Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.2

[asscreedkinkmeme]

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.2
Fill Only

Welcome to the Brotherhood

∆ 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 3
Part 4
Part 5
Fills Only
Discussion

Comments

Fellow brotherhood ending angster here with a cumbersome plot bunny..

[(Anonymous)]

you see my dear anons, after seeing that absolutely tragic/confusing/infuriating ending I had to find a way to cheer myself up. so I used that alternate skin for Ezio that makes him look like brotherhood Desmond, and went running around the rooftops of Rome like a loon picking up all the stuff I’d missed.

but here’s the clincher, as I was running around, I remembered reading somewhere that those men you heard in the credits were putting Desmond back into the Animus. so slowly it dawned on me that Desmond is now stuck in there, running around a long dead Rome while the thoughts of what he was forced to do run rampant in his mind.

Or alternatively, he could have forgotten what happened and is confused as to why he stuck, I’ve never been a lover of angst.. but basically I want Desmond stuck in the animus with no connection to the outside world, (looking like himself and not Ezio btw).

Other details and possible pairings can be decided upon by the writer (Leonardo X Desmond? WTF.. )

Re: Fellow brotherhood ending angster here with a cumbersome plot bunny..

[moshiicake.livejournal.com]

Sorry, not contributin atm (although it's something that's been preying on my mind since I finished). WHAT. how do I get this skin??

Re: Fellow brotherhood ending angster here with a cumbersome plot bunny..

[(Anonymous)]

Finish sequence 8 with 100% sync my friend.

(Good luck , and don’t give up it is wayyyy worth it. specialty since you can make a new file and play the whole game as Desmond.)

Re: Fellow brotherhood ending angster here with a cumbersome plot bunny..

[moshiicake.livejournal.com]

Oh man. ;-; I'm so bad at getting 100%, especially if I have to sneak at any point. Totally worth it though. That Cristina scene would be pretty hot with Des ;-;
Thank you :)

skins

[(Anonymous)]

That entire game would be pretty hot with Desmond.

Fixed

There is a Raidou from MGS skin too. You have to complete all virtual training challenges with at least a bronze....it's difficult, but easy if you're good at getting 100%.

It looks weird though. It's all see though and looks inappropriate with the older weaponry. Also for some reason it makes it look like you're wearing stilettos and a thong with a helping of man boobs. :/

But um...Metal GEAR!....yeah! ....surprises me that there aren't more Metal Gear prompts. >_>

And you know how they don't give you enough Uplay points to buy everything? Play Legacy on facebook and you get points. The prizes for Legacy are worthless, so you'll end up spending them on Brotherhood instead.

Warring with Talons Part 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

“She sees me raise the knife...”

The words echoed throughout Desmond's mind, literally, as he stared into the black void in front of him, his feet upheld by a white surface; it glowed eerily, like it were sucking the darkness into it and releasing just enough light for Desmond to see himself. The crazed, slow murmur repeated over and over, from all sides of him – occassionally, it even hissed in his ear, as if Subject 16 were right behind him, but whipping around mid-sentence, only had its placement still behind him.

“It's in her blood!”

Had Lucy seen Desmond raise the hidden blade?

“Lo... lo... lo... lo...”

Desmond checked his hands, again, clenching and loosening his fists before his eyes.

“She's not who you think she is!”

There was no longer any blood. Although, in the beginning – it felt like hours, days, maybe weeks - “She sees me raise the knife...” - the palm of his left had been coated, the blood trailing and soaking into the sleeve of his hoodie.

“You can't stay like this forever.”

Desmond jerked in surprise, as this was new in the pattern of Subject Sixteen's ramblings – it actually sounded nothing like Sixteen's voice. “It's in her blood!” He refused to speak though, the first time he had, the whispers had repeated faster and faster, crowding in on him, squeezing his lungs and insides, until Desmond swore that the platform was spinning. He had collapsed in order to throw up and Desmond never spoke again.

The tiny speck of glowing red in the distance kept his attention, after his upchuck of nothing, not even bile – “Lo... lo... lo... lo...” - it had literally blipped into being, where before there was nothing but empty darkness.

“It won't let you.” A mild warring in Desmond grew, but then he shrugged off the voices – he figured they were a new set that he would have to get used to. Somehow.

He continued to eye the red speck. It teased him. Desmond had briefly employed the use of his other sight, to find if there were any similar red traces to lead him to it, but no, nothing came about.

One thing was certain, 16's ramblings or not - “Heh heh! Can't be too careful.” - they kept him company. If he did not speak, they would not grow in volume or quickness, it was left as a syllibant hiss – a fading memory of a memory to replay itself forever.

“Come on.”

Sixteen, seventeen – where were the others that had came before? A headache bloomed behind his eyes and Desmond focused on something else.

Such as Lucy and her expression, her wide blue eyes staring at him, and the lance of pain inside him that had him collapsing with her to the temple floor.

“Look, I've been trying to override this fucking recording for the past week! You stupid piece of fuck - Let... me... in!”

Desmond snapped his head up to stare above him. His mouth opened, then clambed closed, as the whispers were still ongoing. He mouthed, “What?” and strained his ears to hear in-between them.

“Maybe a POE interference is needed?” The voices continued talking, and unfortunately, the hissing sentences were barring Desmond from hearing clearly. Heart pounding, he paced along of the platform – six steps left, five steps down, eight steps up.

“Fuck, Erudito! It's your code! Do something! Fuck, I'm taking a break, this is awful.”

Desmond paused in motion, when a new voice spoke – hadn't Erudito been the man to send him everyone's email passwords?

“I was riding a mania like you wouldn't believe – I can no longer make sense of the string I input.” It was different. It was the same, but different – calmer, deeper, but Desmond knew this voice. Knew it like a ready-made companion. A different set of this man's voice had kept him company and almost – maybe had – driven him mad, simultaneously -

“Sixteen?” he whispered, relief throwing caution to the void.

Desmond's hands slammed to his ears to block the majority of noise, as like a flood the hisses became screams in his ears.

“Did you hear that?”

“... Hear what?”

“Play that back again!”

