CrowWingedWolf

"Two wings to set me free, four paws to keep me grounded." I'm 21+ Fangirl, tomboy, gamer, writer, artist, etc, all because I'm at the whim of my ADHD.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Writing is boring, statement

Fun fact. I hate the word "slivers". Because I read it as silvers. Learned that from MTG.

Guess who described painful words as "slivers of glass drawn out of an old wound?"

The same gal that has two thumbs and wants to be writing smut, not whump, but doesn't have the patience to write either lol.

[aomitois]

rb and tag your favorite song that's not in english, japanese or korean

[crow-winged-wolf]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie- Stromae & Pomme

... Would you believe I've never watched Arcane? I came across this song organically and went "OH. I CAN HAVE A DESCENDANT OF ARNO DORIAN SING THIS FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES."

[crow-winged-wolf]

Malik Al-Sayf Annoys Me

Ok, that was a little click-baity, I apologize. But it's for good reason. What the fuck exercise is Malik doing to keep his left shoulder tone? Like, it should be sloping like crazy from disuse.

I know, I know, videogame logic. Hush, I'm applying IRL logic because I'm like that and it's my thing.

This is relevant to my fic, too. I have Desmond doing the 'Malik challenge' because Altair is still bleed-haunting him, and Des had a moment when asked what he was going to call his little therapy/workout regiment after having his right arm fucking amputated by a mostly finished Isu planet protection device.

And Des has like, resistance bands and weight machines at his disposal. Malik has a rope and a water jug lol.

Honestly, this is a rhetorical question, I already answered it for myself. I just like starting thought provoking conversations, because it's fun to see how other people think and work through problems. Feel free to drop your theories, or tell me I'm going too deep on videogame logic because yeah, I am.

[crow-winged-wolf]

A little more Sassy Sage lurv

I know I just posted. Shush. I found this in my story scrap pile. Enjoy the Miles Trio interacting, and Eli being a sassy little prick. (I adore this sassy little Sage.)

“Wait, you want to help him?” Eli practically gagged.

“Yes? He could be a valuable asset to the Order.” William explained with as much patience as he could muster for talking to someone who appeared to not understand the situation.

“He's trying to revive an Isu. They tend to be pricks to humans.” The boy countered.

William settled Eli with a disapproving glower. “And you know about the Isu how?”

Eli just glared up at him, motioning sharply to his own face. “Should I explain the whole ‘Sage’ thing again, or can I skip it this time?”

Desmond snickered, faux coughing to cover it up as the disapproving glower snapped onto him next. “He's right, dad. If anyone would know how little the Isu think of us, it would be the kid who had to fight off the consciousness of one.”

“And can see his memories.” Eli added. “Plenty of those running around in here. None of them overly pleasant.” He eyed the toolbox sitting next to William, Des gently reaching over and closing it when Eli’s gaze lingered on a screwdriver for too long.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Bloodline

You know who doesn't get written enough? Elijah Miles. That boy deserves some writing. (I know it's rough, I'm going though a bout of low confidence in this story. I'm hoping this helps me a little.)

“Hey, hold up, what is a kid doing in here?” One of the bartenders called, Nico looking up sharply. A boy, probably around 13 with unruly curls of dark hair, was looking around carefully, his shoulders pulled in defensively. At the words of the bartender, he twisted around and snapped at them.

“I was called here, dickhead. I don’t know why I’m here either!”

“Whoa, whoa, hey, no need for language. It’s all good.” Nico said quickly, vaulting the bar and approaching the kid. He was already fairly tall, almost Nico’s height, and despite his unnourished appearance, looked fairly fit under his loose, dirty clothes. But what really struck Nico was the kids mismatched blue and brown eyes. A chill ran up his spine as he recognized exactly why those eyes stuck out to him. This kid was a Sage.

The kid’s eyes immediately narrowed. “... How do you know my name?”

“Who are you?” He asked, eyeing Nico carefully. The older man held out a hand, smiling softly.

“Nicky Marino. Head Bartender here. Are you Elijah?”

“Alessia Riva. She was the one who called you. She’s expecting you. Can I lead you to her office?” Nico’s tone stayed soft and calm the whole time, Elijah looking mildly unsettled by it.

“You don’t need to treat me like a kid. Just point the way.”

“Sorry, Elijah. Not trying to patronize you. Come on, this way.” Nico turned away, motioning for Elijah to follow up the stairs and to the wide landing that acted as a balcony for the office. He knocked on the office door, opening it at the response from the person behind it.

Sofia sat at the desk with a laptop now half closed and pushed aside, a bright smile on her face as she stood up. “Elijah, welcome.” She said, motioning to the seat on the other side of the desk. “Nicky, would you mind getting a plate of something from the kitchen, and Des? But don’t bring him in until I tell you to.”

“Of course.” Nico nodded, exiting the room again and shutting the door behind him. Elijah still stood where he had stopped, watching Sofia carefully with those hauntingly mismatched eyes.

“You’re Alessia?”

“Yes.”

He barely blinked, his eyes seeming to flicker, then shook his head. “No, you’re not.” Sofia was mildly surprised by that, now watching him carefully as she leaned back against her desk.

“Okay, then who am I?” She challenged gently, wondering if he somehow recognized or knew her.

“Not Alessia. Whoever you are, you lied.” He grit out, body coiling like a spring. He was getting ready to flee if things went south.

Sofia smiled slowly, tipping her head to the side slightly and flickering her own Eagle Vision, Elijah looking startled for just a moment. “Ah, you can tell when someone is lying?”

“Yes.” He replied shortly. She laughed, nodding.

“Fair. Okay. I’m Sofia D’Avalos.” This time, he looked satisfied with her answer, some of the tension bleeding out of him at the honest response.

“And why did you call me here?”

“Because you were on the run, I wanted to give you somewhere safe to rest. And, I have someone under my protection you might want to meet, if interested.” She didn’t hide anything this time, Elijah looking slightly startled at her bluntness.

“Who? Do I know them?”

“Maybe not. He didn’t know you existed until recently, and he stated he would like to meet you, if you are okay with it.” She motioned to the seat again, Elijah slowly taking it, not letting her out of his sights as he shifted the chair so he could see the door too. “His name is Desmond Miles.”

Elijah shook his head. “I think I might have heard of him, but I don’t know him.”

“Fair. Now, I want you to use your special sight on me when I say this next part.” She replied, Elijah sitting up a little higher.

“Why?”

“I want you to know I am not lying. Desmond is your biological father.” Elijah was silent at that, staring at Sofia in thinly veiled shock. “Am I lying?” He shook his head no. “It is up to you if you want to meet him. If you choose to stay here under my protection, you will definitely run into him, so this is a chance to meet him in a quiet environment before meeting him in the wild.”

