asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2010-09-13 08:44 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2010-09-13 08:44 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.2
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.2
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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.
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∆ 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
In Name Alone 101/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-07 11:01 pm (UTC)(link)“This is it?” Charlotte mumbled, pursing her lips, thick, guttural French accenting her Italian. Her eyes fell on Lena and that same pretty mouth twisted down in a scowl. “And I suppose you are the one I’m to speak with.”
“I’m Lena.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Two servants rushed up to help Charlotte with her shawl. They kept their eyes rooted to the ground at their lady’s feet. The duchess laughed humorlessly, fanning at her décolletage with a pale hand, rubies flashing on her fingers like bright sores. “I can also see that you find this as distasteful as I do. Good… that makes this somewhat more tolerable.”
Inside, Lena heard Silvia dodge into the kitchen and begin praying.
“Ah,” Charlotte said lazily, her gaze drifting from Lena to Cesare. His hand spasmed on her back. “So here is my scoundrel of a husband. And yet this is not the tableau I was led to expect. Nobody here looks at all like a prisoner.”
“Prisoner?” Lena repeated. Her mouth was sandy, gritty.
“Indeed.” Charlotte paused on the threshold, though Lena knew she would sweep inside if she desired to. “You’re very bold, you know,” the duchess added imperiously, fluttering her lashes. “Not even cursory acknowledgement of my position? From what I understood you were to be throwing yourself at my feet in shame and forgiveness.”
“You were deceived,” Lena said firmly, finding some beloved last well of inner fire. “I am an assassin,” she continued, laying down her cards with a silent prayer. “You will find that we do not scare easily, nor do we beg for what is ours.”
“Yours?” Charlotte arched one thick, dark eyebrow. Again, she glanced at Cesare. “I would show you the ring,” she purred, “but that seems vulgar.”
“State your business, madam,” Cesare put in abruptly. “Or be gone.”
“I was summoned to this place by an anonymous spy. He,” she paused, looking carefully at Lena, “or she, said that I was to come and collect my husband. That he was acting a fool in the Spanish countryside with someone’s woman. Furthermore, I was alerted to the fact that his miraculous recovery would be cut short should I fail to appear.”
Charlotte smirked, touching one finger to her lower lip. “Well, I took my time in coming and I see that you are still alive and well, husband. It appears this letter carried more than one inconsistency.”
“Do not call me that,” Cesare said curtly. “I do not know you, madam.”
She laughed, brightly, like a silver chime, the sound carrying, echoing off the nearby buildings. Charlotte turned to her waiting servants as if to share in the hilarious joke with them. They cracked weary smiles in unison. “At least that bit of the letter was accurate. You really have lost your mind, haven’t you?” Charlotte huffed out a dramatic sigh, sticking out her ruby red pout. “Poor, sad dear. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so completely pathetic.”
Charlotte put up her hand, calling for silence. Cesare had been about to retort, naturally, but he waited, his grasp on Lena’s back tightening.
“Fear not,” Charlotte cooed, reaching out and grabbing Lena’s elbow. “You and I will have a chat, just us girls, and then I will be gone, back to civilization and away from this horrid little hovel.”
She twinkled her fingers at Cesare, leading a gob smacked Lena away. Lena tossed him a helpless look over her shoulder, shrugging. Charlotte dragged her toward the side of the house and then back toward the garden. The silence stretched, painful, until at last they rounded the back of the cottage and stepped into the sunny pasture.
In Name Alone 102/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-07 11:09 pm (UTC)(link)“I…” Her voice dropped away. She was relieved, yes, but also shocked. “Sorry?”
Charlotte faced her fully, swirling out her skirts and shooing impatiently at the servants that had crept around to try and follow her. They scampered back around the cottage like frightened doves.
“He really must be different,” Charlotte continued matter-of-factly, eyeing Lena critically, “or you would be begging me to cart him off. That, or you would have killed him in his sleep. He’s a menace, or was, it makes no difference. I would show you the scars of his whips and his fingernails but – again - vulgar, no?” She gestured toward the house. “That man in there is the meanest, foulest, rudest person I have ever had the misfortune of knowing. The day he went off with my brother to die in ignominy was the happiest day of my life. I toasted his demise. At last, I thought, my daughter and I are safe. And now I am a duchess, free to marry or pursue whom I choose, and Louisa no longer lives in terror of that dog.”
Lena opened and closed her mouth, completely at a loss for words. She hadn’t known what to expect when she first glimpsed Charlotte on their stoop, but whatever she imagined it certainly wasn’t anything like this.
“But… he’s your husband. I’m not asking you to take him, I’m just… confused. My God, he’s the father of your child!” At that, Lena’s insides did a sharp flip of envy.
Charlotte threw back her head and guffawed, her titters lasting for moments on end as she tried to catch her breath. When she finally calmed down there were tears glistening in her eyes. “You think? You… oh! Oh, ha ha! You think… Mon dieu…” She fanned her flushed face, giggling again. “You think I would let that bastard give me a child? Heavens no… You learn to be resourceful in this life. When I heard of my impending marriage to him I redoubled my efforts with darling Massimo.” Charlotte reached out and patted Lena as if she were a very stupid, drooling child. “And those efforts were redoubled without the use of tonics and a tortoiseshell.”
“You… you purposefully made a bastard and passed it off as Cesare’s?” Lena sputtered, gaping.
“Of course! It’s done far, far more than you might think. Men can’t tell the difference, can they? They’re so eager for a bit of quim they don’t bother to look too hard. You merely pop a little quail’s egg up your cunny and voila! Virginity for your wedding night. Simple, oui?” Charlotte had blushed more laughing over Lena’s mistake than over casually discussing the ins and outs of forging one’s maidenhead. “Meanwhile,” Charlotte continued swiftly, “Massimo had done his job and I had done mine. The dates were close enough. Cesare was away anyway when the babe came. He didn’t give a second thought to the fact that she was several weeks early.”
“But… surely it was obvious?” Lena couldn’t decide whether she was overjoyed or overwhelmed with disgust. Either way, she had to admit that Charlotte was ferocious and cunning for a girl of her tender age. She had seen far more and perhaps far worse than Lena… and that was saying something. “Didn’t he see there was no resemblance?”
“See? Well now, that would require that he actually spend time with his daughter, would it not?” Charlotte shrugged, slapping at an interested fly. It was like she was talking about a stranger. A myth. “The girl looks just like me anyway, so even if he did bother to look he probably wouldn’t make the leap.” Suddenly, the duchess stopped, taking a small but intimidating step toward Lena.