“But Will, Eru-”

“Now!”

_~_~_

IDK, hope you like the first part?

Re: Warring with Talons Part 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

HOLY MOTHER OF MINSTRELS

Please apply moarness to this because it is the only way it can be more epic.

Glad you're enjoying it!

[(Anonymous)]

This is a fun prompt. Thank you OP.

Are you OP? If not, or if you are, as long as enjoyment is being derived from this, I am happier for it!

Warring with Talons Part 2/?

[(Anonymous)]

One moment Desmond had been giving the void above him a hopeful stare, desperation clawing at his mind and body, his eyes stinging from it. The next, he was dropping, the platform nonexistent, the light extinguished and a scream tore from him; horrified, terrified with no sense of where he was, that he could even his body was swallowed up by the darkness.

“Fuck! Ah! How is this happening?” Erudito's companion sputtered.

“No... no! No, no, get him!”

Mind racing, his heart beating hard in his chest, blood pounding in his ears, he scrambled mentally to bring out his second sight – anything to light the way, if the way of coated in darkness and mystery, the sight, monikered as Eagle Vision, would guide him and at the very least, light up his being.

Choking on another scream that wished to wrench up within his throat, he squeezed his eyes shut in concentration – for a moment was weightless in his free-fall – and energy and pressure mounted behind his eyeballs, feeling like a sun was gathering strength to burst past clouds. When Desmond felt the unmistakable sense of coating, like a film embracing his scerla underneath his eyelids, did he open his eyes – it took longer, much more time than usual but Desmond was panicked – and saw himself glow a robin's egg blue.

He was also surprised (delight mixing in with his current state) to find himself falling down a tunnel that glowed a deep purple and soon enough, he was passing through sections of it that had glowing gold markings etched into it around its circumfrence.

“There he is!” a voice shouted. It was Sixteen's and sounding remarkably like the Sixteen Desmond knew. “Grab him!”

“I can't!” another voice cried, frustration in his tone. “I tried the last fucking two-”

“If you can swear and form a sentence, you're not trying hard enough!”

“Fuck you, Erudito! I'm trying here, look, there goes another checkpoint – fuck! Eeyah! Ow...”

“Give me that, you idiot. I'll do it.” Subject Sixteen – Erudito, Desmond reminded himself – sounded much calmer and more gathered together.

Desmond's breathing quickened and now his heart was beating a tempo because of excitement and anticipation – the muscles of his body coiling, shivering with it – as another golden checkpoint appeared from far below; it was quickly ascending, or rather Desmond's descent was reaching it, to swallow him.

Desmond slammed into it – and not kindly or gently either – if his body had true physicality, his bones would have been broken, possibly crushed, feet first. As it was, agony spiked up his spine and into his brain, sparking like an electric jolt from the nape, except it felt more like an icepick being hammered in. He moaned, body too heavy, and head heavier than it, to move from the crumbled position on his back.

“Shit!” Erudito cursed. “Desmond, Desmond? Desmond, you alright?”

Desmond breathed in haltingly, and managed to croak out, “Yeah... great. Like a million dollars.” He wheezed out a hoarse laugh.

Erudito chuckled raggedly. “Still have that same sense of humor, I see. Don't worry, I'm going to reroute you – it'll take some time... but... I'm going to place you somewhere with a bit more scenery, keep you occupied. It's the most I can do for now, for some reason I am not superuser on here, can't be rootuser, some fuck changed it.”

“You changed it, asshole.” Erudito's companion snapped. “With you and your mental fit – unfortunately, we can't incite another episode unless we want people dead, so fuck you and your manic code.”

“Don't test me.” Erudito warned.

“Why?” Desmond managed out.

Warring with Talons Part 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Hm? In the state I was in, I imagine I had thought to protect you should something terrible happen – I... did not want happened to me, to happen to you. Unfortunately, the Animus's engine has its own program that assesses vitals and as my program was backported into it, the Animus triggered mine and opened up the executable. And here you are. My two idiot comrades put you in here and inadvertently brought this on themselves.”

Desmond laughed. “Drove me crazy.”

“According to the tiniest bits I can recognize, it was actually supposed to place you somewhere else, not in here. I'm just using some of my program's code right now, to... give you the scenery change it was supposed to hide you in.”

As shatter-proof glass was able to crack and fall in chunks, so too did the gold around him, and in a blink, he was laying on a bed.

“Rome?”

Erudito's voice came from above. “To keep you occupied while I break my own code, go ahead and explore, rest and recuperate.”

Desmond leaned his weight on his hand and hesitantly pushed up, then sprang onto his feet when he felt no pain or encumbrance. “There's no pain, thanks, Erudito.” When no reply was forthcoming, Desmond said, “Erudito, you there?” Giving the roof a thoughtful stare, Desmond shrugged and walked to the door, opening it a crack to take a peek.

There were people milling around outside, one group of common women chattering and children chasing each other; there were even people going about their business on the winding path of the district of wherever he was. Desmond in Ezio only went from whichever point he was directed to and aside from gazing in boredom at objects or pieces of history that Shaun practically gushed over – the man periodically forced him to climb and basically case the places out in order for Shaun to get every single vantage point and cranny his eyes could drink in – Desmond had no clue where he was.

Still, Desmond did as Shaun had asked, every time. It was always nice to receive friendly nags, rather than scathing remarks, after all.

Remembering Shaun was different than Rebecca, as one thought to the dark-haired woman brought the lighter-haired one into memory and Desmond was not ready for that, yet. He had done it enough in the that void and had almost gone crazy from that fuck-hole and he wasn't too keen on traveling down memory-lane of that, now that there was someplace new and refreshing to keep his mind occupied.

When one of the woman detached herself from the gathered, grabbing a hold of a small boy's hands, heading straight toward Desmond, he panicked. Swiftly closing the door, he pressed his back to it, casting glances about quickly. Well, the bed was a tight squeeze for a child to get under, and Desmond was not going to fit under there (in addition, the notion of being under the same bed as a child and mother's was creepy as fuck, even if he could fit under it – no wonder people were scared of their ankles being grabbed). There was a small table and Desmond was six feet tall and while not heavily built, was obviously not going to be inconspicuous, body scrunched in the space below.

