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
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Discussion

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

kjlds Altair/Malik/Maria. I approoooooove!

I have a half-formed idea of one of the boys *pretending* anonymity to protect their own interests/emotions while attempting to seduce the other (Ok, it's totally Altair trying to get into Malik's robes, and not wanting Malik to know...) Is that an appropriate response or nowhere near what you were hoping for?

I. JUST> LOVE>

That is all :-D

Captcha: allenger Junior? But I never met allenger Senior!

“Wh-wha—”

“Oh, come on, I don’t mind pegging you and doing the dirty in doggy position. Or in the missionary position, or any other twisted position you may have done with that Alex guy.”

“Y-you-you! N-no! No! No, no, no, no, no!”

“What are you a tiny child?” Shaun sneered. “Most men would be willing—”

“Most men are straight!” Desmond snarled. “No! I’m not—no! Uh-uh. No! I can’t—you guys—I just—no!”

“Well,” Rebecca murmured, “did you usually top? Or bottom?”

“W-what do you think?” he hissed, absolutely mortified.

“Topped. I could see you being one helluva top,” Rebecca said, smiling almost dreamily before looking at him.

Desmond groaned miserably, resting his forehead on Rebecca’s legs as he pitied himself. He did not want his sex life to become the topic of conversation for the next forever. “I took it up the ass.”

“No way!” Rebecca shouted, and Desmond flinched.

“You don’t know Alex.”

“Who was he?”

“Is. He’s still looking for me… I hope. Alex Mercer, Blacklight boy.”

He could heard Lucy typing it into the computer. Probably Google searching. Abruptly, he rose, pushing her feet off and getting his only other set of jeans, stuffing them in the backpack.

“I’m going out. Don’t look for me,” he murmured as he fled the room, his face still bright red.

He ended up slipping into one of the houses, the people out and about, and he took a shower. He let his mind wander back to Alex, and that memory came back, along with other memories, and before he knew it, he was blowing his load in some stranger’s shower with his clothes in their washer with pilfered detergent and softener. Afterward, he got out, vigorously scrubbing his face and hair with a towel to dry it before he wrapped it around his waist and paced out, putting his clothes in the dryer and waiting. By the time he was dressed and leaving, the only evidence was the towel in the hamper the people had, he felt a little better.

He walked back down the ramp, fear twisting his stomach into knots and
making him feel sick. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want “lessons” in handling women. He wanted his boyfriend; he wanted peace, and he wanted to be done with the Animus. With a sigh, he turned the final corner and paced down. The others didn’t bother acknowledging him, and he frowned, looking around. Something was wrong. He glanced over the Animus, the stations, the food supplies. He looked at the shelves with Ezio’s artifacts, counted the sleeping bags.

“Who hid Rebecca’s sleeping bag?”

Rebecca turned to look at him, grinning like a shit. “Guess who’s sleeping with you tonight?”

He could feel his heart drop into his stomach, and his stomach crash into his intestines, and his intestines dissolve into mush, and he realized she was completely serious. His mouth was drier than a desert, and his lungs were not working.

“W-why?”

“What is your problem?” Shaun spit. “It’s just a woman! It’s not like you’ll contract herpes!”

Desmond’s head whipped around, and he snarled at Shaun. “I don’t—women are gross! I just—gah!” He shook his head. “No. I’m not sleeping with you. You’ll molest me in my sleep.”

She laughed. “That’s my job!”

He shook his head, positively mortified.

“What, were you abused as a child or something?” Shaun quipped.

“As a matter of fact,” Desmond snarled, “my mother was the one in charge of discipline. I don’t want to sleep with Rebecca!”

“Hey, dude,” Rebecca said, reclining in her chair. “Just think of it as a two friends sleeping together, yeah? No ‘friends with benefits.’ No ‘lovers.’ Just two goofballs that will probably end up starting a pillow fight.”

Desmond smiled weakly. It did help, in that sense, to think of it that way.

“And don’t worry, I’ll molest you when you’re sound asleep.”

Desmond’s face dropped, and Rebecca started cackling.

“Rebecca,” Lucy said, giving her a stern look, “don’t freak him out any more.”

Desmond sighed miserably as he sat down on the sleeping bag, giving it a longing look. He felt bad for his poor bag.

“Why are you so afraid of women, Desmond?”

Desmond sighed. “Look, I don’t know, really. They’re just… gross.”

Lucy quirked an eyebrow, and when he noticed, he waved his hands wildly. “I didn’t mean you! I mean—I just—there’s—gah! Like, I don’t know. I guess, it really started when I was on the Farm.”

“How?”

“I just… I can’t…” his hands twitched, and his fingers curled. “I can’t—I mean—I know but! I just…” he grunted.

He gave a disgruntled noise, pulling the pillow from his bag and clamping it firmly over his head as he bent in half.

“I was done with women after that. No more for me. Nuh-uh. Nope. No more women. She was… I just!”

He could hear Lucy laughed quietly, almost completely covered by Rebecca’s loud laughter. It seemed the whole universe was out to pick on him this time. Even Shaun was snickering, his back turned to him. He groaned, trying to tune out their laughter. He cursed the universe, swearing proficiently enough to make a sailor blush. He hated his life.

He spent the rest of the day curled up in his sleeping bag, and when it was time for bed, he crawled out and fled outside. He lay on the roof, his arms behind his head, getting a bit of a thrill as he occasionally released the hidden blade, feeling it graze his skin. He was never going back—sooner to the Templars than the Animus 2.0.

The moon was high before he heard someone else climb onto the roof, the loud, unskilled feet of someone with boots clambering ungracefully up the wall. When he saw Rebecca out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t even bother to dignify her with a greeting. He was perfectly happy pretending she wasn’t there and that she wasn’t just trying to find another way to humiliate him. He was done with that shit.

“Hey.”

