Hi! ^-^

I'm not sure if Bleach fans also like Assassin's Creed, but then again, I like so many different, random things that it's not even funny, so who knows?

...Then again, I'm not sure if I want any Bleach fans here... *chuckles nervously*

Well, if any of you are reading... sorry? Haha...? Yeah, I didn't actually plan to go on hiatus for half a year, but...

Yeah. :/

Well, if it makes you feel better (and not want to choke me), I'll have something updated by tomorrow (or maybe the day after... or after that... o_0 But I promise that's the latest!).

And no more god-damn new ideas! Promise! But... I just... AC... just started playing... and *NYAH!*

...I had to write... *pouts*

What. The. Fuck.

To say that Desmond was shocked would be an understatement.

After all, he had yet to pick his jaw up from its current location on the floor.

I… That… It… Wha-…

Yup, it was official. Desmond Miles, budding Assassin, had finally snapped.

How else could he explain the fact that he was currently perched on top of a building, smack-bang in the middle of fucking Jerusalem?

He was most definitely not in the Animus right now. The fact that he could actually feel the breeze blowing at his grey hoodie was proof enough of that.

"If this is your idea of a joke, you guys, it's in really, really, really bad taste," he muttered nervously, glancing up at the sky.

Maybe Lucy's head would just pop right in, exclaiming that he actually was in the Animus, and Rebecca had just implemented a more realistic program, and he actually hadn't gone insane.

And obviously, the program involved him actually materialising in the world. Separately from Altair.

Because that made loads of sense.

He really hoped that this was just a bad dream.

"Hey! You!"

Desmond's head snapped to the side, towards the exclamation.

An armoured archer stood there, hand raising his bow as he began to settle into a position the assassin knew all too well.

"Get down from there!"

Yup. That was it. Classic.

Now, usually, when he was Altair, he would just run up and shank the guy.

But he wasn't Altair, master assassin, armed to the teeth with weaponry and with enough skill to make most athletes look clumsy.

No, he was Desmond Miles, the slightly-out-of-shape-due-to-lazing-in-the-Animus-too-long assassin-in-training, whose only possible weapon/protection would have to be his i-pod (providing he throw it, really, really hard), and a thin cotton layer of clothing between him and a very, very, painful arrow.

So, in cases like this, it would usually be wise to run for your fucking life.

And run he did.

~( ^_^ )~

Altair rather liked Jerusalem. It was a peaceful place.

Well, apart from the guards baying for his blood. But that happened in every city he visited, so it didn't count.

Although he could do without a certain bureau leader glaring daggers at his back…

The white-robed assassin tossed the roll of bread in his hand up habitually, catching it dexterously as he tightened the red sash around his waist.

Yeah, it would be wise to leave the place before those proverbial knives became real knives…

"If you have nothing left to do, I suggest you take your leave…," Malik hissed, lips turned downwards in a frown (well, a deeper frown than earlier). "…novice."

Altair resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

Turning, the assassin opened his mouth, ready to return some snarky remark…

"Where did he go?"

It was a faint exclamation, obviously from a fair bit away, but both men heard it anyway, their senses honed from years of training.

Another sound could be heard under the rabble of numerous shouting voices – one of approaching feet.

Tensing, Altair reached for his dagger, his breakfast lying, forgotten, on the floor as he automatically settled into a combat position.


The bureau leader stepped forward. "We should close up the entrance…"

The assassin's arm shot to the side, blocking the other male.

"What are you…?" Malik's eyebrows knotted, lip curling as Altair shook his head. "You know the rules."

The assassin continued to stare silently at the entrance, eyes narrowed.

"We cannot compromise the brotherhood!" the bureau leader growled. "Even for a Brother –!"

"Quiet," Altair ordered, lips pressed into a thin, determined line.

Did he just–?

A vein throbbed on Malik's forehead.

Sadly, before the enraged ex-assassin could snap and choke the other (stubborn, pig-headed, disrespectful, arrogant…) male to death (or worse), the shuffling of footsteps caused him to freeze.

Glaring heatedly at the other, he huffed, reaching into the folds of his robe and bringing his trusty dagger out to the front.

If this went wrong… he was going to castrate Altair.

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond was perfectly fine – after all, they were only normal soldiers, and therefore no match against his assassin traini– Oh, who was he kidding?

He was absolutely dying out there.

An arrow 'thunked' into the wall as he turned a sharp corner, missing his shoulder by centimetres.

Well, maybe not dying, but at this rate, he was going to be.

"Stop! Infidel!"

It wasn't even funny how many men were after his ass right now. In fact, he had an entire barrack of soldiers after him. No, literally – it turned out that sprinting into a mess hall during lunch-time was a very bad idea.

