “peeps”.

However, after giving said brother a huge lecture on the effects of drugs, he realized that wasn’t the case. So, Malik went on to theory B: Kadar has a lover. Normally, Malik won’t pry some much into his little brother’s love affairs, so he left him alone.

After 2 weeks, Malik grew curious. Kadar has been disappearing more often lately. Rauf has been complaining that his best friend is not spending time with him. Desmond has been letting Kadar use his bike more often and complaining to him that his little brother always use up the gas. He demanded money from Malik. Malik, being the nice older brother, took money from Kadar’s savings to pay for the gas.

The most concerning thing though, was that Kadar had not noticed that his money was slowly disappearing.

So Malik went to Rauf, told him to spy on his little brother, and report back the details. Rauf agreed, for he was now curious too. He just didn’t have the guts to do it without Malik’s permission, knowing if he got caught, protective older brother would hang him upside down on a stop light.

A week passed and Malik walked in on Rauf and Kadar fighting. Oh no, not the screaming “I hate you” fighting, but a full on fist fight. He watched in amazement as Kadar’s right hand connected solidly with Rauf’s face. He watched angrily as Rauf’s left foot connected to Kadar’s crotch, making Malik flinch in sympathy.

When Kadar fell to the floor clutching his jewels, Malik decided to step in, grabbing Rauf and punching him. Below them, Kadar groaned in pain.

“Okay, either you two are going to tell me what’s going on or I’m hanging both of you off the overpass by the highway until you give me an answer.” Malik yelled over the grunts of pain, glaring at both of the boys.

“Kadar’s stalking someone.” Rauf said quickly, wincing at Malik’s raised right fist as Kadar promptly gave him a middle finger from the floor.

Malik turned his head down towards his brother and lowered his arm, confusion evident on his face. “What.” Rauf dropped to the floor, considering if he should pretend to be dead.

“I’m not stalking. Just admiring.” Kadar groaned out, quickly adding, “From a distance.”

Malik was thoroughly surprised. Who knew his little brother was capable of stalking someone. However, that still didn’t explain, “But why were you and Rauf fighting then?”

“Rauf liked him too. I told him to back off. He refused. We fought.” Kadar frowned, staring up at Malik’s face.

“Him?”

“What? It’s not like you’re not gay either.” Kadar shot back. Malik frowned, he had a point.

“Just never thought you swung that way.”

“You haven’t seen him, the guy is fucking gorgeous.” Kadar slowly got up, wincing at the pain still in his crotch area. Rauf kicked hard.

“Huh. And are you going to introduce me?” Malik scoffed, poking at the pretending-to-be-dead Rauf with his foot.

“Uh, no? I don’t even know him, Mal. I told you, I was just admiring him from afar. Never talked to him before.”

“I’ll go talk to him.” Rauf grunted out, slapping at Malik’s foot to make him stop.

“Shut up, Rauf. He’s mine.” Kadar growled at the man below him.

“It’s not like you’re even going to talk to him!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Yeah, well. I will!”

“I’d like to see that!”

As the two continued to argue, Malik decided it was too early in the morning for this shit, even if it’s already 2. So he left the two alone in favor of coffee.

Anon button wasn't working for some reason, so I guess I have to de-anon ): Sorry for errors, got no beta and even though I've read through it a lot of times, there's still gonna be something I didn't quite catch. But anyways, I'll write more when I have time, enjoy!

--
One more week had passed and Rauf and Kadar were still fighting like school girls over a complete stranger. Malik couldn’t take it anymore and finally snapped, dragging the two boys out for a coffee break. When they arrived at Starbucks, Malik ordered them to stay outside and to behave, threatening them with a hanging above the new bridge.

Not even five minutes later, as Malik was waiting for his order, he could hear Kadar and Rauf arguing. Grumbling as he took the order, Malik went to look for a seat. He sure as hell wasn’t taking the boys home until they sort it out. Besides, it was relaxing here. It’s been so long since he actually had time to get good coffee.

