asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.2

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assassin's creed

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.

∆ 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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

“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.

Ezio dropped so hard on the concrete beside him, that Desmond felt the vibrations through his body. Desmond was gathered up, and then Desmond was struck with a huge appreciation for an actor's job, because forcing his muscles not to tense when grabbed so forcefully; to his body remaining a deadweight, head rolling back, while keep his expression the same was extremely difficult. Desmond even loosened his jaw for a touch of effect, breathing shallowly still.

The room soon was dead silent. A few seconds ticked by and Desmond felt the urge to slit his eyes open, to peek, bite at his ankles, incessantly.

Ezio's arms suddenly were no longer supporting him and his head smacked into the hard stone, first.

It took every ounce of Desmond's control not to cry, “Ow!” and instead he released a small, weak groan, before he let it taper off into the heavy atmosphere. Another one, this time real, rose from his throat, when his lower abdomen began to ache fiercely, like a bunch of fizzing and burbling was going on in his intestines.

“... All the items are accounted for, except for half a container of the ointment. And the entire pain-killer has been downed.” said Ezio's assassin recruit, sounding nervous.

“A whole bottle? Merda.” Ezio snapped.

Whoops, thought Desmond. Actually, he had been feeling nauseous, saliva rushing to accumulate in his mouth. It would explain his sudden need to go, too, as well as everything else. Maybe not all the gagging and wanting to hurl had just been from the stench of the chamber-of-horrors.

Ezio's clothes rustled as he got up from his position beside Desmond. There was only breathing to be heard for a few seconds. “Why is there so many? And not in their proper proportions for a single man! I told specifically...” Ezio choked audibly back the rest of his sentence.

Ezio cursed again and Desmond was up in his arms a second time, air rushing down at him as he was lifted, without any creaks of bones or huffs of exertion from Ezio.

“Then, he is not playing farces with me. Ah, Desmond, forgive me for my oversight.” Desmond noted that Ezio had not apologized for releasing him to a painful collapse on the ground. The air was cool on his skin, as Ezio began to stride quickly, away from the stifling room. “Come, Allesandro – make way to the doctor. Bring him here. And later, give this message to Tullio: 'I wish to have a word with you. Now.'” Ezio spoke with controlled anger, Desmond feeling every movement of his jaw as he ground out his message, head cradled in the crook of Ezio's shoulder.

“But maestro!” Allesandro said. “It takes too much time to get the doctor and bring him here!”

“I will not compromise this young one's safety by risking Borgia's people in taking notice!” Ezio shouted. “Now, fly, Allesandro, fly!”

Time skipped over itself, like the Animus glitching, but Desmond knew better.

He came to, to the sound of his own screaming as freezing water engulfed him up to his throat. Vice-like grips were holding him down, no matter how he struggled. His mouth was spewing all strings of curses. He called Ezio a mother fucker and a cocksucker, but his attention was wrested by a huge, looming bird, watching him with black holes for eyes. “Where am I? Where am I! Tell me, what do you want? I gave you everything I had, already! Everything, everything!” he cried to it.

Desmond blacked out after that, but he jolted awake, gasping for air, on his back. Instinctually, he turned, or attempted to, to go on his side, choking.

“Desmond,” Ezio said, suddenly there. Strong hands took him and laid him on his stomach, positioning his head over the side of the bed he was on.

Desmond threw up into a chamberpot and after catching his wind, the overpowering smell of vomit clung to his nose and made him sick up more. His body's tenseness laxed and he breathed in sharply from the ache in his ribs – his lungs felt like two balloons that couldn't grab enough air, though, so he ignored his ribs in favor of breathing well.

A wet cloth wiped his face. “Is that enough, medico? Can the dose be administered, now?” Ezio asked. “He is spent completely.”

“Yes,” another voice said. “No complication should arise. He's brought up much, it looks to be the last of it.”

A hand ran through his short hair to rest on his forehead and sighing, Desmond pressed into the cool flesh. It leeched away the ache in his temples.

“He is still fevered.”

The doctor said, “That will be dealt with, in the same dose of medicine, and common sense. Keep him unclothed, but covered – bring the sickness out in his sweat. Cool washcloths – if he feels too hot, he simply is – cold bathe him, again. Try to give him plenty of fluids to replenish. He will not wish to ingest anything difficult to digest, so I would advise broths and then a light fare. Once he is on to that, send for me, and I will examine him again to permit more solid foods.”

Leather and the sickly sweet scent of herbs brushed Desmond's senses and he was sat up, leaning on a body that might have been made of stone for all the lack of comforting softness it had. Something cool and solid brushed his lips. “Ah, no, no...” The doctor clucked his tongue, when Desmond jerked his head away – regretting it immediately as the pounding in it increased. “Drink this all up, young one. That's a good giovane.” Desmond wanted to spit it out - it was a horrendous, disgusting concotion - but a hand clamped on his mouth preventing him. He swallowed it all.

“God,” Desmond slurred out when Ezio's hand – he knew it had been him – removed itself. Desmond breathed in deeply, exhausted. “Leave me alone, please.” When Ezio got up, laying Desmond down, Desmond said, “No, no... not you. Not you.”

“Un gran numero grazie, dottore Vincento.” Ezio said, after a pause. “You may go.” The doctor bid his farewell and a door clicked closed.