Elijah’s expression hardened. “What do you want from me for this? Room, food, a family member, nothing comes free, so what is the price?”

Sofia expected this question. He was right, rarely does anything come for free. “Your trust, Elijah. No kid should be forced to fend for themselves when there are people that can help them. You’ve been subjected to a turbulent and horrific life. I have a taste of that childhood myself. I ran away and supported myself from the age of sixteen until I met… Well, we will save that for later. For now, I was used by the Templars for many years myself, and I know what a stolen childhood feels like. We have a few other kids in the facility around your age training to be Assassins, so you will have company, protection, and stability if you wish to stay.”

“That still doesn’t explain what you want from me.” He growled.

“Honestly? I want you to stay. I’ve become rather fond of your father, and the idea of his son living the kind of childhood I had is devastating to me. So it would put my heart at ease if you stayed and let us support and provide for you until you are old enough to do so on your own, if you want.”

There was another knock on the door, Nico sticking his head in. “Food. And I have Des.” Nico held the paper clamshell out along with a can of soda, Sofia reaching over and taking them from him.

“Five more minutes.” She nodded. “Grazie mille.”

“Prego.” Nico responded, retreating and closing the door again.

Elijah watched the exchange silently, his eyes lingering on the door as it shut and Sofia started shuffling through her desk, then pushed the clamshell, soda, and some plastic utensils towards him. “Look me in the eye, Elijah?” She asked gently, his gaze snapping onto hers. “This is chicken strips and fries. It is not drugged in any way, unless you count salt as poison.” She smirked, and to her delight, Elijah did too.

His gaze drifted to the warm clamshell takeout container in front of him, and Sofia could see where hunger and impatience should have been sat a boy eerily quiet and disciplined. “This is for me?”

“Yes. I figured you were hungry. Call it an Italian mom thing. We have an insatiable urge to feed hungry kids.” Sofia laughed.

Elijah popped the clamshell open carefully, prodding at the contents. “You’re Italian?”

Sofia shrugged. “More or less. It wasn’t Italy when I lived there.”

“What was it?” He asked around a fry, nibbling at it tentatively, then grabbing another a little too quickly. So he was hungry like she suspected. He popped the soda one handed, his eyes staying on her as he took a long sip from it.

Sofia looked wistful as she leaned back in her seat, casting her mind back. “The Kingdom of Naples, under the rule of King Alfonso the Second.”

Elijah paused, his eyes flickering, and a confused expression slowly morphed his face. “Italy doesn't have a king, but you’re not lying.” He mumbled.

“No, I’m not.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, gods…” She sighed, doing the math in her head. “Fourteen… Fourteen sixty-nine? Yeah, fourteen sixty-nine to about fourteen eighty-five.” The boy looked startled, eyes wide as those dates set in, then confused at how she was here.

“But, how…?”

“I know, confusing. I promise to explain everything at a later date. It is a lot to go through today, and I'm more concerned with settling you in, if you will let me.” She leaned forwards again, folding her hands on the desk. “Elijah, I haven’t lied to you once, correct?”

“... No.”

“Is it fair for me to ask you to trust me?” He stared at the food thoughtfully, then nodded. “You don’t have to look ashamed, I understand the distrust. Almost everyone you should have been able to rely on betrayed you. I’m asking for you to give me a fair shake. It is up to you if you want to meet Desmond today. I promise, I will stay here the entire time. If you want to leave, or you want him to leave, so be it. I’m not expecting you to love him or obey him just because you share genetics, he has to earn your trust like I did. And I will explain that to him, fair?”

“Yeah.” Elijah nodded, glancing at the door. “Do you trust him?”

“I do.”

“Okay… Yeah, I’ll meet him.” He mumbled.

“Thank you, Elijah.” She smiled, standing up slowly and approaching the door.

“Sofia,” He called, making her pause and half turn to look at him. “You can call me Eli. I don’t like my whole name.”

“Can he call you Eli, too?” She asked, Elijah nodding as he picked at the fries again. Even though he put up a tough exterior, he was still a hurt young boy trying to survive in a cold, cruel world. Sofia knew that feeling all too much, and honestly, Desmond might know it, too. Still, it concerned her that his reactions were too clinical. Too measured. He was used to hiding what he was feeling from those around him.

She opened the door, motioning for Desmond to come forwards, and speaking softly to him to explain expectations and conditions. Eli heard the male voice that didn’t belong to Nico answering too quickly, almost as if he was eager to meet him, while Sofia forced him to slow down and listen to her properly. After a few minutes of back and forth, and a couple of peeks over her shoulder Eli realized was her buying time for him to eat at least one chicken strip, she stepped back, motioning for a man in a white hoodie and jeans to sit in her seat across the desk from Eli. He was a slightly darker complexion than Eli, but had almost the same curling dark hair and warm brown eyes.

Desmond cleared his throat a little too loudly, taking a sharp breath before speaking. “So, you’re my… my son?”

“Desmond, sit.” Sofia commanded, Desmond awkwardly sitting down and shifting the chair closer to the desk until Sofia grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back gently. “I told you, slow, Des. Don’t rush him.”

“Sorry. I just… I can’t believe it. Clay was right. And you… You’re a Sage?”

“Yes.” Eli said stiffly. “And I have a name.”

“Right, Elij- Eli. Sorry, Eli.” He corrected himself a little too quickly.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Desmond nervous, Eli guarded. “... Where have you been?” The boy asked, breaking the silence.

“Where…? I was here in New York. Well, until about twenty ten when Abstergo grabbed me-” Eli stiffened just the slightest bit at the mention of Abstergo. “Sorry, was I not supposed to say that?” Desmond looked up at Sofia sharply, but it was Eli who spoke.

“... They did things to you, too?” He sounded eerily calm and collected, the inflection in his voice flat and emotionless..

“Yeah, they did. They threw me in this… machine. They wanted to look at my ancestors.” Desmond responded simply.

“An Animus. They tried to do that to me, too.” Eli nodded thoughtfully. “You escaped?”

“With help.” Desmond responded, a bitter edge to his voice.

Eli scoffed, picking up a fry and examining it. “Been there.”

Desmond latched on to the shine of interest from Eli, pursuing that line of conversation eagerly. “The one making me miserable was Warren Vidic.”

“Juno.” Eli said simply, picking at a chicken strip now.

“No shit, really?” Desmond exclaimed, Eli’s lips quirking into a smirk. “How did you get away?”

“Des, language.” Sofia hissed, Eli laughing bitterly.

“I don’t fucking care.” He shrugged, biting into the strip. “And, I killed her.”

Sofia stiffened, staring at the kid. “Sorry, what?”

Elijah puffed up, a cocky smirk curling his lips. “Yeah, I killed her. Notice how everything calmed down? She’s dead.”