He still ignored her, staring into the skies and memorizing the layout of the stars. He never knew when he might need to know where Cassiopeia is. If that was even one of the constellations. The silence stretched on, and Desmond had no qualms about letting her know just how much he hated her right at that moment, hoping and praying his aura would scare her off. There was a chance, however, she had become immunized through Shaun, who was all bark and no bite. Desmond could overpower him in a heartbeat. Perhaps he should just establish his dominance—even Lucy was having trouble keeping up with him anymore during the training sessions.

“Sorry about earlier.”

He didn’t bother to twitch a muscle in recognition. He thought he saw a red star in the sky, much more fascinated by that. He wondered how far away it was, how many light years the waves had to travel before they reached the earth. He may have been “stupid, no better than a Neanderthal,” as Shaun so eloquently put it, but he did have his dignity, and he did have some smarts. When Rebecca leaned over him, he pretended to stare straight though her, making the red star appear in his mind’s eye as the catch was released on the blade. It scratched his skin, ruffling the hairs, pressing coldly into his palm, and Rebecca’s eyes grew wide when she saw it. Still, he paid her no attention, closing his eyes as the blade retracted. He released it again, retracting it a second time before he exhaled softly.

“Desmond?”

He didn’t respond. She sighed dramatically, flopping down on top of him, and he growled. He cracked open an eye, his lips curling as he met her gaze. She flinched.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

“You’re not sorry,” Desmond growled. “You’re not sorry in the least. You’ve found this entire thing fucking hilarious. You, Shaun, Lucy—all of you. Assholes.”

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry!”

“No, you’re not. You don’t even care. This is all too amusing to you.”

Rebecca was silent, searching his face for something, and he was careful to make sure there was no emotion seeping though save anger.

“You have to admit, though, it is kinda childish—”

“Just shut, up, okay? It be like asking you to do something that makes you uncomfortable… if you even have anything to make you uncomfortable. I’ll kill whoever you want, eat a snake, kill a guy, pull out my own teeth, just… not…” he growled.

Rebecca laughed, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m sorry, Desmond. I’ve just gotten used to seeing you all kickass that this is, like, ‘Fuck, man, he really acts like this?’”

“I just think that you’re just enjoying making fun of me.”

“Because you’re so invincible.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Not this time.”

She stuck her tongue out, and he responded in like. He jerked when she kissed his tongue, accidently releasing the hidden blade and slicing his ring finger. He pushed her off and looked at his finger before sticking it in his mouth to suck as the blood well. It wasn’t bad, but it still stung.

“Oops,” Rebecca said, and Desmond hissed as he got up and hopped off the roof, tucking and rolling as he had done so many times before.

He was already in his sleeping bag when Rebecca returned, curled up as he nursed his finger. She looked down at her feet.

“Uh, hey, I tried talking to Lucy… But, uh…”

He grunted, making room for her but otherwise saying nothing. He kept his back turned as she slid in, and he fell asleep thinking of ways to kill them all and get away with it. He was pissed.

When morning came around though, he had one arm slung around Rebecca’s waist as she spooned against him. His nose was pressed against the back of her head, and their breathing was in sync. He woke feeling refreshed—as if he had slept better than he had in a long time. He stretched his legs, curling his toes as the woman rolled over.

“You’re awake.”

“Of course I am.”

She laughed. “You must have been really worn out from yesterday if you slept dreamlessly.”

“Thankfully,” he murmured as he moved over her.

“D-Desmond?”

The man blinked, then scowled. “Who is this Desmond you speak of?” He climbed out of the bag, throwing his arms in the air. “What is so important about this man?”

“Des!” the woman shouts again, and he seethes.

He marches over and grabs her chin. “Rosa, I am done with this nonsense. It is clear that this Minerva woman has poisoned your mind.”

“Uh, dude, I don’t speak Italian without a translator.”

This was too much. He snarled, sitting on a chair and covering his face with his hands.

“Uh… Lucy?”

There was silence. Then the sound of someone kicking someone, and he peeked to see Rosa kicking Lucrezia, and he snorted.

“Luce, we gotta problem.”

“What, Rebecca?”

That was not Rosa’s name—he didn’t even know where in Roma they got such a name.

“He thinks I’m Rosa—and he’s not snapping out of it.”

He growled. “Of course you are Rosa. Why do you talk to Lucrezia as if she is your best friend?”

“Desmond?” he heard Lucrezia say sleepily.

He roared, rising. “Who the Hell is Desmond? Why do you torment me? Have I not suffered enough?”

He looked around: he must be in some sort of illusion.

“Desmond, shut up. Some of us are trying to sleep, you bleeding idiot. Save your petty comments for people who care.”

He twisted to see another man lying in a bag, glaring at him. He didn’t know anyone like that. This man was too mean-spirited to be Leonardo. He scowled back at him, blinking. Then, with a shake of his head and a twitch of his nose, he snapped back into place.

“Huh?”

Shaun snorted, rolling over. “Go back to bed.”

“Maybe I’m not tired anymore,” Desmond growled, walking over and standing over him. “Maybe I want to torment you.”

“You do that with every breath you take.”

He scoffed and was just about to step on Shaun’s head.

“Desmond?”

He blinked, looking over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

The two women were silent, watching him. He stared at them briefly.

“Yeah?”

“For God’s bloody sake, answer the damn man,” Shaun hissed. “Then shut up so we can sleep in.”

“We’re not putting you in the Animus for a few days,” Lucy mumbled, looking at him worried.

His lips twitched upward into a smirk. “Fine.”

“And you won’t be sleeping with either me or Rebecca from now on.”

“Thank God,” he muttered, climbing back into his sleeping bag and curling up.

He was out like a light.
------------
Tell me, OP, doest thou approve of ProtoCreed?

This is taking longer than it should have, what with the while Christmas lead-up, so I do apologise! It may be a few weeks before it's completely done. Here's another part for now!