“Is this seat occupied?” Someone from the left of him said. Malik shook his head as he took out a book to read.
Ten minutes passed without problems as he slowly sipped his coffee, listening to mindless chatter and was Kadar and Rauf still going at it? Suddenly, he saw a hand in front of him and a voice from his left.

“Altair.” The man said as Malik stared at the still extended hand.

He gingerly shook it, “Malik.” He ignored the person and continued to read, not bothering to even look at the man beside him.

“Interesting book?” the voice pipped up again. Malik merely hummed in response. He mindlessly heard the man shuffle closer to him. A little weirded out, Malik scooted away, thinking the man was making room for someone else.

Shuffle. Scoot. Shuffle. Scoot.

This went on until Malik found himself at the edge of the round booth. Irritated, Malik finally looked up, preparing to give the man a piece of his mind.

All the words died on his lips as he found himself staring at a pair of golden eyes.

“I-I...” Malik snapped his mouth shut, realizing he was gaping like an idiot and blushed a bright red.

“Yes?” Altair smiled, eyes twinkling and Malik found himself scrambling to get out of the store.

As he walked out the door, he could still feel those eyes boring into his back. He found Rauf and Kadar still arguing outside and pushed the two of them towards his car.

“Wha-! What took you so long?” Kadar yelped as he was shoved roughly into the car.

“Nothing.” Malik mumbled, handing the keys to Rauf. He was way too tired to be driving, especially with only one arm. Which was, by the way, quite illegal.

Rauf barely caught the keys, blinking in surprise as his brain started to boot up. Finally, it decided on something and Rauf yelled out, “You saw him.”

“What?” Malik and Kadar turned to him, confused.

“The guy in the white hoodie, Kadar’s obsession. You know, him.”

Kadar shot his brother an accusing look, clearly saying, 'He’s mine.'

“I saw no such man.” Malik said stiffly, it was mostly true since he was too busy staring into Altair’s eyes to notice his clothes. “Now drive, you idiot.”

Rauf and Kadar breathed a sigh of relief then glared at each other as Rauf took the wheel, driving the three of them home.

“So...what happened to the coffee?” Kadar asked, watching Malik stiffen slightly before answering.

“I forgot it.”

It was hard sneaking into the back room of the rehabilitation center. The free swinging doors always had a rusted squeak to them, much to Altair’s chagrin as he failed to slip inside unnoticed.

“You’re late,” Malik said, not looking up from where he was sitting. There was an indistinct but sizable puff of feathers on the table, and as soon as Malik held out a piece of raw meat, a set of beaks appeared in between the fluff, snagging it away. This, he did several times with the sort of special patience he reserved for only the birds he took care of, which was somewhat unfortunate for Altair.

“Yes, but I’m here now,” he replied, unruffled and deciding that it was hard to take Malik seriously anyway while he was wearing a mother-owl puppet over his hand. He approached the table, the clipboard roster tucked under his arm. Like Malik, the owlet took no notice of him, so he leaned his hip against the back of Malik’s chair, looking down at the baby bird. “Who’s this?”

“Curry,” Malik said, sounding a bit fond despite that he had a habit of naming the more difficult birds after various dishes or cooking techniques. Even as he took the one second pause to answer, the owlet shrieked impatiently and bit into the puppet. Malik rolled his eyes and resumed feeding it at a rate the tiny owl deemed acceptable.

“I thought we named C-Six-five that,” Altair muttered, looking over the checklist on the clipboard. He was unsurprised to find that, as punishment for coming in late, Malik had left all the temperamental birds for Altair to clean and feed. Though, honestly, he had pointed out more than once that he had less problems than Malik with the animals in general—probably because he did not threaten to eat them if they were troublesome.

“Sixty-five is Teriyaki, which you’ll have to feed soon before she starts gnawing on her cage.”

“And you gave me C- forty six, M-nine, E-three-five-“

“Sauté, Stew, Burgers-“

“-Kung-Pao, and Panfry,” Altair finished, letting the clipboard rap once over Malik’s head. “You need to stop doing that; they are not going to like you any better.”

