[ AC: battlefield ]
Dec. 26th, 2011 10:23 pm![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tacticianFandom: Assassin's Creed
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf
Rating: G
Warnings: A kink meme request: An arranged marriage. Unedited.
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 part, 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.
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.”
“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.
“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.
Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf
Rating: G
Warnings: A kink meme request: An arranged marriage. Unedited.
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 part, 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.
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.”
“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.
“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.
no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 09:37 am (UTC)Will you be posting the rest of your kink meme entries here? I've been neglecting it for some time, and would really regret missing any of your stories. XD
On a different note, can I ask why you don't write for SPN? It seems as much a big fandom for you as AC, and you do lots of drawing for it. In fact, they're what got me into SPN in the first place, to be honest. XD
no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 02:52 pm (UTC)Yup, I will be posting everything I write here. It's hard for me to keep up with the meme these days too, especially without those convenient services like AC-Daily. And especially with the new layout making browsing near impossible.
Oh! I'm glad you got into SPN haha! I haven't written anything for that fandom mostly because there are already so many good pieces of writing and such good authors for it already. I have read so much that I feel like most bases have already been covered! Maybe if I find an idea that hasn't been done yet I'll give it a try, but I'd be hard-pressed to find one in a fandom so big!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 10:06 am (UTC)The dick measuring contest at the beginning and the running hashish exchange are hilarious, by the way. XD It helped, I think that you made Kadar the straight man. We could see how volatile the meeting was through his eyes very well.
As to being un-edited, you've hunted down all the typo-ish mistakes pretty thoroughly, good job!
no subject
Date: 2011-12-27 02:54 pm (UTC)Boys will be boys, alas. And I am super glad the humor went over well! I wanted something lighthearted, since the canon seems so intent on heartbreak.