Desmond had a brief image of himself giving them a grimacing smile, waving, table lifted a foot off the ground, being like a turtle's shell on his back, and smothered a laugh.

“Okay, Des – go crazy later,” he sung quietly to himself and his eyes landed on the lone window in the small home. He eyed the measurements of it. “I can't possibly...”

“-Momma, Momma, I still want to play!” a little boy whined from very close by.

“Fuck it, I'm going!” he hissed. He leaped toward the window, grasping the shutters and jerked them open.

Warring with Talons Part 4/?

[(Anonymous)]

A man with startled eyes stared at him. He was impersonating a frog-face, aptly. Desmond stared back, before socking him in the face. Hearing a thud of the man's body below the sill, but uncaring, Desmond scrambled into the frame, twisting and turning his body, trying to make himself fit. He was receiving difficulty from his upper torso, until he stilled his breathing, pushing air out, and then Desmond was hanging half-way out. He perspired lightly, the air chilly from the dampness of his shirt.

“Well, my bambino, maybe after we break our fast,” the woman responded, more clearer, as she opened the door.

Grunting, Desmond finally collapsed onto the man's body. “Thanks, I think.” When the woman's shrill, “Why are my shutters--!” reached his ears, Desmond lunged sideways and crab-crawled back around the corner of the home and into her small garden plot, heart pounding.

The woman gasped. “Oh, oh – you again?! You pervert! Wait til my Dominico gets here!”

Desmond remarked under his breath in memory of the man, “Hope that shiner stings real good, too.” He was careful to not step on the soil of her growing garden, edging around it. When he noticed the cliff's edge was close in height, were he to use the mother's roof as a boost, he was quick to heft himself onto it.

Feeling the pain as momentum from his jump slammed his front into the rocky, jagged side of the cliff, was nowhere near as easy nor painless as Ezio's skilled jumps; fingers digging into the grass of its surface, Desmond was left breathless. “Oh, Christ-!” he hissed out between gritted teeth, gaining his wind back. “Mhm, that fucking hurts...!” Using the pain as an enforcer, he grunted as he managed to get his upper half on the grass, and finally rolled awkwardly to rest fully on it.

“This is weird... I should be able to do this no prob.”

“Such a strange sight, would you not agree, Petti?” Desmond jumped up, immediately, waving his hands and quirking a grin at the pair of men in front of him.

“Hey, hey, I do this before breakfast, just routine.” He noted there was no one else on this path of dirt and cleared his throat. “Gotta stay in shape, somehow. Don't mind me.” He jogged away, distancing himself from them – and while still being in their line of sight, hauled himself up another, thankfully smaller cliff with bushels and trees growing on it.

Desmond had little idea why he was doing this, but whatever the case, it worked. The men stopped staring, from what Desmond could see, as he turned around to give them a short wave, and waved back.

“I should start doing that for my Luciana, keep me as boisterous as that lad there!” The two chuckled together.

“Ah, the wonders of youth,” his friend said, nodding in agreement.

As Desmond pretended to jog out of their sight, but truly immersed himself into the small patch of trees to hunker down in a crouch, he listened as they passed his hiding place.

“A peculiar manner of speech and dress, however.”

“Ah, yes – maybe a foreigner? He does not look from here, to me. Explains his state of clothes, too.”

A small headache formed and Desmond sighed.

He could not change his looks, but he could at least change his clothes. He was keeping his pack though, he would put his clothes in there – not his shoes, in Ezio's body the boots of this age were uncomfortable, as Desmond felt them as a second-party – and other items.

Desmond made his way down and back on the road, wiping the bristles and jostled leaves from his frame.

He turned to look up the path of the incline, as the noise of pedestrians made their way closer to him.

“Time to pick pockets, I guess.”

Sighing again, he zipped up his sweater and adjusted the hood of it so the material hung down to cover his eyes.

“Recuperate, yeah right. This brings back memories of my own that I'd rather not remember.”

Re: Warring with Talons Part 4/?

[(Anonymous)]

AUGH, in Part 2 and I'm not even going to doubt ALL of them, there are sentences that I've obviously forgot to fix when I deleted something from them in order to make these things fit into the comment area.

Sorry!

...

[(Anonymous)]

Just testing, to see if this starts it where I want it to

And hopefully it does. I don't want our posts and replies to squish like a tuna sandwich.

Warring of Talons Part 12/?

[(Anonymous)]

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 13/?

[(Anonymous)]

A white-robed assassin, but not Ezio – the breadth of his shoulders looked to be similar to Desmond's – sat on a blanket chest, leaning with his back against the wall (Desmond thought that type of storage unit was typically situated at the foot of the bed, but whatever). The hood dipped too far to see the entirety of his face – much to Desmond's annoyance – but the man's lower half was visible.

What, was the comment supposed to hurt Desmond's tiny feelings? “You blend great into the wall.”

The man grinned. “Why, grazie, bambino.” Desmond couldn't stay the brief twitch of his jaw, but forced it to relax. The man's lips lifted into a smirk.

“Tell me, why do you wear the clothes of a dead man?”

“... Well, I needed them. My own clothes were like a beacon for trouble.”

“Wearing the clothes of an italiano man,” the assassin said cockily, “does not make you italiano.”

Desmond scowled. “And? Just because a man wears colours of an assassin, doesn't make him one, either.”

The smirk dropped. “Yet. You are entertaining. Addio, for now, hm?”

“Wait,” Desmond called, as the man got up and tapped a rhythm on the door. “Where am I?” He didn't think he would be in the heart of the assassin's guild. There was one Bureau, not counting the headquarters that he knew of, but maybe there were more situated in this program that was drastically changed in ways Desmond hadn't expected.

“That is for us to know,” he responded glacially. Before he stepped out, the door opening inward, he spat, “Keep these close to heart: You are to be treated with care, insofar that you hold your peace.” He briefly pointed and Desmond eyes soon rested to where a sidetable was placed in the opposite corner, parallel to his bed; a large bowl and pitcher sat on its smooth surface.

