#Minimal Editing
Text
Aelin Week Day Seven: Aelin and her fire, @rowaelinscourt
Just a small drabble for the last day of Aelin week. I meant for this to be something else, but here we are...not going to bother with my regular taglist.
Post Kingdom of Ash, no warnings apply.
The Flame of Terrasen
The mosaic was cracked beneath her feet. These carefully laid tiles with their carefully crafted colors, apparently, were unable to stand the test of time. Aelin frowned down at them.
Somewhere in her memories she could remember running across this very pattern. She'd been a child laughing and screaming as her father chased after her while playing together. It was only a flash of memory that hazed along the edges and was quickly turning to just a feeling--but it was there.
The Terrasen Palace had long been kept from her to the point that Aelin never thought she would be here again, that it would be hers, that she could be home.
But here she was.
She walked through the great hall as the sun drifted through the large stained glass windows that lined the walls. Their towering presence filled the hall with the dimming light of dusk. Blues, reds, purples, and the fading sun swirled together creating a secondary mosaic of sorts.
A deep sense of longing thrummed through Aelin as she walked through the hall. Her leather boots scraped against bits of rock, dust, and debris.
This was her home, chaos and all.
She came to a stop in the center of the hall where she stood just beneath a grand chandelier of crystal. Draped in cobwebs and dust, there were still a few remaining candles settled in their casts. For the most part, it was still intact. All it would take was a careful hand to tend to the crystals and cleaning cobwebs. All it would take was a snap of her fingers and those candles would illuminate what remained of the hall.
Closing her eyes, Aelin tilted her head back and listened.
Outside there were shouts and orders from her army as they began their cleaning processes. A few heavy footfalls moved through the halls outside. Beyond it all, she could still hear the silence.
It was subtle and small but it was there all the same.
She’d been searching for it for a while now and here it was.
Peace.
Aelin opened her eyes once more and snapped her fingers. Overhead, candles hissed to life and she could see the future burning bright before her.
48 notes
·
View notes
Note
A small moment of angst before I go to sleep: Desmond feeling caged in a'la "Break". Except instead of being snarky he leans more and more into the Bleeding Effect for any kind of support and affection. And maybe thanks to the whole place and the Appla at hand the interactions echo to his ancestor? Like, Desmond sitting on his bedroll and cuddling up to what appears an Ezio on a couch, except Ezio feels that all the years back. For Desmond, it's a bleed. But for them? It's real
Well... this thing got out of hand... (It was meant to be short but, I guess, it's short... considering it's me writing it XD)
========================================
He doesn’t notice it at first. The Grand Temple was a place of contradiction. Smooth dark walls merge with the natural roughness of rocks. Some rooms are as cold as the most bitter winter night. Others as hot as a ruthless cloud-ness summer day.
And Desmond was usually an observant person. Both because of his upbringing and childhood training for the first sixteen years of his life and the constant paranoia and fear that gripped his very being after he left the Farm.
But the Animus…
It messes with one’s mind. Not only when one was accessing the memories it played but even after it had been turned off.
Desmond had experienced it before. The Bleeding Effect. It started out slow. In Abstergo, he would see shadows in the corner of his eyes and hear whispers too soft for him to understand.
He thought it was simply his mind playing tricks on him. His stress making him see or hear things not there.
Then Lucy explained what the Bleeding Effect was. Rome happened.
Monteriggioni happened.
The Synch Nexus happened.
And now, his Bleeding Effect had changed. He could hear them clearly. They would comment on whatever random topic anyone was talking about. They would warn him when he got too close to a ledge or when he was stepping on unstable ground whenever he looked around.
They called his attention when his mind got away with him.
“Desmond.”
It was… comforting.
The first time it happened, it was Ezio’s voice, using the same tone as when he spoke to Desmond back in the library underneath Masyaf.
The second time it happened, it was Altaïr’s voice and Desmond almost missed a jump. Hearing the man sigh made him shout “It’s your fault, asshole!” as he turned around.
But no one was there.
He had even started to hear Ratonhnhaké:ton. Soft whispers in his native tongue. He didn’t call him by his name but he could hear him say “Careful” or “Look up” whenever Desmond was by himself, checking what was still accessible in the ruins.
He told Rebecca about it, of course. She seemed curious but there was a hint of worry in her eyes. They both knew what this meant.
The Bleeding Effect was worsening.
========================================
The first time it happened. Of course, it would be Altaïr first which was poetic or symbolic, Desmond didn’t really care. After all, Altaïr was his first. It would make sense that anything that would worsen his current situation could be traced back to Altaïr.
The first ancestor he accessed in the Animus after getting kidnapped.
The first vivid Bleeding Effect episode he ever experienced.
So when he woke up, gasping Clay’s name as his dreams replayed his final day with the light-haired man, he was too rattled. Hands still shaking and heart still beating too fast.
He saw golden light coming from an empty room a few feet from where he decided to sleep for the night and walked toward it.
The moment he reached the doorway, he froze.
