asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme
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Welcome to the Animus 2.5

✠ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.

✠ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.

✠ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.

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

✠ 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 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
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Indeed anon.

Hopefully the silence not only means that people are busy with life, but also helping with filling the prompts.

That is partially true. There are some prompts here and there, but as you said, no where near the amount of activity as before.
As I mentioned, I am hoping it's just a sign people are waiting for Brotherhood. That should give the fandom a giant boost. *eyes Cesare* Oh yes, a giant boost.

I've actually been withholding posting prompts because of all the unfilled requests. Trying to help out in that department as well, whenever time allows.

There's quite a bunch of prompts involving Cesare already, though. I just realized I might have to unwatch the kink meme to avoid spoilers. :(

OH MY FUCKING GOD I LAUGHED SO HARD I COULDN'T BREATHE AND THEN I THOUGHT I SAW THE LIGHT AND THEN MY ROOMMMATE CAME INTO MY ROOM CAUSE HE THOUGHT I WAS DYING.

USE CONDOMS LOL
fuuuuuccckk that lined just killed me

you are so god damn amazing

/LOL INTO FUCKING FOREVER

In that case, with your kind permission...

~~~
“Love sees sharply, hatred sees even more sharp, but Jealousy sees the sharpest, for it is love and hate at the same time.” -Arab proverb
~~~

Altaïr was away in Cyrus when Malik realized he’d been a fool.

Coupling between Brothers was neither encouraged in the Brotherhood, nor uncommon. Those who faced and dealt death together were often driven to likewise affirm life together. The women of the Gardens could offer comfort and gentleness for the body and mind and soul, when the demands of an Assassin’s life began to take their toll. But they were far away in Masyaf when the hunt ended and blood was on one’s hands and singing in one’s veins, and Sisters who took up the Hidden Blade and the hunt were uncommon, though not unknown.

Malik and Altaïr had paired together on occasion during their novitiate; as the two most advanced students, they were often sent on missions together. They had drifted apart over time, when their newly-won Master status had sent each away to fly alone on solo missions – a fact that Malik, at least, had regretted distantly; a familiar touch was simply more vivid, more real, at times. But he’d set aside those regrets as unnecessary. Circumstances had changed, and those who could not change with them would be trapped in lies. Nothing is true. Everything is possible.

After the Temple of Solomon, of course, there had been nothing, although in his training as a Dai and rafik Malik had learned that sometimes solo hunters would seek a rafik’s help in such matters. But he had been too bitter, too sensitive of his missing arm, too raw, too guarded. And too angry. Altaïr was far from the only Assassin who had felt the edge of Malik’s scathing ire, even if his words to the demoted Assassin had held a particular, personalized vitriol.

But time passed. Forgiveness was earned, and eventually sought. With each bloody feather, another piece of a troubling puzzle emerged. Treachery was uncovered, and defeated at painful cost.

Malik had initiated it, in the aftermath of al Mualim’s death. Altaïr had been too weary from too many desperate races to and fro across the land and over the rooftops, too torn by grief for the man he’d thought he’d known and had always considered closer than any father, still unbalanced from everything he'd seen and learned. While Malik’s blood had been singing for his first real combat since his crippling, for the joy of knowing that Kadar had finally been avenged on those who’d truly brought about his death, for being alive when he’d been sure he would not survive the night. For the fact that Altaïr was alive, after facing an opponent even Malik had doubted his friend could best.

After that, though… it had simply happened. At first, simply because the horror of that night had been so slow to fade, because after fighting against their own brothers and Master in the halls of their home, neither felt fully safe in what had once been sanctuary, and sleep simply came easier with an ally close at hand. And because Malik found it an effective way of pulling Altaïr from his half-enchanted, half-repulsed fascination with the strange artifact that had brought so much grief, even simply because they spent so much time together, awake late into the night as they sought clues and guidance from al Mualim’s writings and the writings of past Masters, as they spoke of shaping the future of the order, as they discussed new tactics and techniques to match the changing of the age. Altaïr would drift off by Malik’s window as the Dai studied his maps, or – more often – Malik would find himself nodding off in the chair next to the desk as Altaïr’s quill scratched across parchment, leaving a trail of contemplation and wisdom that Malik would never have imagined lurked in his taciturn friend’s thoughts. All too often, they would fall into a bed together simply because each was too weary, or troubled, to seek out his own.