Malik waved his puppet hand dismissively, and refused to duck when the clipboard hovered above him a second time in silent threat. Instead, he opted to elbow Altair in the stomach while his gaze finally flickered upwards, a small smile settling over the curve of mouth. “We can’t all be bird whisperers like you.”

They stared at each other for a moment, with Malik looking amused and Altair disgruntled, until Curry hooted at them to do something a little more productive. Altair took that as a cue to give Malik’s face a bird whisperer-worthy peck, always just a little surprised whenever Malik would turn into it, and even more so when Curry’s impatient clucking went momentarily ignored. Unable to help himself, Altair shot the little bird a childish but entirely satisfying smug look. He was sure Malik hadn’t seen it, but as he straightened to get started on his work, it was clear from Malik’s exasperated expression that he did, in fact, had.

“Could you also check on the new bird we got?” he asked, catching Altair before he could leave the room. At his nod, Malik added, “Eagle, adult male; broken left wing. The animal patrol found him yesterday and put him in holder sixteen. No one’s been able to get near without using sedation. I figured you might be able to do something.”

Altair eyed Malik, raising his brow. “So you’ve tried.”

“Earlier, I did,” Malik admitted, motioning to the front of his jacket where there was a small tear. “I had to back off.”

Altair hummed thoughtfully. “I’m surprised you didn’t give it name right off the bat.”

“I thought it would be nice if you did.”

“Ah, so you doubt my skill? I thought you said I was a bird-whisperer,” Altair said, hanging the clipboard back on the wall. He grinned as Malik snorted. “All right, but I’m not going to give it some derogatory culinary name.”

“They are hardly derogatory—Curry, shut up, if I feed you anymore you are going to get fat and burst, and I swear I will really eat you then—“ He turned around to face Altair and continued, rather pointedly, “They are discipline names.”

Altair allowed a few seconds of silence to permeate between them while Malik packed away the meat and soothe the ever-hungry owlet. “One day I will come in and find a restaurant instead of a rehabilitation center,” he said.

“Sometimes I think the same thing,” Malik grumbled, but his complaints always fell a little short in comparison to the way he cupped the owl in his hands to gently move it aside, or the way he preferred nicknames to identification numbers, and feeding by hand instead of leaving a dish in a cage.

“Right,” Altair said in mock disbelieving tones, exiting out the room before Malik had to remind him again to get started. “I’ll go see what I can do for Sixteen. How does Aristotle sound?”

“Oh, you won’t want to be naming him after someone so great, trust me.”

“We’ll see; leave it to this bird-whisperer,” Altair called out behind him, and he could hear Malik’s laughter even after the squeaky doors swung shut.

--

Malik was taking out another baby bird to feed when Altair returned an hour later, entering a little louder than usual, but quieter at the same time. He did not say anything, but opened one of the cupboards in the room and proceeded to loot whatever was inside it. Malik looked over his shoulder, bird in hand, and almost had to put the owlet down when he saw blood streaking down Altair’s hand.

“You were right. Sixteen is practically the devil’s incarnate,” Altair said, his voice even and calm. He found the first-aid kit and since he did not seem to need any assistance, Malik did not move from his spot, mindful of the skittish owlet.

“You didn’t think to wear a glove?” Malik asked, preemptively annoyed since he already knew the answer. Altair had a knack for birds and tended to disregard the most basic safety measure, but his luck had to run out sometime.

“I only opened his cage to put in some food. I didn’t know he was going to bite the first shiny thing he saw!” Altair said, throwing his forearms up.

“Shiny?” Malik asked, stroking his thumbs down the owlet’s back, who was starting to hoot in quiet distress.

Making a noise of disgust, Altair held up his left hand, his ring finger appearing more bloody that the rest. “He tried to eat my ring.”

Said ring was conspicuously missing, but Malik glanced over at Altair’s other hand and frowned when that was cover in blood as well.

“And your other hand?”