When the cool hand was back on his forehead, Desmond weakly grabbed and tugged it. Ezio positioned it over his eyes, the hand was so broad that it covered the majority of his forehead, still. “Mhm. Feels nice. Thanks.”

He heard Ezio murmur into his ear, “Desmond, please regain your strength, so that I might earn your forgiveness.”

Decided [Warring of Talons] sounded better. I liked the yellow and steel imagery it invoked in my head.

And on looking up Giovanni and Maria (for reasons you'll find out why in the next parts), it says on assassinscreedwikia that Maria was born in 1432. Looking up on Giovanni says several times, in both bio and page, that he was born in year 1436. Does that mean Maria was married to Giovanni when she was 18, and he 14?

Ah, oh, well - either way, enjoy!

I did my best with what sparse Italian I added throughout here. I may have been wrong with their use. I'm sorry for any mangling of such a beautiful language I have done. If any are wrong, just correct me and I'll do better next time.

Translations:

Grazie – thanks/thank you

Bambino – little boy/small boy/boy

italiano - Italian (male v.) - I'll correct it in later posts if I'm wrong.

Addio – farewell

Salute – means cheers/good health, except Ezio was a grump about it and didn't mean a lick of it, but for politeness's sake...

Bello – beautiful (male v.)

Ragazzo – young man – it could also mean rent boy, depending on the context, apparently. Eh. Can't say it's not been an experience reading up on this.

Giovane – young man – it seemed like giovane was more formal than ragazzo.

Maestro – someone of higher position/experience than you, like a student to a teacher.

Cazzo – fuck – there were a lot of fuck translations, but this one was less about 'to fuck' or 'he fucked him' or 'he's a fucking idiot', and just in general, 'fuck' like a curse.

Merda – shit/excrement – little tidbit, when you are chasing Cesare to the Apple, Ezio and Cesare meet before he locks the gate on you. Ezio says and I BELIEVE this is what he says: merda! But the translation, if you have the subtitles on, it translates as “Fuck!”

Medico – means doctor, but from what I read with example sentences, isn't meant as a title before a name??

Un gran numero – a great many (adj.)

Dottore – used as a title of address, before a doctor's name, like Dr. Vincento.

Again you make my evening! Seems to me like no one's really sure exactly what to do with Desmond.

Thanks for the comment!

I laughed and thank you for that! And yes, it seems no one really knows what to make of Desmond.

... Even me.

:) No, I have a general idea of where I want it to go, this story I mean.

But I'll write until I hit on something which'll send me arrowing in another direction entirely, who knows, it has happened to me several times. My father once told me that I should learn to plan my chapters out, but well, I do and I try, but it just doesn't work. I've since learned that in regards to myself and my own style, I just let the story come out.

Thanks again! :D

not op is really enjoying the story

Hello and thanks for your comment!

I'm pleased as punch! I hope to make certain that your enjoyment continues.

Have a wonderful day! :D

“Desmond? Desmond, can you hear me?” a voice called to him, as if through a long, twisting tunnel.

“... Urhg?” Desmond grunted out tiredly. He tasted dirt in his mouth. He spat it out, but it stuck to his teeth and gums, coated his tongue, like glue.

“... It's Erudito.” The words were accompanied by several, loud gunshots, followed by much hollering and shrieks of men. Desmond snapped up from his splayed-out position, wide awake. He twisted and turned trying to locate where in holy hell he was. His hands were painfully frozen and he tried to uncurl them from their death-grip on his rifle – what he recognized as a M1903 Springfield (and the only reason he did was because Hubert, the owner, had been a gun-fanatic at the bar he worked shifts at; Hubert had had his own collection, too).

He was in a ditch and rain made of dirt was splattering on him. The ditch's sides were well over Desmond's head. He stood and was just able to peek out, breathing unsteadly, through the haze of grey.

Trepidation rose in him – this was not a ditch - he was in a trench.

“Oh, fuck me...”

Erudito made a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness, you're alright. We've had slight connectivity issues yesterday.”

A large, deafening explosion rocketed Desmond from his feet and he slammed hard back into the ground, wind knocked from him. As he was busy straining for breath, a man thudded to the ground beside him coming from above the trench on the other side, he lay on his back, too, staring at him. Desmond rolled away, hacking and coughing, a jolt of panic slithering down his spine.

The man gurgled wetly, blood contrasting sharply with his dark, mud-splotched face. He reached one shaking hand to Desmond. “H-help me, Selenes. Help me. Help, please – I'm dying, help me. Hel-” Desmond stared as life slid from the man, shaken.

“Define 'alright'.” Desmond said quietly. “Because I don't know where I am, but it's not in that bed.”

“Oh?” Erudito's voice was full of intrigue. “I see, you were enjoying yourself, very well.”

Desmond laughed, it was high-pitched to his own ears. “No, no. Not really.” He grew solomn. He closed the man's eyes. “I think it was either the overdosing or the food, both, but anyway, last I remember I was recovering from illness.”

Erudito was silent, before he asked, “Food? You needed to eat? That should not be...”

“Well, I was,” Desmond shot back, anger pumping throughout his being. “And I had no clothes to fit in and didn't fit in, anyway, because of my looks – but Erudito, could you not have thrown me into America, a time I would know and at least... I don't know, smooth sailing, you know?” Instinctively, Desmond covered his head when an inhuman shriek pierced the air, his heart freezing, because it was closer than the last.