When Altaïr began actively seeking Malik out, however… then, Malik had grown troubled. They were going too far, to something that was significantly more than the simple pairing of Brothers under stress. When he’d realized that, he had told Altaïr, flatly and openly, that they needed to end it.

Altaïr had been taken aback; Malik had seen that in the faintly furrowed brow and the almost-tilt of his head. Perhaps at the rejection, or perhaps it was simply that in his concentration on the Brotherhood and Masayaf and the Apple, the strange direction their relationship had taken had simply slipped his notice. He’d regarded Malik long and thoughtfully, then at last inclined his head and turned away from Malik’s door to return to his own room without argument.

Without agreement, either, and Altaïr had made it clear, quietly, that he did not agree with Malik’s choice even though he honored it. He did not push, would not enter beyond Malik’s door nor touch if Malik did not invite it. But neither would he leave unless asked to go, nor deliberately put distance between them. Wordless requests to be met half-way, free to be ignored unless the recipient wished to reciprocate, the same that they had always used between them. Malik put up more walls between them, ignoring the urge to reach back. Habit was the sixth sense that overrules the other five - and good sense, as well.

Malik did not trouble himself overmuch about Altaïr's silent disappointment, until a certain conversation he overheard among the younger novices.

“He truly is like an eagle!” a boy had exclaimed with that distinctive light in his face that always had Malik hiding a smirk when he realized that Altaïr had entranced another devotee. At least he no longer had to fear Altaïr’s swollen ego – that side of his friend had been lost beside Malik’s arm and Kadar, and buried with the corpses of al Mualim and the ten who had gone before him.

No, the boy’s near-worship of the new Master was no surprise to Malik. What came as a shock was the teasing when the others had noticed it.

“Give it up, Faruk,” one had snickered, although not unkindly. “The eagle’s eyes are on the sky, not a nest. Even the most beautiful maid in the Gardens hasn’t tempted him in.”

The boy had flushed brightly and laughed with the others, but where he sat unnoticed, listening, Malik had frowned. This, he had not heard of, and he found it… faintly troubling, for some reason.

And so – feeling, with some annoyance with himself, like he was behaving like the worst village gossip – he went to the Gardens, and sought out the head of the women.

Hanan had simply looked puzzled. “I had thought that you and he…?”

Malik had inexplicably flushed, feeling awkward and foolish and young, speaking of such things before a woman easily old enough to be his mother, even though Hanan had an agelessness to her that mocked the efforts of time, which only refined her beauty instead of diminishing it.

“Briefly,” he managed at last to admit. The well-being of the Brotherhood was Hanan’s duty – physical, spiritual, and mental alike. “But we were not… there was no… I ended it.”

Hanan frowned. “…that is not good to hear.”

“That he has no lover?” Malik had asked disbelievingly. “Surely…”

“Humans require human touch,” Hanan had replied, demure and implacable. “Leaders, in particular, because they are so easily isolated by their rank. Particularly those like our young Master, come to his position in such troubled times, so young, and still feeling he must prove himself after past mistakes.” She folded her hands, outwardly calm and demure, but with the faint frown that sent a jolt of reflexive fear through Malik’s face still in her eyes. “I had thought that the bond between you two would serve – not just for him, but yourself as well. You were too isolated in Jerusalem. I argued that you should not be sent so far after the loss of your brother, but al Mualim disagreed…” A sigh, for how they had all been to easily misled. “But if your bond is ultimately of a different nature… I must think on this.”

Malik had returned to his quarters, troubled in more ways than one. He had not thought in such terms, but Hanan was right. Altaïr never gave himself only partially to a task. When he took a duty on, he did so without holding any of himself back. He would lose himself to the Brotherhood so easily.

Was this not a battle? Perhaps not a hunt as Malik had once known them, but a paired flight never the less, the two of them working together to preserve the Brotherhood.

And Altaïr had another opponent of his own, one that only he could fight. Malik still remembered the night when Altaïr had thrown himself out of the trance he used to gaze into the Apple, flinging the thing aside with such violence that Malik had dared to hope it might be dashed to pieces against the wall and trouble them no more. No such luck – and Altaïr had clung to him desperately that night, golden eyes seeing something in the darkness of which he would not speak to Malik, save to whisper, “The world was burning.”