“Well, I tried to get the ring back before he could swallow it,” Altair said, sounding reasonable.

Malik’s expression stilled, clearly wondering which question he should ask first, and how he should prioritize the rest. Eventually, he began with, “Is the bird all right?”

“Perfectly fine. It’s probably gloating over its meal as we speak,” Altair replied, nudging the tap on at a slow stream to wash his hands.

Having cleared most of his anxieties, Malik relaxed and, as an afterthought, asked, “Are you going to need shots?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Let me be the judge of that,” Malik said. He put the owlet down on the table and began to feed it. “And the ring?”

Altair glanced up with a wry smile. “In my pocket.”

Immune to his attempts to be charming, Malik raised an eyebrow. While Altair’s recent display of senseless devotion could be considered valiant, it was still too unbearably stupid for Malik to find it anything but exasperating and, admittedly, hilarious. It wasn’t as if the ring wouldn’t have come back sooner or later.

“You see, I take my ring off before work,” he said. “You should try it.”

Seeing that his ring retrieval efforts were going to waste, Altair made a face in Malik’s direction. By now he was applying alcohol onto his cuts, most of them quite shallow, if numerous. He grimaced, and looked up as Malik left the little owl dozing upright on the table, gesturing for him to sit on the counter by the sink.

Altair did, holding out his hands for Malik to inspect and wrap up. Malik’s own hands were freshly sanitized, and he tensed for a quick second as their fingers rested over each other, stinging slightly but completely welcomed.

“I found a name for Sixteen,” he said, letting his knees brush at either side of Malik’s waist.

“Let’s hear it,” Malik said with a smirk.

“Jerky-Peking-Oven-Baked-Barbeque,” he said, dead serious.

“That’s a long name,” Malik mused, bandaging the last of the cuts and content to let their hands fall into Altair’s lap.

“It’s a big bird,” Altair huffed, leaning in.

He was about to say more, but Malik closed the rest of the distance to press their mouths together, having never been impressed by birdlike pecks and kisses, and Altair figured there was always time to contemplate the merits of opening up a restaurant later.

Ooo! I would love to read them!

Bluuuuuh, long time no update. And it's a short ass update at that. Also, decided that this story takes place after the current events in the AC universe. You'll see what I mean.
--
Cecil found out what Desmond meant later. Once he’d finally finished with the plates he went up to the room he’d claimed and plugged his phone in. Then it was back downstairs since he didn’t feel like being with his thoughts just then. They were a bit too depressing and melodramatic even for him, and he was an artist. He went back to the room with all the computers in it and was surprised to see Desmond in the red chair again. Something was on his head though, strapped across his eyes. Becca was watching her monitors intently while the other two were going between their monitors and whatever else they were doing.

Too curious for his own good he went over to Becca, as her station was closest to the chair. She glanced at him when he came near and he was surprised to see jungle. For some reason he was reminded of an FPS, because all he could see were the hands attached to the body. Then a gun was brought up, a rifle. His eyes widened slightly as he processed the information of what he saw and started to tick off what he knew, what he saw and what he could assume. The rifle wasn’t issued anymore, too old. After a few seconds he figured out what it was, M1 carbine. That meant he was looking at something to do with the nineteen-fifties or early sixties. Jungle, dense and looked hot, he could see rain dripping off the wide leaves of some of the plants. M1’s were US issue… well most of them were. Sixties US military issue rifle in a jungle. There was one conclusion; Vietnam. What the hell was he looking at?

“What is that?”

“Uh—” Becca seemed reluctant to say, she cast a look at Lucy who had her head pointed towards them when Cecil had spoken.

“Just tell him. Better than having to secret our way around it,” Shaun called from his table, not looking at any of them.

