Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rooftops groaned softly under Ezio's boots as he moved like a shadow across the slanted tiles, the warm stones still holding onto the day’s heat. Monteriggioni slumbered below—its flickering lanterns casting golden arcs over the cobbled streets, over the quiet courtyards, over the world he had fought so bitterly to preserve.

He patrolled the same route he had taken for years. A comfort. A necessity. He couldn’t sleep much these days, not after the Vault, not after Rome. Not after her voice—Minerva—breathed a name into existence that had never belonged in Ezio’s mouth but now refused to leave his thoughts.

Desmond.

He didn’t know who the man was. He shouldn’t have cared. But it was carved into him now, etched between the breaths he took and the ache that never faded. The Vault hadn’t spoken to him, but it had reached him. Burned that name into his mind.

He was almost to the church tower when the wind shifted.

And he stopped cold.

A scent rolled over the rooftops. A wisp of something that did not belong in spring, in this world.

He inhaled without meaning to. Again. And again.

And it struck him.

Soft. Wild. Laced in something ancient and right. Like a melody half-remembered from childhood. Like home.

Ezio stumbled. His foot caught the edge of the roof tile, and he nearly fell—nearly—for the first time in decades.

His hands clutched the edge of the ledge and he dropped low, panting like a hunted thing. His pupils blew wide.

This scent—this presence—it was like starlight soaked in myrrh. Like olivewood in fire. Like someone he’d longed for but never found. His whole life had trailed after it without knowing what it was.

It was Desmond.

He didn’t know how he knew. He simply knew. It was carved in him like the Creed.

His head whipped toward the eastern wall of the villa. There. It was strongest there.

He leapt, bounding from rooftop to rooftop like a panther on the hunt, his breath wild, hands twitching around a dagger he didn’t remember drawing. This was no enemy. This was no threat. But it made something terrible rise in him—feral and beautiful and hungry.

A beast coming out to hunt.

His dick painfully hard in his pants—already dripping—and his teeth ached, desperate to sink into the soft flesh that smelled like starlight—

Would he taste like it too? Would he taste like divinity? Like Salvation? Or would he taste like the sweetest sin? Like the apple in the garden? Would he bleed red like everyone else?—

He dropped to the grass outside the smithy, shoulders heaving. The scent was fading now—like mist pulled away by morning light—but it had been there. A brush of it. A gift. A wound.

And in its absence, he felt bereft.

But everything inside Ezio had changed.

He had a mate. He had Desmond. 

And he had come so, so close.

He grinned in the darkness—dark and savage.

"Run faster, bel coniglio," 

The hunt was on. 

---

Ezio’s breath came ragged as he pushed off the earth, body moving faster than he could think, faster than reason allowed. The scent still lingered—dim now, but real, real, and everything in him rose to answer it. Muscles burned, lungs heaved, but he did not stop.

Could not.

His hands caught the edge of the blacksmith’s roof and vaulted over. The shadows melted around him as he sprinted across tiles, gravel crunching under his boots, the wind howling in his ears. His hood blew back—he didn’t care. His cloak caught on a chimney—he tore it free without pause. The world narrowed, tunneled, until all he could see, all he could feel, was that scent.

Warm, wild, impossibly distant—like lightning caught in linen, like starlight burned into skin. It was his.

Every inch of Ezio screamed for him to find it. Find him.

The word blistered through his thoughts. Mate.

Something primal cracked inside him, a floodgate of instinct and aching loneliness breaking open all at once. He’d lived with this scent in the edges of his world for years—brushed past it in Florence, in Venice, in Rome—never understanding what it meant. But now?

Now he KNEW.

And he would tear the rooftops down stone by stone to get to him.

He landed hard on the tower overlooking the well, crouched, nose lifted. It was closer now. The scent curled like smoke around his senses. Salt. Ash. Dust. And something underneath—something holy. Desmond. His name burned across Ezio’s tongue, though he hadn’t spoken it aloud.

Then—

There. A flicker. A shape.

One rooftop over. Then another.

A figure—slim but strong—moved like shadow dipped in flame. Soft in the moonlight. Draped in silks and soft cloth. Wrapped in silver and gold and red. Moving like an assassin but dressed like a courtesan—like deliverance and debauchery.   

The way he vaulted, the way he rolled, shifted, dived—

The way Ezio could faintly see the necklaces shining as they bounced against his rabbits' pale chest—where he’d place a gold and red collar, tight against his throat, like a brand for all to see, like Ezio’s hand cutting off his air because his rabbit belonged to him—

The way he could faintly hear the anklets and bracelets chiming as they clanged together —like how the chains will sound when Ezio chains him to the bed—

The way the starlight glinted off the thin chains wrapped around his rabbit’s soft stomach—so small, so dainty, he could wrap his hands around that waist and drag him down, drag him to the floor, face in the dirt, make him scream and beg and cry so pretty--

Ezio’s pulse howled in his throat and his dick ached—harder then it’s ever been in his life—

He chased.

Faster. Faster.

Tiles shattered under his boots as he launched forward, clearing rooftops with wild grace, arms outstretched like a hawk closing in on prey. But this wasn’t prey. This was his. And now that he’d seen him—really seen him—there would be no stopping.

The figure ahead twisted midair, landed in a crouch, turned—

Gold.

Not light. Not hair. Not armor. Something deeper. Something burning beneath the skin. Ezio blinked, chest lurching. He could see it—the soul of him. Gleaming. Otherworldly. Belonging.

A snarl tore through Ezio’s chest before he could stop it.

The rabbit turned, startled—but only for a heartbeat. Then he ran again.

Ezio gave chase.

They blurred through Monteriggioni like ghosts. Up walls, across beams, down steep slants and up again. But the figure stayed just out of reach, always one jump ahead, a phantom just beyond his fingertips.

Ezio didn’t feel the gash on his palm from a broken tile. Didn’t hear the startled cry of a guard nearly shoved off a ledge. Didn’t see the sky darken further, the stars wheeling above. There was only the scent, the flash of movement, the need.

He would catch him. The thought was iron, anchored to his spine.

He would have him.