Would Altaïr lose himself in that solitary battle against terrible knowledge and temptation? Was that how al Mualim had fallen? He’d driven himself so far to protecting the Brotherhood and humanity, he’d come to destroy it instead, forgetting even that he himself was human and fallible…

Malik would not leave his friend to fight that battle alone – even if all he could offer was a safe aerie where Altaïr could gather his strength for the next fray.

The decision was easy.

***
“Safety and peace, Brother,” Altaïr had said upon seeing him, tone measured and neutral as ever, to someone who couldn’t read the genuine warmth underneath that voice, the same that warmed the golden eyes ever so slightly when Malik murmured the greeting in return.

And now Malik stood back ever so slightly as Altaïr quietly murmured to his companion, and tried to understand why he felt so… taken aback. As though there were something missing.

Then he realized. He had come to meet Altaïr on his return from the long mission, knowing that this time, when his friend offered that silent invitation, he would extend his own in return.

But there had been no invitation. Nothing but the warmth due a close friend, though subtle as ever behind the Assassin’s mask.

Altaïr turned back to say something to Malik, and Malik saw it. Subtle – subtle even to the eyes of an Assassin, trained to read the least little hint of motion or posture for clues to the movement of a target or an extra scrap of information from an opponent. A faint hint, a sense of openness in Altaïr’s bearing. And as he watched, Malik saw Maria shift in like manner. The eyes of the pair did not meet, they did not touch – Altaïr’s attention was on Malik, Maria’s on the sights of the Assassin stronghold. But at a very deep level...

If I reached out, would you reach back?

Yes.

An awareness, of presence, of companionship - of intimacy. One that Malik himself had once shared with Altaïr.

It was the ideal solution. The eagle had chosen a mate, one that could fly and hunt and kill beside him. Better still, one who might perhaps someday bear him children, the new generation that, by Altaïr’s forceful demand, would be raised knowing the love of their parents as well as the burden of their bloodlines.

Hanan was delighted, and opened her gardens and wisdom to the former Templar – after, of course, she had thoroughly trounced the younger woman with daggers, proving that even the flowers of an Assassin’s Garden were deadly when they so chose, and would not tolerate the scorn of a woman who knew nothing of their ways. Others were far more leery of “de Sable’s woman,” sometimes openly.

Altaïr did not intervene on Maria’s behalf – she would, he noted dryly to Malik, hardly thank him for fighting her battles.

...and as they spoke, Altaïr pacing in his room as he idly tinkered with the gears of a broken Hidden Blade, Malik stood at the door – welcome within, but not invited. The chair where he’d drifted off to sleep so many times was there, but pushed back and out of the way; by unspoken understanding, their long meetings were now usually in the library and archives, Altaïr’s own room reserved as a place for privacy with his lover.

As the days passed, Malik found himself snapping cutting remarks at everyone, novices and full Brothers alike. He was impatient, demanding, harsher in his truth than need be, constantly forgetting that the arrow of truth had to be dipped in honey. After such a long absence, the return of the snarling, acerbic, often vicious Bureau Leader of Jerusalem came as a shock to everyone – Malik himself most of all.

No one felt his sting more than Altaïr himself – but though his friend did not wield words as deadly weapons in their own right, neither was he defenseless. Nor was Altaïr hesitant in retaliating when Malik’s venom crossed the bounds of tolerance.

Maria, he treated with all the chill of desert night. Altaïr was too prone to relying on instinct and his heart in choosing those he allowed close – and for all his strange insight into the nature of friend and foe alike, had al Mualim not been proof and more than proof that even Altaïr’s strange other-sense of ally, neutral, target, foe could be wrong?

Matters came to a head one evening when Malik turned the corner of a building to see Altaïr standing with the Templar woman in one of the more private training grounds reserved for those whose skill ran so close to instinct that a careless bystander could easily meet a fatal blow. Their blades were crossed, but they stood too close and too calm to be sparring anymore. Torn between twin impulses to step away and grant his friend some precious privacy and to storm over in his temper, he hesitated, and watched unnoticed instead.