“She… Cazzo, that makes sense.” Sofia breathed, pulling out her phone and typing quickly. Elijah crossed his arms over his chest and sat back, preening.

Desmond grabbed the edge of the desk to tip the seat back and address Sofia with another sarcastic line, Eli’s eyes falling to the four sleek black metallic fingers peeking out of the end of his sleeve cuff. “Dude, you have a robotic arm?” He asked, leaning forwards for a better look. Desmond’s eyes widened as he yanked his arm back to his lap, his attention snapping back to Eli.

“I- I mean, it’s not-”

“Can I see it? How far does it go? How did you lose it?” Eli seemed to catch himself, curbing his curiosity and sitting back again. “It’s interesting.”

Sofia laughed softly, patting Desmond’s shoulder. “Don’t lie to him.”

Des sighed, staring down at the cybernetic hand in his lap before bringing it back up to the desk, placing it palm down and pulling the sleeve back until just before his elbow, fingers lingering on the glossy graphite colored metal. “You remember the solar flare that was messing with everything back in December of twenty twelve?”

Eli’s eyes were drawn to the metallic limb again, examining it with the boyish interest he should have had all along. “Yeah, the lights kept flickering and… That was you?”

Desmond shook his head. “I stopped it from wiping out everything. At the cost of… a lot. I lost my arm, Juno got free, I escaped getting…” Desmond looked hesitant to continue, glancing up at Eli. “I don’t know how much you want to know. It was a lot.”

“You mean you almost died?” Eli murmured, eyes flickering between Desmond’s face and his arm. He reached out slowly, running his fingers down the back of one of Desmond’s. He turned his hand over slowly, letting Eli explore the prosthetic.

“It’s not all bad. My now wife, Rebecca Crane, she stayed with me through it all. Good or bad, she stayed. And now, we have a son together. Theo.”

Eli’s hand snapped back as if burned, his gaze growing cold as he stared at Desmond. “You have a kid already? Why do you want me, if you have one that isn’t broken?”

“Elij- I’m sorry. Eli, I’m not trying to replace anything or anyone. I didn’t know about you until very recently, and I can’t in good conscience abandon you after finding out I’m your father.”

“I’m not a charity case, and I'm not your responsibility. I can take care of myself.” Eli growled, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t need your handouts because you want to play dad to a kid that isn’t drooling all over everything.”

Desmond sighed in frustration, letting his shoulders drop. “I’m not looking for a charity case, Eli. I’m offering to be the parent you deserve. After everything you have been through, and the fantastic job your mother did raising and protecting you, I want to do right by her and you, and step up.”

His words didn’t seem to be helping, Eli still cold and closed off. “You didn’t even know her.”

“Not well, I didn’t. But she didn’t deserve what happened. Both of you didn’t. But I do remember she was a good person.” Desmond was looking a bit frantic and worried. “Please, Eli, give me a chance.”

Eli stared at him for a long moment, studying him carefully. “You actually want to be my dad?”

“If you will let me, yes.”

“And if I piss you off?” The words came too quickly, too harsh. Eli was expecting him to show frustration, hatred, manipulation, greed… Sofia wanted to step in, but she knew doing so would just hurt things. All she could do was quietly listen.

Desmond earnestly laughed at that. “Isn’t that a kid's job? You will have a home with me, regardless of how shitty you are. Hell, I gave my own mom and dad problems all the time, the only reason I'm not there now was because I ran. They never once made it sound or feel like they were kicking me out. I’m not about to do that to you.”

Eli’s eyes flickered once, twice, then he let his gaze drop to the clamshell. “Can I think about it?”

“Yes.” Sofia cut in, placing her hand on Desmond’s shoulder to silence him. “We have a room made up for you to stay in so you can think this over.”

Eli closed the clamshell with deliberate slowness, his fingers lingering on the edge just a second too long. When he looked up at Desmond again, there was nothing in his expression. No anger, no hesitation, just an unreadable stillness that felt wrong. “Can I go now?”

“Yes.” She nodded, motioning to the door. “Nico will take you there. He is going to stay outside the door though. We trust you in the room alone, but-”

“Yeah, I get it, you don’t know if I will try to run away.” He muttered standing up, but pausing as his gaze swept across Desmond. The man looked hesitant to move, watching him quietly, looking for a subtle clue. “It was nice meeting you, Desmond. Goodbye for now.” He said evenly, then went for the door, leaving the two in the room alone.

“Well, that could have gone better.” Desmond sighed, dropping his head into his hands. “He hates me.”

“No, it’s his first time meeting you. He’s being cautious. Let him warm up to you first.” Sofia stated, squeezing his shoulder. “Go get the bar ready for tonight, I’ll take care of things up here, okay?” She said soothingly, Desmond nodding and standing up.

“I’ll see you later.”

[crow-winged-wolf]

Hot take, no one is calling Giovanni Auditore by his correct full title.

Hear me out.

Giovanni Auditore da Firenze, father of our beloved Ezio Auditore da Firenze, wasn't born in Firenze/Florence. He was born in Monteriggioni. This is confirmed in AC2 in the Auditore Crypt, and the fact that Monteriggioni has the Auditore family home.

I did some rabbit hole diving, because something tickled me wrong with this. Why was he "da Firenze"? And after surfacing, I had my answer.

He's not. Historically, you retain your hometown when you move to a new city/town/village/etc so others can identify where you are from. So he would ACTUALLY be Giovanni Auditore da Monteriggioni.

And before you try to snag me on a technicality (Because I know who my audience is, we were raised on the history lesson wrapped up in a fantastic game, so I know you're probably thinking wouldn't you go by region? So "da Toscana/Tuscany"?) Leonardo daVinci, born in a small city outside of Firenze, would have been da Firenze like Ezio. And he wasn't. So yes, Giovanni would have been da Monteriggioni. 😁

I'm silly proud of this and it is absolutely being scribbled into my story as you read this.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Due to positive reactions to my previous snippet post, here is more! And by more, I mean a longer story bit. So here is more of the modern story. Give it a few days, I might post some Renaissance stuff too lol.

Ps thank you @ac1dzzz for the excitement ❤️

Story below the cut!!

It was a hard thump on the wall right outside Rebecca's room that woke her up, followed by frantic and foreign muttering. She didn't need to be fully awake to know that voice, or even what was going on. She was out of bed and on her feet before her brain had time to register what was happening.

Out in the gloom of the hall, she could see a figure leaning heavily against one side, mumbling to themselves quietly. It wasn't English, it didn't sound Mohawk or Italian… which left only one option. Arabic. Altaïr.

“Oh joy.” She breathed, approaching slowly. “Desmond? Hey, Desmond?” At the lack of response, she tried a different angle. “... Altaïr?”