---

His lungs burned, muscles screaming from the relentless pace, but Ezio didn’t slow. Couldn’t. His body was locked in a rhythm more ancient than memory, more consuming than rage. The scent had filled him—coated his tongue, clawed down his throat like the thick smoke of incense in a cathedral. And it was sweeter than anything he’d ever known.

How could no one else smell it?

How were the guards still patrolling with empty eyes? How did the villagers go about their night as if the very air hadn’t caught fire?

It didn’t matter.

Let them be blind. Let them be deaf.

He saw it. He smelled it.

He knew.

The scent—Desmond—was everything now. That rabbit of his, dancing across the rooftops with a grace that made Ezio’s gut twist, gold-limned and glowing in his vision, like sunlight made flesh.

Mine. Mine.

The growl rumbled up before he could stop it, low and dark and vibrating behind his teeth.

And then—suddenly—the rooftops gave way to the crumbling old wall near the vineyards, and Ezio’s blood iced in his veins.

Red.

It was everywhere.

Coats. Hoods. Steel.

Figures—at least five, maybe more—surrounded his rabbit in a half-circle. Their weapons gleamed, crude and sharp, their intentions written in the hungry curve of their bodies.

They smelled him.

Of course they did. Of course they would.

How could they not? Desmond was sunlight and salt, rain on summer stone, fire threaded with honey. He was everything, and the scent of him pooled in the air, thick and divine.

They must have followed it. Like Ezio had.

But they would not touch him.

They would not touch him.

Ezio dropped into a crouch atop the crumbling stonework, breath ragged, eyes wild, body trembling with fury and possessive need.

His fingers closed around the hilt of his hidden blade.

They would not lay a single hand.

Another snarl tore from his throat, deeper this time—laced with promise.

Because Desmond was his.

And these men—these jackals—thought they could hunt his rabbit?

No.

No, they would not leave this square alive.

Ezio leapt.

He landed hard, a shadow made of wrath and teeth and iron. The closest man didn’t even have time to scream before Ezio’s blade sank into the soft meat of his throat. The others turned, too slow, too foolish to understand what they had provoked.

They thought him just another Assassin.

But Ezio was feral now. A beast uncaged.

A mate enraged.

Desmond stood behind them—wide-eyed, chest heaving, hands curled into fists like he’d fight to the last breath. The sight of him, so brave, so close—it nearly undid Ezio then and there.

But he couldn’t fall now.

One of the men lunged—Ezio twisted, slammed his foot into the man’s knee with a sickening crack and brought his dagger across his jaw in one clean, vicious motion.

Blood sprayed. The scent didn’t matter. Only his rabbit.

Ezio barely noticed the last man fall. The blade buried in the bastard’s throat was forgotten the moment his rabbit flinched—cute nose twitching—barefoot and trembling, wrapped in silks that shimmered like heatwaves and starlight.

He turned, panting, bloodied, shaking with fury and the thundering heat of his mate’s scent still blooming all around him.

He was staring.

Ezio opened his mouth—no words came. Only the beast in him remained. He could barely breathe.

His golden rabbit, safe now. His.

---

The blood on the stones still glistened under the moonlight, catching like dull stars between their boots. The square had fallen silent save for the echo of Desmond’s breath and the low thrum of Ezio’s pulse beating hard against his ribs.

He could see it now—see Desmond.

No longer gold and smoke and motion, but real and flesh and light. Trembling, stunned, as if the whole world had shifted beneath his feet. Ezio felt it too. The axis of his life tilting toward the man standing at the edge of the fountain.

His rabbit.

Ezio straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders back, shifting the heat that burned through him into something deeper, older—seduction, coaxing, courtship. The kind he knew best. But this was not like the games he’d played with silk-draped women behind closed doors.

This was instinct. Need. Soul-deep.

There you are, he thought, breath heavy with something feral. His mouth wet. His heart pounding not with exertion, but anticipation.

He stepped forward, one boot scuffing against the stone, every inch of his body humming with intent. His voice, when he finally spoke, came like smoke—low, thick, feral velvet.

“Ciao, bel coniglio.”

The endearment curled into the night like a kiss.

Desmond startled slightly. A flicker. Just enough. Enough to see the ripple along his arms. The quick inhale. The way his pupils dilated. His cute nose twitching—again—like it was connected to Ezio's cock—

Ezio smiled—slow, indulgent, wicked.

“I’ve waited a lifetime to see you,” he murmured, stepping close enough for the warmth of his breath to catch on Desmond’s cheek. “And Dio mio, you are more beautiful than even the scent promised.”

Desmond didn’t move. Couldn’t. He was still caught between the chase and the catch, body taut with adrenaline, heart crashing like thunder beneath his ribs.

“You are... an angel,” Ezio said, voice barely above a whisper now, as if naming him too loudly would break the spell. “A dream made real. Mine. You are mine, sì?”

He didn’t reach for him—not yet. No, he held himself just shy of touch. His body a magnet, his presence a storm of heat and shadow and promise. Every part of him was tuned to Desmond’s reactions. The hitch in his breath. The flush at the throat. The slight tremor in his hands.

He was affecting him.

---

Ezio didn’t rush him. He didn’t speak again.

Instead, he began to move.

Slowly. Deliberately. A dark shape in the night, the scent of blood and musk thick around him. His boots made no sound against the stone as he backed up began to circle—just out of reach. Just beyond contact.

He watched Desmond’s eyes track him—wide, blown, terrified and wanting, the whites gleaming like a rabbit caught under moonlight. The way he twitched—that NOSE—at every subtle shift in Ezio’s body made something deep in Ezio’s chest curl with pleasure. Satisfaction thick and warm in his throat like fine wine.

Desmond’s scent was rich now, confused and sweet—salt, silk, and the smoky ache of need. It clung to the air, and Ezio drank it in with each pass, each step tighter around the circle he drew. He was orbiting his sun, his mate—his rabbit, his angel— and he let it show in the way his mouth curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Bellissimo,” Ezio murmured, voice low, velvet dipped in iron. Desmond twitched—Quel fottuto naso— a shiver ran visibly down his spine.

Ezio’s eyes roamed, hungry. The silks clung to Desmond’s lean frame like temptation itself—soft and sheer in places, tight and clinging in others. His chest was bare save for the cascade of foreign jewelry draped across his collarbones—gems of red and silver and gold and something darker, all unfamiliar, all expensive, all wrong and yet perfect. Divine.