Ignoring the shards of ice in his stomach, he slowly drew a line of kisses down Altaïr's chin and neck, pausing to rest his mouth against the heartbeat he felt there. Swift as his own; doubtless he dreamt of Maria. Malik hissed at the thought, trying to concentrate on the man he was intent on violating. Swinging his legs onto the bed, he moved to straddle Altaïr and renew his assault on the assassin's neck. This time he was rougher; it would not do for Altaïr to wake and remember nothing, maybe even to mourn Malik. The bruises should be enough to ensure no one wept for him.

His own tears went unnoticed, dripping forlornly onto Altaïr's chest as Malik struggled to remove the half-unlaced shirt. He persevered, tearing the fabric apart, rewarded by the sight of battle-scarred skin and battle-hardened muscle. Tossing the now-tattered shirt aside, he hesitantly caressed an old burn on Altaïr's ribcage. The marks came as no surprise: how many times had they trained together when the heat made excess clothing unbearable? He had traced the map of his friend's skin more times than he could count. But seeing and touching were two separate things.

Bowing his head, Malik slowly ran his palm over a cold-hardened nipple, smearing the salty residue of his own tears. Between his legs, he could feel Altaïr's body react. Leaning forward, he tentatively brushed the nipple with his tongue, simultaneously rocking his hips, pressing their erections together. Instantly he felt Altaïr shudder, moaning something unintelligible.
Maria. He sees only her. A bitter laugh burst from Malik's lips as he considered how truly pathetic his situation was. He stared down at Altaïr's face.
"I am...so sorry." This time, when he kissed the other man's mouth, it was passionate, desperate. The lips beneath his parted slightly, and he pulled back with an almost inhuman groan. Shaking all over, Malik closed his eyes.
A rough hand seized him by his hair.
"Malik."
He looked into Altaïr's clear golden gaze.

For an endless moment, neither moved. Altaïr's face was unreadable as he stared at the man on top of him. Malik looked away first.
"I..." he stopped when Altaïr released his hair, and instead cupped his chin.
"Malik." The murmur wiped all thoughts from his mind. No hate there, though he searched for it. Maybe he was mad, imagining a tender whisper he had no right to...
Altaïr cradled his face in both hands and leant forward, close enough for Malik to feel his breath. "You fool..." he silenced any reply with his mouth.

Too shocked for any semblance of coherency, Malik was reduced to gripping Altaïr's shoulder for balance as a forceful tongue parted his lips and set about exploring his mouth. Hot sparks of desire rushed to his groin, and he groaned into the kiss. The hands on his face loosened their grip, and Altaïr pulled back to look him in the eyes.
"You drugged the wine." It wasn't a question, and Malik gave him no reply, struggling to calm his breathing. "I knew there was something wrong when you avoided my gaze...but I will admit, this is not what I expected."

You still there, writernon? I'd love to read what you've written.

*looks at date* You monster. (╯° Д°）╯︵ ┻━┻

Captcha: owdcent physiol-- Ow, decent physical, you say? DIVINE PROVIDENCE!

Not OP, but this was great, anonwriter! I would love to read Altair's POV as well, but this really works as a stand-alone as well.

Oh my god, I'm taking this! I really need to write this.

battlefield (1/4)

It would be too much credit to say that they loathed each other when, in fact, they hardly knew enough to even reach an agreement on mutual abhorrence. Anyway, as it was, mutual agreements on anything whatsoever seemed rather far along the path right now.

“I would be the groom. We are having the ceremony in my country. You can't possibly expect the subjects to see their king being given to another person like a woman and her dowry,” Altair said, illustrating the absurdity of the idea with an impatient wave of his hand, nearly throwing off his hood when he balked at the notion.

“Don't be absurd! I am a man, we would both be grooms, and I never agreed to having it in your decrepit, cold little hobble that you call a castle.”

“I have the bigger kingdom,” Altair sniffed haughtily.

“Oh, really,” Malik barked, tipping his chin up in challenge, sounding a centimeter away from just laughing cruelly in the other man's face as Altair bristled. “Really - are you going to pull the size comparison out right now? Isn't that just a little bit juvenile, your majesty, and if you really want to go there, should I mention that if you were to compare the sizes of the national treasuries, you would find yourself severely lacking?”

“Oh my god,” mumbled Kadar, burying his face in his hands as he thudded his head back against a nearby pillar. The Al-Sayf princes had met Altair before, of course, being that they were dignitaries of allied neighboring states, but those had been stiff and formal affairs where their interactions had mostly been limited to pleasantries and largely unlimited amounts of copious drink. They hadn't actually talked much but he honestly hadn't expected the first formal marriage meeting to go this badly.

Even warring countries didn't collide this badly.

It was an unfortunate circumstance of luck that neither country had produced a female heir. Altair's father had died when his son was young, leaving the country to a teenager who had yet to learn how to govern his own tongue, let alone a country. Kadar had heard there had been quite a political scuffle concerning the prince and his vizier a few years prior, but all that foreign hubbub had been lost in the ruckus surrounding Kadar's father's decision not to take another wife after their mother passed on. She had been sickly for nearly a decade after Kadar's birth and the country's hope of a princess had died with her.

So when the rumors came of a threat from the west, of the Templar empire banding together in hopes of pushing their influence east, a political marriage was simply the easiest, cleanest way to ensure a united front on their par, even if it was prince-to-prince rather than prince-to-princess. Then again, Kadar was somewhat sure that when his father had considered the 'cleanest' option, he really hadn't been thinking of the possible bloodshed that could take place in this very room.

Speaking of his father: “This is exciting,” said the King Al-Sayf, smiling in entirely inappropriate good humor as he lightly elbowed his younger son in the ribs. His eyes were alight with something fond and thoroughly entertained as he watched his first son make a complete debacle of the arranged marriage not four feet away from them. Even the servants and guards were beginning to look vaguely uncomfortable, shuffling in their positions and casting glances. Kadar swore that one of the water girls just shot him a look of pity. “They're getting along well!”

“Red and white. The royal colors are red and white,” came Altair's steely insistence.

