#💤 :: 𝒑𝒔𝒚𝒄𝒉𝒆'𝒔 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒆

[seviiul]

𝒏𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒊 𝒊𝒏 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒔

𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 :: ( general scenarios ) "How do the main assassins work around the fact that (S/o) practices the language of flowers?"

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 :: ( assassin's creed ) Altaïr, Ezio, Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor, Edward, Arno, Jacob, Evie, m!Eivor; gender neutral reader

𝐁𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 :: none; unless you're afraid of flora(..?)

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 :: For one this had MANY rewrites because I wanted to keep it short enough while still covering all the main points(?). Also, there are SO many meanings to flowers out there — but for the sake of fiction we're only going to include the romantic aspects that I got arharharh enjoy

ALTAÏR

There was some initial.. indifference, towards flowers in general as they weren't much of importance in his line of work— that is unless someone manages to conjure a flower species directly related to Pieces of Eden. But regardless, if he was to do something with flowers, it would be rather difficult to grow them up in sweet old Masyaf unless they're specifically adapted to grow in harsh, mountainous climates.

And yet somehow (S/o) still managed to integrate the special tongue into the two’s relationship, having to endure Altaïr’s initial confusion at the bouquets and dried flowers they had along, and then his reasoning on why he doesn't see the need behind using them. BUT he eventually got the gist that this wasn't about practicality. Just affection.

After having skimmed through all kinds of meanings behind flowers the both of them could get hands on, next to his trial and error on understanding the language (and his instances of messaging an insult at you on accident), it had become this almost regular exchange of Damascus Jasmines: a sign of love, with an additional statement of how they feel home with each other.

EZIO

It's no surprise that he would know that there is meaning behind flowers — look how roses came to be the symbols of love and Aphrodite! And for years he has gifted them to women as a show of his interest and a way to woo them into an interaction with him. That also applied to meeting his now beloved. So it wasn't difficult for (S/o) to introduce more flowers; more different ways to arrange them; the vast range of meanings each of the flowers carry and how they can vary from place to place—

Getting back to roses, as classic as they are, he didn't want to exchange any with (S/o) the more committed their relationship became. He has seen the potential other flowers carry and what definition his beloved had given to a bouquet of varying flowers as means of conveying a message. Roses can be defined as love and passion by the flower language, but everybody knows that. In a way, they are too generic for him to show what (S/o) means to him. He's dissatisfied. He wants to do something different, especially per the encouragement of (S/o) to experiment.

So he sticks to sending sunflowers: as easy as they are to cultivate in Italy, they mean happiness, longevity, and loyalty, always arriving into the hands of his love as yellow and orange as the radiance of the burning Sun.

RATONHNHAKÉ:TON

He had once put in the work to get flowers so a friend had some for his courting, but to be frank he hadn't used the flowers in any decorative way after that; mostly making use of them as herbal medicine or spice or flower-based tea. So when (S/o) introduced flower arrangement and meanings behind flowers, he wasn't shy to point out how they also benefit them both in their endeavors.

Although it was pretty evident his beloved struggled with self-satisfaction in terms of how the flowers are: they were pretty used to working with much more colorful and unique flowers, but it felt like Colonial America has it all too bland. It wasn't like they could just get more vibrant flowers from Europe either, especially with how pricey it was to deliver them and how long it took to arrive!

So he resorted to finding what local flora North America has which (S/o) has pointed out: Black-Eyed Susans; Honeysuckles; Vervains, and else. The ones he doesn't recognize make him wonder just what meaning they have, and what are their names (a rare occurrence)

But in terms of what flowers he'd present, he had traveled West to acquire seeds in an attempt to grow Columbines in the Homestead, particularly to gift them in compositions of three: an arrangement having come to mean faith, hope, and love.