The entire room rocked slightly and Desmond had to place his hand on one of the crates nearby to keep his balance, unused to the swaying of…
A ship.
Desmond knew the memory immediately.
He saw him asleep, sitting uncomfortably on his chair with what will later be known as his Codex open before him. The golden light Desmond had seen coming from a small lamp on the same table as the Codex, glowing brighter than it should. Desmond walked towards him and quietly closed the Codex before grabbing a nearby blanket and placing it over Altaïr’s shoulders.
Altaïr grunted softly but did not wake and Desmond…
Desmond felt lost.
Unsure why he was bleeding this memory.
Unsure of what else to do.
The entire room swayed harder than before and Desmond yelped as he lost his balance. He fell by Altaïr’s legs, hitting the side of his face on his lap. The Syrian let out a low growl and Desmond froze, waiting to see if he would wake.
He did not.
Desmond knew he should get up. Kneeling by Altaïr’s side, head and arms resting on his lap as the other man slept, was…
Weird.
Absolutely weird.
But…
At the same time…
He was warm.
And he was Altaïr.
He was safe.
Desmond pressed his cheek against the man’s lap and closed his eyes.
The swaying of the ship should have made him nauseous.
But together with Altaïr’s warmth…
It was peaceful.
He woke to the sound of his phone’s alarm, back aching in protest at the uncomfortable position he had slept on. On his knees, resting his arms and head on some kind of smooth black object that may have been a chair before.
Maybe.
Desmond sighed as he stood and stretched.
He cannot deny it. As strange as that episode had been.
… It was probably the best sleep he had in a while.
========================================
Altaïr felt him when he entered his room. His footsteps had been soft, and would have probably been unnoticeable even to an Assassin who had been on the field for years. But Altaïr heard them.
To be more exact.
He felt him.
Something about the person who entered his room simply made Altaïr feel…
Alert.
Like his entire being was focused solely on his uninvited guest.
He stayed relaxed and kept his eyes closed, using his senses to tell him what the intruder was doing. He stood next to Altaïr and closed the journal Altaïr had been writing on. Then he…
Placed the itchy blanket on Altaïr’s shoulders?
Altaïr was unsure why he had done such a thing.
That was when the ship swayed hard, most probably against some kind of large wave or such, and the man let out a loud yelp that would have woken Altaïr had he truly been sleeping anyway.
He let out a small grunt as he felt the man fall on his lap.
They both froze.
Altaïr pretended to relax once more and waited.
His wary gave way to confusion when he felt the man relax as he stayed kneeling by Altaïr’s side. Felt the man rub his cheek slightly against his lap with a soft sigh. Altaïr waited for a few minutes before realizing that the man was truly asleep.
On his lap.
… In what world did this strange intruder believe that would be alright?
Did he not think that Altaïr would wake earlier than him?
Or did that not matter?
Was he here because he wished to-
Altaïr opened his eyes and his breath hitched.
The man was no longer next to him.
He was alone.
Had not been for the closed journal…
The blanket on his shoulders…
The warmth he could still feel on his lap…
He would have thought he dreamt it all.
But no.
It wasn’t a dream.
He stared at the blanket as he repeated.
There was no way it had been a dream.
========================================
The Bleeding Effect only got worse.
Or perhaps Desmond could say it had gotten better.
He could feel them now.
Could feel their warmth.
They felt real.
And, in this new prison called the Grand Temple, they provided an escape that Desmond couldn’t help but gravitate towards.
He never told Rebecca and Shaun.
And there was no way in hell he was going to tell Bill about it.
This was his little secret.
A little piece of paradise that his mind has conjured to give him peace even for just a few moments.
How nice it would be if time was to simply stop.
For the sun to stop ticking just for a few moments.
And let Desmond rest…
A single night in Manhattan made him miss his life before all of these.
Before Abstergo.
Before the Animus.
Before being heralded as the chosen one to save the world by a woman who said she wasn’t a god using the same lips that dictated Desmond’s fate.
When he was just a simple bartender in New York.
It was a lonely life, sure.
But it was peaceful.
A bit boring, maybe.
But, after months of being strapped into the Animus, reliving the lives and the tragedies of his ancestors…
A part of Desmond missed it.
He didn’t want to go back. He can’t. Not after knowing everything Ezio had sacrificed. Not after knowing how Altaïr’s life ended.
Not while he wanted to make sure, to see with his own eyes, that Ratonhnhaké:ton would be alright.
But that night, while he slept in the back of the van as Shaun drove them back to the Grand Temple, he couldn’t help but miss his small studio in New York.
He couldn’t help but miss the boring nights in Bad Weather.
That was when he felt it.
Warmth.
Right next to him.
He sought it out, turning until his forehead hit someone’s back.
He opened his eyes and…
He saw Ezio’s back, the slight tremblings of his shoulders…
He saw the crest of House Auditore adorning the cape he held in his hands.
And he remembered this memory.
He remembered the words he wished he could say back then.
So he pressed his cheek against Ezio’s back and wrapped his arms around Ezio’s waist.