Lucy nodded and went back to her work. “It’s called the Animus,” she said and all sorts of facts and figures sprang up into Cecil’s mind. The Animus was a theoretical application thought up by the Templars. The Guild had acquired early schematics and dialog that talked about it. Supposedly it let people relive genetic memory. Early tests had all been failures, the subjects suffering brain death instantly or just about so as soon as they were hooked into the machine, their own minds incapable of bearing the strain of the rewiring. Since really that was all the Animus did, or how Cecil saw it. It rewrote the brain to cause memory cells to fire in different ways, thus allowing the subject to “relive” their ancestor’s memories. That had been years ago though. He didn’t doubt the Guild knew about more recent applications, they found out somehow, but obviously the new information wasn’t for the eyes of someone like Cecil. As it was the files had been almost a decade old to begin with when he’d seen them. It appeared the Assassins (and no doubt the Templars) had been busy during that time.

“What’s that?” his mouth asked, running through the proper questions. He wasn’t supposed to know what the Animus was.

“Well, in a nut shell it lets people relive the memories of their ancestors,” Becca said slowly.

“Really? How?”

“Do you know what genetic memory is?” Becca asked. Cecil fought down a smile.

—

A few hours later, in which Cecil had glued himself next to Becca in front of her monitors, Desmond woke up. He’d been reliving the memories of his ancestor, a Vietnamese man who worked for the American military as a Vietcong spy. In truth he was an Assassin, there to spy on Templars who were using the war as a way to infiltrate the Vietnamese government, though to what purpose they’d yet to discover. Cecil found it fascinating since it was something he didn’t know, and Cecil loved learning new things. After asking Becca a million and a half questions about the Animus and being thoroughly impressed that she had made one he’d found another chair and sat down next to Becca and they’d watched the ‘show’ with great attention. Of course the show had to end eventually.

The screen went white after Becca typed in some commands and Cecil swore he saw things in the whiteness. He blinked, of course it couldn’t be anything, he was seeing things. In the chair Desmond let out a soft groan as the white faded to gray and then a series of menus came on screen. He sat up and blinked around at them.

“All with us Desmond?” Becca asked scrambling up to her feet. She didn’t approach Desmond though. That Cecil found weird.

“It’s twenty-thirteen right?” Desmond asked.

“And will be all year,” Becca said in a delighted tone.

“Then yeah, I’m all here,” he said rubbing his face. Becca then moved forward and took the device off his head. He stood and stretched, his entire spine one giant ‘pop!’, the relief on Desmond’s face almost comical. He then moved past her and headed to where Cecil knew the bathroom was.

“Why did you ask him if he was all there?” Cecil asked carefully, not knowing if it was an off topic line of conversation.

“Hmm? Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said waving away his concern. Cecil frowned and sat back on his chair for a few seconds as Becca fiddled around with Baby, her name for the Animus she’d made, Cecil though it was cute, before leaning to the side to look at the monitor. It was still the menu screen.

“You ever been in the Animus?” he asked lightly.

“Once, it was pretty boring. I don’t have any cool Assassin ancestors like Desmond has,” Becca sighed.

“Hmm,” Cecil said. “What about the others?” he kept going and used the conversation to cover the sounds of him using the mouse. He wasn’t a whiz at computers, but he’d watched Becca use them and it wasn’t like he’d—

“Hey, hands off mate,” and he stiffened when Shaun’s voice sounded from behind him. He glanced behind him and gave the Brit a slightly cheeky grin. He lifted his hand off and then vacated his chair, deciding he wanted something to drink.

As he headed for the kitchen he heard noises coming from the bathroom. Noises you wouldn’t associate with doing business in there. He glanced back at the Animus room, the others couldn’t hear, then went to investigate. As he got closer he understood what he was hearing; vomiting.

He knocked softly, “Desmond,” he called, loud enough so that he was only heard on that side of the door, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” his voice was raspy and the lid slammed closed, the toilet flushed.

Cecil bit his lip, “You sure.”

“Yeah, fine— Cecil,” he said and he knew he hadn’t imagined the pause in his voice, the way he almost seemed to be about to say something else.

He frowned, “Okay,” he said slowly and left the door, going to the kitchen like he’d planned on.