He twitched slightly at that, and she could see the faint glint of his eyes in the dark. “Min 'anti?” He growled. Yeah, definitely Arabic. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand Arabic, so whatever he said, she could only guess. He pulled himself to his full height, Becs only then remembering Desmond had a bad habit of slouching, and he was actually very tall and very intimidating when he straightened out.

“Hey, easy there.” She said softly, reaching out and hesitantly placing her hand on his upper arm. “You're okay, Desmond.” Her only hope was soothing him, keeping him calm. He was difficult to handle when frantic or spooked, so the more calm, the better.

His brow wrinkled at her words. He was clearly deep in this bleed, unable to tell himself apart from his ancestor. He studied her carefully, his confusion deepening as his gaze lingered on her face. He recognized her, but didn't understand why. It wasn't perfect, but it might be enough to bring him back. “It's me. Rebecca.” She said soothingly, running her thumb back and forth over his thin sleeve and the warm skin underneath. “Come on, sit down.” She coaxed him away from the wall and into following her to her room where she sat him down on her bed, turning on a lamp and kneeling down in front of him carefully.

His hawk-like gaze was riveted to her the whole time, not saying anything until she had come to a stop in front of him. “Min 'anti?” He repeated a little more forcefully.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Des, I don’t… Listen.” She took his hands, holding them firmly. “You are Desmond Miles. You were born March thirteenth, nineteen eighty-seven, in,” She paused, realizing she didn’t know where he was born. Two years of working with him, and she had no idea where he came from. “... In the United States of America. And me, I’m Rebecca Crane, remember?” She watched his face closely for any sort of recognition.

“Rebecca… Becs.” He mumbled.

She smiled at that, squeezing his hands encouragingly. “There you are, Des.”

He blinked as if coming out of a dream, looking around in hazy bewilderment. “Where am I?” He asked slowly.

“My room. I brought you into my room.”

He stiffened, glancing around himself to confirm she wasn’t pulling a fast one on him. “Jesus, it was the bleeding effect again, wasn’t it?” He groaned, rubbing his face roughly. “I am so sorry, Becs.”

Rebecca moved to sit next to him on the bed, rubbing his shoulder softly. “Hey, Des, it’s ok.” She was trying to sound unbothered, despite how it hurt every time she saw him like this. He leaned back, his hand sliding under her covers, and he froze for a moment at the warmth he found.

“What time is it?”

She glanced around, eyes falling on the digital clock on her nightstand. “Like, four in the morning?”

“Four?” He practically choked, his gaze snapping to her. “God, Becs, I woke you up. I am so sorry.”

“Nah, you’re good. It happens.” She forced a laugh. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.” She stood up, offering her hand to him, but he looked hesitant. “What? Is my bed too comfortable?” She chuckled.

“No, I… It’s stupid. I’m sorry.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he stood up with some effort, wobbling slightly before steadying himself. “I’ll go.”

“Hang on, Des, if you need a few more minutes, it’s fine. I’m not kicking you out.” She said quickly, grabbing his arm. “Sit, rest a little more.”

He settled her with a tired, worn look. “I’m worried if I do, I’ll fall asleep.” He mumbled. Rebecca paused, eyes imploring as she tried to figure out if he was serious. But he didn't smile or laugh and jest like normal, just stood there slightly unsteady and ragged.

“Well then, I guess we might be sleeping in the same bed, because I don't have another.” She laughed again, her own words heavy in the air between them. They stared at each other for a long moment, gauging the others reaction, stuck in a trance until she broke it with a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck it. Lay down.” She sighed, motioning to the bed.

“Rebecca, I couldn’t-”

“It’s not a question. Lay down, get comfortable, I’ll figure out how to fit myself in next to your fat ass.”

He gave her a glare, but it wasn't serious. “Very funny.” He deadpanned.

“Yes I am. Go. You need company.” She pushed him gently, urging him back to the bed, his movements reluctant and clumsy. When he had finally settled in, he was facing the wall and taking as little bed as possible. Rebecca slotted in behind him, pulling the blanket over them both and facing the other way as she settled down awkwardly. “... night, Des.”

“Night, Becs.” He mumbled back.

As they fell silent, her thoughts drifted to every place he was accidentally touching her. His shoulders brushing hers with each breath, their heels finding the other as they shifted in search of comfort, the fact that no matter how much they tried, some part of them was always going to be touching.

She fell asleep regardless, too tired to think about how right it felt to have him here. It shouldn't have. It should have been bothering her.

But nothing felt as right as when she next woke up to her phone buzzing on her nightstand. She was comfortable. More comfortable than usual, her head resting on something firm, and warm… and breathing.

Her eyes shot open, focusing on the far wall. Not Desmond’s back, the wall he had been tucked against last night. She became more aware of where she was as a hand at her side shifted, and she realized her pillow was his shoulder. She was sleeping on Desmond's shoulder. That should have bothered her, but what bothered her more was that she liked it.

The phone buzzed again, softly calling for her attention. If she moved, he would wake. If she didn't move, the phone would ping and he would wake, but the person on the other side would probably be angry. There really was no winning here.

She shifted carefully and grabbed the phone to check it. Text messages. She had never been more happy to see text messages. A quick glance at Desmond confirmed he was thankfully still asleep. She answered the messages quickly, setting the phone back down on the nightstand and getting another good look at her bedmate.

He was sickly looking. He had dark rings under his eyes, his complexion was pale, and his clothes and hair were rumpled. He hadn't even changed from his normal wear yesterday into something more comfortable, just went from the Animus to blankly eating something to crashing. And then careening into her wall at 4 in the morning. She wished she could make this easier on him. Spending ten or more hours in the Animus day after day must have been torture on his mind and body. Yet, besides the late night bleeding effect instances and the screaming nightmares, he was bearing it surprisingly well.

She choked down the urge to run her fingers through his hair. It felt strange for her to want to do that. I mean, they were co-workers, right? Co-workers don’t run their fingers through each other's hair, or comfort them when they can't tell who they are… or let them sleep in your bed.

He wasn’t a co-worker to her anymore, was he?

She sighed softly through her nose, shaking her head. No, he wasn’t simply a co-worker anymore. She set her hand gently on his shoulder, waiting for a reaction, rubbing her thumb across the fabric of his hoodie slowly. “Des.”

He hummed softly, eyelids fluttering and cracking open tiredly. “Hey Becs.” He mumbled, yawning. “Morning already?”

“Yeah, sadly.”

“Damn. And I had just gotten comfortable, too.” He groaned, sitting up and scrubbing at his face with one hand roughly. “Okay, well…” He sighed, staring at the door blankly. “Back to… who am I this time?”

That struck hard, and Becs couldn’t help remembering the way his eyes glinted in the gloom last night, the foreign words he spoke, or the way he had responded to Altaïr instead of his own name. She knew what he meant, but it was painfully true for his bleeds, too. He couldn’t remember who he was sometimes.