So now there were –Twenty? Thirty?– Armed, hungry, angry militia waving swords at him and screaming in Arabic.


If he had been in the Animus, the amount of moving red bleeps that would have shown up on the screen…

Yeah… he was screwed.

Leaping across wooden beams, Desmond dashed across the roof of the building, sneakers squeaking as he gripped the edge of the adjoining double story, hauling himself up the wall.

His breath was becoming laboured; he had been running for a fair bit already, and, unlike Altair or Ezio, he simply did not have the skill, or the speed, to lose his pursuers.

"Fuck," he puffed.

What was he supposed to do?

Gritting his teeth, the assassin-in-training forced himself to move faster, arms making sweeping motions through the air as he moved. Swerving to the right, he leapt for the wall of the building parallel, hoping to god that his grip wouldn't slip.

Thankfully, the blood of his ancestors running through his veins kept him from plummeting five metres to the probably extremely painful ground.

Or he was just lucky.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Desmond pushed himself up onto the rooftop, not even bothering to look back at his pursuers, who were currently cussing him out.

Hey, it wasn't his fault that they weren't 'assassin' enough to make the jump.

But he knew he couldn't dawdle. They would always find a way around; the jean-clad male knew that from experience.

Stubborn bastards.

Sprinting across the rooftops, he let his eyes scope the area, searching for possible hiding spots.

Rooftop hutch… rooftop hutch…

Desmond cursed under his breath. The closest one was at least six roof-tops away, and another story up to boot.

"Where did he go?"

Fuck. He had even less time than anticipated.

Leaping quickly across the wooden beams criss-crossing the one story buildings, the male made a mad dash.


Shit. There was no way he was going to make it now.

~( ^_^ )~

Altair wasn't sure why he had stopped Malik.

It wasn't like he was a very sentimental sort of person (Haha… sentimental. Yeah, right.) – of all people, he should know that it was 'do or die' in this world.

He didn't know why, but he had.

Call it a gut feeling. (Or instinct, if you were feeling really fancy.)

And Altair always followed his gut. It never failed him.


Now he just had to hope this wasn't one of the 'usually' times.

With a thump, said object of his thoughts slipped through the bureau entrance, landing on the floor in a crouch.

"Find the fugitive!"

The male rose almost immediately, head turned upwards – his back, incidentally, against the two assassins.

Well, the stranger was most definitely not of the Order, judging from his robes (or lack of them). Not to mention, the cloths covering him were… peculiar, to say the least.

Altair could almost feel the waves of warning rolling off Malik.

The other was not of our Brotherhood. And thus, was a threat.

"God damn it! We lost him!"

Hearing the muffled curses of his pursuers, the outsider breathed out a sigh of relief.

And then he froze.

And turned.

And nearly had an aneurysm.

…That is, if Altair actually knew what an aneurysm was… but he didn't, so let's just say that the person was very, very, surprised.


The assassin blinked.


~( ^_^ )~


Desmond slapped a hand over his mouth.

Fuckfuckfuck I did not just say that!

Both assassins had seemingly turned to stone, stances turning from cautious to threatening almost immediately.


Altair's jaw was tight, but Desmond knew very well that under the shadowed hood, his golden eyes were narrowed – confused, possibly, but most definitely suspicious.

The male immediately raised his hands in a sign of truce, nervously shaking his head. "I-I mean…uh…um…oh, fuck."

Without warning, he spun around, quickly grabbing the edge of the fountain and scrambling upwards. Clambering desperately over the edge of the entrance, Desmond was up and running, very nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

Earlier was nothing compared to the shit he was in now. Nothing.

He would rather have a friggin' army after him than god-fucking-dammit-Altair.

And he was sure he was following.

Every hair on the nape of his neck was rising, goose-bumps popping up all over his body as he sensed the piercing gaze of the other on his back.

And then there were the silent footsteps.

The fact that they were almost soundless made it all the more f-ing terrifying.

As in I-may-very-well-shit-my-pants-soon-terrifying.

Even when he had been Altair, reliving his memories, he had already been slightly intimidated.

But now?

If you're out there, somewhere, God, even though as an Assassin I don't believe in you and basically every action of me and my past ancestors spits in your face, please, please find it in your heart to save me now.


But obviously God was on his holiday today, as Desmond felt a hand fist into the back of his hoodie, jerking him backwards and slamming him sideways, into a (rather conveniently placed) wall.

With a grunt, he braced for impact, hands coming up flat against the surface as he was shoved face-first into the building.

And soon, (further panicking his already-petrified brain) an upper-arm joined the hand, elbow digging painfully into his spinal cord.

"Who. Are. You?"

What, no Hi?

Yup, that's the sort of thing Desmond's mind came up with when pissing itself scared. Along with nonsensical blabbering noises, of course.