“Healing salves and potions in its bureau. You have been handed more kindness than a mere prisoner, but know for surety that that is what you are.” He said sternly to a fellow assassin, “Close the door, Allesandro.”

The door shut with a groan. Desmond counted three bolts, three rotations and two singular clicks from the upper part of the door and one at the bottom. Finally, the grinding sound of wood against itself, as slabs of them, he guessed, were placed as a further barring measure.

“Overkill, Ezio. Overkill.” There were lamps lit up in the room, thankfully tiny vents were in the ceiling to prevent his death by smoke-inhalation, but it was still smothering and his clothes were sticking to him.

Sighing, Desmond shuffled over to the bureau, so he could slather his neck in salve. Maybe he would also drink a potion to numb the pain. It wasn't an awful, screeching pain – but not one to write off as abating and ignoreable.

He was silent once he was done, for a few moments. He panted, when the air lay on him like a cloak.

Another urgency made itself known.

Warring of Talons Part 14/?

[(Anonymous)]

“I need to piss.” he stated, casting another look around. No hidden doors to secret lavatories and he had ran his hands all along the walls to check, blinking to rid the blurry spots in his vision.

“Hey,” he called, finally knocking on the door, “I need to go.”

“Go?” The voice was muffled. “No, no, bello ragazzo, you shall not be leaving here.” The man sounded different than the other guy who had greeted Desmond so genially on his awakening.

Desmond groaned. “No. I need to go, like whizz? Take a leak?” he tried and when it was silent, the word lit up in his brain. “Urinate! Yeah, I need to urinate.” His stomach gurgled and an uncomfortable ache settled in his intestines and he pressed a hand to his stomach, mouth pressed tight. “And something else, later. Augh, not fun.”

He pressed his ear to the door, brow furrowing, when there was no reply for several beats of his heart.

“... Chamberpot.”

Desmond stared at the wood. “Huh?” The word sounded familiar.

“No, 'chamberpot', not this 'huh' you speak of. It is beneath your bedclothes.”

Bewildered, Desmond looked down at his clothes. “My, what? These aren't even mine!”

“Your bed, the bed – the piece of furniture you lay on to pass the day, or night, when you grow weary.” The man's tone was raising in volume and frustration. “Beds are normally clothed in curtains; sheets, thick sheets, thin sheets – all long sheets! Where do you hail from, young one, that you do not know what I say?”

Desmond was quiet. Experiencing vertigo right then, was not doing his quest for relief any favors. He swallowed thickly, light-headed.

“... America?”

The man exhaled noisely.

“I am requesting a shift-change, this is vexing on my nerves.”

“So... I still need to piss.” When the man shouted at him, through the wood, to look underneath the bed, Desmond did, grunting, out of breath. The moment he lifted the thick sheet of heavy material, something awful made its way to his nose. “Eugh! What the fuck-!” Grimacing, he reached into the dark and swiped his hand around, until it connected with an object. He felt along the round sides of it and his fingers caught on an opening and adjusting his grip, he pulled it out to take a look at this 'chamberpot'.

“Oh, Christ, you have got to be shitting me!” Desmond gagged, shoving it away. His gag reflex continued to have him heave, until he scrambled away from it. The stench of previous uses wafted still from it (and no wonder it was beneath the bed with its thick sheets), leaving him dumbfounded, and choking air from him further, because he was at the opposite end of the chamber by the sidetable; it wasn't until he lifted the hand that grabbed it, that he knew where the smell was coming from. He gave said hand a disgusted look through watery eyes.

“What is the commotion that you felt urgency to send Tullio to inform me?” Ezio's voice came from beyond the door.

“The prisoner-”

“Involuntary guest.” Ezio corrected, sounding remarkably patient. Desmond gave the door a look of great disbelief.

“Our involuntary guest has been producing... unhealthy noises. And speaking riddles!” the assassin spilled out, sounding rushed. Desmond realized why, when the locks of the door were being released, with exaggerated pauses. The slabs of wood rubbed against the door, quietly, as they too were removed. “He did seem rather daft in conversation. Perhaps... you do not think, he has overdosed on the medicine?” The remaining locks suddenly unlatched with such speed, that Desmond would have been certain only one rotation was needed to unlock it had he not known otherwise. Then, the door banged like a crack of lightning against the wall.

“Desmond!” Ezio hollered.

Desmond would have liked to say, “Geez, take a pill and relax. I'm right here.” However, he was busy at the moment.

Desmond lay on the ground, body limp, breathing as shallow as possible, facing the wall; trying to keep his expression the same slackness and closed-eyed quality, that unconscious victims in action movies had.

Warring of Talons Part 26/?

[(Anonymous)]

As Desmond's mother liked to tell it, she found the page between her great grandmother's journal, in the woman's cherish box stuffed under their home. Adeela would outlive her love, Miguel, by two hours, having downed poison as Miguel had suffered a fatal stroke. She had been the age of fifty-two, a longevity of life, by the Farm's standards.

His mother had been struck with the anxiety that the life inside her would not live past the birth and had taken measures to make certain that this would not come to pass. His mother had had pregnancies before Desmond, but they all miscarried.

Deliah had looked and ransacked what she could, while she could, doing her first few months – books, scrolls of reward, trying to see if a sign would relieve her of the persistent ache in her heart and ensure her child was strong enough to bear the world and its cruelties.

It was tradition on the Farm to wait for a year, after the child was born, to name them. His mother caused quite the stir, by giving him one while he was still inside her.

The page found wedged neatly between the pages was not in Adeela's flowing script, but Miguel's spidery one. Desmond, himself, had read it repeatedly and memorized it from childhood.

'He saved me and asked only one thing – that a child may be born with his name. Our only child was a beautiful baby girl and did not need a man's name to lift her spirits – she has all her mother in her, to be strong – her babe was the same. I suppose, the first regret I have, is that I will not live to see a grandchild with his name, to carry it with the same courage, compassion and conviction.