So I haven't written anything in forever and there's so much unfinished crap I have lying around and whatever but I want this so hard so I'll maybe try to write it. But who would OP prefer, Alty, Ezio, or Desmond? I can see it working with all three, so I figured I'd see if you have a preference first.

D'awww! This is so cute I think I got cavities from it!

I love how Malik has named all the birds that give him problems after food. And how he and Altair interact! XD (When they started referring to the eagle as Sixteen, my brain immediately put Subject Sixteen. I think I need to get away from this fandom for a bit...unless that was your intent. Totally want's another eagle to come in and have it be named Desmond now. *shifty-eyes*)

Expansion!anon, here. I don't know about OP, but I'd love to Desmond. But all three works too. >D

But I think OP should make the final decision.

writeanon here, and hahaha, don't you worry! Sixteen was entirely intended. I was going to make his full identification S-16, but I thought it would have been a little heavy handed. I'm glad you enjoyed this! :D

THIS.
...was PERECT...

This was beautiful...we don't get enough of Ezio struggling through his pain alone. We always write about his recruits or Leonardo comforting him, but never about before, when he had to look out for himself.
Well done, write!anon...

Altair looked miserable; proud, and yet a wretched thing*. Desmond lifted a hand to touch his cheek, to comfort him, to apologize, to make him understand, to make him smile like the way he never did. But his hand, of course, never made contact with anything solid. Just air. Altair was not physically there, but his pain, his endless loneliness, was suffocating Desmond.

“Altair…I’m sorry.”

Altair did not respond. Not that Desmond was expecting him to. But somehow, his passiveness, like a blade, still managed to pierce Desmond’s heart and tear it into shreds. Desmond was not sure if Altair was sad about what had happened between him and Shaun earlier that morning (because Desmond could keep telling himself he hadn’t agreed to it, but damn if he hadn’t enjoyed it nevertheless), or if it was Malik. It was almost always Malik. Everything was about him. Desmond once loved that man; as passionately and tragically as Altair did. Right now he hated him, even if he had been dead for centuries, and had no idea who Desmond was and how he felt; just like how he never realized how Altair felt about him. Everyday, looking at Altair, Altair looking right through him, burned like an urge, left Desmond yearning for something he could never have; yearning not for a kiss, or sex, but yearning to hear a simple ‘I love you’ from those unmoving lips. Desmond’s world was so small, and yet he had no place in it.

“Altair…please.”

No one could have loved him as much as he did. No one had ever been this miserable for just loving a man. No one could have ever been like Desmond. Why Altair did not understand?

Altair was fading, like a silent movie coming to an end, and Desmond had a sinking feeling that this was for the last time. Was he happy that Shaun’s little trick had worked? Was he relieved to see that his beloved hallucination was going away? Could he sleep now, knowing Altair’s ghost was no longer watching over him, or slipping into his dreams, invading his thoughts, poisoning his heart, slowly killing him?

No.

Desmond was terrified. Altair was walking out on him, and Desmond did not want him to; not like this, never like this.

“Altair…”

---
* John Davies

Disclaimer: The part between two asterisks is from 4.48 Psychosis by Sarah Kane.

---

Desmond loved his Eagle Vision. There were times colors exhausted him; there were so many colors around, some of which Desmond could not even name, and they hurt his eyes. There were times Desmond wanted to go colorblind; to look at the walls, the paintings, the sky, the traffic, and only see gray. A widespread shade of gray. It calmed him. The occasional blue, red, golden and white sometimes unsettled him, but he could live with that. His world, the world of gray, the world of indefinable figures and indiscernible lines, the world of his own, the way he liked to see it. And no one else had a part in it; the world of solitude. The gray of loneliness.

That morning, when he went to see Shaun, he looked at him through the Eagle Vision. This way, he could not see that smug face, worse of all, that knowing-all smirk. Shaun was but a bolt of blue, an ally, and that was all Desmond wanted to see him as: an ally; nothing more, nothing less.
Shaun was at his computer, his back to him. He didn’t even turn around when Desmond entered. When he talked, Desmond, despite himself, could picture the smirk on his face.