“Ezio.” She replied simply. “You’re still going through Ezio’s memories.”

“Right. Ezio. I’m Ezio.”

“No-” Rebecca said too quickly, grabbing his shoulder before she could stop herself. He looked up at her in confusion, the two still for a moment before she retracted her hand awkwardly, straightening out his hoodie to look like she had a good reason to touch him. “No, you’re just looking at his memories, you’re not him.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile. “No, you’re right. I’m not.” A defiant spark seems to light up his eyes just the slightest bit, making them look brighter. “I'm not from Florence.”

No, he wasn’t. But that reminded her, where was he from? “Des, where uhm-” She worried one of his hoodie drawstrings around her fingers, trying to get the words straight in her head. “Where were you born? You know, so I can help pull you back out of your Bleeds better. Not- Not to hack your email or something.”

“Where was I born..? The Farm in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Close to Rapid City.” He answered slowly, watching her in curiosity.

“Ah, that… right…” She nodded, laughing nervously. “I should have known that.”

Desmond could see she was embarrassed by that, but why, he didn’t understand. “It’s not common knowledge.” He said softly, hoping to soothe some of her nervousness.

“No, no, it’s not. Listen, I should…” She finally met his gaze, holding it for an impossible amount of time. “I mean…”

“I get it. You have things to do.” He climbed around her and off the bed, standing up and rubbing at the back of his neck as he approached the door. “Thank you for last night, Becs.” He mumbled over his shoulder, then disappeared.

“That’s not what I mean.” She breathed to herself, shoulders drooping as she stared at the empty doorway.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Due to positive reactions to my previous snippet post, here is more! And by more, I mean a longer story bit. So here is more of the modern story. Give it a few days, I might post some Renaissance stuff too lol.

Ps thank you @ac1dzzz for the excitement ❤️

Story below the cut!!

It was a hard thump on the wall right outside Rebecca's room that woke her up, followed by frantic and foreign muttering. She didn't need to be fully awake to know that voice, or even what was going on. She was out of bed and on her feet before her brain had time to register what was happening.

Out in the gloom of the hall, she could see a figure leaning heavily against one side, mumbling to themselves quietly. It wasn't English, it didn't sound Mohawk or Italian… which left only one option. Arabic. Altaïr.

“Oh joy.” She breathed, approaching slowly. “Desmond? Hey, Desmond?” At the lack of response, she tried a different angle. “... Altaïr?”

He twitched slightly at that, and she could see the faint glint of his eyes in the dark. “Min 'anti?” He growled. Yeah, definitely Arabic. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand Arabic, so whatever he said, she could only guess. He pulled himself to his full height, Becs only then remembering Desmond had a bad habit of slouching, and he was actually very tall and very intimidating when he straightened out.

“Hey, easy there.” She said softly, reaching out and hesitantly placing her hand on his upper arm. “You're okay, Desmond.” Her only hope was soothing him, keeping him calm. He was difficult to handle when frantic or spooked, so the more calm, the better.

His brow wrinkled at her words. He was clearly deep in this bleed, unable to tell himself apart from his ancestor. He studied her carefully, his confusion deepening as his gaze lingered on her face. He recognized her, but didn't understand why. It wasn't perfect, but it might be enough to bring him back. “It's me. Rebecca.” She said soothingly, running her thumb back and forth over his thin sleeve and the warm skin underneath. “Come on, sit down.” She coaxed him away from the wall and into following her to her room where she sat him down on her bed, turning on a lamp and kneeling down in front of him carefully.

His hawk-like gaze was riveted to her the whole time, not saying anything until she had come to a stop in front of him. “Min 'anti?” He repeated a little more forcefully.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Des, I don’t… Listen.” She took his hands, holding them firmly. “You are Desmond Miles. You were born March thirteenth, nineteen eighty-seven, in,” She paused, realizing she didn’t know where he was born. Two years of working with him, and she had no idea where he came from. “... In the United States of America. And me, I’m Rebecca Crane, remember?” She watched his face closely for any sort of recognition.

“Rebecca… Becs.” He mumbled.

She smiled at that, squeezing his hands encouragingly. “There you are, Des.”

He blinked as if coming out of a dream, looking around in hazy bewilderment. “Where am I?” He asked slowly.

“My room. I brought you into my room.”

He stiffened, glancing around himself to confirm she wasn’t pulling a fast one on him. “Jesus, it was the bleeding effect again, wasn’t it?” He groaned, rubbing his face roughly. “I am so sorry, Becs.”

Rebecca moved to sit next to him on the bed, rubbing his shoulder softly. “Hey, Des, it’s ok.” She was trying to sound unbothered, despite how it hurt every time she saw him like this. He leaned back, his hand sliding under her covers, and he froze for a moment at the warmth he found.

“What time is it?”

She glanced around, eyes falling on the digital clock on her nightstand. “Like, four in the morning?”

“Four?” He practically choked, his gaze snapping to her. “God, Becs, I woke you up. I am so sorry.”

“Nah, you’re good. It happens.” She forced a laugh. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.” She stood up, offering her hand to him, but he looked hesitant. “What? Is my bed too comfortable?” She chuckled.

“No, I… It’s stupid. I’m sorry.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he stood up with some effort, wobbling slightly before steadying himself. “I’ll go.”

“Hang on, Des, if you need a few more minutes, it’s fine. I’m not kicking you out.” She said quickly, grabbing his arm. “Sit, rest a little more.”

He settled her with a tired, worn look. “I’m worried if I do, I’ll fall asleep.” He mumbled. Rebecca paused, eyes imploring as she tried to figure out if he was serious. But he didn't smile or laugh and jest like normal, just stood there slightly unsteady and ragged.

“Well then, I guess we might be sleeping in the same bed, because I don't have another.” She laughed again, her own words heavy in the air between them. They stared at each other for a long moment, gauging the others reaction, stuck in a trance until she broke it with a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck it. Lay down.” She sighed, motioning to the bed.

“Rebecca, I couldn’t-”

“It’s not a question. Lay down, get comfortable, I’ll figure out how to fit myself in next to your fat ass.”

He gave her a glare, but it wasn't serious. “Very funny.” He deadpanned.

“Yes I am. Go. You need company.” She pushed him gently, urging him back to the bed, his movements reluctant and clumsy. When he had finally settled in, he was facing the wall and taking as little bed as possible. Rebecca slotted in behind him, pulling the blanket over them both and facing the other way as she settled down awkwardly. “... night, Des.”

“Night, Becs.” He mumbled back.

As they fell silent, her thoughts drifted to every place he was accidentally touching her. His shoulders brushing hers with each breath, their heels finding the other as they shifted in search of comfort, the fact that no matter how much they tried, some part of them was always going to be touching.