EDWARD

Now as much as he has gifted flowers to people dear to him— like his daughter and so— one cannot deny he does NOT give much of a fuck about flowers unless they are mighty expensive to grow, let alone to get hands on. Because, you know.. pai-ruh-see 🏴‍☠️

So it wasn't a surprise when he looked at (S/o) funny when they were picky about their (albeit limited) flower choice when they once traded in Nassau. And as much as he was hearing out their reasoning, he briefly had a headache trying to wrap his head around all this new information on what can this flora stand for and what message can that flower convey. He usually just went for what looks pretty and his person of choice might like and that's it.

Although a question did arise that could aquatic plants have any kind of meanings applied to them — so at times he comes across water streams and picks up a Calla Lily or a Lotus to hand (S/o) when he sees them – and from there he’d get a yet another headache that colors of the petals are a factor in definition as well.

He’d take note how land flowers are incredibly vibrant as well, at least in the islands of the Caribbean he traverses in; ranging from the pink Hibiscuses to Barbados Lilies. His first choice, though, out of all of them is to gift his beloved yellow bells – a shrub flower, yes, but their trumpet-like blossoms symbolize joy, new beginnings, and promises of happiness: something that he strives to achieve for the both of them.

ARNO

He is pretty aware that flowers have an importance in courting people; also that roses are very often used in that process: I mean, what kind of a City of Romance would Paris be if roses weren’t a commonplace?

Although when it came to his (S/o), flowers weren’t at first only a subject of courting: with their vast knowledge on flowers in the first place, Arno also made some use of it within his salon. Certain flowers had come to resemble the fleeting seasons, and also an incoming holiday if there was one: French Daisies had decorated the tables of Café Théâtre at the start of spring to resemble this new season; Daffodils are always set out around St. Patrick’s Day to symbolize good luck; and Panicle Hydrangeas are placed in celebration of autumn. And hey they also had come to be useful in the kitchen, as the herbs (S/o) provided added to the dishes and also included new items into the menu, now having flower-based teas and all, like lavender and chamomile.

What he does with their flower language can entirely vary from the events that he went through. If we only look at before tragedy, he could put much work into what flower bouquets he’d gift to (S/o), and he’d have no problem with making them either as subtle or grand as he wanted them to be. Next to the obvious choice of roses, there were times he’d gift his lover daisies, the particularly blue ones resembling long-term commitment and trust. He can’t ask much from them or crack a joke wondering when will he get a flower or a few: he can simply embrace them, and he’d receive the comforting smell of so many flowers that he might get dizzy.

JACOB

He's heard of the flower language, but he doesn't use it: at least not the way one would expect in the Victorian Era, a time when flower language was in fact standardized as public affection was frowned upon.

As much as (S/o) does put care into their flowers of choice, they mostly do it as a purpose of gifting. Jacob, however, has started to use it as means of conveying a message or information, a certain arrangement of varying flowers being capable of carrying on much about anything if done right: it can look silly, yes, but because of how common the language of flora is at the time, he's aware he can use it to his advantage.

.. He and his beloved may and may not also use it to entertain themselves: just to rouse a reaction out of unknowing spectators, they give, they toss, they full on throw bouquets at each other with a vast range of meanings behind each; one time making a show of absolute devotion to one another, and the other conveying disgust, initiating an emotional rollercoaster out of bystanders: all while the culprits disappear behind a corner while cackling together.

But sometimes, aside the Assassin duties and their shared antics, Jacob just prefers to hear what (S/o) has to say about a flower or so, occasionally coming from a patrol to sit down with a couple flowers and hear what they mean, much to the delight of his beloved. Or he comes to embrace them from behind, holding a precious flora as a means of apology for leading a Blighter to their doorstep when he was chased by one.

He also likes to put in the work sometimes to cut from the stem a little and make sure the flower bud sits behind (S/o)’s ear, being able watch them laugh and try to improve its placement. His favourite choice is flowers from heliotropes; standing for heartfelt adoration he has for them.

EVIE

Oh she knows really well about the language; she likely has had occasional exchanges or one sided confessions with these bouquets after all. It's just that she hasn't been able to incorporate it much to her life the busier she came with the London Assassin Brotherhood.