He looked like a gift. Like an offering left at the altar of some forgotten god. And Ezio was the only one who had the right to touch him.

“Look at you…” he whispered, circling again, close enough now to see the gooseflesh rise along Desmond’s arms. “Trembling.”

He let his hand hover just near Desmond’s hip, not touching, never touching—just close enough for the warmth to register, for the threat to bloom.

“You feel it. Don’t you?” Another step. Another breath. “Your heart… it sings for me. I can hear it.”

Desmond’s chest rose too fast, his breaths short and sharp. But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Ezio could see the war in him—the fight between training and instinct. Between fear and desire. Between run and take me.

The omega in him was screaming. Ezio could feel it. Taste it.

He reached out slowly, trailing a single finger along the air just beneath Desmond’s jaw. Still not touching.

Desmond whimpered. Tiny. Barely audible. But it reached him, sunk claws into Ezio’s spine.

“I could chase you again,” Ezio said softly, leaning in to whisper the words near Desmond’s ear, his breath warm. “But we both know how it ends.”

He paused there, watching the way Desmond’s knees nearly buckled. The way his lips parted like he might beg without meaning to. So soft. So tense. One nudge and he’d shatter.

Ezio pulled back, just a little. Just enough to let Desmond feel the ache of distance.

“I think I like you like this, bel coniglio,” he added, voice deep with promise. “On the edge.”

Another circle. Another look—slow, lingering, appreciative. Every piece of Desmond’s trembling form burned into Ezio’s mind like sacred scripture. The way the silks clung to the curve of his hips. The faint shimmer of sweat at his collarbone. The slight part in his lips, glossy and red.

Mine.

Ezio’s eyes burned gold.

All mine.

Chapter Text

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, as though the act of claiming required ceremony, reverence—a predator savoring the final approach. Desmond stood before him in the darkened square, bathed in moonlight, wrapped in silks and bare skin and trembling anticipation. His chest rose and fell in short, frantic bursts, his eyes wide and unblinking, locked to Ezio as if the mere act of looking away might undo him.

The scent was suffocating now, thick and sweet, heady like wine left to age in the dark. It wrapped around Ezio’s tongue, curled down his spine, settled in his bones. It was Desmond. His mate. His long-lost, long-hunted, fate-stamped other. Every part of him screamed with triumph.

He circled Desmond slowly, letting his boots scrape the stone with purpose. Desmond turned in place, unable to stop watching him, his shoulders tense, twitching, braced for impact. But Ezio did not lunge. Not yet. He was enjoying the way his bunny quivered just from the sound of his footfalls. He watched the way the silks shifted across his hips, the glint of golden jewelry against pale skin, and thought—this was a gift from the gods.

“Così timido,” Ezio rasped, voice like smoke and earth, dragging the syllables deep from his chest. “So soft. So skittish.”

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly over the curve of Desmond’s bare shoulder.

Desmond gasped like he'd been struck.

His knees gave the faintest tremble. His eyes fluttered shut just for a second—just one—but Ezio caught every detail. The way Desmond bit the inside of his cheek, the way his breath caught and hitched, the way he leaned toward him before he flinched back. Instinct and yearning warred beneath his skin.

Ezio's smile sharpened. He trailed his fingers further, down the dip of Desmond’s back, watching the ripple it left in its wake. Another breathless noise—a stuttering whine at the back of Desmond’s throat, half-swallowed.

“Che coniglietto tremante,” Ezio murmured. What a trembling little rabbit.

Desmond's head jerked to the side, exposing the pale stretch of his neck. Unintentionally. Vulnerably. The Omega's instincts leaking through the cracks of Assassin training. A small, agonized noise escaped him when Ezio’s hand slid to his waist.

Ezio growled softly, not in anger but in satisfaction. Desmond was vibrating. Overstimulated from a single touch. He was scent-drunk, overwhelmed, his own body betraying him with every flicker of submission. And he didn’t even know why. Not fully.

Ezio leaned in. “That fucking nose,” he whispered low in Italian, “Quel fottuto nasino.”

He brushed it with the backs of his knuckles. Desmond whimpered.

Gods, the things Ezio wanted to do.

Not yet. But soon.

He would not let him run again.

---

Ezio’s fingers drifted, light as breath, from the tip of Desmond’s nose down the curve of his cheek. The skin was warm, flushed, slick with fear-sweat and desire. Desmond was panting now—quiet, shallow pants that Ezio could feel on his collarbone when he leaned close, scenting him like a hound with his prize. And oh, he was his prize.

He circled again, hand still trailing, tracing the line of Desmond’s jaw, then his throat. He didn’t touch the soft skin just under it—no, not yet. He wanted Desmond to ache for it.

Desmond was stock still now. Quivering, wide-eyed, lower lip caught between his teeth. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. His entire world had been narrowed down to the space between Ezio’s hand and the bare skin of his throat.

Ezio watched it all.

Watched the pulse flutter just below the surface like a trapped thing.
Watched Desmond’s fingers twitch, useless at his sides.
Watched the full-body shiver that followed when Ezio leaned forward and breathed him in again.

“Senti,” Ezio rumbled, his voice a dangerous, velvet thing. “You smell like heaven. Like you were made just for me.”

Desmond made a wounded, whimpering noise low in his throat.

Ezio’s eyes darkened further. “You don’t know what you do to me. Do you?”

He stepped closer, chest brushing against Desmond’s. He could feel the soft silk catching against his own leathers, the bare press of Desmond’s hip against his thigh, the air thick between them and brimming with instinct and heat and desperation.

His cock ached.

“Even now, your body calls to me,” Ezio murmured, “Look at you. A breath from falling to your knees.”

He pressed his nose into the soft space behind Desmond’s ear and inhaled deep.

“Maybe you should,” he breathed. “You’d be a good boy, vero, piccolo coniglio?”

Desmond shuddered, whined.

Ezio smiled.

His hands finally, finally touched—not lightly this time. One flat against Desmond’s belly, the other against his collarbone. Firm. Possessive. Claiming.