“So, did it work? No visits from the dead, this morning?”

Desmond stood there for a moment, staring at the wall; the gray wall, the gray world. He felt safer this way, surrounded by all this grayness.

“No visits.” He finally confirmed, in a low, yet steady voice. He said it like he meant it. He said it with a clear conscience, a clear head. He said it like it did not matter, like it did not hurt.

He lied.

**
I'm dying for one who doesn't care
I'm dying for one who doesn't know

you're breaking me

Speak
Speak
Speak
**
FIN.

Would a complete and total crack pairing be acceptable?

OP fucking LOVES it! <3 Ohoho, that is adorable!

OP HERE
i want to hump you now, future writeranon, thank you for wanting to write this 8'D

YES DESMOND, DO ET ANON work your magic~

OP also wants to let you know, add everything to it if you want/can. Comedy, Romance, Smut, Angst at the end since Satine(Shaun in this case) dies, u kno. anythiiing.

The toad shows up on his dresser table, dripping pond water and slime onto the polished oak surface.

Malik jerks upright in his bed at the sound of the wet squelch-plop and slowly reaches for the dagger tucked into the side of his boot. “Where did you come from, toad?” he snaps, finding nothing remiss about speaking directly to less-evolved member of the animal kingdom because between his mother having apparently slept for twenty-years of her adolescent life and his brother having found his girlfriend in a magic lamp, this is hardly worth even batting an eye at.

“We lurk in the shadows, serving the light,” says the toad in a croak-whisper, narrowing his beady gold (gold?) eyes at him before adding indignantly, “And I'm a frog, not a toad.”

Malik throws his dagger.

It lands with surprising accuracy, sticking point-first into the wall right behind the very space the frog was occupying not a moment prior. The hilt is still vibrating from the sudden impact when an algae-green head peeks out from behind the mirror. As he swings his feet back onto the floor, even Malik has to admit, however begrudgingly, that the creature certainly has good reflexes. It is the only thing that stops him for reaching for his other dagger.

The frog looks livid, which, for a frog, basically means that it is puffing itself up like a water balloon as if somehow, if he sucks in enough air, he might actually reach above Malik's ankle. “You're not a princess, either!” it snaps back peevishly, stomping one of its hind legs. It waves a webbed, balled-up fist at him with one of its spindly, mottled front arms. “Not exactly my first choice, but I'm not whacking you with my tongue or anything, am I?”

Malik curls his lips back in a grimace as he crosses the floor, the heels of his boots muffled by the plush carpet on the ground. “Please don't,” he says, stopping only when he's directly in front of the frog, who doesn't flinch when he reaches above its head to pull his dagger out of the plaster behind it. Perhaps it doesn't realize that the prince can flay and skin him in the blink of an eye, or it actually isn't intimidated in any way. (Stupid, either way, Malik decides.)

He can feel the frog eying the bottom of his chin without looking. It mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, “Won't use tongue unless you do, then.”

“And what are you supposed to be, then? That you need a princess?” Malik asks from above the frog's head. He pulls out the dagger and lets it slip down his palm until the sharp edge of its blade is pressing right between its eyes.

The frog just swats it away with a wet slap. “I'm a prince, just like you. Or, rather, actually, I'm probably at a higher standing than you now, because my father has since stepped down into his retirement years, making me the king,” it says smugly, puffing itself up just a fraction more. Malik withdraws the dagger only because he doesn't want frog guts all over his things if he accidentally bursts it open like a needle and balloon. “But I shoved away this wretched beggar woman away last week - so persistent – and she turned out to be a witch, and here I am: enchanted frog until an available prince or princess kisses me.”

Malik narrows his eyes in thought. “I've heard about that spell. Doesn't throwing you against the wall also break the curse?” he questions, slipping his dagger back into the snug hidden leather compartment he fashioned for it in the interior of the shoe. “One of my cousins had it for a while, before his little sister threw him out the window.” [1]

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.3

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