“You’re distracted,” Altaïr was noting.

Maria grimaced and disengaged, sheathing her sword. “…Bahram returned from his mission.”

“Ah. I wondered why Faiz did not meet us.”

The open shock on Maria’s face was unexpected. “You… know?”

Altaïr paused, clearly not expecting such a reaction either. Then he nodded. “I had forgotten that you did not. Does it trouble you?”

“I’m a woman in man’s armor,” Maria said sharply. “Not to mention a fallen Templar in love with the leader of the Assassins. I don’t give a damn about how two people enjoy themselves, so long as they’re enjoying it.” Her brow furrowed as she looked at Altaïr, who had sheathed his sword as well, although neither stepped back, sharing proximity with the ease of intimate lovers. “But I was under the impression that things were even harder for such here. Our holy book is harsh enough, but…”

“It is anathema to many in these lands, yes. But not here, so long as the attentions are welcome to both. Nothing is true.”

“I suppose it shouldn’t be a surprise. You Assassins are… strangely open in your thinking. You allow women to fight. And I read what you wrote about wife beaters and child slavers,” Maria said. But she was pursing her lips and giving Altaïr an odd, thoughtful look. “Have you ever had such a lover?” she asked suddenly, with no dissembling of any kind.

Altaïr shrugged. “Rarely. There have been… very few… that I ever trusted to the point of intimacy. Three in total, I think.”

“Three?” Maria’s voice was curious, but not pressing. She had clearly learned the art of leaving Altaïr the space to not answer.

“One is dead. The other… did not reciprocate.”

“And the third?”

Altaïr’s lips quirked ever so faintly with a rare hint of smile as, instead of answering, he inclined his head slightly in wordless invitation.

Maria’s eyes softened unexpectedly, and she smiled in return as she leaned forward to kiss Altaïr before resting her off-hand lightly on his shoulder, a not-quite embrace that somehow bespoke the action of both a fellow warrior and a lover in equal measure.

Then she looked up and, as chance would have it, directly into Malik’s eyes.

***
He didn’t even remember when he reached his room, jaw aching with the effort of biting back a scream of frustration and anger and bitter, bitter understanding. Oh, he knew why Maria’s eyes had softened like that at Altaïr’s words.

“The other… did not reciprocate."

To know Altaïr numbered you among those few he trusted so deeply…

The realization hit with a shock that was almost physical. Malik swallowed suddenly, hard, and rested his head against the wall.

He missed Altaïr.

Not the man’s physical presence. He had that. Not his friendship – that had never wavered.

What he missed were the long nights in the light of a single shared lantern, sitting half-asleep in that chair as Altaïr carefully transformed experience and knowledge and feeling into strokes of ink and wisdom upon a page, glancing up from a map to see the other balanced easily on the windowsill with face and breathing soft in sleep. He missed lying together in the half-light before dawn to speak of philosophy, or new stratagems and tactics, or even shared bemusement at the course their lives had taken, suddenly the leaders of the Brotherhood they had sworn to follow.

He missed watching his eagle fly away, knowing that the great bird would only return if he so chose, for once a raptor was unleashed, the falconer could do nothing but hope.

His eagle, by strange virtue of the fact that an eagle would tolerate no owner, only a partner.

Their bond had not been a simple stream flowing in only one direction, no matter how Malik had sought to fool himself into thinking it so. Hanan had been right. Malik had been hiding behind the thought that Altaïr needed him, and never realized that he desired Altaïr’s presence and touch just as much.

He missed that deep knowledge that all he had to do was reach out, and the other would reach back.

He missed his lover.

A presence and touch he had rejected, and no longer had the right to claim. They had been granted to another. Of course he hated Maria. He was jealous.

Jealous that now that place beside the desk when the midnight hour came was hers. Jealous that she’d been there and been the partner Altaïr sought when Malik had been so blinded as to throw away that gift of intimacy. Jealous that now she had the trust that had once been gifted to him.