“It’s okay, Ezio.”
“It’s alright to cry.”
He tightened his hold on Ezio as he heard the soft muffled cries coming from the grieving man.
There were no words Desmond could offer him.
All he could offer was his warmth, the same way their warmth had comforted him.
And Desmond hoped it would be enough.
“Hey.” Rebecca gently tapped his arm and he opened his eyes with a groan. She grinned as she teased, “I don’t think you should be using that as a pillow.”
Desmond blinked, not understanding what Rebecca meant by that until…
He realized that he was hugging the box where they stored the power source they just got.
========================================
Ezio wished that it was more than just a cape.
That his reward for finding all of those feathers was… more.
It was foolish to believe that those feathers would cure his mother of her grief.
Of his own grief.
But he had to be strong.
He was the only man left in their family.
It was up to him to show the strength of House Auditore.
It was up to him to protect his mother and sister.
It was up to him to-
Ezio gripped the cape embroidered with their family crest tightly, unable to stop his shoulders from shaking.
Even if it was in the silence of his room, he couldn’t…
He shouldn’t…
He needed to be strong.
He needed to be an Auditore.
A fighter.
A-
“It’s okay, Ezio.”
Ezio froze as he felt a warmth behind him.
He was back.
The one Ezio could never see.
The one whose warmth always brought peace to Ezio…
The one who will always leave whenever Ezio turned to face him.
His words were strange and hard to understand but…
The softness of the tone…
The gentle way he wrapped his arms around Ezio and pressed his cheek against his back…
“It’s alright to cry.”
Ezio let out a muffled sob as tears finally fell from his eyes. His shoulders began to shake as he tried to silence his sobs.
He feared this moment of weakness would make him go away.
But he didn’t.
He only tightened his hold on Ezio and shared his warmth.
As Ezio openly cried for the first time since the death of his father and brothers.
========================================
“Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Shaun snarked as they continued to hike their way to what was supposed to be Davenport manor.
“Don’t look at me. I’m looking at a map that’s not been updated in ages.” Rebecca groaned as she looked at the map in her hands with eyes promising a slow torturous death, “‘Cause someone said we can’t use GPS.”
“It’s too risky,” Bill grunted.
“Oh? Is that also why we parked our car a couple of kilometers away instead of driving?” Shaun sarcastically asked, making Bill glare at him.
“We received word from Gavin that Abstergo has been lurking around these parts. We can’t risk them identifying the van and realizing we went to the homestead.” Bill explained with an annoyed sigh.
Desmond simply kept quiet.
He enjoyed the impromptu hike.
After being in the Grand Temple for so long, only allowed to leave when they needed him to get a power source…
This was nice.
And the forest they were in looked familiar.
He was sure he saw this forest in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories.
Back then…
Desmond’s breath hitched.
This wasn’t the forest near Davenport Manor.
This was the forest near Ratonhnhaké:ton’s village.
That didn’t make any sense.
That forest should be near the Grand Temple, in Turin, New York.
They were in Rockport, Massachusetts…
He was having an episode again.
And he couldn’t hear or see any of his teammates.
“Shaun, Rebecca…” Desmond called out, trying not to panic.
Even if he was having an episode, they should still see him.
They should still be able to-
There was a sound.
Desmond turned to the sound and his eyes widened.
There was someone lying on the ground.
His legs moved on their own, running towards the fallen…
It was a boy…
No.
It was…
“Ratonhnhaké:ton!” Desmond shouted as he knelt next to the unconscious boy.
“Ohshitshitshit.” Desmond panicked, seeing the cut on the boy’s head as blood fell from it furiously.
This memory…
It was the day…
The day Charles Lee and Ratonhnhaké:ton met.
Was Ratonhnhaké:ton hurt that day?
Desmond didn’t remember.
Because Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories stopped when he lost consciousness…
Desmond looked around but all he could see were the fallen leaves around them.
Even if he was to use the leaves to stop the bleeding, Ratonhnhaké:ton might get an infection instead.
He opened his shoulder bag and grabbed the first thing he saw, forgetting he actually had a small first aid kit inside the bag because of how panicked he was (even though he should know that Ratonhnhaké:ton was going to be fine anyway). Instead, he managed to grab a clean white handkerchief that had been in the shoulder bag when Lucy gave it to him.
He didn’t even know whose handkerchief it was but it was clean.
Ratonhnhaké:ton moaned and Desmond whispered gently, “I know it hurts. Sorry.”
He held Ratonhnhaké:ton in his arms as he pressed the handkerchief against the cut on Ratonhnhaké:ton’s forehead.
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Ever-” The words wouldn’t leave his lips.
He couldn’t say it.
Not when he knew what would greet Ratonhnhaké:ton when he returned to his village.
Instead, he tightened his hold on Ratonhnhaké:ton and whispered, “You’re not alone, okay?”
“You’re not alone.” Desmond whispered, “I’m here, Ratonhnhaké:ton.”
He felt Ratonhnhaké:ton move and…
“Desmond!”