She fell asleep regardless, too tired to think about how right it felt to have him here. It shouldn't have. It should have been bothering her.

But nothing felt as right as when she next woke up to her phone buzzing on her nightstand. She was comfortable. More comfortable than usual, her head resting on something firm, and warm… and breathing.

Her eyes shot open, focusing on the far wall. Not Desmond’s back, the wall he had been tucked against last night. She became more aware of where she was as a hand at her side shifted, and she realized her pillow was his shoulder. She was sleeping on Desmond's shoulder. That should have bothered her, but what bothered her more was that she liked it.

The phone buzzed again, softly calling for her attention. If she moved, he would wake. If she didn't move, the phone would ping and he would wake, but the person on the other side would probably be angry. There really was no winning here.

She shifted carefully and grabbed the phone to check it. Text messages. She had never been more happy to see text messages. A quick glance at Desmond confirmed he was thankfully still asleep. She answered the messages quickly, setting the phone back down on the nightstand and getting another good look at her bedmate.

He was sickly looking. He had dark rings under his eyes, his complexion was pale, and his clothes and hair were rumpled. He hadn't even changed from his normal wear yesterday into something more comfortable, just went from the Animus to blankly eating something to crashing. And then careening into her wall at 4 in the morning. She wished she could make this easier on him. Spending ten or more hours in the Animus day after day must have been torture on his mind and body. Yet, besides the late night bleeding effect instances and the screaming nightmares, he was bearing it surprisingly well.

She choked down the urge to run her fingers through his hair. It felt strange for her to want to do that. I mean, they were co-workers, right? Co-workers don’t run their fingers through each other's hair, or comfort them when they can't tell who they are… or let them sleep in your bed.

He wasn’t a co-worker to her anymore, was he?

She sighed softly through her nose, shaking her head. No, he wasn’t simply a co-worker anymore. She set her hand gently on his shoulder, waiting for a reaction, rubbing her thumb across the fabric of his hoodie slowly. “Des.”

He hummed softly, eyelids fluttering and cracking open tiredly. “Hey Becs.” He mumbled, yawning. “Morning already?”

“Yeah, sadly.”

“Damn. And I had just gotten comfortable, too.” He groaned, sitting up and scrubbing at his face with one hand roughly. “Okay, well…” He sighed, staring at the door blankly. “Back to… who am I this time?”

That struck hard, and Becs couldn’t help remembering the way his eyes glinted in the gloom last night, the foreign words he spoke, or the way he had responded to Altaïr instead of his own name. She knew what he meant, but it was painfully true for his bleeds, too. He couldn’t remember who he was sometimes.

“Ezio.” She replied simply. “You’re still going through Ezio’s memories.”

“Right. Ezio. I’m Ezio.”

“No-” Rebecca said too quickly, grabbing his shoulder before she could stop herself. He looked up at her in confusion, the two still for a moment before she retracted her hand awkwardly, straightening out his hoodie to look like she had a good reason to touch him. “No, you’re just looking at his memories, you’re not him.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile. “No, you’re right. I’m not.” A defiant spark seems to light up his eyes just the slightest bit, making them look brighter. “I'm not from Florence.”

No, he wasn’t. But that reminded her, where was he from? “Des, where uhm-” She worried one of his hoodie drawstrings around her fingers, trying to get the words straight in her head. “Where were you born? You know, so I can help pull you back out of your Bleeds better. Not- Not to hack your email or something.”

“Where was I born..? The Farm in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Close to Rapid City.” He answered slowly, watching her in curiosity.

“Ah, that… right…” She nodded, laughing nervously. “I should have known that.”

Desmond could see she was embarrassed by that, but why, he didn’t understand. “It’s not common knowledge.” He said softly, hoping to soothe some of her nervousness.

“No, no, it’s not. Listen, I should…” She finally met his gaze, holding it for an impossible amount of time. “I mean…”

“I get it. You have things to do.” He climbed around her and off the bed, standing up and rubbing at the back of his neck as he approached the door. “Thank you for last night, Becs.” He mumbled over his shoulder, then disappeared.

“That’s not what I mean.” She breathed to herself, shoulders drooping as she stared at the empty doorway.

[crow-winged-wolf]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LEONARDO DA VINCI! I'm so happy to share a birth month with you!!! And to know you and I share the same wild brand of crazy, dominant hand, and hobbies is so refreshing. I wish I could have met you irl, you're one of my idols. ❤️

Too bad Ezio wasn't real or I would have been SUPER jealous lol.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Tell Me Tuesday

I wasn't tagged by anybody, but that's more my own fault lol. I fell off the face of the planet for a bit. So thank you @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai for reminding me this format exists!

Tell me about your writing! Pick a scene/chapter from one of your fics (or I'll suggest one!) and add any commentary you feel like. Why that line? How come this plot twist? What does the eyebrow waggle MEAN?!?! I want the dirt and I can only smash my face up against the glass of your stories so hard before I start to leave smudges.

So I've done a bit of a subject switch and gone back to an old favorite of mine, Assassin's Creed. Specifically, AC2, because I have a borderline unhealthy obsession with Ezio Auditore. In the process of going through the old games again, I also started spinning a tale in my head of a little Templar born girl from Naples who gets tangled up with Ezio in Rome.

Meet, Sofia D'Avalos da Napoli.

Templar-born to House D’Avalos in the Kingdom of Napoli, Sofia lived what she thought was a pleasant childhood, even if it was a bit cold and detached, and presumably died of old age somewhere in the mid 1500’s, probably around 1550. She and her husband- who I will get to in due time- left journals, notes scrawled in the margins of books, and letters. Tiny marks of their lives that couldn’t be fully expunged from the world, even if the books forgot who they were. And Sofia isn’t one to be forgotten fully, nor one to completely fade into obscurity by choice.

The whole story is actually a bit of a different format, with almost all of the past story/history rewrite done in a biographical format. And the author is being kept intentionally vague on purpose, they litter clues to their own identity throughout the biographical part. I say almost all, because there are also parts like this, where an excerpt from Sofia's journal, as quoted in the Biography, tells one story:

I know what I did last night was foolish. Maybe a younger me would have risked the trip, the chance of being caught, the lunacy of what I did. Not the older, wiser, more tempered Sofia. And yet, I found myself at his window, enraptured by him once more. I shouldn't have been. There was a reason we split ways four years ago. And yet… I found myself wondering if he has missed me as much as I missed him. If he had wondered on occasion if my thoughts strayed to him.