“Blue and gold are royal colors in my country and a crucial part of the family emblem. As much as I'm sure you'd like to, you're not getting married to yourself or your country. You are being tied to me,” Malik bit back, slapping a hand to his own chest. Altair frowned, seemingly considering that prospect, and gave Malik a look that swept from head to toe and back up again before repeating for good measure. “Eyes up here, your majesty,” Malik ground out.

battlefield (2/4)

Kadar turned an incredulous stare at his father. “Are you serious?” he asked, voice rising radically in pitch. Malik usually chided him for that, said it made him sound like a maiden in waiting, but Malik was also currently too preoccupied with flirting the thin line between stubbornness and an outright act of national aggression to care. “Father, we are going to end up at war,” he said gravely, tugging on the old man's elbow. “They are going to kill each other. Father, you have to stop them. I would very much like to keep the one brother I have. Please.”

“Come, come, Kadar. You are both grown men, both entitled to your own betrothed! You cannot keep your brother all to yourself. And you are a few years too late to be having the selfish-younger-sibling complex now,” scolded his father helpfully.

“No, you are completely missing the point And that is not what I meant,” Kadar groaned. “Father, they look one inch way from exchanging blows! It's terrible!”

“Don't be absurd,” the King Al-Sayf laughed, affectionately cradling the back of Kadar's head with a broad, sword-calloused hand. “This is splendid!”

Kadar gaped. He knew his family line had been born and bred to uphold their surname. For centuries, the Al-Sayfs had been blessed with kings and queens that had excelled in war and sparring of both political and physical natures, ensuring them relative stability, but they had never actually been bloodthirsty (except for maybe Fourth Cousin Abbas, who Kadar heard had recently been jailed in his faraway estate for trying to start a riot based on what he perceived as the rising price in apple produce). Surely, his father couldn't be hankering for a fight enough to bait another country with his eldest son?

“Am I adopted?” Kadar asked desperately, which, all right, was not necessarily the most cohesive jump in thought when he thought about it, but at the moment it seemed perfectly appropriate and extremely pressing for the second prince's state of mind.

His father gave him a look, one of those, 'Have you been at the hashish again, Kadar, because we have had words about this' look, and thumped his younger son soundly in the back, enough to make Kadar pitch forward a few steps before catching himself. Al-Sayf men were normally rather heavy-handed in their affections. “Don't be absurd. Look, Kadar, look how freely they are speaking to each other already! It is an instantaneous reaction. This is better than I could have hoped.”

“Father,” Kadar said patiently, straightening out his posture. “I hope you know that most instantaneous reactions tend to be explosions,” he said reasonably, motioning to where Altair and Malik were on their feet, fists clenched at their sides and sticking their faces into each other's space.

Their bodies were tense and thrumming with aggression. Kadar knew his brother well enough to know that Malik was barely containing himself, and probably only because his brother, father, and future subjects were watching. Altair looked surprisingly alike, even if the lines of his white silhouette were swathed mostly in robes. The curious golden eyes of the Ibn'La-Ahad line were flashing with danger, and the castle servants had subconsciously cleared the area within a ten-foot radius of him, perhaps sensing their king's imminent tantrum. It looked like a cockfight, not courting.

“Messy, messy explosions,” Kadar pressed. “With blood and innards everywhere.”

“Kadar,” said his father, folding his hands behind his back. “There is no more intimate way for two warriors to meet than by the clash of sword to sword. If it is sword to shield, then the grounds are uneven, and sword to arrow is fighting a stranger at best. But at the collision of iron to steel, you can look a man in the eyes and see what he is really worth – his nature. You can see if he is a brave man or a coward, a wise man or a fool.” He looked to Kadar and at the sight of his younger son's baffled face, sighed and pointedly added, “Love is simply yet another battlefield.”

battlefield (3/4)

“Those sound like song lyrics,” Kadar said suspiciously. “And really, Father, those sword metaphors work much better with Malik than they do with me.”

“That's preposterous!” Malik's voice broke in, the low timbre of his voice made loud by his indignation. “How will I oversee my kingdom when the day comes if I always have to stay by your side? The next thing you'll propose is having me sleep in the same quarters as the rest of your women! I am not going to be part of your harem, not unless you'd like to consider yourself part of mine,” he hissed, throwing a hand out that, for all the force he had put behind it, still managed not to hit Altair. Dryly, he added, “If so, I can arrange to have a dress of silks arranged for you.”

Altair's teeth bared for a moment in a snarl. He was uncharacteristically quiet for a long moment before he answered, voice even and level, “I do not have a harem. And I have no women. I would expect for you to follow this custom, if it is not yours, and have none either, if we are to be wed.” He paused, glancing down at his feet before drawing himself up, holding stalwart and still like a stone wall. “I will lay this down as a basic requirement and should you fail to meet it, then we will have to come to another agreement as to how to unite the kingdoms.”

“Oh,” murmured King Al-Sayf quietly, thoughtfully rubbing his beard.

Kadar looked worriedly at his brother's profile. Malik hadn't budged an inch either, all but frozen where he stood, eyes boring into Altair's face. The young king had his jaw set, not the slightest bit of compromise in his expression and Kadar wondered if this would be it, if this would be what finally breached Malik's limit before he called off the arrangement completely. It was a tall order that the other king was asking, especially in an arranged union between two men. An exception would probably follow if an heir was to be conceived, of course, but this was a pricey, dangerous bid.

In politics, it was easier to sign over one's body, one's loyalties, and even one's country before signing over one's heart.

“They don't even like each other,” Kadar muttered in confusion, wondering why Altair had set down this stipulation in the first place. The alternative seemed more beneficial to both. Was it truly that set of a tradition that he could not break it for mutual convenience? There was more at stake than the upholding of monogamy, which was more an exception than a norm in their world. Sure, Kadar's father had only chosen his mother, but he knew enough of the world outside to know that rarely was that ever the case.