Another explosion rocked the earth.

A high whine eclipsed any other noise. He moved his lips, mindlessly. His throat hurt and his lungs strained – he was breathing but he couldn't hear himself. Slowly, the tone died down. “... ly fuck! Oh my god, oh my god!” Desmond was screaming.

“Get me out of here!”

“Desmond, please, calm-” Erudito said.

“Out of here, Erudito!”

“... calm yourself-” Erudito tried to placate, again.

“Erudito, get me out of here!”

“– this is a memory.” Erudito finished firmly, infuriatingly calm.

Desmond kicked at the trench wall at his feet, head still tight in his arms.

“Sixteen, please, get me out of here!”

“Found some!” a voice called. “Aw, only one worm squirming.” Desmond stiffened and then with a bang, a bullet tore into the soft unprotected flesh of his outer thigh, pain resonated from it; firey heat licked upward and warmth gushed from the wound.

He screamed, one hand yanking down to clutch at it. Blood accumulated in his hand and his every breath shook his body. His leg spasmed, involuntarily, leaving him terrified. He pressured the wound with his hand, but the blood stayed its course, pumping out, ignoring his futile efforts.

Over his screaming, a group of men laughed, raucously.

“Dum-dums are always exciting to watch. Do one, Dusty.”

“Sixteen, Sixteen, Sixteen! Oh, fuck, please!” he cried out. He looked upward to the group of men. He connected eyes with a man of shorter stature than the rest. The other's eyes looked as traumatized as Desmond felt.

“... These are our side, though,” the short man, his shoulders hunched, said. He gripped his weapon to his chest.

“Look at them, darker than us! Just do it!” the man to his left bellowed. “You a man or not?”

To the shorter man's right, another cajoled, “C'mon, Dusty! We'll say it was the enemy – we'll all vouch it – and who'll even raise an eyebrow? They won't even check this regiment of dead meat. A write-off!”

Tears tracked down the trembling man's face. “I can't. I can't!” he said, shaking his head.

Erudito had not responded to Desmond in what felt a long stretch of time, so Desmond pleaded to the man. “Please, please, don't. Don't, god, don't.” His lungs tightened and he began to hyperventilate. “Please!” he managed out. “Please, fuck, oh, don't. Don't.” He gasped, crying uncontrollably, scrambling back trying to get away, only to remember the moment his back pressed against a cold, unforgiving wall that sediment jostled from, that he was in the trench – in a living nightmare, not a memory – when the short man came to a decision, raising his gun.

“Don't, don't, don't! Don't do it, please!” Desmond shrieked. Then, words tumbled out, confusing him but the fear of impending death rended them from some place deep inside. “I have a family! A fiancee! My mother; sisters, oh, god, they'll know, they'll know. They'll know what you've done. God curse you! Curse you!”

One shot rang out.

“Curse you...” He stopped breathing, looking frantically down at himself. His groin area felt wet all the way to his bottom, and he wiped the area to check, stuttering, “W-wha?” It was not blood. It smelled like piss.

Another bang from the gun, made him start.

He whipped his head to look up. His parted mouth trembled and he blinked fast to see what his mind failed to process.

“Y-you...” Desmond breathed out, in disbelief but hope fluttered high in his chest.

The short man, Dusty, face crumbled, told him, “I... I couldn't do it. I could do this,” he yelled angrily, waving an arm to indicate the two men – one still shuddering in death's arms. “But I couldn't do it to you. Oh, God... Oh, God.” he whimpered, hissing through his teeth and tears.

The man collapsed on his knees to wail. Desmond slumped fully against the trench wall, sliding bonelessly sideways to lay on the ground, covering his mouth with one bloody hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, silently weeping, overcome from the gamut of extreme emotions he had been put through.

“I didn't want this. I didn't want to be here. I just want this nightmare to end,” Dusty sobbed.

“I- I j-just – you have a family,” Dusty raised his head to look at Desmond, explaining through tears choking his words. “A family. I don't. I. Don't.” He pounded the ground hard with one fist, weeping into the dirt. “You're so lucky... I just couldn't.” Then, Dusty gathered himself, momentairly, and rose on shaky legs, like a newborn deer.

“You...” He swiped at his face, sniffling. “You alright? Huh?”

Desmond opened his mouth. “Yeah. Than-”

Several shots rang through the air, unintermittedly, and Dusty's hoarse scream cut off mid-way; Dusty froze in place, arms stiff and jerking aloft, back shuddering with each connecting bullet – blood sprayed like a fine mist out from his back. Then, Dusty's body tottered forward, and his eyes locked in a stare with Desmond, commanding he watch.

Desmond did, helplessly.

Dusty, blood trailing from his mouth, fell into the trench in a slow descent, landing on top Desmond, helmeted head slamming like heavy stone on Desmond's sternum.

“Oh, fuck,” Desmond whispered, tone high and desperate. His hands clutched at Dusty's shoulders. “Dusty, Dust, man, you alrig- oh, no. Oh, fuck, fuck – fuck.” Desmond hugged Dusty to him, mind reeling, refusing to believe what had just occurred.

Dusty, miraculously, began to twitch in his arms and Desmond tightened his hold, tears swimming in his eyes, again and down his face. The least he could do for the man who saved his life was give him some comfort as he died.