Jealous, because she had what he wanted so desperately, and would never get another chance to grasp.
~~~

NOTES:
Other Arab proverbs used:
“When you shoot an arrow of truth, dip its point in honey.”
“Habit is the sixth sense that overrules the other five.”

And yes, I consider female Assassins to be canon, even before Altaïr takes over the Brotherhood. Altaïr’s Codex states that both of his parents were Assassins, and it is implied that they were both active Assassins at that, given the sense that their deaths weren't a surprise. Which means that not only were there female Assassins, there were Christian ones. (Although it could be that “Christian” in this context simply means that Altaïr’s mother came from Western Europe.) And the fact that no particular fuss is made over the subject suggests that this was not uncommon enough to warrant comment. (Yes, I know, odds are that no one commented because no one thought through the implication – but that’s the only way I can think of justifying it.)

~~~
...and may I beg the OP's kind indulgence and write a continuation of this for another meme, to give it a happy ending?

I agree with above anon. I'd much like to see most of the prompts that are empty be filled. Every time I post a prompt, I feel bad, like I'm a bad boss, and I'm just adding the workload and sitting back, waiting for a new way of torture to inspire me.

If there's a problem with the lack of prompts, GO FILL SOME

Altaïr, rendered ageless by the Apple (or possibly another Piece), has been keeping a very low profile, both to evade the Templars and to allow the Assassins to grow. When the Borgia take over Rome, however, he slips in to fight them quietly from below.

Where he is one of the "rescue the civilian" encounters, and Ezio attempts to recruit him. Much to Altaïr's hidden bemusement.

Mostly, I want an odd "secret-mentor" relationship, where Altair is carefully shaping Ezio into a true leader of the Brotherhood while playing the role of a skilled, but relatively low-ranked Assassin. (NOTE: This is the Altaïr who wrote the Codex, and has been alive for a very long time. Not the hot-headed fellow from the beginning of the first game.) With slight added mind-screw in that Altaïr appears to be all of twenty-six or twenty-seven, while Ezio is in his forties.

Whether or not he ever actually tells Ezio (or anyone else) who he is, I leave to the writer. Maybe Altaïr sneaks in and gathers the fragments of the armor, then goes to Leonardo for help in acquiring the supplies he needs to fix it?