Malik finally looked back at them, glancing at his family over his shoulder. He looked conflicted, Kadar noticed, no doubt torn between his duty to serve his country and the innate desire to quench his heart. Malik had always been a dutiful son, upholding every tenet of their country's code to almost bullheaded strictness, but this was not a weight Kadar wanted his brother to bear alone. “Akh,” he began, about to say how it was all right, they could figure something else out, Kadar could go find someone to marry instead, but a hand at his shoulder pulled him back.

His father stepped forward instead, face kind but unsympathetic. “Malik, we have no say in this. It is your decision to make and yours to carry out.”

Kadar stared at his father, mouth open, and then at his brother, who was still looking back to them with hard eyes and a small frown. Then he looked past his brother at Altair, who was staring at the back of Malik's head with single-minded focus, slight bewilderment and uncertainty creeping into the edges of his bland expression, like he was seeing something strange and mercurial take form before his very eyes. The light played tricks on Kadar's vision and for a second, Altair's eyes seem to reflect back a flickering bright blue, like the flame of a very hot fire, before finally easing back into gold. Unseen to Malik, Altair settled back on his heels, looking somewhat smug, before Malik even turned back to face him.

“Is King Altair a psychic?” Kadar whispered to his father.

His father gave him a 'No. More. Hashish. Kadar. look.

battlefield (4/4)

“Fine,” said Malik, his back now facing them so that Kadar could not see the look on his brother's face, whether it was resignation or anger or sheer unflinching pride, if it was the look that men wore to their gallows, the one they wore to their weddings, or the one they wore to war (if there was any distinction at all). Malik and Altair stood like two immovable mountains, staring each other down with an unbridged impasse between them that remained uncrossed, but grew smaller yet. “I will agree to those terms. We will have no one but each other.”

In a panic for his brother's happiness, Kadar didn't even realize that they had finally agreed on something.

“Father,” he whispered urgently, squirming under the old man's startlingly iron-handed grip. “We can't force Malik to do this,” he pleaded. “We can't make him give up everything just to pull this through! There must be other ways...”

King Al-Sayf raised a brow. “As I have said, it is not our decision,” he said, sounding somehow proud and bemused at the same time. “A good king must learn to live and abide by the choices he makes. It is something the both of them will have to learn and it will be easier together.” He smiled to himself, pulling Kadar in to whisper conspiratorially in his younger son's ears, eyes still caught on the sight of the two young kings-to-be in front of him. “Besides, I think you and I both know your brother well enough to realize that Malik can be forced to do very little he does not choose for himself.”

“Then there will be a ceremony in my country, then one in yours,” Altair proposed, looking less stiff now, even if he hadn't backed down at all. At what was no doubt Malik's questioning frown, he elaborated, “The alliance must be bound here first. There is no other king besides me, and anything else, the nobles will view as a weakness. You will find that loyalties here are not as iron-clad as they are in your lands.” He glanced quickly to the side at the large ornamental window that surveyed his capital city, the shadow of his brow making him look haunted for a brief moment, as if he had expected to see a shadow silhouetted in that light, standing between him and his land.

Malik rolled one shoulder in an impatient shrug. “Whatever. The countries will be one and the same anyway, if all goes well.” He sniffed imperiously, jabbing a finger into Altair's chest as if to make up for whatever small concession he had just made with an overt act of aggression instead. “But red, white, blue and gold will all be used. No arguments,” he added, and considering Altair's gambit had been a bid on their fidelity, Kadar did not consider this ultimatum a large one to make.

Still, Kadar squinted, hawk-eyed and at the ready to leap to his brother's defense should there be need of it, as Altair raised his arm, circled his hand around Malik's wrist and did not let go. The hold was neither loose nor too strong, Malik's hand neither slipping out of the grip nor turning blotchy-pale with the pressure, his finger still skirting over the fabric above Altair's heart. King Al-Sayf was making soft, pleased 'hmm's and 'heh's at Kadar's side, but all were unfathomable as his sword metaphors and his strange pseudo-sadistic delight at the situation.

“Blue,” Altair agreed.

“And gold,” Malik prompted.

“Gold,” Altair parroted, smiling something small and secret as he lifted his eyes from their hands to Malik's face.

not-OP is in love with this fill!!

This is wonderful anon!! Well done!!!!!!!!!! <3

I REALLY want this. <3

I need more DD:

This is a piece from a RP I did with a friend, so it's a bit sketch-y, but I hope you like it! Features young, teenage Lorenzo ^_^ so it's set somewhere between Giovanni's rescue at the Arno and the beginning of the game.

In the Heat of Battle

Giovanni was enjoying an afternoon stroll with Lorenzo when a flicker of movement on the rooftops caught his eye. He knew the guard patrols' movements, and there shouldn't have been anyone there at this time of day. "Altezza, I need to go check on something. You should be all right with your guardsmen, si?"

"Of course." Lorenzo waved a hand carelessly, not bothering to look for what caught Giovanni's attention. "You worry too much, Giovanni. No harm will come to me on the streets of Firenze." As much as he enjoyed Giovanni's company (most often at night), the older man's protectiveness could border on excessive at times. "Do return quickly, the opening performance at the festival is starting soon."

Giovanni didn't bother to argue, much as Lorenzo's overconfidence sparked a moment of frustration. He scaled the wall easily and was up over the roof in moments. His target was annoyingly elusive, and when finally caught, proved to be only a thief who protested that someone had paid him to show himself and then run. Giovanni's stomach turned to ice and he raced back to where he had left Lorenzo.

Not long after Giovanni left, the assassins struck. Lorenzo had taken a turn down an alleyway, hoping to shorten his path to the festivities, when a knife flew past his face, missing him by a hairsbreadth. He whirled to see it land squarely in the throat of one of his guards. It was followed by another, this one skimming a red line across his cheek, and as his remaining guard yelled and drew his sword, black-garbed thugs appeared at either end of the alley, cutting off his escape.

Lorenzo fumbled for his blade, backing up against the wall. "I do not know who you are," he cried with more confidence than he felt, "but you are making a mistake. I am the son of the Medici, my family owns the largest bank in Italia. I can offer you coin if you let me leave."