“This could very well ruin my reputation, you know,” Charlotte hissed, “and Louisa’s future. I will say nothing of Cesare’s survival but you must never, ever breathe a word of this to anyone.”
“What about Cesare?” Lena asked softly. “Surely it would be better that he know…”
In Name Alone 103/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 05:59 pm (UTC)(link)She walked away purposefully, her heavy blue skirts swishing in her wake. Charlotte of Albret hardly paused as she glanced back at Lena and called, “Take him away. Take him wherever you wish. Kill him for all I care. He’s yours. Just be certain he never returns to Roma. Louisa and I are happy now. I help you, yes? And now you will help me.”
Lena watched her go, stunned, and then followed after at a trot. She caught up to the duchess just as she was being helped into her carriage. Cesare watched from the doorway, leaning against it with his lips in a grim line.
“I nearly forgot,” Charlotte said, now seated in the opulent, fluffy seats of the carriage. She leaned forward, opening a small, filigreed box. “Here,” she added, handing down a velvet purse. Lena took it with both hands, surprised by its weight.
“Now,” Charlotte said, dusting her skirts and fixing her eyes straight ahead, away from Lena. “If all goes well, we shall never meet again. Good day.”
The servants climbed swiftly to their posts, the driver cracking his whip and sending the carriage jolting forward, all of it precise and choreographed, like a perfect little dance. Lena stepped back, shielding her eyes from the dust as Charlotte and her carriage trundled down the lane. Weighted down by far more than the purse, Lena walked up the path to the house, wary of Cesare’s intent gaze.
“What did she give you?” he asked, shifting his focus to the bag.
Lena tugged it open, gasping as she beheld its glittering contents. Silvia and Michelangelo crowded behind him, each trying to get a glimpse at the purse. Lena held it out to them, looking back up at Cesare as she whispered, “Hush money.”
It’s poison, this feeling, seeping into his blood and curdling it, making him ache and shiver. Cesare sat on Lena’s bed facing away from her, perfectly sensible of the fact that he should be the one apologizing and begging for her to understand. It could not have been easy to meet his wife. He blinked down at his hands, cold, unfeeling, rocked into a state of perpetual numbness that leaves him wordless and ashamed. Charlotte’s visit had taken a greater toll than he could have anticipated. He felt utterly drained.
The room was dark, muted, even the candles solemn and dull.
Cesare sighed, dropping his head into his palms. He did not know that woman. What sort of creature was he then, a man who did not recognize his own wife? Though as Lena would be quick to point out, now that he was ‘dead’ they were no longer truly married. He was free. Cesare snorted under his breath, bitter and withdrawn. Free. Ridiculous. He was not free. He was as shackled now as he was when he still lived under the influence of his vicious family and daunting responsibilities. He should comfort her. He should have faith. But it all felt remote, impossible, a dream had and then forgotten, just like the rest of his miserable life.
“Say something.”
Cesare slumped forward, undone. Her voice… it made his heart strain against the chains keeping it in bondage. He half-turned at the waist and his gaze fell on the vial all of their hopes rested on. It looked tiny, insignificant, no longer a solution but yet another problem to be faced.
“How do you stand it? My own… wife... does not want me, not even for the sake of our child.”
He did not need to look at Lena to feel her icy shiver of distaste.
“She says it is not your daughter,” Lena murmured, curled tightly against the headboard as if trying to become invisible. “She had a lover before you married and… did what she could to ensure a pregnancy.”
“And how is that better?” Cesare spat, standing suddenly. He whirled, out of control, overcome by a terrible urge to shout and rage. Lena flinched, staring with wild eyes as he paced, his knuckles grazing the wall as he went. “God in heaven, how is that better? The idea of breeding with me was so repugnant that she was driven to debasing herself like that! Can you even imagine it? Can you imagine marrying that man?”
In Name Alone 104/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 06:00 pm (UTC)(link)“I already have,” Lena whispered. “And I cannot blame her for trying to protect herself.”
“I wish you hadn’t said that.” Cesare’s hands balled into fists. “Why? Why would you even consider me as I was before? Do you want to resent me? Is that it? Storing up ammunition for the day of my inevitable betrayal?”
Lena started, her mouth dropping open as she quickly shouted back, “That’s not it at all! I was trying to… I don’t know… trying to imagine the kind of despair that would drive a woman to behave like that. It had nothing to do with who you are now. Why are you so angry with me? What did I do?”
“You were kind,” Cesare hissed, more comfortable looking at the wall then absorbing her scorn. “You were kind to me when you should not have been.”
A beat of silence. He looked again at the vial on the bedside table, terrible ideas forming in his head.
When Lena finally spoke, it was in a low, deadly whisper.
“What do you want me to say, Cesare? That you were a rapist? A murderer? There! I said it. Happy? Shall we just get it all out in the open? Would that make your tantrum easier to sustain?” She paused, thrashing her hand against a pillow savagely. He was reminded of the moment in the garden when she vowed, passionately, to be his ally. How he wished for those feelings of relief and happiness to return. “You knew this could happen… we both did! You can’t expect me to believe that this is some great surprise! There is no hiding from what happened. Your life, your deeds, these are not closely-guarded secrets. I cannot protect you forever, nor would I. It would be a life of total seclusion, Cesare, and neither of us could bear that.”
Rapist. Murderer.
Cesare cracked, snatching up Leonardo’s precious vial and hurling it against the wall. Lena cried out, scampering off the bed to kneel where a clear stain spread down toward the floor.
“No,” she breathed, a sob breaking through. She tried to pick up the shattered pieces of glass, pricking herself and swearing. Then she seemed to grow intensely quiet, swiveling to stare up at him. “Cesare,” Lena mumbled, her eyelids drooping. He stared at her finger, a tiny bead of blood welling there. His temper fled as he dropped down beside her, catching her as she swayed slightly. She swooned against his chest.
“Tesora... I’m so sorry,” Cesare said, kissing her forehead as she struggled to keep her eyes open. “I don’t… I shouldn’t have shouted at you. And now this…” He trailed off, furious that he had behaved so rashly. “Oh God, Lena, what have I done to you?”
“I don’t…” She tried to reach for his chin, missing. “I don’t feel well.”