While the ACTUAL story goes a little differently:

She was a fool. She knew she was. This was an immature, childish, fool-hardy endeavor. And yet, here she crouched, having earlier memorized where his window was, heart pounding out of her chest at the prospect of what she was about to do. She felt like some lovesick maiden. Well, actually, lovesick maidens usually stood on balconies wailing to the sky for their love, didn't they? No, she was more like the lovesick boy. That amusing thought was enough to break her from her momentary indecisiveness and give her just enough courage to move again. She slipped through his window soundlessly, settling herself comfortably on his sill and watching him reverently remove and examine each piece of armor in turn. It didn't seem like he was searching for damage, more thinking, and using the pieces as a tactile tool to work though his thoughts, placing them in a line near his pack.

These two sections are called "Istanbul" and "Konstantiniyye" respectively, acting as mirrors of each other. There are a few chapters of the biography that do that, like "Marcello" and "Kuck Cocuk" (Turkish for "Little One") where an event is mentioned in the Biography, explained clinically, then has a paired short story to tell the long form of the passage.

The second half of the story is modern day, written in the normal story format, and revolves around the theme of "I don't agree with killing off Desmond, so I'm just not going to". And I feel like I have a very creative way of saving our poor, abused, reluctant Assassin.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Due to positive reactions to my previous snippet post, here is more! And by more, I mean a longer story bit. So here is more of the modern story. Give it a few days, I might post some Renaissance stuff too lol.

Ps thank you @ac1dzzz for the excitement ❤️

Story below the cut!!

It was a hard thump on the wall right outside Rebecca's room that woke her up, followed by frantic and foreign muttering. She didn't need to be fully awake to know that voice, or even what was going on. She was out of bed and on her feet before her brain had time to register what was happening.

Out in the gloom of the hall, she could see a figure leaning heavily against one side, mumbling to themselves quietly. It wasn't English, it didn't sound Mohawk or Italian… which left only one option. Arabic. Altaïr.

“Oh joy.” She breathed, approaching slowly. “Desmond? Hey, Desmond?” At the lack of response, she tried a different angle. “... Altaïr?”

He twitched slightly at that, and she could see the faint glint of his eyes in the dark. “Min 'anti?” He growled. Yeah, definitely Arabic. Unfortunately, she didn’t understand Arabic, so whatever he said, she could only guess. He pulled himself to his full height, Becs only then remembering Desmond had a bad habit of slouching, and he was actually very tall and very intimidating when he straightened out.

“Hey, easy there.” She said softly, reaching out and hesitantly placing her hand on his upper arm. “You're okay, Desmond.” Her only hope was soothing him, keeping him calm. He was difficult to handle when frantic or spooked, so the more calm, the better.

His brow wrinkled at her words. He was clearly deep in this bleed, unable to tell himself apart from his ancestor. He studied her carefully, his confusion deepening as his gaze lingered on her face. He recognized her, but didn't understand why. It wasn't perfect, but it might be enough to bring him back. “It's me. Rebecca.” She said soothingly, running her thumb back and forth over his thin sleeve and the warm skin underneath. “Come on, sit down.” She coaxed him away from the wall and into following her to her room where she sat him down on her bed, turning on a lamp and kneeling down in front of him carefully.

His hawk-like gaze was riveted to her the whole time, not saying anything until she had come to a stop in front of him. “Min 'anti?” He repeated a little more forcefully.

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Des, I don’t… Listen.” She took his hands, holding them firmly. “You are Desmond Miles. You were born March thirteenth, nineteen eighty-seven, in,” She paused, realizing she didn’t know where he was born. Two years of working with him, and she had no idea where he came from. “... In the United States of America. And me, I’m Rebecca Crane, remember?” She watched his face closely for any sort of recognition.

“Rebecca… Becs.” He mumbled.

She smiled at that, squeezing his hands encouragingly. “There you are, Des.”

He blinked as if coming out of a dream, looking around in hazy bewilderment. “Where am I?” He asked slowly.

“My room. I brought you into my room.”

He stiffened, glancing around himself to confirm she wasn’t pulling a fast one on him. “Jesus, it was the bleeding effect again, wasn’t it?” He groaned, rubbing his face roughly. “I am so sorry, Becs.”

Rebecca moved to sit next to him on the bed, rubbing his shoulder softly. “Hey, Des, it’s ok.” She was trying to sound unbothered, despite how it hurt every time she saw him like this. He leaned back, his hand sliding under her covers, and he froze for a moment at the warmth he found.

“What time is it?”

She glanced around, eyes falling on the digital clock on her nightstand. “Like, four in the morning?”

“Four?” He practically choked, his gaze snapping to her. “God, Becs, I woke you up. I am so sorry.”

“Nah, you’re good. It happens.” She forced a laugh. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.” She stood up, offering her hand to him, but he looked hesitant. “What? Is my bed too comfortable?” She chuckled.

“No, I… It’s stupid. I’m sorry.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair in frustration as he stood up with some effort, wobbling slightly before steadying himself. “I’ll go.”

“Hang on, Des, if you need a few more minutes, it’s fine. I’m not kicking you out.” She said quickly, grabbing his arm. “Sit, rest a little more.”

He settled her with a tired, worn look. “I’m worried if I do, I’ll fall asleep.” He mumbled. Rebecca paused, eyes imploring as she tried to figure out if he was serious. But he didn't smile or laugh and jest like normal, just stood there slightly unsteady and ragged.

“Well then, I guess we might be sleeping in the same bed, because I don't have another.” She laughed again, her own words heavy in the air between them. They stared at each other for a long moment, gauging the others reaction, stuck in a trance until she broke it with a disbelieving laugh. “Fuck it. Lay down.” She sighed, motioning to the bed.

“Rebecca, I couldn’t-”

“It’s not a question. Lay down, get comfortable, I’ll figure out how to fit myself in next to your fat ass.”

He gave her a glare, but it wasn't serious. “Very funny.” He deadpanned.

“Yes I am. Go. You need company.” She pushed him gently, urging him back to the bed, his movements reluctant and clumsy. When he had finally settled in, he was facing the wall and taking as little bed as possible. Rebecca slotted in behind him, pulling the blanket over them both and facing the other way as she settled down awkwardly. “... night, Des.”

“Night, Becs.” He mumbled back.

As they fell silent, her thoughts drifted to every place he was accidentally touching her. His shoulders brushing hers with each breath, their heels finding the other as they shifted in search of comfort, the fact that no matter how much they tried, some part of them was always going to be touching.

She fell asleep regardless, too tired to think about how right it felt to have him here. It shouldn't have. It should have been bothering her.

But nothing felt as right as when she next woke up to her phone buzzing on her nightstand. She was comfortable. More comfortable than usual, her head resting on something firm, and warm… and breathing.

Her eyes shot open, focusing on the far wall. Not Desmond’s back, the wall he had been tucked against last night. She became more aware of where she was as a hand at her side shifted, and she realized her pillow was his shoulder. She was sleeping on Desmond's shoulder. That should have bothered her, but what bothered her more was that she liked it.