"Oh, we know exactly who you are. And we've no interest in your coin, only the bounty on your head." One of the assassins - the leader of the group - grinned wickedly, as his compatriots quickly dispatched Lorenzo's other bodyguard.

Alone, staring death in the face, Lorenzo could only brandish his sword defensively in front of him and cry out for Giovanni.

Giovanni raced across the roof and leaped from its edge, short sword in one hand and hidden blade at the ready on the other. Two of the assailants crumpled as he landed on them, the blades finding vital points.

Relief flooded Lorenzo at his lover's return, and he raced toward Giovanni, but another thug blocked his path. He raised his sword, clumsily fending off an attack. For all his bravado in the tournaments, Lorenzo had never thought he'd need those skills to fight for his life, and fear more than anything paralyzed his movements.

Giovanni spun lithely, his blade slicing through the spine of Lorenzo's attacker before he turned back to the other assailants.

Seeing that he would only be a hindrance, Lorenzo backed away from the main brawl, his eyes wide as he watched Giovanni dodge and whirl with all the grace of a dancer, his enemies' blood spilling in the wake of his blades. Unfortunately, too mesmerized by the performance, Lorenzo left his back exposed, and a thug snuck up from behind him.

Giovanni cursed as he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and he took a moment to send a throwing knife into a vulnerable spot on the new assailant.

Lorenzo blinked and turned, not even registering the movement until he saw the knife sticking out of his would-be attacker’s chest. He yelled and swung his sword, striking the man down, though the thug's wound was already fatal.

By now, only Giovanni and the leader of the assassins were left, circling each other like wild wolves.

Blades flickered out like tongues of flame, licking at one another with harsh metallic ringing. The two lunged and parried, striking and leaping away and darting in again for the next attack, weapons flying almost too fast for the eye to see. Giovanni hissed as his opponent's blade sliced along his bicep, but it was a shallow wound and on his off arm.

"Giovanni!" Lorenzo cried, leaping instinctively to his lover's rescue, forgetting for the moment that he was clearly outmatched.

"Hehe, the pup yelps." The leader of the assassins grinned cruelly, as he turned and easily deflected Lorenzo's blade, taking advantage of the other's foolhardy attack to go in for the killing thrust.

Unable to get his blade up in time, Giovanni lunged, slamming his weight onto the other man to knock him away from Lorenzo. At close quarters, the attacker could not use his sword either, but he landed a vicious punch to Giovanni's gut. The two rolled around, kicking and grappling each other in an ugly scuffle, until Giovanni finally got his hidden blade in for a fair strike, slitting the other's throat.

Lorenzo's heart was hammering in his chest when the last assailant drew his dying breath. "Oh, dear Gods, Giovanni." He looked around the alleyway, strewn with dead bodies, all cut down by his lover's blade, and a surge of something hot and lustful bubbled up in his blood. "That was incredible," he breathed, and without even thinking crushed Giovanni's mouth in a passionate kiss.

Giovanni's eyes widened, but the passionate attack combined with the adrenaline still surging through his blood to create a powerful rub of lust. With a growl he drew Lorenzo further into the alley and around a corner out of sight, pressing the younger man against the wall and ravishing his mouth.

Lorenzo moaned into the kiss, eagerly wrapping his legs around Giovanni and arching into the embrace. The raw scent of blood and sweat and steel made his head spin, his muscles tremble with hunger.

"How surprising, that the young principe of Firenze is so eager after witnessing this," Giovanni's smirk had a dark, dangerous edge to it. "But you like that predatory side of me, don't you?"

"Yes, Giovanni. I want you," Lorenzo hissed, pressing his arousal against the older man's thigh. Indeed, seeing Giovanni tear through the assailants like they were paper dolls reminded him of how lethal the man was, how utterly exciting compared to the humdrum parade of his daily life, and the knowledge of that burned like fire in his veins.

"Oh, you'll have me," Giovanni growled, tugging off Lorenzo's clothes. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't see straight."

Lorenzo shivered at the harsh promise, his fingers flying to unbuckle Giovanni's belt and pull down the other's breeches. "Yes," he repeated hoarsely. "Do it. Take me hard." Despite everything, Lorenzo still managed to inject an imperious command into his words.

Giovanni groped for his blade oil, pouring some on his fingers and reaching down to press them inside his lover.

Lorenzo groaned, tightening around the slick digits. His head fell back against the brick alley wall, exposing his long, pale neck to Giovanni's lips.

Giovanni attacked the exposed flesh, biting and sucking harshly, uncaring of the marks he would leave behind. He stretched Lorenzo without regard for gentleness, rubbing against his sensitivity ruthlessly.

Lorenzo gasped and bucked, his fingernails digging sharply into Giovanni's shoulder. By now, his length was throbbing stiffly, and he rubbed it insistently against the older man's thigh, a soft whine curling in his throat.

"Tell me how much you want it," Giovanni growled, nipping at his lover's sensitive ear.

"Want it," Lorenzo panted, turning to catch Giovanni's mouth in a sloppy kiss. "Want you. Now." His eyes were black with lust.

"Yes," Giovanni said breathlessly, slicking his cock. He positioned himself and took his lover with one rough thrust.

Lorenzo gave a sharp, choked cry, clenching instinctively around the thick flesh inside him.

"Fuck, yes," the assassin groaned breathlessly at the pressure, so sweetly tight around him.

"Oh, Giovanni, more, ahh," Lorenzo moaned as he ground into each thrust. One hand wound tightly in Giovanni's sweat-damp hair, while the other slid down to curl around his own arousal, swollen and aching to be touched.

"Mine," Giovanni growled, knocking Lorenzo's hand away and attending to the stiff need with swift, rough strokes, timed to match his equally brutal thrusts.

A ragged gasp tore from Lorenzo's lips. Wrapping his legs around Giovanni's waist, he arched up and into the punishing thrusts, raining kisses down desperately between half-tangled pleas, choked moans.

"Beg," Giovanni said breathlessly, his pace speeding up. "Tell me how badly you need it."