Hard, sobering determination descended, clearing the path. Suddenly it was obvious what he had to do. Terrible, but obvious. He should never have let her scheme with those artists. Even if the plan worked it would have led to more misery and hiding. Cesare stood, grunting as his legs complained, phantom pains shooting through his thighs. He carried Lena to the bed, settling her gently under the covers and pressing his hand to her forehead. It was time to take responsibility. It was no longer Lena’s job to shoulder the full weight of their love. He paused to search in her pack, knowing what he was looking for and finding it instantly. The little book felt inordinately heavy in his grasp.
Smiling sadly, he stood and turned back to the bed.
“Someday,” Cesare murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against hers, “someday you will forgive me for this.”
In Name Alone 105/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 06:48 pm (UTC)(link)She was sick for days.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, she expected to see Cesare there each time she woke from fitful dreams. But he was never there. Silvia tended her instead, there to sooth her when the vomiting made her feel as if her insides were evacuating through her mouth. And it was Silvia there through the fevers and trembling that made her teeth chatter audibly. And every time she woke and did not see Cesare, her heart sank a little further. She didn’t need the old Spaniard to tell her that he was gone, nor did she really want to know. For now, ill and feverish, she could pretend that he was simply out in the garden, waiting for her, smirking over a book or conversing with Michelangelo.
“He’s gone,” Lena murmured, waking for good on the third day. It was only a fraction of what might have happened had she imbibed all of the poison, but one prick was more than enough for her. And the empty, churning sensation in her guts was easier to focus on than the fact that Cesare had abandoned her when she needed him most.
“I know it, hija,” Silvia said, stroking her hair. “But perhaps not for good.”
“For good,” Lena corrected sternly. “He won’t come back.”
Her theories were proven when she discovered the missing Borgia history. He had gone to die, thinking that she would suffer more with him alive. She could imagine him reading the detailed descriptions of his crimes, learning the depth of his former depravity and inhumanity, his resolve growing with each stabbing word. And after that it would be easy to die, comforting even. The illness lingered, prolonged by her consuming heartache. She sent Lena to search for him, but none of the villagers had seen a man leaving the cottage. They would send Michelangelo to the nearby towns as soon as a horse could be found. It would be too late by then, Lena knew. Cesare would already be dead somewhere, in a field perhaps, a knife in his chest, or sitting in a tub, soaking in his own blood while his throat wept scarlet.
The hysterics lasted for hours, in bursts of emotion so strong they tied her stomach in knots. Lena tried to eat but grew weak, unable to keep down even the mildest broth.
“You must eat,” Silvia would say, frowning over a steaming bowl and prodding a spoon at Lena’s sealed lips. “You are no good to anyone this way, sweetheart.”
That broke through. Perhaps she could go after him. It might not be too late. Lena forced herself to eat and drink and regain a bit of vitality, but every mouthful of food turned to ash when she considered how foolish it was to hope.
At last they found a cheap enough horse and Michelangelo left them, waving solemnly as Lena watched from the gate.
He would return, she knew, empty-handed and she would have to find a way to go on.
Ezio groaned and rubbed his backside. He hated horses. This one had a lumpy back that no saddle, however padded, could soften. Behind him, a modestly comfortable carriage carrying his family and Leonardo rolled along. He wanted to set a strong example for his young son and so rode out ahead, dropping back every few miles to chat through the window and make faces at his giggling daughter. She was incandescent. Boats and horses and carriages. It was all a great, big adventure.
They reached the town of Campos, aptly named for the flat pastures that spread out around in every direction. It sat elevated above their destination, a steep hill leading down to the little village and cottage he had last seen months earlier. Late summer exploded around them, the meadows vibrant with wildflowers and farmers in straw hats, their scythes scraping at wheat, pausing their work to wipe at their foreheads and watch the carriage roll by.
Throughout their journey, which was uneventful except for a frantic moment when the tossing ship nearly sent his son barreling overboard, Ezio suffered a building sense of dread. It might have turned him melancholy but for the company of his wife and children.
In Name Alone 106/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 06:50 pm (UTC)(link)Ezio ought to feel relieved. For months he had put up with a tiny, niggling voice in the back of his head that reminded him he had a much-beloved agent afield. It was just a whisper of anxiety, but enough to make him irritable on long, stressful days. And now it was all going to end, one way or another. It was time to bring Lena home and deal with Cesare once and for all.
Campos sprung out of the high grasses of the fields, low-slung buildings dashed with white paint and topped with colorful, orange roofs. With night descending, they would spend the night at the inn here and continue on at first light. Ezio cracked a smile, grateful for the promise of hearty, country food and strong wine. Maybe a bottle or two would set he and Leonardo back to rights, though Rosa would chide him for looking drunk and stupid in front of the little ones. Or better, Leonardo might agree to watch the children in his quarters while Ezio and Rosa made up for weeks of travel with nary a moment of privacy.
Ezio led them to an inn at the center of town, a string of tiny lanterns glowing cheerfully out front. He dismounted, their assassin-masquerading-as-driver hopping down to see to the horses and find a safe storing place for the carriage. Then Ezio helped his children down from the carriage, Rosa asking for and needig no help at all. Leonardo was less sure on his feet, age giving him a stoop and a bad ankle.
“What is this place, Papa?” Enzo asked, holding his mother’s hand as she escorted the four-year-old toward the entrance.
Maria, swaddled in soft blankets, squirmed in his grasp as Leonardo handed her down.
“Campos,” Ezio replied, following them in. “Our last stop and a chance to get some rest, eh?”
He shouldered the infant girl, reaching down to ruffle Enzo’s hair. The boy grunted, smoothing it back down, as vain and particular as his father.
They ate an enormous meal, the inn empty except for a few locals drinking in the corner. The good, fortifying food and pleasant company of his family was almost enough to banish the doubts brewing in his heart. He would have to take a tonic or risk getting no sleep at all.
Ezio excused himself early, disappearing up the uneven, rustic stares to see that their rooms were sorted and their trunks unpacked. They traveled light, but still, he liked to have a comfortable bed waiting for Rosa, who was a saint to put up with the meager accommodations they had found previously. The rooms were small and the corridor poky, but the rugs were beaten and the linens clean, which was luxury far more extensive than other places boasted.