The last is that my eyes have wiped out, truly, Adeela's. In more ways than one – but she will not want me to write it down; the Miles are a secretive lot, even to their own. Her eyes, such a beautiful grey – looking intensely, over the years, I have picked out over three different shades of it in her eyes, one of which is a smoky blue. Adeela only laughs at me for my words, but they are true, nevertheless.

But let this be known: I may be an outsider but I will be heard and be heeded, appropriately. Without me, had her father decried my joining the family, Adeela would have flung herself from a high rapport without correcting her fall – this she swears over and over. Had I not lived past that fateful day on the battlefield, Adeela would have taken the first assassination over her capabilities and failed it with mortal wounds, gladly.

Had I not lived, none of you would be here. None. My sisters fell in love with Assassins, only to have them die in missions – both, twins, killed themselves. My mother grieved herself to her grave, because of them. You never had cousins, aunts or uncles – but as surely as our love, Adeela and I, you are here; you are reading this.

These are my words, honour them: Name the first boy of our line – Desmond.

Desmond, should you read this, know you are loved. And love others and try to see the good things in life, because if you were to try to find only the bad, that is exactly what you would see. Be a good man. Never forget that, most importantly, above all else.'

His mother had named him Desmond – she hadn't known if he was a girl or a boy, hadn't cared, just wanted the baby to live into adulthood.

Warring of Talons Part 27/?

[(Anonymous)]

She had birthed Desmond and then changed, his father, Wayne, a Miles by marriage, had commented absentmindedly. She would feed him her milk in the early stages of his life, but wanted little else to do with Desmond, a strong case of post-partum depression – Mina, a close family friend, had been the one to take care of Desmond in lieu of his mother. Deliah, bizarrely, showed no interest in Desmond until he was five, when his training began.

There were no terms of endearment in the Farm – a rule ironed into their way of life in his mother's generation. A child would always be called his name and when speaking of or to his parents, it was to use theirs in kind.

It had been a mistake to hand Desmond Miguel's page to keep, once he learned how to read properly.

He strongly adored the long dead man and was obsessed with what was right and wrong; Desmond asked many questions – he had a natural, inquisitive mind; unfortunately, Desmond was not born into homes outside the Farms, where the Assassin's order generated their non-field members; instructors despaired of his inquries – and only received the Farm's usual: piety, obedience and discretion blather. He also had ideas in his head, as other families liked to say. He constantly called Deliah 'mother', Wayne 'father' and Mina 'aunt' and no amount of correcting by them made him cease. His father had attempted to allay what was feeding his son's mindset, by burning the page, only to find out Desmond had been one step ahead of the game and done it himself when he was six.

In the first month of training, the boys and girls were given a bird, a pigeon. They were told to care for it and were marked on the bird's appearance, monthly. If it showed any wear or stress – seen from any balding on its body – or starvation, they were taken into a room and not seen for the rest of the day. Any misbehaviour was untolerated, such as asking too many questions and interrupting an important lesson, to not following orders made by their instructor.

Desmond knew from personal experience, many times – that misbehaving children were sat down on a stool bolted into the cement, legs strapped to the warped, freezing stool's legs, high ridges formed in the seat discomforting on the bottom; blindfolded and earmuffed, with the air conditioning on full blast, while alternatively, hot droplets of water fell on them from above. To ensure that a wiley student didn't free themselves, the strappings on their ankles were barbed on the front. In their mouth, they were given an ice cube and before being earmuffed told that it must stay in the mouth and not spat out, or else the punishment was worse. Once the cube melted, the mentally and physically wrecked child found a surprise – sometimes it was salt; sugar; or a ball of pepper on their tongue. Once it was melted, the child could shout that they were done, if they could – without stutters or weakness – and brought to another room to warm up with a meal in their stomach and a fresh change of dry clothes.

Mina had always been the one to lead the children to their punishments, being assigned to Desmond's age group as an assistant. She had always cried while doing Desmond, leaving him a mess before the shower even turned on. He couldn't sob or gasp, though – the ice cube was big enough to lodge itself in the throat and Desmond had always feared himself being suffocated to death.

It had been Deliah that pushed for the new conditioning regimen to their Farm's curriculum using the Miles influence in the community – heavily edited by overseers, for featuring unpurported cruelty, and instead it was laid out as a punishment for training years one to three. It had been derived from another Farm's program and to which that same Farm expressed great results.

Warring of Talons Part 28/?

[(Anonymous)]

When Desmond was seven, he went to the field for the routine, sunrise training, which entailed stretching his limbs in positions, had he known, children outside the Farm and Assassins did not do, along with memorization testing; pigeon tamed, on his shoulder, and happily pecking through his hair. He had named her Fred – it was before he realized the bird was a female, and by the time Mina had pointed it out, the bird only responded to the name.

There was a large birdcage, with six pigeons inside, resting on a wheeled cart when he and the other children arrived to gather in their field.

All the children were told sit down, in a position that was comfortable to them, and place their birds in front of them. Only one child had her hand scratched at by her pigeon; everyone else's were cooing and wandering in a pattern before them, much to their laughter.

Ben, their instructor, told them to stand, one by one, to give a brief presentation on their bird – how they thought of the on-going lesson, what their feelings were, or if they taught the bird anything, to show it off. They were told that they would be given extra marks for a well-orated discourse.

After a few entertaining ones, especially a girl's bird who sounded out, “Hello...”, it was Desmond's turn.

He had cupped Fred and placed her on his shoulder and puffed his chest out, proudly. He returned Mina's small smile and began.

“My pigeon, Fred, is a girl,” he started, inwardly nervous. He was also anxious, because what if he did poorly? Did he go into the Room? When laughter fluttered into the air from the row of sixteen children, Desmond laughed a bit, anxiety ebbing. “I didn't know she was a girl at the time, but she liked the name, so it stuck. While she can't talk, she follows directions, real good. Watch.” Demonstrating, Desmond pointed a finger skyward, whistling two, short trills.

Fred reacted instantly. She took off, making circles on her way up, before flapping furiously overhead. When Desmond sounded one long whistle, pointing to the left, she flew left; while she was flying left, Desmond whistled three short whistles and Fred maneuvered back around to zip to the far right, past Desmond. Finally, to finish, Desmond gave a warbling whistle and Fred descended down to rest on his shoulder, again.