Desmond froze like a rabbit pinned in the jaws of the wolf. The only sound was his breathing, uneven and full of want. A quiet, aching kind of need that Ezio could taste.

“Dolcezza,” he whispered, lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Desmond’s neck. “What are you running from?”

He kissed him there. A slow, open-mouthed kiss that lingered just above where he would bite.

Desmond made a sound—desperate and sharp—and nearly collapsed into him, caught by Ezio’s arm around his waist.

Ezio groaned, low and pleased, letting himself savor the heat, the feel of him. So small. So meant for him.

“You’re shaking,” Ezio breathed, drunk on the reaction. “Are you frightened…?

Desmond couldn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

---

Mine.

Ezio’s eyes glinted gold in the moonlight as his hands molded around Desmond’s trembling body, possessive and reverent all at once. The soft silks clinging to that too-fragile frame did nothing to hide how he shivered, how he twitched –THAT FUCKING NOSE-- at every brush of Ezio’s skin. Every gasp, every flinch, every broken sound Desmond gave him was a thread winding tighter and tighter around Ezio’s spine, until his hunger sang beneath his skin.

He touched Desmond's stomach—lightly, purposefully—and felt him suck in a breath sharp enough to wound.

That reaction… That precious, instinctual submission buried just beneath the surface. Gods, it was divine.

Ezio circled him like a predator—always circling, eyeing his prize, keeping him in place, keeping others out— steps slow, measured, his bootfalls deliberate on the stone.

When Desmond’s gaze followed him, when his head turned minutely with every subtle shift of Ezio’s body, Ezio smirked.

“Oh, angelo,” he murmured, voice dropping low, rough like smoke and honey. “You tremble so sweetly…”

Desmond whimpered again—soft, high, strangled. His hands clenched helplessly at his sides, his lip bitten red.

Ezio’s mouth watered.

He stepped in close, his hand brushing against Desmond’s hip, feeling the muscles leap beneath his palm. His mate twitched like he’d been shocked. Another step. Another circle. Another tremor.

“You feel it, don’t you?” Ezio whispered, leaning in just enough to let his lips graze Desmond’s ear, his breath warm and wicked. “This fire. This need.”

Desmond’s throat bobbed. He didn’t speak—couldn’t—but the truth poured off him in waves: the frantic heartbeat, the scent of overwhelmed omega instincts, the raw, desperate tension in his spine that said run even as his knees bent toward stay.

Ezio growled—low, deep, from somewhere primal. His teeth ached. His blood boiled.

He stepped behind Desmond again and let his fingertips trail up the curve of his back, slow, slow, until they brushed the nape of his neck. Desmond arched. Just barely. Just enough. Enough to say yes, even if he didn’t know it.

That fucking nose, Ezio thought savagely, eyes locked on Desmond’s flushed cheeks. That fucking, perfect, trembling nose—he scented me first and ran. Like prey. Like a rabbit.

His rabbit.

Ezio's gaze dropped to the shimmer of jewelry on Desmond’s wrists, the jingle of some golden cuff catching moonlight. He looked… spoiled. Foreign silks. Rich ornamentation. No shoes. Just bare feet, flushed skin, and the look of a creature stolen from Olympus itself.

His omega’s small prick straining the front of his pants—a wet spot staining the front—and his slick—mio dio, his slick—permeated the air and sat heavy on his tongue.

Cloying. Sweet. Desperate.

He was temptation. A godling wrapped in gauze.

And Ezio? Ezio was starving.

“You're shaking,” he murmured, placing a hand flat against Desmond’s stomach again. Right over the softest spot. “But you haven’t run.”

His lips brushed Desmond’s throat.

“You should’ve run faster.”

Chapter Text

Ezio’s hand fisted in Desmond’s hair, dragging his head back gently—but with the weight of claim in every movement. Desmond gasped, the sound soft and silken, and Ezio groaned like a man on the edge of a holy revelation. He couldn’t help it—he buried his nose in that bare throat, teeth dragging over skin flushed and trembling, the scent so close now—ripe, rich, mine mine mine.

His tongue flicked over Desmond’s jaw. A taste. A claim.

And Desmond whined.

Oh yes, that sound went straight through Ezio, coiling low and hot, dragging a deep, fractured growl from his chest as he bent closer, crowding Desmond back, back, back until his back hit the alley wall like a cornered prize. The scent was changing, deepening—his mate’s heat rising.

“Santo cielo, you’re going into heat for me already?” he purred, delirious with satisfaction. “I've barely touched you and you're so desperate, angelo. You burn for me. I can smell it.”

Desmond whimpered—eyes dazed, pupils swallowed black—and Ezio snapped. His hand tightened in Desmond’s hair. His teeth grazed his shoulder.

Another heartbeat and he’d sink them in.

Then—

“Ezio.”

A voice, sharp and low. Cutting across the square like a blade.

Ezio froze.

He turned his head—slow, animalistic—and saw Mario.

His uncle stood at the edge of the darkened square, hands raised like Ezio was some cornered wolf. His expression was wary, but calm—familiar, grounding.

“Ezio, figlio mio,” Mario said softly, voice coaxing. “Step away. He’s safe now. You’re safe. It’s all right.”

But Ezio couldn’t hear him. Wouldn’t.

The smell—Desmond’s scent, sweet and fevered—was too much. Too strong. Too close.

His body surged with heat. His hands tightened possessively around Desmond’s hips, pulling him flush against his chest. A snarl ripped from his throat as he bared his teeth at his uncle.

Desmond gasped, overwhelmed, pliant in his hold, too lost to do anything but tremble.

No one touches what’s mine.

Another footstep from Mario, and Ezio spun—shoving Desmond behind him with a brutal kind of grace, shielding him with his own body. Arms out, stance wide, like a beast guarding its kill.

He wasn’t Ezio Auditore da Firenze anymore.

He was mate. Claimant. Protector.

He was rutting.

More shadows shifted in the square—Assassins from the villa, drawn by the noise, the scent. Some stared in horror, some in wide-eyed understanding. Others didn’t dare move.

“Don’t,” Ezio hissed, voice guttural, barely human.

Mario held firm. “We aren’t taking him from you. But you cannot lose yourself, ragazzo.”