Desmond turned around and his breath hitched once more as the forest around him had changed.
He was back.
He turned to look back and…
He was holding the Apple.
“Desmond?!”
“Yeah!” Desmond shouted back and quickly placed the Apple back into his hoodie. He jogged to where his teammates were calling him and found them soon enough, looking worried and…
“Where the hell were you?!” Bill demanded.
Desmond simply shrugged as he replied, “Had to take a leak.”
Rebecca let out a snort while Shaun rolled his eyes.
Desmond ignored the way Bill’s eyes silently told him that he knew Desmond was lying and said, “I think I remember where we are now.”
He pointed behind Bill, “That’s where the church used to be.”
“Oh, great. I guess we’re on the right track then.” Rebecca said with a grateful sigh.
“Let’s get going before we get mauled by cougars.”
“I don’t think they have cougars here.”
“There were in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s memories.”
“I think that was just the Animus taking ‘creative liberties’.”
“Oh, you insulting Baby huh?”
“Owowowowowow-!”
========================================
Warm.
He felt warm.
A gentle hand.
A sting of pain.
“I know it hurts. Sorry.”
Another one who spoke that language.
An enemy?
No.
He was warm.
He held Ratonhnhaké:ton gently.
Pressed something on his head.
He could feel it growing wet with his blood.
He was trying to help.
He was trying to comfort Ratonhnhaké:ton.
And all Ratonhnhaké:ton could do was try to open his eyes.
Yet his eyes would not cooperate with him.
“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay. Ever-”
The man stopped.
Ratonhnhaké:ton wanted to raise his hand.
The way he said that last word.
The sudden stop.
He was in need of comfort too.
Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered if he’d like it if Ratonhnhaké:ton was to pat his head just like his mother did sometimes to comfort Ratonhnhaké:ton.
Ratonhnhaké:ton felt the man tighten his hold on him and whisper, “You’re not alone, okay?”
“You’re not alone.”
His voice was comforting.
He was warm.
Yet he could feel the slight trembling of his arms.
The sadness in his tone.
“I’m here, Ratonhnhaké:ton.”
And Ratonhnhaké:ton wanted to tell him.
His eyes finally opened as he whispered, “I’m here too.”
And he found himself alone. He had to catch himself with his hands before he fell on his back.
He saw something white flutter to the ground.
He grabbed it and stared at it.
It was a white fabric.
Drenched in his own blood.
#minimal editing#is this romantic? is this platonic?#you can never truly know with me#i swear if they start to believe desmond is some kind of entity like an angel or a ghost#i have a problem XD#assassin's creed#altaïr ibn la'ahad#desmond miles#ezio auditore#connor kenway#ratonhnhaké:ton#fic idea: assassin's creed#teecup writes/has a plot
99 notes
·
View notes
Text
I asked for snippet prompts
Attempting 15 minutes responses
@tylindel “Excuse me?!”
“Excuse me?! You’re MDC?”
“No, I won’t, excuse you.” Marinette responded, trying to keep her coffee away from her tablet and sketchbook .
Tim groaned at the brush off, “I’m so sorry. I know you are busy. I was just shocked to see you working here. I’m a huge fan but not in a creepy way.”
“You’re doing great proving that,” Steph laughed at him as she pushed past in the busy coffee shop.
“I’m going to go before my fears of never making it onto your commission list are realized,” he said.
“How do you know who I am? MDC is a secret and I haven’t even signed it yet,” Marinette said.
“Your style is very unique and you wrote a note that included JS for Jagged Stone.”
“Be sure not to tell her that you have a weird brain that connects things that are random and mundane to the average person. Then she might not even go out with you if you bought her a coffee shop.”
Tim shoved Steph away groaning. “You are making this worse and you are doing it on purpose.”
He turned back to Marinette while holding Steph behind him. She wasn’t even watching anymore. She was looking down her pencil was focused in one spot. He sighed and backed away. At least he hadn’t given his name for her to ban him from commissioning her.
He and Steph walked to the counter to get their drinks but a hand on his arm stopped him before he picked it up. MDC was holding out a card that she had been writing on.
“I’m Marinette,” she said.
“Tim,” he responded.
“Give me a call sometime. You don’t even have to buy me a coffee shop.”`
73 notes
·
View notes
Text
Thoughts after leaving a cult/high control group
Yes, it was a non choice, but I still took my stand and looked even upon the face of god and said wait.
This time you wait for me. Because love is patient. If he is not willing to wait for me, or give me the time I need to become whole once more, then he deserves nothing more than the scraps they give him.
These are my words. This is my decision. All I asked for was time. And all I got in answer was silence,
and here is where I will make my life.
#spilled thoughts#ex jehovah's witness#ex cult#minimal editing#I found this#I think I’m going to post this shoot#ex jw
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sneakers On cuz I be a’creepin!
