The first time Desmond awoke, it was to groan and twitch in pain, his head swimming and the left side of his neck throbbing. He was soon dropped onto hard, damp, sticky stone and his tailbone ached from the brusque handling. He just managed to shake the swarm of black dots away from his sight when the right side of his neck was given a chop.
The second wave of alertness Desmond experienced was spent briefly congratulating Ezio for being a huge dick and telling him to go fuck himself. Before Desmond could demonstrate with his hands how Ezio would accomplish said feat, a large, broad hand gripped his jaw and forced Desmond to stare forward into Ezio's knees, the action coincided with something needle-like pricking the back of Desmond's neck.
Predictably, the third time consciousness called Desmond back to say hello, he was still on the concrete, so he began, “Okay,” he held his hands up, “first you do this. Get some jelly, or lube or just gel that lets you slide your fingers like it has olive oil on it. Olive oil. Yes. Do that. Spit works, too. Swirl around the opening, you know which one, and be gentle about the pressure and slowly slide one finger i-” A hand was clamped over his mouth and nose. Desmond struggled, but blackness took his sight.
It was when the fourth time came around, that Desmond grew fed-up. “Okay, asshole – you have no sense of humor and look – my nose! It hurts, I think you may have broken it... I can breathe with it. Whew. But my front teeth are all sore and feel loose-”
“Cazzo,” a voice hissed. It was Ezio. “Do you not understand how to silence yourself?” Desmond was shaken from his position slung over Ezio's shoulders, literally. “Do not speak – I will not be so lenient next time.”
“Yeah. Right.” Desmond said, letting himself hang with a tired groan. “If the last three times was you lenient, I'll -” then Desmond had a brief thought: this man was an assassin, of course Ezio was being lenient. “... oh, wait. We can... just disregard that, right?”
“You need only be whole to be sound.” Ezio warned, voice low but carrying to Desmond's ears clearly.
Desmond was quiet. Then, he wrinkled his nose.
“I haven't a clue of what you just said – but what did you eat? It's god-awful back here.” Ezio's rough sigh echoed like it was magnified. Desmond then noticed that he was being carried through a narrow tunnel.
On the fifth awakening, Desmond was mulling in a bed as to how the fourth one ended. He remembered being situated on his feet, roughly, and looking upward at Ezio's revealed, stoic face but blazing eyes. He said something and then his memory ended with Ezio's aggravated snarl.
His neck throbbed and spotting a hanging mirror nearest to the door, Desmond moved over to it. The room was not huge width-wise, but it was in length. The bed had been pushed into one corner with just enough room for a person to use for walking space. Desmond had to pass the only door, a large wooden one with no handle, to get to the mirror.
“Man's a freak of self-restraint,” he said, examining the bruises on his neck, sucking in a breath of pain when he reached to palm his nape. “I must've been extra charming, too, I bet.” He rubbed his face, then, wincing at the slightest touch against his nose. His ass hurt, too. “Yeow. What a dick.” Desmond squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his eyes upwards in their sockets – a trick to get them to stop watering.
“I have never seen our maestro so enflamed, so passionate, over something insignificant at that, in all my time,” a man spoke from behind him. Desmond opened his eyes and spun around.
Warring of Talons Part 12/?
The second wave of alertness Desmond experienced was spent briefly congratulating Ezio for being a huge dick and telling him to go fuck himself. Before Desmond could demonstrate with his hands how Ezio would accomplish said feat, a large, broad hand gripped his jaw and forced Desmond to stare forward into Ezio's knees, the action coincided with something needle-like pricking the back of Desmond's neck.
Predictably, the third time consciousness called Desmond back to say hello, he was still on the concrete, so he began, “Okay,” he held his hands up, “first you do this. Get some jelly, or lube or just gel that lets you slide your fingers like it has olive oil on it. Olive oil. Yes. Do that. Spit works, too. Swirl around the opening, you know which one, and be gentle about the pressure and slowly slide one finger i-” A hand was clamped over his mouth and nose. Desmond struggled, but blackness took his sight.
It was when the fourth time came around, that Desmond grew fed-up. “Okay, asshole – you have no sense of humor and look – my nose! It hurts, I think you may have broken it... I can breathe with it. Whew. But my front teeth are all sore and feel loose-”
“Cazzo,” a voice hissed. It was Ezio. “Do you not understand how to silence yourself?” Desmond was shaken from his position slung over Ezio's shoulders, literally. “Do not speak – I will not be so lenient next time.”
“Yeah. Right.” Desmond said, letting himself hang with a tired groan. “If the last three times was you lenient, I'll -” then Desmond had a brief thought: this man was an assassin, of course Ezio was being lenient. “... oh, wait. We can... just disregard that, right?”
“You need only be whole to be sound.” Ezio warned, voice low but carrying to Desmond's ears clearly.
Desmond was quiet. Then, he wrinkled his nose.
“I haven't a clue of what you just said – but what did you eat? It's god-awful back here.” Ezio's rough sigh echoed like it was magnified. Desmond then noticed that he was being carried through a narrow tunnel.
On the fifth awakening, Desmond was mulling in a bed as to how the fourth one ended. He remembered being situated on his feet, roughly, and looking upward at Ezio's revealed, stoic face but blazing eyes. He said something and then his memory ended with Ezio's aggravated snarl.
His neck throbbed and spotting a hanging mirror nearest to the door, Desmond moved over to it. The room was not huge width-wise, but it was in length. The bed had been pushed into one corner with just enough room for a person to use for walking space. Desmond had to pass the only door, a large wooden one with no handle, to get to the mirror.
“Man's a freak of self-restraint,” he said, examining the bruises on his neck, sucking in a breath of pain when he reached to palm his nape. “I must've been extra charming, too, I bet.” He rubbed his face, then, wincing at the slightest touch against his nose. His ass hurt, too. “Yeow. What a dick.” Desmond squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his eyes upwards in their sockets – a trick to get them to stop watering.
“I have never seen our maestro so enflamed, so passionate, over something insignificant at that, in all my time,” a man spoke from behind him. Desmond opened his eyes and spun around.