Lorenzo's eyes widened at the rough command, so unlike anything that had ever been spoken to him, even as his cock drooled eagerly in response. "Giovanni," he groaned, "ah, I... I need..." He bucked impatiently, a violent shudder running through his spine as he neared release...

Giovanni's hand shifted, tightening around the base of Lorenzo's arousal, preventing his climax. "Not until I say so," he growled. "You're mine. Even to the depths of pleasure, you're mine. You'll come when I tell you to and not before."

Lorenzo bucked and writhed futilely, his jaw clenched, his cheeks dyed a deep, furious crimson... but despite all his curses, Giovanni's dominance awakened a burning need inside him. Shock at this merciless side of the assassin mixed with lust and want, and for only the first time in his life, Lorenzo de' Medici found it in himself to beg.

"Please!" he gasped. "Please, I need you, I need it," he clawed at Giovanni's back, "Let me come...!

"Good," Giovanni said hoarsely, aiming to strike Lorenzo's pleasure a little harder. "Tell me you belong to me, say you'll do anything for me, I want to hear how you love taking my hard cock up your ass. If I like what I hear, I'll let you come."

That stung Lorenzo's pride a little, but by now, he was too far gone to protest. "Yours, always. Anything you want," he panted breathlessly, tensing and moaning again at the accurate thrusts. "Ah Gods, yes, fuck me like that." Shivering, he squeezed around the slick, throbbing length. "Love this, love you, your cock inside me, so deep, it's all I can think of - ohh, Giovanni, please... begging you..." Lorenzo gave a strangled moan, no longer coherent.

The desperate words tore through Giovanni like fire in his veins. He released his grip on Lorenzo, gasping as his climax hit, "Fuck yes, do it, Lorenzo, come for me!"

Lorenzo threw back his head and moaned, as he spurted his hot seed all over his stomach and chest.

Giovanni groaned as his lover involuntarily clenched around him, his hips jerking a little in the aftermath.

Lorenzo closed his eyes, sweat streaming down his flushed face and neck, as he struggled to catch his breath. Ye Gods, an attempt on his life followed by... this. That was far more excitement than he'd planned for today. When his heart had finally returned to a normal rate, he eased gingerly off of Giovanni, staggering a little when he put his weight on his unsteady legs.

Giovanni steadied his lover, grimacing as the movement tugged at the shallow wound on his arm. "Are you all right?"

"Fine, fine... because you were here." Now that the excitement was over, Lorenzo had time to hug his lover gratefully. But Giovanni's grimace caused him to pull away with concern. "You're bleeding," he said as he looked at the wound worriedly, forgetting for a moment the oozing cut on his own cheek.

"Ah, so are you," Giovanni frowned, taking a handkerchief and fussing over the cut on Lorenzo's face. "Mi dispiace, Lorenzo. I should not have left your side."

"No, the fault was mine. I should have heeded your warning," Lorenzo said guiltily, remembering how he'd waved off Giovanni's concerns before waltzing down the alley. It was his carelessness that had put his lover's life in danger, defending him.

Giovanni kissed him tenderly, using a little salve to clean and seal the minor cut. "I am only thankful that the lesson did not cost you a greater wound than this."

Lorenzo gave a small smile and leaned into the kiss. "I love you, Giovanni," he whispered. His brow furrowed in an expression much too serious for his young age. "I don't want to see you hurt on my behalf." It was a naively prophetic statement.

Giovanni smiled and kissed his forehead. "This is nothing. Do not trouble yourself about it."

"It isn't nothing," Lorenzo insisted crossly. "You're hurt. Let me see your arm."

Knowing better than to argue with that imperious tone, Giovanni obediently bared his arm.

Carefully, Lorenzo examined the light gash. Although he had little experience treating injuries, he attempted to mimic what Giovanni had done for him earlier, cleaning and bandaging the wound with painstaking care.

Giovanni smiled as he watched, rewarding his lover with a soft kiss once Lorenzo finished. "Grazie, caro mio."

"Your well-being is thanks enough." Lorenzo stroked the other man's cheek lovingly, before adding with a tad of haughty, wounded pride, "Just don't think saving my life entitles you to push me against the wall like that all the time." A rosy flush spread across his face, as he recalled how eagerly he'd spread his legs and begged in the heat of the moment. Gods, he'd never live that one down.

Giovanni chuckled, the sound touched with dark humor. "Ah, but why not when you loved it so?"

Lorenzo frowned a touch in annoyance. "Because I have appearances to maintain." What he truly meant, of course, was that he had his pride to think of.

"As if I would ever let anyone see you like that," Giovanni frowned. "Have I not always been discreet?"

"Of course. I meant appearances in front of you," Lorenzo mumbled, looking decidedly sullen.

Giovanni's frown faded, and he touched Lorenzo's cheek gently. "I do not think less of you."

Lorenzo avoided his gaze. "I've never begged like that in my life," he said haltingly.

Giovanni gently pulled his lover into his arms. "Then I am honored that you trust me enough to be so vulnerable with me."

Slowly, Lorenzo relaxed into the embrace. "You've never been vulnerable," he said in a small voice. "When you dove into the fray, I thought my heart would stop in terror for your life, but you cut down the assailants like they were blades of grass. You didn't blink in the face of danger. You fought without fear, and won." He pulled back to look Giovanni in the eye. "Teach me to be strong like you."

Giovanni kissed the younger man gently. "You are strong, Lorenzo. "You will be the greatest ruler Firenze has ever known, I am sure of it. As for me - I am a man like any other. I can bleed, and hurt, and err.”

"Not if I have any say in it," Lorenzo said fiercely, clasping Giovanni's hand. "As you have protected me today, so I swear to do all in my power to keep you safe, when I take over my father's mantle." He brought Giovanni's knuckles to his lips. "Semper." It was a bold promise from a youth who'd only just been saved from ignoble death, but Lorenzo de' Medici was if anything determined.

Giovanni's smile was gently knowing and a little sad, but he turned his hand to cup his lover's face. "Lorenzo, caro mio...."