A sharp knock came at the door as he was just finishing folding Rosa’s night dress. He strode to the door, not bothering to fix his undone doublet, expecting Leonardo or Rosa and opening the door to find Cesare Borgia staring back at him. The hallway gloom cloaked him in shadow, but even with his hair pulled back in a tail and darkness hovering, Ezio recognized him at once. His first instinct was to go for his blade, but he noted that Cesare was not armed, leaning precariously on a cane.
“I did not intend to surprise you,” Cesare said, his voice, even stripped of its malice, tightening Ezio’s spine. The Borgia glanced down at his feet and then over Ezio’s shoulder. “I only want to speak to you. Listen to what I have to say and then do with me what you will.”
Manners, Ezio realized with a snort, did not come easily with Cesare standing at his door.
“Of course,” he finally managed, grateful for the dagger at his side. “Come in.”
In Name Alone 107/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 07:18 pm (UTC)(link)“How did you find me?” Ezio asked, sincerely curious.
“I knew you would have to pass through Campos. This is the only decent inn.”
Ezio nodded, unable or unwilling to let his guard down. This was the man, after all, that had killed his uncle and terrorized his friends and countrymen for years. And yet Ezio was not so single-minded that he missed the defeated tilt to Cesare’s shoulders, the glassy stare that made him look hollow, lifeless.
“I’m told we are enemies,” Cesare said softly. “For whatever pain I caused you and your family, I apologize.”
He might have said more, begged, groveled, but the straightforward, simple apology appealed to Ezio’s sense of honor. No matter what atrocities a man committed, it was never becoming to abandon dignity. Ezio nodded, not certain whether he was accepting the apology or merely acknowledging it. He sat back and observed Cesare, taking in his longer hair, the new scars on his chin and hands, the homespun clothing so unlike the flashy, daring Borgia scarlet of old.
“Somehow I knew it would come to this.” Ezio stretched out his long legs, paused, then crooked one knee over the other.
“What? That you would toss me to my doom only to see me survive? That I would then lose all memory of my past and my crimes? That I would overcome the injuries that might have easily killed a weaker man only to fall in love with the woman you sent to kill me? Or that I would refuse to run? Which of these did you miraculously foresee?”
Ezio twitched, grunting softly.
“I meant only that we would confront each other again,” Ezio replied, miffed. He still had a regrettably cunning way with words. They cut, deeply. “You are the damndest weed in the garden, Cesare,” he continued. “No matter what I do you just refuse to die.”
“That’s all over now,” Cesare replied stiffly. He finally met Ezio’s eye, but only for a fleeting instant. “If you wish to kill me I will not put up a fight. I came here because too many innocent souls risked their safety to protect me. I do not deserve such consideration and it would be better to die and spare them the shame of suffering in my name.”
“Is this some sort of trick?” Ezio asked, squinting. He studied Cesare, hard, but detected no deception in his words or his expression. Quite frankly he looked relaxed, prepared, as if he expected Ezio to dispatch him at any moment and that the thought of such an end did not perturb him in the least.
“No trick,” Cesare replied. “Your friend, Leonardo, offered to help Lena and I escape from you and your assassins.” He paused, his hand and voice trembling as he continued, “I am sick with love for her, but not foolish enough to think you will permit us to marry. And Michelangelo, he is complicit also. Lena, obviously, is the worst offender of all. She saved me, cured me, brought me back from the brink and her reward is this…” Cesare gestured to himself and then to Ezio. “The heart of a murderer and the contempt of her brothers.”
“You… love her?” Ezio was still caught on the first bit of Cesare’s confession. Ice coated his veins, his knuckles aching as he noticed he had been clenching his fists in fury. Betrayed. Lena… Michelangelo… Leonardo… That stung the worst. He shook his head, trying to knock some sense back into his brain. “I cannot… This is… I trusted her.”
In Name Alone 108/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 07:19 pm (UTC)(link)“Blameless?” Ezio cried, outraged. “Does she return your affection?”
“She does, yes.”
“Then she is far, far from blameless.” Ezio got to his feet, too furious to remain seated any longer. The audacity… the stupidity! And Leonardo had called him paranoid. Ha! And yet Leonardo had known… It was too much. His hand itched to grab for his blade, the urge to stab something rising higher and higher until it was a deafening whine in his ears.
“And Lucio?” Ezio asked, dreading the answer.
“Dead.”
“Dead!” He laughed, wild and hysterical. “Ha! Of course he is! Of course. And just how did you two envision your lives together? Did you know, for example, that your family turned her father into a killer? He pumped out poisons for you, poisons used to kill my friends and allies!”
“You’ll notice you didn’t argue,” he said calmly. Cesare looked up at Ezio, his face so coldly impassive it chilled him to the bone. “When I said that Lena returned my feelings. You did not deny such a thing was possible.”
“The Borgia are proven seducers and whores.”
“A low blow,” Cesare replied, “but I cannot protest it.”
“Ah, I see.” Ezio felt his temper cool at last, but only slightly. The fool… did he really think Ezio would be entrapped so easily? “This is guilt. Feeling suicidal are we, Cesare? Hoping I’ll end your life and the despair that goes along with it?”
“I thought that was your intent from the beginning.” Cesare shrugged, glancing back at the fire. “Why come at all, if you ever thought to let me live. You wanted to kill me yourself, yes? Feel the satisfaction you were denied at Viana…”
“Do not provoke me,” Ezio warned, his hand flashing over his dagger, “it will not end well for you.”
“Provocation or no, I’m sick of lies.” Cesare stood unsteadily, using the cane to hoist himself to his feet. Ezio took a tiny step backward, preparing to strike. But Cesare did not produce a gun or a knife. He stood staring at the fire before tearing his gaze away to stare long and hard at Ezio. The flames reflected in his eyes, life their springing at last.
He reached for something under his shabby cloak and Ezio drew his dagger swiftly, stilling when he noticed that Cesare had produced not a weapon of his own but a book.
“Here it is all put down – my plotting, my murders, my perversions and triumphs and failures. I have read them all, committed them to memory.” Cesare tossed the book onto Ezio’s chair. It landed with a hollow thud. “I had hoped to atone for these things before I knew what they were. I hoped, foolishly, that some small good might come of my life. But those hopes have come at the cost of others who have no such crimes attached to their names.” His lip trembled and Ezio nearly felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He clenched his eyes shut, tears leaking out and rolling down his cheeks, slowly, as if he were trying to recall them back into his body, as if the shame of crying in front of the enemy was too embarrassing to stand.