Ezio didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The scent—God, it was everywhere. And Desmond… Desmond was pressing against his back, small hands curling in the back of his tunic. Trembling. Whimpering. Needing.

He was so warm. So soft.

“Get Claudia,” Mario barked behind him. “And Lucrezia. Now. We get them into the villa. Out of the open.”

The Assassins moved fast, silent and trained. Ezio’s instincts tracked them all. Every flick of movement. Every shift of wind.

But Mario approached slowly, hands up. Calm. Careful.

“Let us help,” he said again, stepping within arm’s reach.

Ezio snarled, low and warning.

---

Ezio barely remembered moving through the square.

Everything had narrowed to scent and need and the fluttering pulse of him just steps ahead. Desmond’s scent was wildfire in his blood, an intoxicant that burned through every ounce of reason. Ezio could see it—Desmond glowing gold against the dark, a trembling streak of silk and sweat weaving through the crowd.

He didn’t notice the others. Didn’t register the flash of Brotherhood hoods or the hissed warnings that passed between them. The Assassins knew. They smelled it too. The way Desmond’s heat clung to the air like honey. But none dared get too close. None dared interfere. Mario’s voice was somewhere in the distance, barking orders low and tight: “Keep them moving. No one else gets near him. Block the side streets.”

Ezio didn’t hear it.

He was too far gone.

His hand grazed Desmond's back—just a flicker of contact—and the omega let out a breathless, keening sound, stumbling. That was all Ezio needed. He lunged, arms caging Desmond close to his chest, lifting him with ease, snarling at the shocked gasp he gave.

He didn’t think.

He moved.

Instinct drove him toward the Villa, toward home, toward sanctuary. The world bled past him in dark shapes and flickering torchlight. Desmond writhed in his grip, not fighting—but trembling, his body betraying him even as his instincts whispered run. Ezio growled low in his throat, protective and possessive and on the verge of violent.

None would take him. None would dare.

The Assassins fell back like shadows, lining the streets but never reaching for either of them. They blocked off paths, turned away curious eyes, wordlessly forming a living tunnel that funneled Ezio and his precious, trembling cargo straight to the Villa’s gates.

Ezio didn’t notice.

All he knew was the heat of Desmond’s body in his arms.

The shivering breaths against his collar.

The way Desmond clung to him, just barely, too weak to push away.

The front doors were thrown open for him—Mario’s work, again—but Ezio saw nothing but the stairs ahead. He climbed them in a blur, Desmond tight in his grip, lips at the omega’s temple, growling soft promises in Italian as Desmond whined and twitched in his arms.

“Shhh... I have you. I have you, piccolo coniglio...”

The corridor was a blur.

He slammed the bedroom door behind them with a heavy thud.

And only then did Ezio pause—not to think, not to breathe—but to devour him with his eyes.

The fire was lit. The furs laid out. The room smelled warm and spiced. A gift left by Claudia, no doubt, sensing something Ezio couldn’t explain. But none of it mattered.

Because in his arms, Desmond shook.

And that was all Ezio needed.

---

The moment they were alone, the last thread of self-control snapped like a bowstring frayed from too many battles. Ezio didn't know how his rabbit got from his arms to the floor—everything a blur of, heat, and want, and MINE— but moved slowly, step by deliberate step, his boots silent on the stone floor. And there—right there—his little rabbit stood.

Desmond keened—così bello—and Ezio's cock jump in his too-tight pants—think, straining, DRIPPING— ready, so ready, to be buried in the tight heat of his mate. 

He groaned, low and deep—licking his lips as he watched his rabbits' eyes dilate— the smell of slick deepening, thickening, exploding across his tongue; he ached to taste. 

Barefoot and wrapped in silks that glowed like liquid pearl in the firelight, jewels from far lands draped across his throat and wrists like offerings to the divine. He looked too delicate, too otherworldly for the bloodied world Ezio belonged to. Yet he stood, wide-eyed, the gold of his eyes catching the firelight like metal turned molten. So still, except for the way his chest rose and fell in quick, panicked bursts.

Ezio opened his mouth, just a touch, and inhaled deeply.

That scent.

Saints, it coated his lungs—his MOUTH. Sweet and sharp, ripe and wild. It didn’t just cling to Desmond, it bled from him, soaked into Ezio’s skin, rolled down his tongue and into his stomach, until it was all he knew. It had gotten stronger—headier. The shift was subtle but undeniable.

Heat.

Ezio growled, low and feral, chest rumbling like thunder against the mountains.

“Mine,” he rasped. It wasn’t a declaration. It was a promise. A threat. A prayer.

Desmond took a step back.

Ezio followed.

He moved like a wolf, silent and hungry, his muscles coiled tight under his assassin’s leathers. His hand shot forward, not to grab—but to cage. He pressed his palm flat to the wall beside Desmond’s head, boxing him in. His breath, hot and heavy, ghosted over Desmond’s cheek. He watched how Desmond flinched, not away—but inward. Submitting, but trembling, always trembling.

That trembling... it made something in Ezio snap.

“Do you know what that does to me, coniglio mio?”

Desmond whimpered. The sound was small, wounded, something fragile.

Ezio’s other hand reached out—slow, almost reverent—and brushed a knuckle down the curve of Desmond’s jaw. He watched Desmond’s lashes flutter, his breath hitch, his thighs press tight together—rubbing, sliding, trying to get some relief but only making him more needy and desperate.

Every reaction burned itself into Ezio’s mind like scripture.

He leaned in, nose brushing the line of Desmond’s throat.

“Che naso maledetto...” he whispered, voice rough and full of teeth. That fucking nose.

His mouth hovered just above skin, lips not yet touching. His teeth itched. His control frayed further.

Ezio’s fingers tangled in Desmond’s hair, gripping tight at the base of his neck, not yanking, not yet, just possessing. His other hand slid to Desmond’s waist, where silk clung to too-warm skin.

And Desmond...

He didn’t fight.

He made a sound instead—a broken, breathy sound—and tilted his head ever so slightly, exposing more of his throat.

Ezio’s pupils blew wide and his lips finally found skin. Not soft. Not gentle. But claiming.

He kissed and then bit, not hard enough to mark—yet—but enough to pull another gasp from Desmond’s parted lips. And then another.