#greedfall#spiders developer#spiders#virtual photography#the devespe conspiracy#beautiful game#minimal editing
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Fictober 2022-
Fictober 2022- Day 1
Prompt- “I chose you”
Original story, Rating-General
“I chose you,” the witch said sincerely and she felt it in her heart that the feeling was mutual. It had been a good day to pick the first pumpkin. Not too cold, the threat of winter still far off. Not too sunny, summer’s sun gone from their skies. A perfect liminal time between the halves of the year.
The pumpkin was heart shaped and looked like an overgrowth turnip, which the witch found appropriate. It’s shell was a dusty rust orange. The stem had been gnarled and twisted. A perfect first pumpkin. She returned home and got to work.
She wiped the slimy insides of the pumpkin from her knife on her apron and set it down next to the rest of her tools on the workbench. A bowl to carry its sacrifice and a candle to give its light. The witch admired her handiwork with a soft smile. A traditional face stared back at her. Two circles carved as eyes, a small triangle nose, and a wide grinning smile with lopsided square teeth. This would be the first and it would be a nice gesture to those who came before to see a familiar face. There would be more of course, more lanterns to serve as beacon, guide, and warning but the first held a special spot in her heart.
She set the candle inside its hollow shell. The candle was new in the sense it had not been lit before but was a marriage of all the candle stubs from autumns before. This time red. It felt like a red autumn. The skys had been gray more than not and the mood had shifted. Crunching leaves swirled on the wind and then threw themselves in her face. The harvest would carry but not for too long. She was weary that darker things would be on her doorstep.
Holding the pumpkin in her hands with care, she lifted it up and presented it to the room. The witch closed her eyes and held it there. She took a deep breath.
“I chose you,” she said again to the pumpkin and this time, to the room. Promises were being made. “I chose you to be a beacon, a guide, and a warning. Others will come as the days trudge on deeper into fall but you are the first.”
The room darkened and held it’s breath, waiting patiently for the witch to continue. The house knew this spell well, as she weaved it every year. It was its favorite.
“You will be a marker between the worlds for those that come. You will guide them. They will come from the inbetween mists and the moonless nights. From the woods and the wells and the fields. They will not come from the road,” she said with finality. The house exhaled and the witch dropped her voice. “You will be a warning to those that come from the road. This house is not here for the ones from the road. You will be a warning.”
The pumpkin agreed and the witch smiled. She kissed the shell lightly where a nose would be and leaned her forehead against it. Deep breath in, pulling fire from her heart. Long exhale, giving it life. When she pulled away the candle wick burned brightly. The spell was done.
She placed the guide on the stoop of her house looking out towards the fields and beyond that to the road. It was the beginning of fall, a liminal time, and she had to ready the house for their guests.
#fictober22#original story#its late but its here and i think i have a solid idea for the rest of the month#minimal editing#aiming for 500-1000 words
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
im working on my holiday fic and honestly im not loooooving how its turning out so far but i know that thats just my perfectionism talking because when im not constantly worrying about making it a literary masterpiece im actually having a lot of fun writing it regardless of the final product heuheheuhe
#writing rants#this is going to be one of those fics where as soon as i finish writing it i am posting it#minimal editing#because its the editing that always drives me crazy lmao#so i cant wait to finish it and just..... POST IT#augh#hopefully by tomorrow....
3 notes
·
View notes
Conversation
WMMAP Prompt #CRACK
Yeah, that's right. This one's so out there, it doesn't even get a number.
Fem! Lucas: *kabedon Kiel in* People say my lips are like skittles.
Fem! Kiel: SkItTles?
Lucas: Wanna taste the rainbow with me?
Kiel: NoOoOoOo....*pushes Lucas away and runs like hellfire*
Bonus...
Kiel: Athy, you need to be careful around Lucas.
Male! Athy: Why, Kiel, why? *gently stroking Kiel's long silvery white hair*
Kiel: She almost...kissed me.
Athy: Oh, really. Lucas!
Lucas: Yessss, wait why are you patting her head?
Athy: She likes it. *Kiel smugly smiling* So, why'd you try to kiss her anyways?
Lucas: It's better me than you. *proceeds to sit on Athy's lap and passionately kisses her*
Kiel: *walking away from the gross PDA with tearful eyes*
Lucas: *smiling b/c she knows she won*
Athy: hmmm
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Cozy
#photography#Minimal editing#Gray and white cat#animal photography#cat portrait#Cat ownership#Sleepy kitty#adult cat#Laying whereever she pleases#creative perspective#photographers on tumblr#picture frame#bright day
1 note
·
View note
Text
text transcribed under readmore
SMALL DOG SYNDROME
small dog you’re so funny when you snap
small dog you’re so funny when you shake
small dog you’re so bad when you bark
small dog you never learned the rules
small dog lays flat on the floor
and sighs and whines
while it waits for you to come back from wherever you go
all day small dog doesn’t know if you’re coming home
small dog hides under the bed to puke
does it quiet
eats its shame before you ever smell it
small dog’s bark is worse than its bite
small dog you are so funny when you bite
small dog it’s so funny when you’re mad
so by all means pick it up
throw it around
lock it in a cage while you laugh
small dog you are so funny when you cry
small dog can’t remember being a wolf
can’t remember being big
howling in harpstring harmony
like a plucked and quivering note in a catacomb
sleeping in a warm pile of bodies in a dry place that smells like family
the taste of fresh hot blood and wet bone
iron
fire
honey
salt
small dog run free beneath the moon in your dreams
small dog is so happy you’re home!!
small dog loves you!!!