The assassin in training turned his head to the side in an attempt to speak, trying not to squash his cheeks against the wall. "Wa-wait, it's not what you think!" he hastened to say, hoping to appease the dangerous man. "Just let me explain myself first, Altai-."

With a yelp of surprise, Desmond was spun around, suddenly facing a very angry assassin.

"How do you know my name?" the other hissed, fisting his collar and pulling him upwards, the descendant finding himself with only his toes touching the floor and a rather unpleasant choking sensation.

Oh, y'know, I'm actually your descendant, coming back in time from nine hundred years in the future, and for the last month or so, I've been reliving your memories, basically invading all laws of decent privacy – so, the usual.

He couldn't exactly say that, now could he?

Well, he could, if he really wanted a blade in his throat.

But he didn't. Shocking as that is.

"Um, well… it's sort of hard to explain…," he mumbled, eyes darting to the side.

Wait a second, is that– ?

"Try me."

Yes, it is! Maybe God's not on hiatus after all.

The little upside-down tornado that he had seen and utilised countless times shimmered behind Altair's right shoulder, the white letters of the animus code glitching in and out. He had absolutely no idea what it was doing here, but as of now, the mark was his only way out of the frying pan.

He would just have to hope that the stove outside happened to be turned off.

"You see…," Desmond began, chewing on his bottom lip as he attempted to stall.

It was so close…

The hooded assassin's fist tightened, pushing almost painfully against the other's collarbone. "Answer me, boy," he growled, jaw tight and eyes narrowed with impatience.

The jean-clad male could not help but scowl defiantly at that, brown orbs flicking back to glare. "I am not a boy! Jeez, I'm only a year younger than you!"

An eyebrow rose.

"And how, exactly, do you know my age?"

Woah, Desmond, way to put your foot in it.

Altair lightly shook the ex-bartender, who felt distinctly like a rag-doll as his head bobbed to and fro.

"Ah, well, it's…erm…difficult to explain." Yeah. Just a little.

Those frightening, piercing eyes neared. "Shall I just assume that you are a templar spy, then?"

"No! No, I-I'm on your side, 'kay?"

"Then why did you run?"


Oh, goody, let's see how much further I can shove my foot down my throat, yes?

The wisps of white danced in the corner of his eye.


Altair was actually really scary with a cocked eyebrow. But then again, the assassin could have hiccupped right now, and Desmond would still have found it terrifying.

(…Well, maybe also a bit funny.)

"You…you…," Desmond began, feeling sweat drip down the back of his neck.

He was gonna need a shit-load of luck (and nine lives, if possible) to pass this off.

"You're actually my –."

"Hey! You!" Both their heads snapped towards the voice, a sentry running towards them, bow at the ready.

The brunette very nearly let out a sigh of relief. For once in his young life, he was actually glad for the existence of annoying roof-top guards.

"Sorry, Altair," he grunted, shoving the distracted assassin away from him, shoving off the wall.

The other staggered slightly, amber eyes wide as his captive dashed past. "What are–?"

But he didn't hesitate. Lunging forward, Desmond leapt for the glyphs, hand brushing through the ghost-like substance.

And then the world fell away in a burst of white.

~( ^_^ )~

Ezio Auditore da Firenze was A Man. That had been confirmed many times, by many women.

Oh, yes.

But he was also other things. He was a son. A brother. A nephew. Friendly. Loyal. Athletic. Handsome. Brave. Charming. Mysterious. Dashing. Awesome. Epical. God-like… need he go on?

He was many things (including, at times, arrogant).

But even he had to admit, 'flat as a pancake' (provided the pastry had been invented in that era) was something he had not previously experienced.

Then again, there was a first for everything, right?

~( ^_^ )~

Desmond had been prepared for anything.

Whether it was the roof of a clock tower in Firenze, or a swim in the Venice canals, with all their wonderful scents, or possibly even straight into a group of patrolling guards, the assassin-in-training had been prepared.

Key word had.

No, what he hadn't fully prepared for was his absolutely shitty luck.

Yes, shitty. Because who else but he, Desmond Miles –magnet for all that is horrible and misfortunate in the universe– would have appeared in Mid. Fucking. Air?

And guess what happens when you 'pop-up' eight metres in the air?

You drop.

Because gravity loves torturing poor, mere mortals.

Now, usually a person would say that it could be much worse –after all, it could have been a twenty metre drop, down onto a rock-hard cobblestone path– but no, not Desmond. Things could never go right for him, now could they?

Yes, because as he fell through the air, his arms scrabbling to the sides as he searched for some form of handhold (all the while fighting the climbing urge to scream like a little girl), he had to hear that voice.