His rabbit squirmed, hips jerking in confusion, in instinct, in helpless reaction.

Ezio’s hold tightened.

There would be no escape.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Chapter Text

Desmond trembled. Beautiful, skittish thing. His rabbit.

And the scent of him, thick now—cloying, drugging, unbearable in the enclosed space—wrapped around Ezio’s lungs like a noose. Sweet. Musky. Drenched in need. It crawled under his skin and shattered his thoughts.

Ezio growled low in his chest, teeth bared, and stalked forward.

Ezio didn’t ask—couldn’t. He reached, hands rough as they dragged up silk-draped sides, then under, along bare skin. Desmond gasped, twitching as Ezio’s calloused fingers brushed nipples already pebbling from arousal. Ezio pinched—firm, cruel—and Desmond cried out, his knees nearly buckling.

“Look at you,” Ezio rasped, voice gone hoarse with want. “So soft, so sweet—”

He tore his own shirt open, breath coming too fast, dragging fabric down his arms and throwing it aside like it offended him. Too hot. His skin burned. Every inch of him needed to feel Desmond. Needed to take him. To fill him.

Desmond caged against the walls, bare feet uncertain on stone, wide eyes drinking him in—shocked, desperate, aching.

Ezio bent over him, inhaled at his throat, nearly groaned. “You ruin me, bel coniglio,” he breathed.

And then— a whine, a breath, a benediction—something Ezio will remember until his dying day—

“E-Ezio.”

A whine. Barely a whisper. Desmond's voice—raw, cracked, breathless.

But it broke him. Tore him open.

Ezio stilled. Like lightning had struck through the room. His name. His name, from that mouth, from that throat, soft and desperate and gasping.

It wasn’t just sound. It was divine. Biblical. Holy.

It dropped him to his knees.

He grabbed Desmond’s hips, buried his face in silk and sweat and scent, and moaned like a man possessed.

“Say it again,” he begged. Voice wrecked. “Dio, say it again.”

---

Ezio hovered, breath ragged, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Desmond, soft thing that he was, reached for him.

Hesitantly. Like approaching a wild beast. Like he knew Ezio could tear him apart with his teeth and still—still—he dared to touch.

Fingertips brushed along Ezio’s back. Gentle. Testing. Ghosting up his spine, and the Assassin shivered, biting back a groan. His muscles rippled beneath the touch, years of training battling against the instinct to melt. Then Desmond's fingers found his hair—slow, tender, stroking through the dark strands. Petting him.

Ezio shuddered.

Desmond tilted his face forward, flushed and trembling, and—oh. He inhaled.

That fucking nose.

Desmond breathed him in, open-mouthed, shaky, helpless—and his lashes fluttered like the scent had struck him stupid. Like it flooded his head and short-circuited all higher thought.

Ezio hummed low. A purr from deep in his chest, predatory and pleased.

“So sweet,” he murmured, tilting his head like a lion sizing up its mate. “So good, little rabbit…”

He reached out again, slow at first—his think, callused hands sliding up his flat stomach—so soft—just enough for Desmond to see him coming. To twitch, skittish and aching, legs pressed together like it could stop anything that was about to happen.

But then Ezio struck.

Hands to his chest—rough, greedy. He grabbed Desmond’s nipples and twisted, pulled—savagely.

Desmond screamed. "Ezio!"

It was a wail. A breaking sound, torn from deep in his throat, helpless.

Ezio purred. A rumble of satisfaction. Pleasure. Possession.

“So sensitive,” His mouth open, face centimeters away from his rabbit’s straining cock—breath brushing against—a whisper of heat to keep his little prey on edge.

Mine.

He leaned in, lips brushing through the stained silk—just barely—as he dragged Desmond close by the back of this thighs—slick coating them. His mouth watered; he wanted to taste it—wanted to gorge himself of his omega’s nectar—but the animal inside him needed something. Something more.

“Say it again,” he growled. “Say my name like that again, little one. Let the whole world know who you belong to.”

Ezio’s pulse thundered in his ears. His breath came in growls now, each one heavier than the last, steam curling between his teeth like a beast not meant for light. His hands shook—from restraint, from lust, from the overwhelming scent of heat-soaked Desmond choking the air between them in the tight room—his slick inches from his mouth—so close to taste.

He had his rabbit pressed against the wall, trembling under his grip, lips parted, gasping. The silks had started to fall—torn where Ezio had pulled, slipping down to reveal flushed, marked skin. His skin. Gold and red and trembling like prey pinned by a lion’s paw.

But it wasn't enough.

No—he needed to see him break.

“Say it,” Ezio rasped, tongue coming out to touch, to tease, to play. He tasted him, nearly drunk from it. “Beg. Beg me, little rabbit.”

His mate keened, eyes wide and wet, thighs rubbing together like he could ease the ache building in his belly. He arched, just slightly, but it was enough to make Ezio snarl and grab his hips—hard—and shove him against the wall.

Desmond let out a breath of noise, but Ezio didn’t care.

He gave his rabbit a chance.

Ezio rose from his knees in one slow, fluid motion—like a lion uncoiling from a crouch. The firelight behind him cast his silhouette in flickering gold, his broad shoulders cutting a shadow as he loomed over Desmond, who trembled where he stood, back pressed to the stone wall like a rabbit that had wandered too close to the den.

His eyes—golden, burning—never left him.

Ezio’s hands flexed at his sides, curling like claws, and he exhaled slow through his nose, scenting the thick air before he struck with swift, calculated brutality, Hands grabbing those slim, boney hips and pulling his rabbit—up, up, UP— so his legs long were spread open, wide over the dips of Ezio’s elbows.

Desmond was a vision. A work of art.

Torn silks clinging to his frame—damp with slick and sweat. Jewelry wrapping around him shining in the firelight. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Eyes glossy.  Legs spread wide—toes pointing like a danseur. His little cock straining against the sheer fabric. Slick dripping to the floor.

He was the snake in the garden— leading Ezio to sin. But Ezio had always been a sinner; the apple always tasting so sweet.

“Say it!” Ezio growled again, this time biting at his neck—not enough to break skin, but close. “I want to hear you need me. I want to hear my name like it’s the only word you remember.”