The students clapped as Desmond turned to face the teacher, with feet shoulder-spread, waiting for his overall mark.

Ben nodded to Mina's hurried whisper, with a frown. He congratulated Desmond, “Overall, well done for your first – wonderful presentation, except some marks will be deducted for misuse of grammar. It is not 'real good', but 'real well', or simply 'well' without embellishment.” He nodded to Desmond – gave Mina a short, curt one - and Desmond sat down to watch the rest of the presentations, breakfast curdling in his stomach. To calm himself, he pet Fred's plummage and when she began to busy herself with rearranging his hair - tugging and pecking hair follicles the way she thought they should be - he smiled.

Ben cleared his throat and the children straightened in their sitting positions.

“Now, students – put your pigeons, should they not be already,” he gave the children, like Desmond, a look, “in front, once more.”

Desmond and the others whose pigeons were not, did so.

“Reward them for their good behaviour – just one favourite treat.” Desmond's neck and shoulders began to tighten uncomfortably, but he shook it off and reached into his training pants to give Fred her small bit of crispy bacon. He giggled when she swallowed it whole, and giving the teacher a glance, then one to Mina – saw them directing gazes elsewhere - he gave Fred another. She cooed at him and he grinned.

“You've had these avians for well over two years, now.” Their instructor paced slowly in front of them, staring into each of their eyes. “Some of you, have mistreated your project,” he glanced at a girl with pigtails, adding, “starved it and abused it. Others have done above and beyond what we required. You have befriended your pet, made them into a companion that loves...”

Warring of Talons Part 29/?

[(Anonymous)]

“... what you give it. It is an animal. It cannot love you – its brain is smaller than its head. A dog, perhaps, but this creature before you? No, not at all.” He finished, narrowing his eyes. Desmond stared at him with widened ones.

He opened his mouth to shout, “That's not true!” when Mina caught his eye and shook her head. Desmond stayed himself, wanting to wipe the cold sweat that had broken out on his back, at the sudden thought of being in the Room, again, that early in the day. He had been well-behaved that week and nodded to Mina to show his gratitude and she reciprocated with a tight, strained smile.

“Now, finally this year's long lesson has come to an end. Today, marks the day you begin a much more refined instruction. I will no longer be your teacher, after today, but only after you complete this one, final lesson. A lesson others - ignorant, filled with delusion and blinded by greed – never get, if only they could be so lucky as you seventeen, as us. As assassins.” A hush fell over them all and he nodded to Mina, who wheeled over the cage of pigeons that the children had wondered about in the beginning.

“Life is fleeting. Life is about hardship, and striving through it, because it must be done. It has to be done. You cannot walk across a bridge - and it is frayed and near-collapse, others of your brood behind you – and decide to turn around. No!” he said, shaking his head. “You continue, because if you don't, others fall from your actions. Ah,” he held up a finger, “but you might think, what if there was another way? What if... a person gave me a helping hand, what then? But, then I would ask, what does that person want in return? Hm?” He tsked. “Ulterior motives, behind every thought and every action – you can only rely on your own strength; trust those who know the truth.”

He said slowly, “And so, I ask you to trust that what I ask of you, is for your own good.

“Your project, your avian – your pet, companion or best friend,” his eyes slid to Desmond and then the talking pigeon's girl, “as I said, only loves what you can give it. And so, here's your final lesson from me, that I give to you in hopes that you show your true strength and might of conviction:

“Kill the thing before you, because it is the only way to pass. If you do not, you will never be one of us.”

Desmond and a few others had quieted their cries of shock and horror, at his command, and settled for staring at their pigeons. Desmond's eyesight swam with tears, but he didn't dare shake his head in denial.

“Look, here – it is easy,” the teacher said, the creaking of the cage following. The bird in his hands made no noise that Desmond could hear. “Bring the pigeon's neck in your grasp, turn their beaks upward, like so, with your knuckles and wrench.” The small crack from a spare pigeon and the thump of its body tossed like trash to the ground, had the girl with the talking bird crying softly. Desmond grit his teeth to prevent his cries from being audible. He blinked, letting the accumulated tears fall, his spine shuddering.

“Now, now, it is not so hard to do. Don't fret over that, or your lack of technique, this is your first kill... albeit an unhuman one, but that comes much, much later. By the time you get your assignments, your first will be like an old hat or a shoe – familiar and unbothersome.”

Desmond cupped Fred to his chest, shielding her face.

“Desmond,” Ben asked slowly, stepping up to him. “Is there a problem?”

“... No, Ben.” Desmond said, staring at the ground.

“Good.” Ben said, and proceeded to congratulate the girl with pigtails. Her dead pigeon laid out before her, spasming. “Well done! Exactly right, you'll make a fine Assassin, I see. Already reaching for your Masters, hm?” She giggled with a jubilant, “Yes!”

Desmond simultaneously turned and looked at the talking bird's girl, as she turned to him, both teary-eyed. Cracks and high-pitched squawks echoed in their ears, as one by one, the other children snapped their birds' neck.

Warring of Talons Part II - 1/?

[(Anonymous)]

Desmond must have fallen asleep, because when he re-opened his eyes, he was laid sprawled out on his stomach, head turned to the window. The lower corner of the pillow's casing – fabric that felt silky smooth and reflected dully the light – was thoroughly soaked with his drool. Grimacing, he turned the pillow over after wiping his cheek off on a dry spot. The sun was no longer shining through the window, although it was still daytime; a soft breeze chilled him from it. The other window curtain had also been swiped aside to allow a clear view of the sky. Desmond grunted, pushing himself up and reversing into a sitting position, glancing around.