No, not the one that whispers into your ear as you see your life flash before you – the one that goes "What the fu–?" in the baritone that is way too familiar, suddenly cutting off into a grunt as you land on said voice owner's chest.

~( ^_^ )~

The Florentine assassin was glad that he had been in a melancholic mood that day – he tended to do things like enjoy the beauty of things around him more often when he was like that. Whether it be the birds chirping in the trees… or the beautifully vibrant flowers blossoming… or the way those courtesans were so utterly elegant… or, in this case, admiring the clear, blue sky above Firenze.

That is, before a giant, peculiarly shaped blob had decided to materialise out of thin air and plummet right above where he was standing.

Now usually Ezio was an extremely alert person.

But the falling thing fucking materialised out of thin air.

So you will forgive him (and you shall– none can resist his 'puppy pout') for not being able to do much but absorb the impact as best he could.

"Urgh…," the Italian assassin began to rise from his location on the street, propping himself up on his elbows. "Che diavolo?"

There appeared… to be a person… on him…

Normally, that was a very good thing – but in this case… well, it wasn't exactly a 'normal' situation.

"Ah, shit, that hurt!" The stranger – a male, raised his head, one hand rubbing against a seemingly sore forehead, the other on Ezio's breastplate (which had probably been the cause for the red welt on his brow).

"Pardona, but what precisely are you doing on my chest?" the assassin smirked, eyebrow raised.

Chocolate brown orbs rose, seemingly a little dazed, brown eyebrows joined together in a confused pout that Ezio could not help but find… adorable.

That was strange. It was not often that he found himself thinking of another male as attractive – let alone cute.

Well, there was Leonardo… but that would just be… weird.

"You know, I don't usually mind people 'dropping in', but are you not taking it a bit too literally?"

Chocolate-hued eyes widened.

"Ah!" and the stranger was off his chest almost immediately, still staring at Ezio in shock and… another emotion.

Was that… fear?

The assassin was a little hurt at that.

"Oh come now, am I really that scary?" he cocked his head to the side, smirking mischievously.


But he never heard the other's answer, as the tell-tale sound of a blade flying through the air reached Ezio's sharp ears.

"Merda!" Moving reflexively, he rolled to the side – missing the throwing knife by inches as it embedded itself into the ground beside his neck.

Who the fuck–?

A shadow.

And that was the only warning he received before the Florentine was forced to move again, this time dodging the swing of a very sharp sword.

A hand on the road, Ezio began to lift himself onto his feet, only to stop halfway through, activating his hidden blade to block the attacker's next swing.

"What the hell?"

He glanced up at the threat, eyes narrowed. And stopped short.

The other wore the robes of an assassin, the hooded robe and white colouring distinctive, as was the bracer on his left fore-arm.

"Wait! Are you– ?" he began, only to grunt as the sword beared down, the other letting out a low growl.

"Altair! Stop!" Both assassins looked towards the (previously forgotten) brunette. "Don't kill him!"

Ezio blinked.


He frowned, confused.

But that is not–

"Why?" the male growled, not allowing even a little tension to leave his weapon.

It– it cannot be!

"B-because! Just… stop attacking!"

If anything, the other only beared down harder. "I have no intention of stopping for a 'because'!"

"For God's sake– !"

And yet–

"Are you… Altair Ibn-La'Ahad?" Ezio spoke, interrupting the imminent argument.

Both strangers turned their attention to him.

The 'cute' one spoke first. "Yeah – he is."

A moment passed.

And then suddenly, the temperature seemed to drop from luke-warm to frigid.

"Why…," Altair began to speak, voice low.

"Does…," he gritted his teeth.


The nameless brunette had turned a rather sickly pale colour.


A shiver ran down Ezio's spine.


I have a baaaad feeling…


His blocking arm began to tremble from the effort of keeping the sword in place.




I wuv this pairing/grous thingo. And don't get me wrong, I love LeoEzio too! (He's so cuuuuuuute!) But... they can't be together in this fic... *sniff*

^_^ But anyway, there are not enough fics of these three together. I mean, I know it's impossible, and they all live in different times, and they look like brothers, and they're actually related... BUT IT'S SO HAWT!

So yeah, my first threesome~. Smut soon, probs (knowing my style of writing and my sick, sick perved mind); well, a teaser- no doing the deed yet, boys! X)

But yes, as mentioned earlier, Ezio has a KILLER puppy pout. It will make you 'awww' like never before, I tell you! (The link is here; just get rid of the spaces)

h t t p: / / l u ulala. de vi ant art .com/art/Deviant-ID-143254866


Che diavolo; what the hell

Pardona; excuse me/pardon

Merda; shit


Review please~! ^-^

...Even if it's just to rant at me for not updating in so long...