“Have mercy on her,” Cesare said at last, his words ragged and torn as they tumbled out around a sob. His shoulders shook and Ezio looked away, shamed by his emotion. “For God’s sake, have pity. She did nothing wrong. I am the culprit! Me! Punish me.” Cesare pulled his cloak aside, raking at his shirt until the middle of his chest lay exposed. “Take that dagger, put it here. I will not flinch away. Take my life in exchange for hers. It is not an even trade,” Cesare nodded, quickly, staring directly into Ezio’s face, “but it is a just one.”
Ezio stepped forward, feeling the heft of his dagger as he drew his eyes from Cesare’s chest to his face and the tears dripping from his jaw.
“God have mercy on you, Cesare,” Ezio whispered, flipping the dagger the right way around. “Pray that he does, for I have none left to spare.” The dagger burned in his grasp, familiar, honed… “A deal then,” he added, hating himself as he lifted the blade, “and all our quarrels ended.”
In Name Alone 109/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 10:24 pm (UTC)(link)She was in the garden, standing before a crooked easel with a portrait just visible beyond her slender shoulders. A candle flickered on a brass stand, its flame dancing dangerously close to the canvas and the painted figure it contained. The paint was still fresh, a rusted ochre color, the sketch beneath bounding outside the painted lines. One masculine knee could be seen, a hand on top of it with fingernails digging into the flesh. The style was distinct, free and robust, done by a master.
The flame leapt toward the canvas as if hungry to devour it.
“I wouldn’t,” he said. “You know how vain he is about his work.”
The candle stopped, its feminine conductor pulling it sharply away from the painting. A tremble began in her shoulders that quickly spread to her arms and legs. She turned, dropping the candle altogether, flinging herself away from the easel and into his arms as the flame sputtered out on the grass, hissing quietly as it extinguished.
Cesare held her, squeezed her, felt her, relief as raw and scarring as any pain overwhelming his senses as he breathed in the scent of her hair. The tender moment was short-lived, cut off as Lena drew back and slapped him hard across the face.
“That’s for leaving,” she muttered, wiping blindly at the tears cascading down her cheeks. She kissed him, tossing her arms around his neck, salt mingling with the sweet taste of her tongue. “And that’s for coming back.”
“We can go,” he said, nuzzling into her throat, desperate to have her heat and affection around him. The days apart had been agony, chilled and lonely, each second crawling by with exaggerated slowness. “No one will stop us.”
Cesare pulled the single sheet of parchment from his cloak, pressing it into her hands with another kiss, for good measure. Lena read it, the paper rustling and shaking in her fingers. The seal on the outside was official if a little sad looking, cobbled together from bees wax dripped from a candle and the imprint of Ezio’s ring.
“This… He's expelling me from the Order… but I can go? I don’t understand.”
Her wide eyes turned to him, glistening and reddened.
“A second chance, girasole. For both of us. I made a deal with him,” Cesare explained. He did not relish the idea of remembering that particular conversation. They had come to the agreement with Ezio’s dagger inches from his throat. “But we can discuss that later. It might prove unimportant.”
Lena glanced back at the page, reading it over again.
“We can go,” she breathed, a smile breaking through her tears. “We can go!”
She laughed and sobbed, laughed and sobbed, the parchment stained with dozens of droplets by the time she remembered to fold it up for safekeeping. Cesare kissed her, pushing the stray hair behind her ears and keeping her tight to his side, unwilling to let her stray a single inch.
“Now we must find something fitting,” he said, taking her left hand and kissing the disfiguring burn mark, “to cover this. There are sure to be fine craftsmen in London, yes?”
It was snowing. Bundled up in green wools trimmed with fur, Eliza stuck close to her husband, his hand resting gently on her hip as they walked slowly across the plaza. Westminster Abbey reared up into the foggy snow, the sound of the church choir bleeding out into the streets, a kind of summoning call to those who would step inside and warm up from the frosty December chill.
Eliza paused, staring up at the abbey and the towers that disappeared into the misty swirl of snow and the low, heavy gray clouds above. Charles kissed the top of her head, his lips cold even through the protection of her braids.
“Shall we go in?” he asked. His English was still heavily-accented and hers even worse. He had learned the strange language with ease, teasing her about the way she sounded when her letters rolled and she gave herself away.
In Name Alone 110/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 10:27 pm (UTC)(link)Charles laughed, dimples flashing as he hugged her close and placed one hand protectively over the pronounced swell of her stomach. “You can always eat.”
“He can always eat,” Eliza corrected, bumping her hip against his. They continued across the piazza – square, she thought with a frown – the Twelfth Night revels of the abbey spilling out into the surrounding town. Families rushed by, scurrying for home to escape the drifting snow. Eliza liked the cold. It was an excuse, she mused with a smirk, to get warm.
Charles fit his hand into hers, slipping it over his arm as they turned down a lane that, from the scent, promised buttery pastries and perhaps a bit of early supper. She looked up at the sky, curious to see what it looked like when the snowflakes loosed from the clouds. Her gaze caught on a single figure, notable because he was not on the ground where he belonged. He watched her, garbed in pure white, from the shadow of a chimney. Eliza shuddered, unable to tear her eyes away from the assassin. He disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, melting into the darkness and flitting away.
She touched her growing stomach, a keen pang of sadness ruffling her mood.
Charles saw it, too.
“Protecting their investment,” he sneered, tightening his grip around her hand. “Forgive me. That was crass.”
“But true,” Eliza replied softly. “I don’t think eighteen years with him will be nearly enough.”
“It could be a girl.”
They stepped into the overhang of the tavern, delightful smells wafting out to greet them. Eliza paused, shrugging, leaning back to beg a kiss from her husband. He obliged her, lingering, his cold nose pressed to hers.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, chewing on her lip. “Girl or boy, a deal is a deal.”
“He’s not yet born,” Charles reminded her, grinning crookedly in the way that made her heart flip over. “Let us meet him first before we begin to miss him, yes?”
“Yes – no - aye.” Eliza beamed, proud.
“Ah! See? You sound just like a true Englishwoman.”
“I am,” she said, stepping into the tavern as he held the door for her. Their baby gave a sharp kick, overjoyed, it seemed, by the perfume of scones and fresh loafs. “Eliza Bertram,” she added, just the way they had practiced, “wife to Charles.”
“Mother to Michael,” Charles finished, leading her to an empty table at the window.