No one else was in the room with him, but someone – probably Ezio – had come along to take his tray laden contents away, too. If he hadn't, Desmond would have unintentionally caused a huge spill on the bed. He had also left a pair of plain white pants on the chair, that remained unmoved from its position before the foot of the bed. Brain swimming in his head, Desmond gingerly got up from the bed. He had to sit in the chair to put on the pants. Their length was the slightest bit shorter that his leg length, the cuff of the pants touching a half inch above his ankles, as he walked to the door. It was a slow process, but necessary, because his bladder felt strained in its fullness. He had just placed his hand on the knob, when he remembered that there was no such thing as bathrooms, from what he gathered in his lovely time in that other room. There was the chamberpot method, in place of that, unfortunately.

“Great... Can't give a guy a break, can you?” he mumbled, shuffling around. He edged toward the bed, head pounding, and laboriously got down on his knees, then hands, before eventually, Desmond just slumped with his head against the cool floor. The moment he had bent down, the blood that rushed to his head had made him feel as if his eyeballs were threatening to pop out from the pressure. He groaned to himself. “Ugh. Where's the meds. I'll take them without fuss, I swear.”

“Oh! Oh, you're awake!” a voice cried. It was male and too loud. “Hello, Des-”

“Shut up,” Desmond groaned out, concentrating harder on the stone beneath him. Maybe if he ignored the ache, the need to piss would go away. He alleviated the full brunt of his weight on his lower abdomen, by going on his side. “If... you can – fuck off. Please.”

“... While I was not speaking,” Ezio suddenly said from above him. “Ah – on that another time, si?However, the last – that, I cannot do. Your body's aches ailing you?”

“I need to... relieve myself,” Desmond said, thinking on another term to use. “Badly.”

“Difficulty in acquiring the pot?” There was amusement in Ezio's voice and Desmond had never felt the hair trigger reaction to punch another in the face hit him so quick. All he could think was: Man, if I wasn't down for the count, like this...

“Very fucking funny. Be a lot better, if you hadn't drugged my soup.” Desmond returned, directing a glare upward, only to have to correct the angle of his head to view Ezio, which ruined the effect. It also made his head spin more. “I know you did it.” Desmond dared with his eyes, for Ezio to deny it.

Ezio gave him an unapologetic shrug. “I was attempting to hasten the recovery process. Seeing how you are so lively, I believe my method was a success.”

Desmond stared. “Alright. Ignoring that.” He shifted onto his back, shaking his head at Ezio. “You know, now, I think I should have laid there and let loose.”

“I would have made you lie in your bedding, would that have been the case – had you the energy to move and refused to do so.”

“No, you wouldn't've.” Desmond told him. It was still jarring to see a different face on another body type, but hear Ezio's familiar baritone rumble out of this man.

Warring of Talons Part II - 2/?

[(Anonymous)]

Ezio was silent for a tense moment, before he responded. “No. You are correct, Desmond. I would not, nor would I ever.” He crouched down and reached past the bedcurtains and into the underneath of the bed. He brought out, quietly, a surprisingly unreeking chamberpot. He gave Desmond a quick runover with his eyes. “Would you like me to aid you?”

“You just want to touch my dick,” Desmond quipped out, before his knees jerked in place and he winced, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh, man, I'm – I did not mean to say that -” A bark of laughter from Ezio startled Desmond. His eyes flew open and he gulped, watching as Ezio continued to laugh until he wheezed.

Ezio regained himself, wiping his beard that had slight spittle from his outburst on it, short chuckles overcoming him when he connected gazes with Desmond. “Ah, been too long since someone... Ah, Desmond, grazie. Come, come – but, do not worry-” Ezio winked. “- your virilità is safe with me, si?” As Ezio pulled Desmond up to his feet, the chamberpot's rim gripped in his free hand and directed him to a door in the corner that he had not noticed. He opened it and light filtered in from a small, square window toward the bedroom floor; flower heads peaked up from underneath the sill and a few green vines hung on either side of it from the outside. It was a nice touch – not so impractical, as Ezio's hideout doubled as a residency for he and his recruits, as well as the main base of operations.

Huh. So, they do have bathrooms? Desmond thought.

“I had it exchanged; the clean one in here to be the one beneath the bed,” Ezio explained, placing the chamberpot underneath an odd-looking stool with a similar-sized opening in the middle of it. “I will await for you out here. Then, you will rest some more – we have much to discuss, afterward.”

“Clearer head?” Desmond asked, shutting the door behind him. He planted his feet and focused on keeping them set sternly on the floor. He relieved himself with little difficulty and then something struck him. He remembered, vaguely, throwing up, but after draining the vial, his stomach had become upset – enough, that he felt that he was going to get cleaned out from the other end. Right at that moment, however, Desmond felt no urge to seat himself on the hard, thick wooden shit-stool thing.

The last time anyone had seen Desmond as vulnerable as that, after his Farm days, had been Hubert – whose bar Desmond had rented living space in one of Hubert's empty 'night' rooms for cheap, in exchange for keeping his mouth shut on the bar's other, far lucrative cash flow and not touching the 'merchandise' in the other rooms – Hubert had been a large, in-charge type of man, but had suffered from irritable bowel syndrome when high anxiety situations occurred (such as when the cops investigated a bar a street down from his) and had further liked Desmond from the incident involving food poisoning via badly handled and cooked chicken. Ezio was not Hubert's blond, balding, big-boned frame and Desmond, not too sure what to do with the imagined past event in his head, stalled in the bathroom, face gradually heating up.

It was one thing for a guy to hold another's head for him to spew, but it was entirely too intimate for another to clean up after that same guy's unfortunate accident while unaware. Maybe the doctor... Yeah. Yeah, the doctor's the one – bet he's done it all the time! An old hat and bunny trick. Phew. The heated prickle in Desmond's face died down. Now, that that's cleared right up. He wriggled his fingers, keenly aware that he needed to wash them – cold baths were not soapy, cleansing affairs, after all – only for him to think of all the germs on every part of him. He needed a shower – a proper bath, he amended – because his one hand had been gripping that disease-infested chamberpot from yesterday and he'd been bathed in only water with it.

Warring of Talons Part II - 3/?

[(Anonymous)]

“Hey, Ezio,” Desmond called. Receiving a hum of acknowledgement, Desmond continued. “Where's the sink? Where can I wash my hands?” First thing's first, after all.