“Oh, God, I'm so fucking sorry, man. I'm so sorry...” Loud stomping made their way to them and Desmond moaned in his throat, despair clawing at him, knowing he was going to die here. Either from the leg wound or by the incoming enemy squadron.

Dusty murmured something, muffled by Desmond's protective vest. Desmond let go, helping Dusty raise his head with shaking hands.

“What, Dust?”

“Let go...” Dusty weakly whispered. Desmond did so; Dusty's hands moved to his shoulders and with a keening, pained sound, Dusty slid upward slowly until his helmeted head lay on Desmond's. His weight was crushing on Desmond, but he allowed it, numbly confused.

Blood dripped onto Desmond's face and Dusty whispered with a struggle, staring into straight through Desmond with eyes so vibrant a green, Desmond felt he would never forget them: “G-got an... any na-ames pick-ed! ...out?” he stuttered, coughing and Desmond held in a shout of horror because this wasn't happening.

“For, what?” he asked.

“K-kids? … Ba... babies?”

Desmond shook his head and the words again came out from nowhere.

“No,” he responded, “No, but my woman's got tons lined up.” He laughed wetly and Dusty's lips twitched in a strained smile, but his green eyes were like a bonfire, so full of life before it was snuffed out. They begged Desmond not to look away but Desmond wasn't ever going to, they had captured his attention from the start.

“N-name...” Dusty said, coughing more. “Name one; a grandkid, g-great gran. I... d-don't care. Don't care.” Dusty cried unblinkingly, and he moved one hand from his shoulder to cup Desmond's cheek.

“Just... name o-one,” Dusty gasped out. “A... after me! Desmond. My name's De-”

Desmond was stiff in shock. Then, gratitude swept over him. This man had saved his forefather's life, and because of this man, Desmond was alive.

“I'm sure he fell in here.” a voice sounded out, echoing in the silence.

Desmond's namesake groaned out in a wretched whisper, tearfully, “D-don't move. Don... Don't make a sound. Shh, shh, l-like... you're sleeping...”

“I will.” Desmond vowed, blinking twice, hard, at his namesake. He hoped Dusty understood.

He did. Desmond “Dusty” grinned with blood-stained teeth. “T...t-thanks.”

“Ooh!” someone crowed and Desmond froze and the grin slid from Dusty's pained face. “Fell on top of one. Look, I can see some extra ammo for you, Jonah.”

“C'mon, we'll search them later. We have to move.” A second soldier said, his tone brooking no arguments.

The squadron did not, however, leave immediately.

“... Wait, wait. I'm sure if he fell, it would be... not like that,” finished the first soldier.

“You're stupid anyway,” said another and then continued over the first's snarling, “like it or not, reality's staring at you point-blank and you question it? Idiot.”

“Steady,” the second one ordered. “Get a hold of yourselves. Now, let's go.”

“Fine!” the first soldier snarled. They shuffled away.

The air whooshed from Desmond. “Thank God...” Dusty stared at him. “You still with me, Des?”

His green eyes were unchanged in their colour, but he didn't blink.

“Desmond...? Oh. Desmond.” His heart hurt immensely and his lips moved to press a fierce kiss on his namesake's cheek. “I won't forget you,” he swore to the dead man, mapping out the features of his face and commiting all of them to memory, especially his vibrant, evergreen eyes, flecked with topaz.

“-ond! … Desmond!” Erudito shouted, static in his voice.

When the deep green hues of his namesake's eyes began to gradually lighten, did Desmond close his eyes and speak.

“... Yeah? Good of you to get back to me, after all this awful shit.”

“I'm sorry, Desmond.” Erudito said. “This Animus is very finicky. And you, you're position is constantly erratic. One moment, I can see your location near the Campagna, then Antico, then suddenly, you are in the Centro district. You kept blipping in and out, it was hard to mark you. Especially, when I was busy attempting to reconnect the comm-link, here and then.”

Desmond was thoughtful. “... Ezio did knock me out several times.”

“Ezio?” Erudito's voice was coloured in humored disbelief. “My, that's a surprise. I'd think he would have treated you with more... delicacy. Considering Minerva's message.”

Desmond scowled. “Yeah, right. Being locked in a room, with more measures than necessary, was fucking annoying. And then, I poisoned myself.” Erudito called his name, shocked. “I hadn't meant to, it just happened. I think some Tullio guy, maybe all of them, weren't given good information about me and drew their own conclusions.” Desmond paused. “Or maybe Tullio thought I was smarter than I was and knew not to drink a whole bottle of that shit.”

Erudito's reply was cut off when he heard the glitch of the Animus and felt himself being pulled apart, briefly. He grit his teeth and focused past the pain.

“You are very lucky, Mr. Selenes. Had you not been weighed down by your fallen comrade, it is likely you would have struggled out of the pit and gotten killed, either by the enemy or by the wound you sustained in combat. The trauma you sustained... I'm going to recommend they pull you out.” Desmond stared blankly at a doctor, who gazed back sympathy. “I'm sorry, Mr. Selenes, but you would only be a liable risk, if we were to put you back in, to everyone, even yourself.” He finished, before a throat cleared behind Desmond.

Desmond was glad, the chair was highly uncomfortable, especially having to sit with the muscles in his healing thigh getting stiffer and stiffer.