“Or Edward,” Eliza returned quickly. He helped her into her chair, which was becoming more of an ordeal the larger she became. “Or maybe Christopher! Or,” she paused, wrinkling her nose and laughing, “Michaela.”
“Could we get away with Silvia?” he asked, signaling for the barmen. He pulled down his cloak, shaking out his fall of liquid dark hair. It had mostly come free of its blue ribbon. Twice he had tried to cut it and twice she had threatened jokingly to leave him if he did.
“Sounds too foreign,” Eliza murmured, crestfallen. “But maybe Sarah. Pah. I hate these English names. They stick in my throat.”
“True,” he admitted, reaching across the table to take her hand, “not nearly as beautiful as Adelena.”
She blushed and lowered her voice, her heart lifting at the mere thought of the single word that still made her girlishly breathless. “Not half so nice as Cesare.”
In Name Alone 111/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 11:52 pm (UTC)(link)London, England – Now
Desmond tossed in his sleep, dreams too vivid to be dreams plaguing the little time he was given to rest. They came no matter what, whether he charmed a Halcion off of Rebecca or drowned himself in lager. No sleep was deep enough to stave off these visions. They left him shaky and sweaty in the mornings as he replayed them, convinced he had never seen these moments in Ezio’s life, that the bleeding effect was getting stronger, showing him things that he had not witnessed or read about.
His dream twisted away from Florence, where he had been scaling buildings and watching the city from gut-churning heights. He was in a garden, lush and private, with trellises choked by vines and flowers. Somehow he felt safe in this place. It was his home, no, Ezio’s home, a place of comfort and solace. He had watched Maria make flower chains here and helped her learn to spell on sleepy Saturday mornings. Maria? Who was Maria? Yet he knew her – small, pretty, with a small chin and high cheeks just like her mother.
Ezio sat at a low stone table, a cup of wine resting in his hand as he soaked up the sun and the quiet time. His hands were gnarled, weathered, older than Desmond had ever seen. And he felt… tired… ready, as if death was just one last piece of business to take care of. He was drinking too much these days but that was all right. There was no one there to scold him. Even Maria had married and gone off to Venice, infrequent visits and letters his only tie to her distant life and the grandchildren that called him Nonno Ezio. Enzo remained in Rome, not just in Rome, but he was there this moment inside the house. He was busy arguing with Bartolomeo’s successor, a haughty young man with some ideas that rankled Enzo.
The arguing inside quieted abruptly. Footsteps. His senses were still sharp. Ezio half-expected to hear Rosa call through the window that they had visitors. But Rosa was dead. Their children were grown. Ezio was the last boil clinging to the ass of a mortal coil he was all too eager to shuffle off. He loved his children and grandchildren, but he was well-aware that he had overstayed his welcome. He had outlived Rosa, his younger wife, and might outlive his children if the universe continued to operate with such a fucked up, bitter sense of humor. He missed Rosa. He ached to see her again.
The garden trellis near the house shook, the leaves trilling softly as his expected visitors approached. The old man came first, followed closely by a tall, strapping lad. A third person waited inside the house, peering around the open door with eyes so big and familiar they sank like a knife into Desmond’s chest. Ezio’s. Ezio’s chest. He knew those eyes, yet had seen them on someone else entirely.
“Here we are, as promised.”
Cesare Borgia dropped down into a chair across from Ezio. He might have come years earlier, but their eldest son Michael had married young, eighteen, so in love they didn’t have the heart to send him to Italy and see their end of the bargain completed. Or so Ezio was told. The young man standing behind Cesare, too solemn and serious for such a tender age, was their second son, Charles the younger. Nobody calls him Charles, Cesare had written. He prefers Kit.
There they sat and stared at each other, two old men well beyond their prime. They both belonged in the grave. The Apple left them like this, extending their lives out of kindness or cruelty. Ezio was certain it was the latter. Cesare’s hair had gone iron gray, still long and soft, tied at his nape, his beard trimmed and tidy. Ezio saw in him exactly what he saw when he looked in the mirror – a relic that ought to have more wrinkles and lines, that looked freakishly old and yet healthy.
“Still around then?” Cesare asked. His accent had changed, tainted, no doubt, by his relocation to England. His Italian was good, crisply articulate as he tried his best to sound native.
In Name Alone 112/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 11:54 pm (UTC)(link)“This is Charles,” Cesare gestured to his son. Ezio nodded. The boy was exactly as described – strong, well-muscled, trained and ready to go into service. He was a near-copy of Cesare, his features wolfish and sharp, handsome and dangerous. His eyes, however, softened the whole picture, big and pretty, just like his mother’s.
“Give him a nickname,” Cesare added, smirking, “I don’t want the other recruits knowing he’s foreign.”
“We’ll think of something.”
“And we – I – apologize about Michele.” Cesare winced, doing what Ezio often did, speaking in the plural even after his wife’s passing. “His Majesty couldn’t spare his favored apothecary, nor could Michael’s wife.”
“You held up your end,” Ezio replied. “That’s all that matters.” He glanced at the house, where a little figure was still watching them from the shadows. “And your girl?”
“Kit,” Cesare said swiftly. “Go inside, please.”
The young man nodded, black hair falling in his eyes as he whirled and strode briskly into the house. Cesare seemed to relax then, his face slackening as he stared down at his hands. “Are you as miserable as I am? Their friends… their neighbors… I am the only one left. It’s so fucking unfair.” He slammed his fist on the table without flinching. “I would end it myself but for Lizzy.”
Cesare followed Ezio’s gaze to the door, a pair of huge feminine eyes glued to their every gesture.
“I cannot bear to be parted from her,” Cesare said in a haunted whisper. “She is so like her, it breaks my heart every time she walks in the room. Kit is serious like her, studious and determined. I can hardly get him to smile sometimes he is so… just like Lena. Sometimes I had to carry her out of the study or she would be there until dawn, scribbling away at the ledgers. Kit is the same. Lizzy…” He swallowed, smiling at the distance. “She got her father’s damned spirit. I have to keep an eye on her. Wild little thing.”
Cesare motioned to the house and the unseen girl inside.
Ezio knew at once Cesare’s heartache. The girl was Lena down to the toes, petite and blonde, not a remarkable beauty until one looked at her immense eyes and the whip-crack wit that sparkled out of them like sunlight. She wore a simple, pale green gown in the English style, her pale hair done up in a crown of elegant braids. Sweet and lovely and probably no more than sixteen.