The door opened and Ezio gripped him by the arm and led him back to the bed. Desmond was seated on the it, Ezio's broad hands clamped on his biceps and leading the entire movement downward – he couldn't help but wonder if Ezio thought that, along with recovering from being drugged and poisoned, Desmond was also an invalid. He had two pair of working legs – it would have taken him, maybe a few seconds longer to get to and from his destination without Ezio's help, but he could have done it.

“You have peculiar sensibilities,” Ezio said. “Queer clothes, pack and footwear, too – perhaps, not so much for you, yes? I will have water brought up to be put in the pitcher for you, but I only use it myself after missions.”

What? That's disgusting. Desmond thought immediately. “So... you don't wash, regularly?” he hedged out.

Ezio scrutinized him. He said to Desmond, “I wash as regularly as someone in my station does, with additional frequency when the assignments have been particularly gruelling and long.” His eyes became colder. “If you mean to imply that I am as unclean as those living in the gutters – while, unfortunate, many of them wallow instead of striving for higher standards; I do not pity them, much. As I was saying before, is that what you meant?”

Desmond backpeddled inwardly, patting the air in front of him with both hands. “I think this is a case of being an idiot, on my part. Hey, not above admitting wrongs. But, that's not it, at all!” Actually, it might as well have been, based on my hygienic standards. “You don't stink. You smell like, well, lots of things, but definitely not like sewers!” He was tempted to add 'really' to punctuate his sincerity, because Ezio was still unmoved by his words, but thought that it would only serve to bury Desmond deeper in the mud.

“... Nothing unpleasant, I hope?” Ezio said finally, still eyeing him down.

Desmond said hastily, “Nope. Romances the ladies, just right.”

Ezio snorted and stared at the bedroom window, before he remarked: “I do not have time for such fancies, any longer. Nor do I think I'm capable of loving women the way they were meant. Or deserve.” Ezio had a faraway look in his eyes and Cristina's face fluttered into Desmond's mind.

Desmond considered leaving the man to his peace, but Ezio never seemed to catch a break. He surely never had any true peace after his seventeeth year of life, and the man was in his forties now. “I can see that a busy guy like yourself wouldn't have time for privacy, but gotta do something about all that pent-up energy and take a breather or two. You'll only hurt yourself, if you don't.” It was the best Desmond could do without crossing the line of how much he knew and giving Ezio a sense of violation. Memories were private to the holder of them and it was only by being face to face with Ezio that Desmond felt guilty for it.

Ezio ran a hand through his hair and glanced back at Desmond. “Perhaps, you are right.” His lips thinned. “But enough, you need your rest and we will have words later.” Ezio left quickly, shoulders set stiffer and Desmond was left to stare up into the bed's canopy. One thought concreted itself, as no person divulged any type of confession, vague or not, to a complete stranger without being completely hammered or thirsting desperately for company... or having bonded over something, like he and Hubert.

“He saw me shit.” Desmond laid down and shut his eyes.

“... Can I talk now?” the same voice asked. “Erudito's on reconnaissance and he wanted me to ask a set of questions. Just a check-in.”

Warring of Talons Part II - 4/?

[(Anonymous)]

Desmond definitely, now, wanted to ignore all stimuli and traipse back into la-la land.

“... But, I can just come back later.”

The voice sounded so meek, that Desmound roused energy through the embarrassment to respond. “Ask away. Don't want to get you into trouble.”

“It'll be quick!” He promised, sounding earnest. “Okay, one, two three: how are you? What's your situation? Ah – well, this one was answered. Um. Anything crop up? And, that's about it. Erudito and his team did their best, but there's only audio on our end. The technology of the Animus is... way out there. I doubt even Abstergo understood all there was to it.”

Abstergo reminded him of Lucy. “Ezio drugged me with the broth. It was a slow-acting agent. Currently in the same room, in the same bed. Nothing's changed, so far. I bet by tomorrow, things'll get interesting. Better get your recording equipment ready on the horizen,” he joked, half-serious.

The man laughed. “Well, aside from when you're at rest, the recording's working just fine.”

“And it'll shut down in a few minutes,” Desmond said. “I'm still bushed.”

“Alright. Ah, I think you answered everything more or less. Sleep well, Desmond.”

“Night. Even though it's still daylight outside.” Desmond sighed to himself and rolled on his stomach and concentrated on evening out his breathing.

Desmond sluggishly awoke on his back after an undetermined amount of time, sheets clinging to his stomach from his sweat. He grimaced and rolled to the other side, where his drool-pillow was. Burrowing his head into the softness, eyes still closed and back in his favourite sleeping position, Desmond reached for the remanents of his dream to dive back in, when a sense of vulnerability hit him. Distracted, Desmond turned over to lay on his side, curling his legs up to him, figuring his stomach was, oddly, not cutting it. He thought hard on bounding off treetops like a trampoline and weightlessness and his muscles relaxed.

He headed past the treeline – the meadow before him looked peaceful with its little dagger-people, who looked too harmless to affectively wield their weapons, all gathered around a small pond - feet skimming the earth but not quite touching it, when he was yanked backward by a large, hairy seven-foot tall sasquatch squatting at the top of one behind him. “Guh.” Desmond breathed in sharply, eyes snapping open and rolled, more alertly, on his back.

“Nightmares?” a voice asked.

Desmond shot into a sitting position. “What the fu-!” His heartrate slowed and he breathed out in a whoosh. “Oh, Ezio, it's only you...” He stopped and leaned back into the headboard. He narrowed his eyes at the man in the high-backed chair. “You're watching me sleep? Did you do that last night, too? What the fuck, man – that's creepy. Jesus Christ, you just don't do it. It's like ordering a ham sandwich and you took a bite, expecting ham, and you got chicken. It's -” Desmond's point lost its hot air when Ezio laughed lightly. “Oh, come on – I thought it was a great way to get it across.” Also, Desmond thought he managed it in a way that it didn't offend Ezio. Last thing he needed was to be locked in his room.

Is both an exit and an entrance

[(Anonymous)]

...but rarely the former in fiction.

The absurd amount of TMI in this fic is fucking hilarious. xD