“Dr. Yealland?” a woman said. “There's a woman here, for Mr. Selenes. She says she's his fiancee. Adeela Miles?”

Desmond's body jumped up, before pain lanced in his thigh and made him crumple back into the chair.

“Careful, careful,” Yealland cautioned. “Don't be so hasty. Send her in, nurse.” The nurse walked away, her heels clicking smartly on the floor. Yealland watched him. “... I'll be right here, Mr. Selenes, and should you feel uncomfortable or wish to be away from loved ones, know that this is a natural reaction.”

“I need to see her.” Desmond said, firm.

Yealland nodded slowly and continued, “Yes, I know you do, Mr. Selenes. But, that may change – you haven't had contact with anyone, other than myself and the nurses, for over five months. Should you feel a change in mood or a restless feeling-”

Desmond said, obstinance running through his tone. “I want to see my love, doctor.”

Yealland studied him and nodded, again. “And so you shall.” His eyes flicked upward over Desmond's shoulder. “Here she is.” He pushed his chair back, brought a thick file to him that lay on the side of his desk near him, and perused it. “Remember, Mr. Selenes, I am right here.”

Arms wrapped around him and the sweet scent of gardenia and lavendar embraced him with them.

“Oh, my strong, warrior!” said a woman in a soft, wispy voice. “I kept mailing and requesting to see you, but they always say: not yet, not yet! Until finally,” and she moved to kneel in front of him, teary-eyed. “My father comes with me, here – today – and he speaks with the official in low tones and now I can see you!” Her eyes are a lovely grey, but they briefly, and Desmond was startled inwardly to see them, flicker the gold of the second sight. One small part of him explained it away, as a trick of the sunlight coming through the glass window, that Adeela's eyes had always done so – the part of him that is truly Desmond, however, knew different.

“I am so, so filled with joy to see you whole and safe! My father says that you will be coming home; no more battles, no more wars for you. Just my family, you and I.”

Desmond asked, brows furrowing. “What of my mother, my sisters...?”

“All taken care of,” Adeela assured him, cupping his face. Desmond stiffened, because his namesake had done the same. Adeela was suddenly gripping his hands and Desmond felt hot sweat running down his face. “Shh, my love, it is alright. I am here. You are here. We are together, now.” He steadied himself with deep, slow breathes.

“Adeela, my family?” he repeated, rubbing the back of her hands with his thumbs.

“Is now mine,” Adeela said. “You will take on my name as yours, as you promised.”

Desmond nodded. “Yes, of course! Your father said I would never be allowed to breath near you had I said otherwise.”

Adeela laid her head on his knee – thankfully on the uninjured leg. “But you agreed out of love.”

Desmond ran a hand through the silkiness of her wavey, black hair. He smiled. “Yes, always I will love you, even in the afterlife.”

“Then,” a deep voice said and Desmond turned hastily. Adeela, like a graceful cobra, rose from her kneeling form to give her father bow. “Welcome to the family, Miguel Miles.” His eyes briefly flared the same gold as Adeela's had. “And know that what I say, is truth.”

Absolutely none. Because I am rushed to go to the movies, right now - and just know that I AM SORRY if there's any misktakes.

Still enjoy! :D

Ho-hum. Thank goodness, back from the theatres and so I can finish my thoughts without feeling rushed.

Alright. Researched a bit. Dr. Yealland was an actual psychiatrist in WWI.

M1903 Springfields were the rifles used in infantrymen until the a better rifle with faster-firing rate was developed, the M1 Garand - a eight-round semi-automatic, in 1937. However, the M1903 Springfield still retained its use during WWII, because of too many troops and not enough funds to supply all of them with newer rifles.

Adeela means equal.

And incidentally, I lied - you WOULD HAVE found out why I was looking into Maria and Giovanni, had I had time today to spend on the parts. I am not bitter, because it has been a day well spent. I visited and had supper at my aunt's and had a good time and babysat my baby nephew. It was all in all, a refreshing day.

Also:

I may have incited anger with my use of extreme racism inside the ranks. However, it's a story, as we all know, and I'm enjoying myself filling it, and I hope you all do, too. I do not regret writing as I do. I meant to write that scene as I wrote it. I do not apologize for that, BUT I do apologize for angering or offending anyone. I just really hope I didn't incite anything negative.

If I made anyone feel uncomfortable - please, say so, so that in the future posts, I will tone it down. No, I am not babying you or another - while I enjoy what I write, as I've stated in comments of comments, I enjoy writing mainly to give others enjoyment. If there is no enjoyment derived, I've lost the point and my focus. Should one say no and others yes, or the other way around, I will tone it down to varying degrees, depending on the response.

Should there be no lessening in enjoyment, at all, well - the show goes on!

Sincerely,

Anon-Writer

“Desmond!” Erudito's voice said excitedly. “Your location – I can see you're location – you're back in Timber Island – the Assassin headquarters.”

“Great,” Desmond muttered. He experienced slight difficulty raising himself, arms quivering from his weight. “Uh, Jesus Christ, I feel like I've just been run over by a truck, got dunked in a river and held under there, and then some ass shoved cottonballs in my mouth. Shit-coated ones.”

“In good humour, I see,” a deep voice rumbled out, over Erudito's bark of laughter. Desmond squinted past the bright light beaming through the open window, into his face, and stared at a man who did the same to him from a high-backed chair, legs stretched out, one ankle behind the other. “Though,” the man continued, “I understood all but one – what is a 'truck'?”