"Semper, Giovanni Auditore," Lorenzo repeated unwaveringly. "That is an oath I intend to keep."

Giovanni kissed him softly. "I will feel safer knowing that."

Lorenzo held his lover for a few more sentimental moments, before remarking wryly, "Now, just promise me you'll return before the festival starts next time."

I don't really know prototype - so probably I just won't understand the references etc. But go along with it, if you want to!
So far I'm really enjoying this... thank you so much for filling!
*looking forward to more*

So… anon will now just skip over the flashback.. OTL almost a moth later… Also… The story kind of starts to de-rail from here…. ^-^ Hope anon doesn’t mind!

Part 6

Ezio’s fingers flew across the buttons, mindlessly destroying his enemies on the screen as Leonardo strolled into his living room, raising his brow with an exasperated smile.

“Are you seriously having a dream about playing video games, Ezio??”

“Yea, I guess….” Ezio trailed off before snapping his head towards the blonde. “Wait! If I’m dreaming, what are doing in my dream?!”

Leonardo laughed. “Subspace, remember?” he said with a wink. “I explained to you that you have a subspace highway running through your head that is extremely convenient for me. Though, I guess you aren’t used to people moving around there because no one uses the subspace in Canada.”

“Right…”

“Anyways, quit dreaming and get out of bed!” Leonardo cooed with a kiss.

“What do you mean?!” Ezio asked with a scandalized expression. “It’s still night time!!!”

“It’s noon!” The blonde shot back, sauntering away from the room. “I need to go to work but I’ll see you later!”

-

Ezio snapped his eyes open, pushing his hair back. “Noon is a perfectly respectable time to sleep until!” he groaned, scanning his room. “I will never get used to Leo popping up in my dreams……. LITERALLY.”

-

“So, Leo’s coming over to dinner in a couple of days,” Ezio said, lounging on the bus’ plastic seats. “You’ll finally get to meet him.”

“Ezio,” Desmond answered while rolling his eyes. “I’m the one that set you up with Leonardo; I’ve already met him.”

“Not the same thing; you’ve met him… not met him.”

“Ezio, I’m going to set an ultimatum,” Desmond said with a frown.

“Like…. One of Altair’s famous ultimatum?” Ezio asked with wide eyes.

“No!” the younger cousin snapped. “Do I look like Altair?!”

“Yes!!! All THREE of us look alike! That’s why people used to ask us if we were triplets until Altair got a tan and I grew my hair out! Hell, we even have the same scar!!”

“Yes… Well, I’m NOT Altair!” Desmond fumed. “His ultimatums live in infamy! Anyways, you need to break up with Rebecca tonight.”

“But…. It’s so difficult!” Ezio groaned.

“If you don’t do it, I’m going to tell Leonardo all about Rebecca,” Desmond answered with a dark smirk. “The first thing he’ll hear when he walks through that door will be about your under-aged girlfriend.”

“You’re despicable!”

“Also, don’t come home tonight!” Desmond commented, walking towards the doors. “Shaun’s coming over and……… you know how we get!”

“You mean how loud you get?” Ezio asked with a raised brow. “Or how kinky you get?”

“Fuck you!” Desmond snapped.

-

“Hey,” Ezio muttered into his phone, sitting on a plastic chair of a coffee store. “Are you done school?? Can you come out and hang out?”

“Sure!” Rebecca’s voice filtered through. “Um…. Are you at home?”

“No, I’m at Star coffee.”

“Oh, I see. Are you wearing a green jacket… But it’s not like a winter jacket…. More like a spring jacket….”

“How the hell did you know this?” Ezio asked with trepidation.

“Holy shit!!” He shrieked as he felt someone tackle him from the back.

“Because I’m right here!!” Rebecca said with laughter, snapping her phone shut.

“Oh, hey.”

-

“Oh my god! I can’t believe they have this!” Rebecca voice hitched with happiness, gripping the CD tightly.

“What is it?”

The dark haired girl shoved the case in the Italian’s face, the name ‘The Clashing Crusades’ blazing the front. Ezio gritted his teeth as he stared at the lead singer in the front.

“They’re not bad…” Ezio growled out with severe difficulty.

“Also, I was wondering if you wanted have dinner at my house sometime?” Rebecca asked, blushing darkly.

“Why?”

“To meet my parents.”

“I think that’s a terrible idea….”

“Wh-why?” The high school girl sidled up towards Ezio, a pout on her face.

“I’m a bit old for you.”

“My dad’s 8 years older than my mom.”

“I thought your parents wanted to marry a nice… Prussian guy??”

“I don’t care about that!!” Rebecca answered passionately. “I’m in love!!”

“Oh,” Ezio choked out. “Actually, I called you out so that….. Rebecca, we should break up.”

“Really?” she whispered back.

“Yeah, it’s… this…. We’re not going to work out.”

“Oh…. Alright….”

-

“Where’s Rebecca??” Antonio asked. “Not coming??”

“Well, we broke up,” Ezio answered awkwardly then smiling a moment later. “But you’ll meet my new lover soon!”

“Would your new paramour be the blonde you were flaunting around on Saturday?” Rosa grunted with a sigh.

“I wasn’t flaunting him!!”

“Ezio…” Rosa growled. “You are the SALT of the Earth!”

“He’s a what?” Antonio questioned.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Antonio,” Rosa said. “I meant Ezio’s the SCUM of the Earth.”

“Ah, much more sense.”

-

So sorry for the lateness… OTL

I don't know who's bottoming, but I know -- with the author's permission -- which one Shaun thinks he'll be:

youtu.be/BawzHdESsXQ

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.3

Re: Heat aka FUCK ME NOW minifill 2

Re: OP

Re: A rose for your thoughts... cont.

Awkward Occasions 3

Awkward Occasions 4

Awkward Occasions 5

Re: When you're asleep 3/?

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OP

Ezio Auditore against the World part 6

Re: The Rotor {3.d/?}