(And no, Ezio wouldn't recognize him from the statue. The Assassin's Creed Wikia actually states that the statue looks nothing like Altaïr!)

~~~
...and a possible teaser-trailer to get ideas flowing!

Ezio looked down at the young man. Half-Arab, by the look of him, lean and built like a fighter - and trained like one, to judge by the way he'd evaded the blows of the guards.

"The liberation of Roma has begun," he said shortly. "If you choose to flee, do so now. But if you wish to fight - stand with me now, against the Borgia."

The young Arab studied him for a long moment with strangely piercing eyes, then nodded. "I have never been one to flee," he said, his Italian smooth and easy with only the barest traces of accent."

"Then seek Niccolo Macchiavelli. We will make you one of us. Their lies will no longer master truth."

Ezio strode away.

Had he thought to look back, however, he would have seen the 'young' Arab arch an eyebrow, watching him with a golden gaze centuries old.

"Nothing is true, young one," he murmured in Arabic, the scar across his lips twitching with a small smirk. "You should know that by now."

Not the original anon who said they'd write, but I was intrigued by this prompt so I took a stab (heh) at it.

....

Robert’s sword cut easily through the Assassin’s shoulder, tearing muscle and grating on bone. The wounded man’s cry was little more than a grunt, and Robert whipped his sword arm down, forcing the assassin to his knees. Robert looked down, studying his prize.

The Assassin kneeling before him on the cold dungeon floor was beautiful: muscles tense with anger, golden eyes narrowed with hate, mouth pulled into a thin, hard line. Blood dripped slowly from a cut on his chin. Robert stood back and simply admired for a few long moments. The Assassin was his, his to use and destroy as he wished. He mused on that thought, and casually backhanded the man across the cheek, leaving an angry mark but drawing no other reaction. Robert was pleased.

The Assassin was bound at the wrists and elbows, chest heaving. It had taken ten men including himself to subdue him, and only three of them still lived. The violence of the fight had been beautiful, breathtaking even. The Assassin was truly a master, taking lives with an economical, brutal grace.

Robert wondered if he would scream under torture, or say nothing, or speak to himself as so many did. No matter. Robert beat him first, until the blood ran over his knuckles. He could see it clearly: the Assassin’s sharp cheekbone marred by the ugly imprints left by mail gloves, blood oozing from split lips. He removed the white hood, allowing his fingertips to brush the man’s forehead, his cheek. This action alone removed the armor of anonymity, put the Assassin off his guard, and he flinched visibly at the intimate touch.

And then Robert took him, hard against the smooth stone floor, until he begged for mercy. He would get none, of course, and Robert relished the idea of sinking his teeth into a muscled shoulder, or buttock. This had nothing to do with lust, only power and humiliation. The man’s thighs trembled as Robert forced him, and Robert moaned, delighting in the pain and anger. The Assassin would be defenseless and Robert would make him scream if it took all day...

”Please…”

The voice was small, rough with pain. Robert looked down at the assassin kneeling in the dirt before him, and realized that the eyes looking up at him were not gold, but murky blue, wide with fear and awe. This tiny detail jarred him out of his reverie. The assassin he had captured was not the Master, the man who had tried to kill him, but another; Robert had lost track during the fight. Fury rose in his chest, turning quickly to all-consuming rage. He pulled his sword out of the assassin’s shoulder and leveled the point at his throat. Blood from the man’s broken nose poured down his mouth and chin.

“You Assassins are pathetic,” growled Robert, and he shoved the sword through the assassin’s throat with enough force that it stuck fast in the wall behind. The young man’s hood hid his face as Robert yanked his sword free, and his body slumped to one side in a broken heap, blood staining the white robes. Robert turned away, already seeking his next target. One more assassin remained in the cavern, and Robert would not be content until he had taken the life of the fierce one with golden eyes.

What bothers me about people not posting new prompts is that the meme doesn't get visitors anymore, and if there are no visitors, there won't be anyone to actually fill prompts either.

You are amazing.

Just.... yes. Absolutely yes.

Robert and Cesare meet (could be through the Apple, or some other way, it's up to you, anon) and discuss those ~~sexy~~stubborn Assassins (i.e. Ezio and Altair) and the things they've done/will do to them. And then proceed to practice on each other.

Aye, he is.
I'm sorry, OP, but anon here canna write a good storyline to save her life. Would you mind a drabble or vignette?

For serious, she needs more lovin'.

How 'bout she ties Ezio's hands to a bedpost with her scarf? ;)

Ohhh, yes. They have to do it on top of a roof, during Carnevale, especially with fireworks in the sky.
And all of the rooftop archers dead around them. XD

Hehehe.
Now, What DID/WILL they do to the assassins? XD

Scene 1: Blah, blah, blah
Scene 2: More talking
Scene 3: <3

Men.

Or his uncle finds out on his own because he walks in on him and Leonardo.
I'd assume that Mario would be a pretty open-minded person, given the Assassins' motto, but even he (given the times they live in) would have trouble accepting it. Drama ensues.

XD I was imagining something more like whips, chains, female clothes and aphrodisiac.

*fangirl squee*
love! so much love for this
please continue :)

OMG. I love this prompt so much. I think I'm going to do it. I've never done these Kink Meme's before, so forgive me if I mess up, I'll get this done as soon as possible!! :D

QUIT WITHHOLDING ANON. -sobs-

-gnaws on your fingers while begging due to withdrawal- o3o

Whoa writeranon, this was such an insightful and thoughtful fic. Not-Op is blown away.

I.... I would like a happy ending.

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed

Re: It's so quiet here

Re: It's so quiet here

Re: It's so quiet here

Re: CHAPTER 1: MAGICAL ADVENTURES IN ANUS-LAND [2/2]

Lost Chance (1/5)

Lost Chance (2/5)

Lost Chance (3/5)

Lost Chance (4/5)

Lost Chance (5/5)

Re: It's so quiet here

Ironic amusement

Re: Variant on an old theme (fill)

Re: It's so quiet here

Re: Ironic amusement

Robert de Sable/Cesare Borgia - because we need more sexy Templars!

Sub 16 is sorely lacking on this meme

Moar Rosa! MOAR!

Dominatrix

Why does this seem extremely possible?

Ezio comes out

Re: Why does this seem extremely possible?

Re: Innocence [1.4/?]

Re: one sided Lucy/Desmond. Shaun/Desmond

Re: Wandering Shadow Pt.5.5/??

Re: Lost Chance (5/5)