He rolled his hips against Desmond’s, slow, cruel, keeping him on the edge—just enough friction to burn, to tease, but never enough to satisfy. Desmond whimpered. Clutched at Ezio’s shoulders like he didn’t know if he wanted to push him away or pull him closer.

Ezio smirked. Dark. Wicked. Entirely feral.

“You’ll scream for me,” he whispered, licking the shell of Desmond’s ear. “You’ll whimper and sob and cry for your alpha until your voice breaks, tesoro. Until the only thing in that sweet little head is me.”

He dragged his hand down Desmond’s thigh, calloused palm rough on soft skin, fingers curling—possessive, firm.

“You’re going to beg, bunny,” he said, voice dropping lower, growl in his throat now more promise than threat. “And when you do… I’ll ruin you.”

---

“Ezio,”

Desmond’s breath hitched.

A sob slipped out, unbidden.

Ezio paused. Not from hesitation, but from awe.

Desmond’s eyes were glassy, wide, disbelieving. His hands clawed at Ezio’s shoulders, bringing him closer, making him hover and cage him, pining all of him to the wall—folding him in half.

“I don’t…” Desmond gasped, voice breaking apart. “I don’t know if I’m bleeding or dreaming or… or if I’m even really here—” His shoulders trembled. “But I want you. I want you so bad I can’t breathe—”

Ezio scraped his teeth against that succulent shoulder, silent, molten. Every inch of him vibrating with restraint.

Desmond choked on a sob, breath catching again as he shook. “I want you. Please, I want you, I need—I need—” He covered his face with his hands, body shuddering, silks shifting with every breathless whimper, bracelets chiming softly. “You’re real. Ezio. You’re here, you’re really here—”

Ezio’s chest ached. Something animal in him snarled, but deeper than that, something human cracked. He reached out, and with infinite care, peeled Desmond’s hands from his face.

Tears clung to Desmond’s lashes. His lips trembled. He looked wrecked.

So beautiful.

“Shh…” Ezio breathed, voice low, almost reverent. “Piccolo coniglio.”

He brushed his thumbs beneath Desmond’s eyes, catching the tears, then his nose—that beautiful, pink, twitching nose that must be connected to his cock—it must be.

Desmond stared up at him like he was seeing God.

Ezio tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that same terrible hunger, but his voice was smoke. “You want me?”

Desmond nodded, a little too fast and whined. “Please.”

Ezio hummed, tiling his head slowly, sizing up his prey with bright eyes. So close—SO CLOSE—to his prize.

His lips grazed pretty, shiny pink ones—his first taste—and breathed.

“Riprova, il mio Coniglio. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Chapter Text

Ezio stilled, breath ragged, his chest heaving against Desmond’s. The way the boy shook under him—wide-eyed and undone—should’ve sated him. But it only sharpened the hunger.

Then he saw it.

The flicker in those lashes. The catch of breath. The way Desmond’s trembling worsened not when Ezio growled or gripped—but when he whispered. When he praised.

Ezio blinked, eyes narrowing as understanding clicked into place. Oh, rabbit. You like that, don’t you?

So he shifted—ever so slightly. Softened the edge of his voice, not with kindness, but with precision. With purpose.

“Bravo,” Ezio murmured, voice low and syrup-slick as his thumb brushed beneath Desmond’s eye, collecting the corner of a tear like a prize. “Che bravo coniglio. So good for me…”

Desmond let out a trembling breath—barely audible, but Ezio heard it. Felt it. The twitch beneath his hand. The quiver in those thighs.

Ah. So delicate. So easy to unravel.

He leaned in again, brushing the tip of his finger along that fucking nose—again and again. Featherlight. Watching how Desmond’s lashes fluttered, how he whimpered like the touch itself unmoored him.

“Ti piace così?” Ezio cooed, all false gentleness.

Ezio hummed. A deep, rich sound. His palm moved to cradled the back of Desmond’s neck, the other hand against the wall. His weight still holding this rabbit up, caging him, feeling those shaking legs tighten and loosen around him-feeling his rabbit's small prick rub so dainty against his own-

“Good,” he breathed. “Such a good little bunny.”

---

Desmond was shaking. Hips gyrating like he couldn’t help himself. A soft, keening sound falling from his cherry pink, bitten lips.

Pressed to the wall, legs spread wide by Ezio’s arms, up to his chest, heaving gasping breathes, lips parted—quivering. Like a frightened thing too sweet for this world, too delicate for the storm Ezio kept caged inside his ribs.

Ezio caged him to the wall—hovering, pressing, claiming— with the aura of a beast barely leashed. His muscles were coiled, breath ragged with want, but his voice—his voice—was velvet. Polished. The sound of civility worn like a mask over something savage.

“Shhh,” Ezio whispered, fingers feathering along Desmond’s jaw. “You’re doing so well for me, tesoro.”

He watched the way Desmond trembled at that—watched his breath catch and stutter, watched his lashes flutter like he might cry from so little. Watched as he unraveled under the praise. Felt as their cocks kept rubbing against one another—keeping them on the edge—his mouth salivating.

Ezio could see it now—feel it—that this was what undid him. Sweetness. Kindness. Praise spoken in that deep, molten hush.

So he gave it freely.

“So good,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles beneath Desmond’s eye. “So beautiful like this. Soft. Open. Trembling for me. What a good boy you are. I’m so proud of you—being so good for me.”

He touched his nose—again, and again, just lightly, reverently—and Desmond whimpered, eyelids fluttering like they couldn’t stay open. His hips twitching forward consistently now—unconsciously—needing that friction, that heat—like a rabbit wanting to be bred. To be fucked.

Ezio held in a growl—grinding his hips back a touch—and leaned in, mouth close enough to ghost his lips.

“Will you scream for me?” he breathed. He brushed his nose against his rabbits’ twitching one—his cock aching and his hips shallowly thrusting in time with each movement.

Eyes burning into honey-brown, he loomed over his—HIS—omega and softly bit the appendage—making it fucking twitch even more—before kissing it softly.

“Tell me, il mio cuore,” he whispered.

And he watched. His eyes burning as he watched his rabbit let go.