The phone buzzed again, softly calling for her attention. If she moved, he would wake. If she didn't move, the phone would ping and he would wake, but the person on the other side would probably be angry. There really was no winning here.

She shifted carefully and grabbed the phone to check it. Text messages. She had never been more happy to see text messages. A quick glance at Desmond confirmed he was thankfully still asleep. She answered the messages quickly, setting the phone back down on the nightstand and getting another good look at her bedmate.

He was sickly looking. He had dark rings under his eyes, his complexion was pale, and his clothes and hair were rumpled. He hadn't even changed from his normal wear yesterday into something more comfortable, just went from the Animus to blankly eating something to crashing. And then careening into her wall at 4 in the morning. She wished she could make this easier on him. Spending ten or more hours in the Animus day after day must have been torture on his mind and body. Yet, besides the late night bleeding effect instances and the screaming nightmares, he was bearing it surprisingly well.

She choked down the urge to run her fingers through his hair. It felt strange for her to want to do that. I mean, they were co-workers, right? Co-workers don’t run their fingers through each other's hair, or comfort them when they can't tell who they are… or let them sleep in your bed.

He wasn’t a co-worker to her anymore, was he?

She sighed softly through her nose, shaking her head. No, he wasn’t simply a co-worker anymore. She set her hand gently on his shoulder, waiting for a reaction, rubbing her thumb across the fabric of his hoodie slowly. “Des.”

He hummed softly, eyelids fluttering and cracking open tiredly. “Hey Becs.” He mumbled, yawning. “Morning already?”

“Yeah, sadly.”

“Damn. And I had just gotten comfortable, too.” He groaned, sitting up and scrubbing at his face with one hand roughly. “Okay, well…” He sighed, staring at the door blankly. “Back to… who am I this time?”

That struck hard, and Becs couldn’t help remembering the way his eyes glinted in the gloom last night, the foreign words he spoke, or the way he had responded to Altaïr instead of his own name. She knew what he meant, but it was painfully true for his bleeds, too. He couldn’t remember who he was sometimes.

“Ezio.” She replied simply. “You’re still going through Ezio’s memories.”

“Right. Ezio. I’m Ezio.”

“No-” Rebecca said too quickly, grabbing his shoulder before she could stop herself. He looked up at her in confusion, the two still for a moment before she retracted her hand awkwardly, straightening out his hoodie to look like she had a good reason to touch him. “No, you’re just looking at his memories, you’re not him.”

The corner of his lips quirked up in a semblance of a smile. “No, you’re right. I’m not.” A defiant spark seems to light up his eyes just the slightest bit, making them look brighter. “I'm not from Florence.”

No, he wasn’t. But that reminded her, where was he from? “Des, where uhm-” She worried one of his hoodie drawstrings around her fingers, trying to get the words straight in her head. “Where were you born? You know, so I can help pull you back out of your Bleeds better. Not- Not to hack your email or something.”

“Where was I born..? The Farm in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Close to Rapid City.” He answered slowly, watching her in curiosity.

“Ah, that… right…” She nodded, laughing nervously. “I should have known that.”

Desmond could see she was embarrassed by that, but why, he didn’t understand. “It’s not common knowledge.” He said softly, hoping to soothe some of her nervousness.

“No, no, it’s not. Listen, I should…” She finally met his gaze, holding it for an impossible amount of time. “I mean…”

“I get it. You have things to do.” He climbed around her and off the bed, standing up and rubbing at the back of his neck as he approached the door. “Thank you for last night, Becs.” He mumbled over his shoulder, then disappeared.

“That’s not what I mean.” She breathed to herself, shoulders drooping as she stared at the empty doorway.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Item: A Glass of Water Rarity: ✦ Uncommon

Best video game water level?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

Ac4 Black Flag. The sailing in that was a blast, the naval warfare made me feel powerful... It was great.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Item: The Memory Squeegee Rarity: ⏶ Common

What game would you erase from your memory just to experience it for the first time again?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

Assassins Creed 2. I would kill to relive that rollercoaster.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Longfic, whyyyy

Yeah, I'm writing a longfic again. Assassin's Creed. Very cringe lol. But I share the cringe? Basically, I found a way to bring Ezio and Altaïr into modern times while giving them their youth back, and threw them into a bar I called The Creed. (Yep, I'm that cringe.) Basically, Ezio made some good choices and lives in semi-retirement, while Altaïr took his love of tinkering and turned it into a Tech firm that focuses on robotics and cybernetics.

Ezio let out a burdened sigh, crossing his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling, expensive Italian leather shoes twitching on the desk just in front of Altaïr rhythmically, and annoying the elder assassin, even if he didn't say it out loud. “I miss the old days.” He groaned. “Technology has made our lives so much more… complicated.”

That had Altaïr looking up at him over the laptop he had been hard at work on, settling him with a dry but questioning glare. “Complicated? Says the man who can afford to live in semi-retirement and only work when he feels like it because of said technology.”

Ezio settled him with a frown of his own, shoulders sagging. “Well… the job felt cleaner…” He grumbled. They stared at each other for a long moment, Altaïr finally sighing and nodding slowly as he returned to his coding.

“It did feel cleaner.” He conceded with a slow nod.

Ezio’s foot paused mid twitch, his brow furrowing in thought. “Wait, you can afford to retire too.”

Altaïr leaned back from his computer, leveling a wry smirk and a glance at Ezio. “And yet, we both continue to work to stay humble.”

“We do, don't we?” Ezio mused with a slow nod.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Item: The Time Machine Rarity: ⏶ Common

What game do you associate most strongly with a specific time in your life?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

I know, I know, I say this too much, but Assassin's Creed. It has been a massive part of my life for... Quite a while. Enough to shape me.

Also led to me falling for Italy. I'm obsessed with Italy lol. And dear Gods, I'm STILL not over my crush on Ezio, my respect for Altaïr, and my adoration of Desmond.

Arno's kinda cute too lol

[crow-winged-wolf]

Item: The Scream Rarity: ⏶ Common

What is the scariest game you've ever played?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

ME? Uncharted. I freaked out over the Nazi zombie things. Now, my hubs plays the scary games and I just laugh. Then cower against his side at night as the darkness hides everything from sight lol.

[crow-winged-wolf]

Item: A Recipe Book Rarity: ⏶ Common

Is there a food from a game you would love to have in real life?

Feed your dashboard by answering my question, blogger.

Actually, yes. Dragon Age Veilguard (Lucanis specifically) mentioned a Vegetarian Paella. I regret not getting a plate while in Spain, but I was overstimulated and burnt out from a very long walk and didn't realize my mistake until I was unable to go back.

So I guess I have to find my way back lol