Desmond replied to Ezio, “Something you'll never see. So, don't worry yourself, bothering me over it.” His stomach complained loudly. “I'm hungry.” Unintentionally, he gave the man an expectant look. Wordlessly, the man gestured elegantly with a wave of his hand, nodding with a gaze to Desmond's right.

A gleaming silver tray with matching lid and legs stood on the sidetable beside him.

Desmond sat completely up, grunting and reached toward the handles on either side. It was with a weak clench he grasped them, briefly, before releasing his grip. Desmond knew he would only fumble and collapse the tray and its contents to the floor.

Desmond cleared his throat, embarrassed. “Mind lending a guy, a hand? Please?” he added, wondering if he sounded as rude as he thought.

The older man hummed. “While I cannot part with my flesh, else surely risk certain death; I assume you mean...” He unhooked his ankles to rise and was soon depositing the tray table neatly over Desmond's covered lap. “This? And you say my speech is unintelligble.” He made his way over to the window and flicked one side of the curtains to cover part of the sunlight. “And now, you have your vision, undeterred, Desmond. Eat well.”

Desmond was struck by Ezio's face, clothed in casual clothes for his station.

Ezio had a beard with a minor amount of silver hairs, as if a painter had taken a medium-sized brush and lightly carassed it. His jaw was more filled, but it was strong and his mouth had natural wrinkles of age creasing the corners, but it enhanced the stern, proud set of his mouth. His eyes were a hard brown and he held the air of a man who knew no hesitation in his actions. His stare was penetrating and intense, like a predator waiting for the precise moment to strike. What grabbed Desmond's attention the most was Ezio's hair. Claudia, he recalled from Ezio's memories, had had loose ringlets framing her face and apparently, that trait had been gifted to another before her.

Desmond would wear his hair back, too, if he had hair that other people used products in his time to attain. Too attention-grabbing, when it was least needed. The curls offset the harsher aspects in Ezio's face and gave the effect of youthfulness – while the darkness in his eyes borne by time, battles and trauma, would have caused anyone to take steps back had they not known him personally (perhaps, even if they had), the curls made Ezio more charismatic, even as an older man. It made people take repeated looks back at Ezio, attracted closer. Desmond knew, too, that once Ezio turned on his charm, people were like fish that had jumped into a boat without having been caught.

Realizing he was staring, Desmond shook himself and explained. “Sorry. See, for some reason - your looks - you look...” He stopped, voice cracking in hesitation. “Wow. You look different. Really different. I mean, when you knocked me out the... fifth? - time, I sort of saw you, but wow, just... wow.”

“'Wow'...” Ezio said, rolling the word on his tongue. “What does this mean? Good, bad? Perhaps, strange? Or does this word infer something of my age?” Desmond gave him a perplexed look and opened his mouth to hastily respond, but Ezio interrupted. “I shall instill in you, that I am like fine wine...”

The words hung in the air, as Ezio hovered over him, watching him. Sweat trickled down Desmond's chest.

“... tastes better as it gets old?” Desmond finished awkwardly, before demanding, “And why am I naked?”

“No.” Ezio delivered Desmond a swift glare, irritation swirling in them, before they became placid. “It is that, only the more experienced may truly best me.” Ezio cockily smiled, ignoring Desmond's important question. “And I have yet to have that happen.”

Oh, right, Desmond thought – Ezio had some weird age rage, going on. Probably going through this time's equivalent of a mid-life crisis.

“That's nice. You look real good,” Desmond commented - with a downplay of pleasantness that came from bartending and customers too drunk to think a compliment was an insult. It had kept Desmond from getting his face smashed in. “Fantastic. A real catch. If you were a fish,” Desmond noted, nodding sagely, “in a lake, that had only fish the size of my hand – you'd be as large as I could humanly hold. … So, why am I as nude as the day I was born?” he slowly tacked on, rephrasing his previous, very important question.

“Do not mock me,” Ezio said, eyeing his tray. “And eat your food. I will be back to check on you – and do not think to spill it out the window,” he warned, going to the door and opening it. Before he closed it to leave Desmond alone, he said, “You will only have spilled the hot liquid on some poor woman or fool – searing their skin terribly for life and afflicting them with horrid burns that should they have a surface to look upon themselves, would never wish to, again.” He closed the door with a finality.

“Okay,” Desmond said to the open air, snorting. “Fuck. Had to say a novel.”

The door swung open half-way and Ezio sidestepped into the room. Desmond froze like a rabbit.

Ezio said, drawling the words out, “You are nude, so to aid in releasing you from your fever. Also, I heard you, clear as the sky is blue. ” Ezio stared at Desmond with unblinkingly. They communicated: watch it.

“We also must talk, later – about that marking on your arm. About many things. I am... not in my right mind, at the moment.”

The door closed. Desmond narrowed his eyes at it, relaxing. Then, zeroed in on his left arm, which held an intricate, wrapping black tattoo meant to represent the Assassin's.

“Looking forward to it.” Desmond sighed.

He slowly dipped his spoon in his broth, eating its contents without tasting it.

“That was interesting.” Erudito commented mildly, then. Desmond choked on his fifth spoonful.

“You heard that?” Desmond gasped out, coughing.