“Is this the assassin?” she asked in perfect Italian.
“Yes, my beauty.” Cesare took her hand, patting it lightly. “This is Ezio Auditore. Kit is going to work for him now.”
“I will take good care of him,” Ezio promised, though really it would be Enzo’s job to do that. He had every faith in the new leadership; Enzo had his skill and twice the discipline. “You may come and visit as often as you like.”
“It’s too hot here,” Lizzy stated, sticking out the tip of her tongue. “But the men are very handsome…”
“In that case you won’t be visiting... ever,” Cesare cut in drolly.
“Don’t be fussy, father. Mother married you and you are Italian.”
“Spanish,” Ezio corrected.
“Italian,” Cesare muttered, shooting the assassin a look. “And it doesn’t matter what your mother did. You’ll be a spinster before I let you leave the house.”
In Name Alone 113/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 11:55 pm (UTC)(link)“I’m sure he doesn’t mean that,” Ezio said mildly. He sympathized, however, with Cesare’s hesitance. It had pained Ezio considerably when Maria married, a bizarre possessiveness making him irritable all through the proceedings. The arrival of adorable grandchildren softened the loss.
“We should go,” Cesare said. Lizzy helped him stand, handing him his cane with the carved wolf’s head. “I should like to show Liza more of Rome before we leave.”
Desmond watched them go. Ezio sighed, finding his wine cup mysteriously empty. He followed the Bertrams into his home, feeling an uncharacteristic jolt of delight to see young Kit and Enzo in deep conversation. They were both solemn and committed young men, and Ezio would wager his fortune that it wouldn’t be long before Enzo named the boy his apprentice. It was all, he decided confidently, as it should be.
Ezio escorted their visitors to the front door and the sloping path that led down to the street. Lizzy hugged her brother tightly, crying softly into his shoulder before touching his cheek and stepping back to let him go. Father and son held each other for much longer. Perhaps Cesare sensed, as Ezio did, that their passing would come soon, and that Kit was unlikely to see his father again. He coughed, hiding his despair, knowing that feeling and wanting desperately to reach out to Cesare. He could not. They would go and Kit would write his father. That was how it was done.
“Make me proud,” Ezio heard Cesare whisper into his son’s neck. Kit nodded, squeezing his father tightly. “Make us both proud.”
When they at last disengaged, Kit turned and looked into Ezio’s eye, his gaze as steady and unswerving as his infamous father’s. “I know what I want to be called,” the boy declared, lifting his chin yet higher as he said. “La Vespa.”
Ezio nodded, clapping him on the shoulder, “Amen. And may many an enemy know your sting.”
Desmond bolted upright, awake, nauseous, the vision crackling and splitting apart like a burning page. Sunlight cracked through the blinds, bright stripes growing along the bedspread as he groaned and rolled onto his side. Nothing like a bizarre reunion with Cesare Borgia and his lovely spawn to leave a nasty taste in your mouth.
He lay flat on his back, willing sleep to come back – without the teary goodbyes, thanks very much – and ended up staring at the ceiling for an hour. Finally, he grunted and crawled out of bed, pulling on a pair of loose gray pajama pants and wandering into the common room. It was a small apartment, “adorable” as Rebecca called. Nothing much was adorable these days, least of all their crappy accommodations. Holed up in a matchbox with Princess Emo and the inventor of the arrogant sneer, everyone frightened and despondent and missing… her. Fuck. That was a one-way ticket to Sulkville. He had to stop thinking about her. It wouldn’t bring her back.
Desmond glanced at the cheesy Transformers clock Rebecca had picked out at the corner store. The digital numbers read four in the morning, which didn’t explain his inexplicable jones for a stiff drink or the voices coming from the living room. Or sitting room, as His Royal Britishness liked to say.
Exhausted, miserable, Desmond endured the cold sting of the kitchen tiles as he bee-lined for the fridge and whatever meager goodies waited inside. Ramen. Who put fucking ramen in the fridge? Oh, right, Shaun. Snorting, Desmond pushed the noodles aside, grinning when he discovered a rogue pack of Guinness huddled behind the spoiled milk. He checked the box, no label. Funny. He didn’t remember those being there at dinner time. And he would remember unlabeled Guinness free for the taking.
In Name Alone 114/?
(Anonymous) 2011-01-08 11:58 pm (UTC)(link)“What?” Desmond parroted in his best British accent, which happened to be a terrible British accent. “D’you think I’m made of money, Desmond? Think it grows on trees, do you?” Desmond snorted, shaking his head. “Asshole.”
“Beg your pardon?”
Desmond nearly spat up his drink, leaning forward fast enough to upend the flimsy chair. Luckily he caught himself, Guinness and limbs akimbo as he stared at the living room, where two people were now watching him.
“I… who are you? Who is that?” Desmond sputtered. He flinched. “Agh!”
“Something wrong?” Shaun asked, sounding not at all concerned.
Desmond’s mind shuddered, screaming with pain. Images hit him rapid fire, whirling by like a rolodex on crack. A woman, a girl, two men talking at a table… He groaned, cracking open one eye to see Shaun and the stranger still staring at him.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Monster of a headache.”
It was more than that, but they didn’t need to know that.
“Desmond, this is Abbie Thorne. Abbie, this fine, half-naked gentleman is Desmond.”
She walked up to the table, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans before she yanked one out and offered it to him to shake. Desmond took it, jarred by how strong her grip was.
“Abbie is like you, Desmond.” Shaun paused, smirking. “No, not a lazy drunk, an assassin. Well, she’s an actual assassin. You’ve still got your training wheels on…”
“It’s a pleasure,” she said pleasantly. Pretty. British. Desmond stood, finding she was shorter than she looked. Then he made the mistake of matching her glance. Another flicker of pain seared across head.
“Is this the assassin?” she asked in perfect Italian.
“Yes, my beauty.” Cesare took her hand, patting it lightly. “This is Ezio Auditore. Kit is going to work for him now.”
“Sorry. Headache again. It's a doozy.”
“Abbie here has quite the lineage,” Shaun continued, way, way to blithely for the butt crack of dawn. “Just a quick trip in the Animus and it’s, well it’s extraordinary. Her line goes all the way back to - ”
“Cesare Borgia,” Desmond finished, grimacing. “I know.”