JMGD
#my writing#spilled ink#spilled poetry#idfk how to tag this#poetry is not dead#words words words#ok to rb#this has very minimal editing and i havent written shit in a long long time now so be nice to me for the love of god
3K notes
·
View notes
Text
rian johnson took all that time, put in all that effort to make glass onion a fantastic period piece to the first four months of pandemic, a prescient narrative that anticipates the stupidity of rich billionaires, and then pulled the rug from under us because the world of benoit blanc just straight up doesn't have the mona lisa anymore
#Some geniuses in the notes are talking about how it wasn't the real mona lisa#And I'm editing my tags because tumblr is a website with minimal reading comprehension#But the POINT is that he went through all that effort to make the world canon complaint with ours#Only to DESTROY a cultural artefact real or not#Having massive political implications for the world#And that's what I was pointing out. Here and in another reblog that presumably no one will care to fish out#It's in the replies for those looking#Anyway I hope rian johnson makes ten of these without the mona lisa#Also as a side note. So many movies have ignored covid#Not this man. He's like no we'll include it. But if we divert from canon reality#We're going to destroy the mona lisa#Love that for him. Icon#hello void this is ridiculosity#knives out#glass onion
9K notes
·
View notes
Note
Hytham! I meant Hytham! Hytham the Alamut assassin. Dear god's, not Haytham the Kenway Templar *facepalms*
The other ask that has the Haytham/Hytham mistake (I edited the Haythams XD):
I am only 18% in and already I bemoan shortage of Hytham scenes. I did not realize he was a flirt. So basically: Hytham gets to share Basim's fate in sharing his head with someone. That someone is Desmond. Hytham gets his own live - in instructor to bemoan shared parent-issues with. Desmond gets another messed up parental figure and a sibling to boot. It's a catastrophe all around
It's alright, I've seen official Assassin's Creed account posting promotion for the new book using 'Haytham' instead of 'Hytham'. XD
Yeah, only one 'set' of memories for Hytham. That's never gonna be enough for us.
Really? I felt like he sounded kinda flirty during his scene about the leap of fate. If I remember, he winks at Eivor before he takes a leap of faith.
Anyywwaayyy...
So we're going for the idea that Desmond's consciousness is placed inside Hytham.
For this to work, I think our best bet is for Hytham to touch a POE of unknown origin during one of his missions with Basim (before they join Sigurd when he returns home).
=========== Accidental Short Fic ===========
The POE crumbled to dust after Hytham touched it and Basim was worried, of course, because his memories of Loki don't remember what POE that was. It definitely looked like the Eye that Minerva created though but that's not possible, as far as Loki's memories were concerned, this wasn't where Minerva's Eye had been.
So we'll have a sweet mentor-acolyte/father-son moment between them of Basim worrying for Hytham's health and Hytham saying that nothing is wrong.
Hytham wasn't lying. There was a brief moment of intense heat on his right hand that made him feel like he was going to burst into flames from the inside but it was gone before he could even scream.
He just felt... tired.
That night, Hytham dreamed of a man telling him to get up.
Get up.
Do it again.
And this time.
Do it correctly.
Get up.
Des-
"Hytham."
Hytham wakes up to Basim shaking his shoulder, telling him he sounded like he was having a nightmare.
"Hytham... you're crying..."
And Hytham touches his cheek only to find it wet with tear tracks.
He doesn't remember crying at all.
The dreams continue.
Every night, he would dream of being told to be better, to be faster, quieter, smarter...
And Hytham tries.
He tries every night.
And, every morning, he would see Basim and feel comforted by the fact that his mentor was kinder than the man in his dreams.
It wasn't long before they join Sigurd to return home. Hytham didn't understand why Basim would be so willing to part one of their hidden blades to those who didn't even understand their Creed but he does not raise his voice.
That will only make him scold Hytham.
No.
That's not right.
Basim wasn't that kind of mentor.
It was... becoming too much.
Those nightly dreams have become too much.
Places he cannot fathom. Words he cannot understand.
He had found relief when he left that man's prison but the world he saw was... too foreign.
And now he had been captured, forced into this-
No.
That wasn't Hytham. That was his dream.
It wasn't him.
So when he jumped to assassinate their target, his body had moved on its own.
Before he understood what was happening, he already in midair, ready to strike.
For a brief moment, his target changed into one wearing the armor similar to those who worship the cross. That brief moment froze him.
And he was thrown away and his back hit a box. That flash of pain forced him to gasp. He felt his ribs break.
Then that intense burning pain once more.
For a moment, Hytham blacks out.
That was when he heard it...
"Holy shit... where am I?"