“... Yes. I told you, I was working on reconnecting the communication link.” Erudito sighed. “I really, really made a mess for myself.”

“Yeah. I knew that. I just... forgot you were there. You're fixing it though, right? And working on getting me out of here? Look, it hasn't been a walk in the park.” Desmond removed the tray holder to the other side of the bed – he felt hungry, but the broth just wasn't cutting it.

Erudito responded, “Desmond, you are in here by mistake, but the motive had not been. My cohorts placed you in the Animus thinking that... one of your ancestor's memories and mental fortitude would pull you through the shock. … Desmond?”

Desmond had long since ceased his fit of coughing. He was unresponsive to Erudito's concerned, repeated calling of his name, because Desmond was remembering why he was in the Animus, how he came into this strange Animus program that used Ezio's memories as a template for virtual reality. Thinking about Lucy and her shocked eyes, brought home that the first woman he connected and bonded with - even if it was a case of Stolkholm, hadn't made the bonds less true; the emotions Desmond had for Lucy were real and that was what mattered, in the end – was dead.

Desmond had killed her. Desmond's thoughtlessness and putting too many steps forward before looking down to see where he stepped, was the culprit. The Apple had controlled his actions, but he had been the idiot to grab at it – another part of him that lived vicariously through his ancestors' desired to repeat their actions of grasping the Piece of Eden, firmly. He recalled the excitement – there he was in front of the very Apple Ezio had gripped with one strong hand, a duplicate of the Apple Altair had immersed himself in – and before he knew it, his hand moved – a selfish moment, wanting to feel the Apple in his own hands, but juxtaposed by the fierce desire to relive Ezio and Altair as himself, without the Animus's intervention.

It had been Juno through the Apple, but it had been Desmond's hidden blade – the hidden blade given to him by Lucy.

Desmond smiled mirthlessly – Lucy dead by her own doing.

She saved Desmond, gave him the means to defend and protect, and her own deeds were her end.

Erudito was saying something and Desmond rose his head, slightly.

“What?”

“You're thinking about her? The Templar agent?”

“She has a name,” Desmond spat back, before he calmed himself with a shaky inhale. “Had. Sorry.”

“... Tell me, I heard through the grapevine that you had your first kill and consecutive ones shortly after, in the same sitting. How did it feel?”

Desmond had no idea where Erudito was heading to with his question.

“Want me to be honest?” he asked, instead, and receiving a hum of agreement from Erudito, thought for awhile. Desmond eventually said, “Not myself. I woke up, and it was like, I knew I had to do it, and I'd do it, because it was the only way. Hm, real Ezio-like with a large scooping of Altair.” Desmond scratched his scalp. “I'm... a big avoider. I don't like conflict – why the fuck do you think I left the Farm?” he cursed without any rancour.

“What was your standing there?” Erudito asked. Desmond humoured him.

“Pretty high. Miles, we had more than a few Master Assassin's in our known lineage – there were rumours inside the family and the compound – you hear shit when you're a kid and adults'll talk – that we descended from a few Grand Masters. Turned out to be true.” Desmond chuckled and Erudito followed suit.

“But,” Desmond finished, “on the Farm, you had kids young. Eventually, come me, 'the blood waned too thin' the council liked to say. Too many outsiders in the Miles blood. My great, great-grandmother, Adeela was the last to show the true heart of the Assassin's.” Desmond chewed on his lower lip. “That was the memory. I saw my forefather, Miguel, and Adeela – he was one of the many outsiders in my line.”

“Anything you excelled, particularly, at?”

Desmond thought, again, pulling out memories best laid to rest.

“Tracking. Lockpicking. Had an aptitude for silent killing, they said. I hated heights, scared me shitless, but the mentors always had compliments to give my form – said if I tried harder, I'd be up there with the best of my age group. I got my tattoo when I was fourteen – age of majority – and then, a month later, I was given an assassination. I was dropped off into a city – and I was lost; it was my first time in any place outside the Farm, I'll never forget the feeling. Fuck, I failed it hard. And I had been slated in for the mission, because of my specialty.”

“Why did you fail it?” Erudito wondered, sympathy winding in the words. Erudito sounded like he already knew why and Desmond shrugged, shaking his head, and voiced it aloud.

“I couldn't do it. I couldn't jab the stilleto into him, and I was right there beside him and he hadn't even noticed me as a threat, like I wasn't even there. Then, that was the end of it – I came back without anything to show for it. Later, it turned out that there was a master – one of my own mentors - waiting in the wings, following me, to make sure the assassination went through, either way. I felt awful and ashamed, couldn't look any of them in the eyes – my parents didn't help.”

Desmond snorted. “They hadn't been anything special, either. But they both pinned a lot of hopes on me. I'd be the one to raise the Miles from nobody's who came from somebody's, to a bloodline worthy of notice again – reliving the glorious days. Heh. Man, once I hit sixteen, I was gone. I failed all my missions, purposefully.” Desmond laughed, rubbing sore eyes. “They kept handing me mission after mission, my mentors saying, “This time, he will,” always, this time, this time. Parents gave up on me long before my mentors did, I don't think they ever. Then, like I said, sixteenth year came – I was handed my last assignment – I didn't think I would do as I did, actually. Didn't think anything eventful would occur. Thought I'd fail it as usual, return home and hang myself.” Erudito's breathing stopped. “Yeah. Teenage angst and a lot of other shit...”