“How do you know?” Abbie asked, two shapely, fawn-colored eyebrows lifting toward her hairline. It was almost too much to look at her face. It was like being back in that dream… sitting at that table…
“I… Sometimes my ancestor’s memories bleed over a little. Trust me, I’d prefer they didn’t.”
“She’s done good work for the London branch,” Shaun was saying, ignoring Desmond’s obvious discomfort. “I think she’ll be a valuable asset to - ”
“Yeah, that’s great, Shaun. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“It is morning,” he replied dryly.
“Well then… later this morning. Much, much later, okay? Like when the little hand is on the ten...”
Shaun sighed, grumbling something about the fabled American work ethic before he stomped off to his bedroom. That left Desmond alone with Abbie, who seemed extremely amused by the whole situation. She sat, cracking open a Guinness and sipping it thoughtfully.
“It happens to me, too,” she said, watching him from under thick, curling lashes. “They didn’t know about the um, well the Borgia thing when they popped me in the Animus the first time.” She smirked. “Surprise.”
In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-01-09 12:01 am (UTC)(link)“Where he survives?” Abbie nodded, downing her beer at an impressive rate. “History’s full of all kinds of hidden treats like that, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I get the headaches, too.” She opened another Guinness for him while he continued nursing his first. “Beer helps.”
“Cheers to that.”
She was pretty. God she was pretty. Apple cheeks, cute little chin, amazing dimples... Desmond flushed, feeling guilty and stupid, staring down the neck of his bottle for answers or at least something witty to say. He didn’t like the way her big, green eyes made him want to put a shirt on and then take it off again.
“We should compare notes sometime,” Abbie offered lightly. “I’d love to know what Ezio, was it?” Desmond nodded. “What Ezio thought about my ancestors… What a bloody mess. Worked out in the end though. The assassins got what they wanted.”
Desmond paused, wondering if it was his place to say this. Fuck it. “Ezio respected your great, great, great whatever he is. I don’t think he liked him, but he respected him. They… I saw them together, old… very, very old. They didn’t seem friendly necessarily but… they understood each other. Then, at least.”
Abbie made a soft sound in her throat, downing the last of her Guinness and going for another. “You look just like him,” she said softly, a pink glow starting high in her cheeks. “Lena… that was her name. We thought maybe that marrying Cesare gave her some kind of intuition into other Templar artifacts, that maybe he told her the location of a vault or a cache.” She trailed off, reaching up to tuck a dark blonde piece of hair behind her ear. She wore a strange ring on her wedding finger. It looked oddly familiar. Desmond tried not to stare at it. Married. Of course. Not that he was interested. “I hated reliving her memories,” Abbie said in a voice so soft Desmond almost didn’t hear it.
“Why?” he asked, leaning across the table toward her. There was something about her… strength… certainty… and then a flash of vulnerability in her eyes when he least expected it. He was drunk. That was the only explanation for it.
“Because she was so happy,” Abbie murmured, snorting. She glanced up at the ceiling, a bright film glazing over her eyes. “They were so happy together… It felt like an intrusion… like something I wasn’t supposed to see. And it’s hard not to be jealous of… of what they had.”
“I never really got to see Ezio and Rosa together,” Desmond admitted, shaking his head. “Nothing informative for the assassins in their blissful matrimony I guess.”
“Lucky.”
Desmond shrugged. “Not really. I would’ve liked to see him happy. You get… attached.”
Abbie nodded.
“Boy, look at us. Cheerful as a graveyard in here.” Desmond chuckled, clinking the neck of his bottle against hers. “To our ancestors,” he said, holding her gaze and feeling it shoot to his chest.
“May they find peace,” she said, lifting her Guinness, “in the future.”
They drank.
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Abbie said, polishing off her second drink with a quiet smacking of her lips, which were absolutely not curvy and kissable.
“For what?”
“For the Guinness,” she replied laughingly. “It’s mine.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry… I’d buy you more if Scrooge McDuck over there would give me an allowance.”
“It’s fine,” Abbie said, waving him off. Then her smile turned mischievous and Desmond didn’t have to imagine what Cesare fell for all those long, long years ago. He was seeing it. “Thief.”
“Assassin,” he bit back.
Abbie shrugged, dropping him a sly wink as she opened her third beer. “You have me there.”
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
Thank you so much for sharing this with us. What a roller coaster. Amazing.
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-01-09 01:01 am (UTC)(link)Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-01-09 12:59 am (UTC)(link)I lack the words to express how awesome this story is. Thanks a lot for sharing!
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-01-09 01:03 am (UTC)(link)Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-01-09 01:36 am (UTC)(link)I only wish you would de-anon, as you absolutely deserve to be known in the fandom for this spectacular piece...though, of course, if you want to remain anon, that's cool too :)
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) - 2011-01-09 01:47 (UTC) - ExpandWriter!Anon sez:
(Anonymous) 2011-01-09 05:51 am (UTC)(link)I also want to say that, after finishing the story today... well, to be honest I'm already missing these characters, so if there are any requests for shorter fills with Cesare/Lena during their time in England or even Desmond/Abbie, I'll most likely fill them for you if you put up a request here or over on page 15. Sex... no sex... doesn't matter... I've just grown terribly attached to them. :(
So there's that. Happy kinking and thanks again for following along!
Re: Writer!Anon sez:
(Anonymous) - 2011-01-09 09:41 (UTC) - ExpandRe: Writer!Anon sez:
Re: Writer!Anon sez:
(Anonymous) - 2011-01-10 15:23 (UTC) - ExpandRe: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-01-12 12:50 pm (UTC)(link)I'm lost for words.
This is amazing, incredible, I could just keep lining up words in an attempt to explain how good this is but I can't find any words at all right now.
Just WOW.
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) - 2011-01-13 15:43 (UTC) - ExpandRe: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-03-31 12:30 pm (UTC)(link)Not only did it make sense, but it actually felt complete, at the end.
OMG. I thought I was going to regret reading Cesare het. =P What happened was quite the opposite.
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
WORTH IT.
That was absolutely amazing. I almost never read long fics, or straight-up romantic fics, or fics centered around OCs -- but you had me hooked from the very first section. I'm utterly in love with Lena and Silvia and Cesare, and I honestly squealed with delight at Michelangelo's appearance.
I have to get some sleep but I'm sure I'll be back to squee at you more because this. was. amazing.
Re: In Name Alone 115/115
(Anonymous) 2011-11-26 06:42 pm (UTC)(link)If you ever get published let me know, kay? You're writing is awesome.