Watched as he broke—like he was going to break him into the bed—

“…. Yes.” His rabbit—his Desmond—softly ran his hands up his arms and lowered his eyes—beautiful in his shyness and submission. “I’d do anything for you, Ezio.” He looked up then, eyes locking with Ezio’s own—it took his breath away.

“Anything.” Desmond whispered as he trembled.

Ezio’s mind stilled.

The world stopped.

The soft thing in his chest ruptured.

Desmond.

The name carved into his memory, sewn into his skin by Apple-light and prophecy. The name that haunted him through bloodlines and centuries. The only name that ever mattered—the only omega that would ever matter—would do anything for him.

Anything.

Ezio shuddered—shattered—something breaking--the beast inside coming undone.

“...Dio.”

His angel. His angel. Not a ghost, not a dream. Flesh and blood and scent and sweetness. Sent by the gods, surely, as a divine mate.

The animal he'd leashed—barely—howled inside him now. Screamed.

Ezio slammed his hands against the wall, using the leverage to open his rabbits’—his omega’s-- legs wider and grinding his hips violently, making his angel cry out in ecstasy at the friction and claw at his back.

 “E-Ezio—!”

“You are mine,” Ezio rasped, voice frayed and reverent, eyes wild. “You were always mine. Desmond.”

He bit down on his neck—not gentle now—marking, claiming, his hands everywhere.

“Il mio coniglio…” he moaned, thrusting his hips forward, pinning Desmond completely. “My angel. My fire. My divine right.”

Ezio wasn’t civil now.

He was divine hunger incarnate.

---

Ezio had never seen anything so beautiful.

Fragile and holy and made for him.

Desmond was weeping.

Chest hitching, gasping—sobbing his name like it was the only word left in the world. Not soft, not quiet. No, raw. Broken. His voice cracked down the middle, every breath dragging through his ribs like it hurt to be alive in that moment.

“Ezio—Ezio—” Desmond sobbed, his hands trembling where they clutched at Ezio’s shoulders. “Ezio—I—Please—God, I want you—”

Tears streamed down his cheeks, luminous in the glow of flames.

“I’m yours—I’m yours,” Desmond gasped, sobbing still, his voice spiraling out of control, unmoored. “I’ve always—I can’t—Please—” He broke again, tilting his head back, exposing the soft column of his neck. “I love you—I love you—I love you—”

Ezio stopped breathing.

That nose—that fucking nose—wet with tears, trembling with every sob, scrunched with anguish and devotion and need, obliterated him. The sounds—those holy, ruined sounds—curled down his spine like fire, and he snapped.

He snapped.

Mine.

Ezio kissed him—no, devoured him—dragging his mouth down Desmond’s cheek, catching those tears on his tongue like wine. He could taste the grief. The surrender. The truth.

“You’re mine,” he growled, fever-hot, voice burning with something divine. “Mine. Say it again. Say it until your soul remembers.”

Desmond nodded, frantic, shaking in his arms. “Yours—I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours—”

“Good boy,” Ezio praised and pressed his forehead to Desmond’s, eyes locked to those ruined, worshipping ones. His hands were cradling now, cradling that trembling body like something precious, rare.

“You were made for me,” Ezio whispered, reverent. “My angel. Sent to me.”

He kissed him again—desperate, worshipful, consuming.

“I will never let you go,” he breathed. “Never. Not in this life. Not in the next. Not beyond the grave.”

---

Desmond was sobbing in his arms, shaking, breath catching in his throat like it physically hurt to want this much. To need him. And that scent—rich, sweet, ripe—wrapped around Ezio’s spine and pulled something animal straight from his chest.

Mine.

He spun Desmond, pressed him into the bed with reverence and hunger both, hands everywhere—touching, exploring, claiming. But gentle. Soft. His hands worshipped even when his heart growled.

“My rabbit,” he whispered, lips brushing Desmond’s throat, chest, belly—wherever Desmond trembled the most. “So good. So sweet. My perfect little mate—”

Desmond shuddered, moaning like it hurt, like the praise went straight through him.

“You like that, don’t you?” Ezio cooed, his voice thick, velvet wrapped in fire. “You love it when I call you mine.”

“Y-yes—” Desmond gasped, voice cracking, nails curling into the sheets. “Yes, yes, please—”

“Such a good little rabbit,” Ezio murmured, licking up a tear trailing down Desmond’s cheek. “So good for me. So pretty when you beg—”

Desmond’s hips jerked. His legs were quivering, eyes glassy, mouth open like he couldn’t remember how to breathe. He was gone. Utterly gone.

Ezio watched him—eyes devouring every twitch, every buck, every tremble. The way his scent bloomed with each word of praise drove Ezio to the brink of madness.

“Does it feel good?” Ezio asked, nipping gently at Desmond’s collarbone. “Tell me. Tell me what you need.”

Desmond keened—wrecked, unguarded.

Ezio growled, low and possessive, the sound vibrating straight into Desmond’s core.

---

“You’re perfect,” he said, again and again, mouth brushing Desmond’s ear, throat, jaw. “Perfect. Mine. So sweet when you fall apart. I could spend days listening to you beg like this.”

Desmond was gasping now. Choking on breath. Babbling.

“I want—I need—need—don’t stop, please, please—”

Ezio’s mouth curled against Desmond’s cheek, delirious with triumph.

“Say it again,” he whispered, fingers stroking down Desmond’s side. “Say you’re mine. Say it until you can’t remember anything else.”

“I’m yours—I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours—” Desmond cried, arching, breaking.

His voice fell apart. Every word was a sob. His hands clutched blindly—Ezio’s shoulders, his hair, his chest—like Desmond didn’t know how to exist without him anymore.

Ezio wanted more. Needed it.

“My little angel,” he murmured, reverent. “My rabbit. You’re mine, and you’re never leaving me again.”

Desmond howled a sob, writhing under him.

The hunger uncoiled from Ezio’s chest, hot and unstoppable, dragging him under.

And still, he praised him.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered. “So good. I’ll never stop. You hear me? Never. I’ll give you everything. I’m going to ruin you—Collar you—Chain you so you can never leave—”

And Desmond—desperate, feral, sobbing—only whispered one word back.

“Please.”