=========== Ending Rambling ===========
I feel like for us to get some sweet Basim-Hytham father-son bonding going on, Desmond needs to appear after Hytham and Basim's father-son/mentor-acolyte relationship has stabilized for maximum angst.
In this situation, Desmond would be less like Basim/Loki which, as far as we know, is more of an Aita/John situation where Basim has fully assimilated with Loki's memories and feelings.
So either we use that same premise with Hytham and Desmond or...
We go for Eivor/Odin kind of setup with a twist.
Since Hytham isn't truly a Sage, the POE connected Desmond's consciousness to him but it was an incomplete 'assimilation' (we can say that Minerva's Eye copied Desmond's data and tried to save it but it didn't have a body so it stayed dormant in the Eye until Hytham touches it). They can't fully assimilate and that leaves Desmond in a more 'ghost'-like state where he appears to Hytham and Hytham alone as some kind of slightly glowing wispy being.
Hytham thinks he's a ghost or a djinn that had been trapped in the POE.
Desmond tries to explain that he isn't and that's how they noticed that Hytham understands words he shouldn't.
He knew what an Animus was.
He knew what Isus were.
Hytham has Desmond's memories inside him.
And his mind created Desmond's personality as a separate ghost-like entity to keep his own personality from being overridden.
And this is where things get more complicated.
Because Hytham thinks of Basim as a father.
And Desmond thinks of him as a father as well thanks to Hytham's feelings and memories.
But...
At the same time...
They both remember that uneasy feeling Desmond always gets whenever he was in Juno or Minerva's presence.
And they can both feel that whenever they were with Basim.
Not only that...
They could feel it starting up with Sigurd, growing and growing more unsettling the more he becomes 'unhinged'.
And even Eivor...
There's a hint of that uneasiness with them.
On happier notes:
Hytham doesn't just get Desmond, he also gets sudden visits from Desmond's ancestors because Desmond's bleed is still doing its thing (he's most comfortable with Altaïr, Connor makes him a bit uncomfortable because he's always a bit too quiet)
Desmond refuses to call him Hytham (because, reasons) and he's trying to find another name to call him other than 'akhi'. The most used one is 'Hyhy' (hey-hey) and Hytham doesn't appreciate that
Desmond is a bad influence in the sense that Hytham starts recruiting early on and they did it from Basim (Basim notices but finds it amusing so he says nothing)
Desmond likes to blame his bleed of Ezio for that one but Hytham blames Desmond
Kids love Hytham because he teaches them how to make paper animals (Desmond is actually instructing Hytham the entire time and Hytham doesn't say anything because he has memories of Desmond making them as a way to entertain himself whenever he was alone)
#ask and answer#you know when you're just trying to write an idea#then your brain and fingers decide 'yeah let's make a short fic instead'#it has happened before#and i believe it will continue to happen#minimal editing#i'm pretty sure my tenses are everywhere#assassin's creed#hytham (assassin's creed)#basim ibn ishaq#desmond miles
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
I asked for writing prompts for snippets
Attempting 15 minutes responses
@ktreereads “What was wrong with the black one?”
“What was wrong with the black dress?”
Marinette turned and pushed him against the wall in response. She smiled when he sucked in a breath.
“They were nearly the same, but I think red might be more my color, what do you think?”
Arsenal grinned down at her.
“I definitely like you in red. Were you trying to impress me?’
She slid her hand down his chest and pushed her leg forward. His eyes widened when she produced a dagger fromm under the dress and pressed the tip to the hollow of his throat.
“I would love to make an impression. Is that what you want?”
He moved his hand to her hips and pulled her against him. The blade pricked at his skin with the movement but she had adjusted quickly to keep it from harming him.
“I think I see the point of the red one now. But I mostly love that it brought us closer together.”
When he moved she shifted the point to under his chin. He merely smirked before he twisted away and grabbed her wrist. In one motion, he flipped their positions and pressed her back into the wall. Without waiting for the response he leaned down and kissed. It was her turn to pull him closer to her. He released her wrist and lifted her up to him and she dropped the dagger in favor of wrapping her arms around his neck.
#roynette#boldlyanxious#snippets#quick write#minimal editing#they could be enemies or playing at it for fun#you decide
43 notes
·
View notes
Text
you wanted to be a good friend, because you loved your friends, but the truth was that everyone else somehow had a pamphlet on being normal that you never received. most of the time you learn by trial-and-error. you are terrified of the next big mistake you make, because it seems like the rules are completely arbitrary.
you've learned to keep the prickly parts of your personality in a stormcloud under your bed - as if they're a second version of you; one that will make your friends hate you. it feels feral, burning, ugly.
instead, you have assembled habits based on the statistical likelihood of pleasing others. you're a good listener, which is to say - if you do speak up, you might end up saying the wrong thing and scaring off someone, but people tend to like someone-who-listens. or you've got no true desires or goals, because people like it when you're passive, mutable. you're "not easy to fluster" which is to say - your emotions are fundamentally uninteresting to others around you; so you've learned to control them to a degree that you can no longer really feel them happening.
