Desmond was only five years older than me…this whole time I thought that man was in his thirties or so.
…with the writers of tumblr. Fanfic and original story creators alike.
There are no rules other than whatever your imaginations can come up with. All you have to do…is continue the story. You can write a sentence, a paragraph, hell, pages, if you want. Just write:
In hindsight, he really should have seen this coming. No one knew war and the havoc it could wreck quite like he did.
As the countdown to midnight slowly progressed on the screen, Shaun found himself wishing there was a certain mouthy bartender sitting on the couch beside him. Desmond would no doubt be making light of the whole “Abstergo incident” and getting quiet the moment he remembered what exactly had been lost as they watched the new year approach with one less assassin among them, even as he poured them both drinks and told Shaun to lighten up.
The moment the ball finally touched down and the streets of New York City erupted in cheers, a miserable pressure began at the backs of his eyes and the Englishman slid his glasses off to rub at them, cursing the hot moisture he felt on the pads of his fingers as he did so.
“You did it, Desmond, you bloody idiot. You did it.” he said, voice cracking on the last word as his whole frame became wracked with tremors and his lungs strained on sobs he hadn’t allowed himself in years.
I’m requesting fic ideas for the following fandoms (only because I am familiar enough with them and their characters):
I need to get some writing done, even if I can never publish it. I feel my writing muscles slowly withering up and dying and this is the best way to keep them in shape that I can think of, so be dears and send me things you want to see and I’ll do my best to make a decent, one chapter fic of it.
Sleeping has become the equivalent of an Olympic sport. Fitting three grown men (or rather, two men and one overzealous, demon hunting teen, as Alex likes to point out) into one bed is a fight to the finish. Alex, though he is loath to admit it, cuddles in his sleep. He tends to latch onto the closet victim and ensnare them in his grasp, with or without the creepy black tendrils. Desmond chalks it up to his lack of human contact after his infection. Alex ends up holding Dante out the window of their apartment whenever the teen laughs at him about it (not that the drop would do much harm to the boy anyway). Dante, much like his conscious self, is a chaotic tornado. Sometimes he needs space, sometimes he burrows close, most of the time he falls out of the bed from all his twisting, turning and shoving (he swears it’s Alex’s fault but neither of the others have actually caught the virus in the act yet). Desmond is the happy medium and normally takes the middle spot, to separate the two extremes. But sometimes he wakes up at night, screaming and thrashing over phantom losses, images of Ezio’s brothers or Altair’s family flashing through his head as the Bleeding Effect runs its course. On nights like those gentle kisses and murmured comforts flows from either side of the bed, to sooth the young assassin back into peaceful sleep. And in the morning they always awake to find themselves all entangled, unable to discern which limb belongs to whom and whose hand has found its way where.
“Come on guys,” Desmond interjects, shoving arms between the two men and attempting to pry them apart, “We’re in a public place, is the macho stare down really necessary?”
Dante grunts, a smirk wriggling its way across his bruised face. Alex isn’t much better, glaring through slit eyes at the dark-haired teen. Both are reluctant to be the first to break contact and Desmond can almost taste the tension in the air. “Please, not right now? I have to come back to this shop every week! People know me here!” He struggles with pulling the two towards a more secluded part of the grocery store, where there won’t be as many prying eyes. The young assassin can already see the old lady from down the street peering at them from behind her enlarged bifocals.
“How ‘bout this? You both can pick one if you promise to stop making a scene?” he pleads, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. Both pairs of eyes flicker his way and back again before Alex backs off, followed soon by a grinning demon hunter. Desmond heaves a sigh of relief, running a hand through stubbly hair. He pulls open the first freezer door he can find and peers inside, “Alright, one carton of strawberry sundae for Dante and one plain vanilla for Alex.” The assassin begins to shut the glass door when a black tendril silently creeps its way past him and retrieves a small container of coffee flavored ice cream. Alex tosses the box to Desmond who just manages to catch it before it slips to the floor. “Don’t forget you,” the virus mutters quietly, hooking a finger in one of the assassin’s jean belt loops. Desmond feels the faint burn of a blush rise on his cheeks before leaning in for a quick peck on the man’s chin. Not to be forgotten, Dante leans in close, impatiently waiting for his own kiss which is promptly given.
“But seriously you guys, this is the last time I take either of you shopping with me.”
Just sayin; he so deserved it. Grandpa should know better then to mess with gramps.
What if Altair could swim and it was just Desmond who was having a hard time of it? By the time he switched to roaming Ezio’s life, he had learned enough from drowning to swim? And this whole time, we’ve been blaming Alty without question?
I feel like a shit human being if this is true.
I can’t say how much I love this…
reblogging again because it’s necessary
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
- “The Eagle” Lord Alfred Tennyson
You know, the first time I read this poem was in the ninth grade and I remember telling my English teacher that it reminded me of Nacho Libre (much to his amused dismay), when Ignatio dives off the cliff after drinking the yolk of an eagle egg. But now that I can appreciate the nobler side of it, I associate this poem with so many other things. Like Assassin’s Creed and Sherlock. Sure, it still carries that sort of whimsical charm that I first associated it with, but I have a feeling it’s constant reoccurence in my life is what really makes it so special to me.
“Ezio Auditore de la la la.”
This would explain why I love Assassin’s Creed so much.