Desmond buried his head in his hands.

“They were my aunts and uncles, my mentors – not by blood; by the time I came around into the world, I came from a couple of lonely-only children, twice-over, so no cousins, at all. Just me. And Lucy didn't have to say a word when she said Assassins came to free me, some losing their lives. I knew it was them. My parents loved me, yes, in a way a child is loved for its potential. But they wouldn't... die for me. My mentors would.

“Fuck, one had before, already.”

Not much to say in the side notes, on this part. No tidbits to shove out.

BUT - you now finally found out about why I was looking up Maria and Giovanni.

Now, I recall NOT putting my reasons for changing Ezio's face, so I'll put them down here. I read, and I'm pretty sure, it is on tvtropes on Assassin's Creed page, on its WMG link (Wild Mass Guessing) there was one troper who put forth a remarkable theory.

They said, basically, because I'm not quoting, that the faces of Altair and Ezio that you see, are not really theirs. It is just the Animus superimposing Desmond's face on their face, to better synchronize him with their bodies. Anything that happens, like the scar-mouth, is just the Animus doing its job for Desmond to assimulate properly. Forgive my misspellings, I tend to write off the top of my head come Side Notes, directly in the comment box here. Paired with me talking aloud, much to my mother's confusion every time.

So, anyway, that really struck me - and stuck to me and wouldn't release.

As I was writing this, I had an image of Ezio. First, he had straight hair as he usually does. Then, as I thought more, going in the story, I suddenly imagined him with curls. And those nice, thick man curls - you know the ones I'm talking about. Men with curly hair are fantastic to look at, simply because their hair is so gosh darn thick and beautiful. I like men with long hair, any hair type is great, but curls, wow - be my babe tonight, like Whitney Houston sings it.

Anyway, this is not five parts like last time. In fact, I was trying to write SIX - trying to beat my last number of posts - but I'm pretty anxious about my wisdom-teeth pulling, which happens on WEDNESDAY morning. GUH.

I cancelled it in November due to family circumstances, plus I was nervous. They told me to call back in December and I found excuses not to, until finally I could not stand the constant aching. Cue me calling in the beginning of Jan - I believe it was the ninth - and suddenly, the twelve couldn't come fast enough. Or slow enough. Sometimes I use my words wrong. You know what I mean.

Oh yeah - I'll be laying and recovering on Wednesday, so no post then. And to prevent weird, loopy posts, I will not be touching my computer for a week or so. I just - in case. Just in case.

Alright, then! I hope you enjoy this night's postings. Sorry about the lateness. I usually try for 9ish, early 10ish, if I don't post for 3-5pm.

OH GOD - no, not Jan 9th. I called Jan 1st or 3rd. I kept glancing at my clock, and fretting that I hadn't you know posted when I had wanted to, and nine got stuck in my head. It was a brainfart.

Writer!anon, this fic is making my day. I just found it and read through it all (even though I need to wake up in less than 6 hours) and it was amazing. I can't wait to see more. *_* <3

Oh, thank you! :)

(Anonymous) - 2011-01-11 15:09 (UTC) - Expand

Previous!Anon returneth! I cannot tell you how much I enjoy this fic - everything about it is so awesome, from Sub 16, Desmond's backstory, the attraction between him and Ezio (oh my god I live for that UST) - I am in awe of your fic-itude and I so desperately want to read EVERYTHING in your repertoire and the anon rules make me weep in futility!

I hope your dentistry goes perfectly and that you are blessed with swift, uncomplicated recovery (and not because I am your fic-whore. Or, not /just/ because of that...)

Multitudes of boners and internets,
Previous!Anon

Haha :D Thank you!

(Anonymous) - 2011-01-11 15:25 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Haha :D Thank you!

(Anonymous) - 2011-01-11 16:13 (UTC) - Expand

Awesome!

(Anonymous) - 2011-01-12 00:47 (UTC) - Expand

So I guess my nickname from now on is pathetic!anon lolol After few days of not being able to touch computer, I come back and find this. ...It was BEAUTIFUL/sniffles. I love this fic very much writer-anon! Hope to see more in the future C:

ps) Wisdom teeth AFPOIJWEPGIGPIPWEGHHHH I hope you recover soon. I have to go and see dentist today too. Wow, coincidence, much? XD

Coincidence - everything happens for a reason! :D

(Anonymous) - 2011-01-12 00:50 (UTC) - Expand

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt.2

Warring of Talons Part 13/?

Warring of Talons Part 14/?

Warring of Talons Part 15/?

Warring of Talons Part 16/?

Side Notes

Re: Warring of Talons Part 16/?

If by 'no one' you mean me... :D

Re: Warring of Talons Part 16/?

Thank you! :D

Warring of Talons Part 17/?

Warring of Talons Part 18/?

Warring of Talons Part 19/?

Warring of Talons Part 20/?

Warring of Talons Part 21/?

Side Notes

Actual Side Notes

Warring of Talons Part 22/?

Warring of Talons Part 23/?

Warring of Talons Part 24/?

Warring of Talons Part 25/?

Side Notes

Re: Side Notes

I think I'm in love.

Oh, thank you! :)

Re: Side Notes

Haha :D Thank you!

Re: Haha :D Thank you!

Awesome!

Re: Side Notes

Coincidence - everything happens for a reason! :D