you have long suspected something is wrong with you, but most of the time, googling doesn't help. you are so-used to helping-yourself, alone and with no handbook. the reek of your real self feels more like a horrible joke - you wake up, and, despite all your preparations, suddenly the whole house is full of smoke. the real you is someone waiting to ruin your other-life, the one where you're normal and happy. the real-self is unpredictable, angry.
your real self snarls when people infantilize the whole situation. because if you were really suffering, everyone seems to think you'd be completely unable to cope. but you already learned the rules, so you do know how to cope, and you have fucking been coping. it's not black-and-white. it's not that you are healed during the other times - it's just that you're able to fucking try. and honestly, whenever you show symptoms, it's a really fucking bad sign.
because the symptoms you have are ugly and unmanageable for others. your symptoms aren't waifish white girl things. they're annoying and complicated. they will be the subject of so many pretentious instagram reels. if they cared about you, they'd just show up on time. you care, a lot, so deeply it burns you. you like to picture a world where the comments read if they loved you, they'd never need glasses to see. but since that's a rule you've seen repeated - "one must never be late or you are a bad friend" - you constantly worry about being late and leave agonizingly early. there are no words for how you feel when you're still late; no matter how hard you were trying.
so you have to make up for it. you have to make up for that little horrible real you that you keep locked in a cabinet. you are bad at answering emails so every project you make has to be perfect. you are weird and sensitive so you have to learn to be funny and interesting. you are an inconvenience to others, so you become as smooth as possible, buffing out all the rough parts.
all this. all this. so people can pass their hands over you and just tell you just the once -how good you are. you're a good friend. you're loveable.
#spilled ink#woke up at 530 to write this lmafo#me in a cold sweat:#how do i be normal#edit in the tags:#hey so i've seen y'all talk about like ... wondering if ur ''allowed'' to relate#like if this is about X specific diagnosis#and when i first posted it i really almost labelled it ''please don't assume this is about a specific condition''#because as an artist i am often walking this line of discussing a symptom or discussing my conditions etc#and sometimes yes ! i do want to talk about an experience that is specific to who i am and my condition#but sometimes the effort of the post is about the EXPERIENCE rather than the diagnosis#because yes i am not neurotypical and as a result that influences my work but it is ALSO true that there are many reasons#why someone might experience this particular vague horrible feeling that you are... almost being CHASED by what you ''really'' are.#that you're outrunning your symptoms... that you're not really normal you're just sort of a mockery of a person#.... that's a really isolating and horrible way to feel no matter why you are feeling it. and the nature of this PARTICULAR post is that#it is inherently talking ABOUT that sense of isolation & of feeling not-deserving & of minimizing your own experiences to make urself#palatable for society in a way that others find easy-to-deal-with....#this post is about a certain experience such that my impression is there's a higher likelihood that those who relate#would have more difficulty thinking they ''deserve'' to relate - that it doesn't REALLY belong to them#bc often we are the kind of people who are SO used to being alienated and set aside and ''different'' that we AUTOMATICALLY assume#that things are not ''for'' us... they never have been why would it start now#we are the kinds of people to be ... ''too normal for X diagnosis but too symptomatic to be normal''#[or as this post points out... so good at ''coping''/masking/hiding it that we essentially conform to whatever shape we're poured into]#but i have witnessed others already say in the tags ''thought this was about me but it's about X so it can't be''#and im like ... of course it was about you.#art is not a resource that is diminished by greater appreciation .#you reflect in whatever mirror fits your frame. not just the ones in your bedroom. not just the ones i specifically give you.#there will be - and often are - times that i will talk about my specific conditions... but if you're reading this#regardless of why you're here... we are here together. holding hands through space and time. and i love you for carrying it#and i know you're exhausted. i am too. but i understand. and i see you.
5K notes
·
View notes
Text
The incredible cyberpunk aesthetic one may miss without its photomode.
#the ascent#cyberpunk aesthetic#virtual photography#cyberpunk#architecture#screenshots#minimal editing#isometric#isometric shooter
0 notes
Text
to all the fanfic writers who write about small, niche tropes and random crossovers that have less than a thousand works total and rarepairs and one specific vein content so that despite the master pieces you write you only get a couple hundred hits: you are doing god's work. i am kissing you on the head. you are my lifeblood.
edit since its getting lost in the tags: the thousand works comment is not to minimize the people who write for subgenres with maybe 10 works or rairpairs with like 3 works, but to include people who, while garnering more attention than the former, may still feel disheartened for receiving less attention on their work than people who write for megafandoms or very common tropes. 1000 is more than ten, but 1000 is closer to 10 than 200,000.
#i love you infinitely#fanfic#ao3#rare niche fanfic about the strangest crossover that fuels my heart#edit: this isnt meant to minimize people who only get maybe 8 hits or amhave 10 works in their content realm#but to include people who write things that might be bigger than some fandoms and pairs#but are still miniscule in comparison to mega fandoms
4K notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