It's probable that she'd take on delivering information via flora as well: as commonplace the flower tongue is, it would be hard to suspect anything about them. Although there's doubt that she'd do those arrangements just for the purpose of aesthetics. It's appealing to see (S/o) do so, however, having gained a first impression on that outside London with an arrangement of Cornflowers, Chamomiles, and some Wheat: no, it did not have any meaning behind this bunch of petals.

There was this brief idea that a flower shop would make it easier for her beloved to do what they love; becoming a full time florist and regularly being able to put in their work. But by the words of (S/o), she had to realize them practicing the language of flowers in pursuit of profit would only drain them, losing the passion for in the process.

So by agreement they only stick to sending information to cooperators, and also sharing a private kiss while giving each other a pair of white and red chrysanthemums, white meaning loyalty and red meaning joy and love.

EIVOR

HERBS. That's his knowledge on flowers summarized. He has made tea out of them to warm his body in colder days; he has collected them by the request of the Seer and villagers in need; he has used them as means of medicine as well.

Eivor would have (S/o) tell him the advantages of, or at least identify, unrecognizable flora in their travels to England — obviously to end up not ingesting something poisonous, not wanting to do what could've been so easily prevented.

He did become intrigued over his lover’s particular interest in flowers, especially the supposed meaning behind them. It wouldn't be surprising to see him return to Ravensthorpe with some herbs, having picked out a certain flower he saw on the way and hear out what it stands for. And of course from there he received the shock of how varying their meanings can be, having recalled the same flower having a completely different symbolism back in Norway.

He more regularly, if given the opportunity, comes back with a small bundle of snowdrops, symbolizing hope, new beginnings, and the overcoming challenges, the beginnings parts being especially suitable for the springtime they bloom in.

© SEVIIUL do not plagiarize, steal, use for AI, repost on another platform.

[seviiul]

Lmao made one of those whispers *disappears*

[seviiul]

Thinking about mama country (Estonia) celebrating Mother Tongue Day today and, after seeing @unofficial-estonia 's reblog on Estonian fic statistics, am thinking that fuck I might as well write an assassin's creed fic in estonian, for its in respect to the celebration and having an estonian fic sounds fun and all

But oh my god

I haven't written beyond a couple sentences in one go in Estonian for 4 years 😭

It's not helping my Estonian skills have,,,

Decayed

So my writing style would look vastly different from what I've done so far in English too 🙏💀

[seviiul]

𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚

𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 :: ( one shot, 5.0k words ) who knew it would be so hard for him to try maintain an image of this ‘older brother’ figure, resorting to many acts of desperation to keep his sweet kin around.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 :: ( assassin's creed ) platonic yandere!Jacob Frye, gender neutral reader (written to have a boyfriend)

𝐁𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 :: quite ooc Jacob(?); descriptions of alcoholism; controlling behavior; mentions of stalking; Jacob AND Reader being stubborn; a gal gets shot in the foot; Jacob assumes he’s been betrayed; a guy cheats on Reader; multiple minor character deaths; descriptions of death, violence, injury, blood, corpses

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 :: Holy MOTHER did it take me a while to get it done (proceeds to get like half of it written in a day). Also I'm experimenting with designations —like (Name)— bcs (Y/n) feels too overused and (S/o) doesn't feel right in non-romantic fanfics 🙏🥲 give more ideas what to use pls

Jacob, here, had met someone.

He, frankly, had no idea what their background was when he first helped them out on a menial task.

It could’ve been a Templar, taking advantage of their albeit unexpected encounter to try learn about his tactics. Maybe a lowly urchin just waiting to snag some pounds out of his pockets. Or perhaps one of Starrick’s elite men he didn’t know of, changing methodologies and now aiming to confront him directly.

Regardless, meeting him resorted to a couple awkward “Hello's” when passing each other by, small talk here and there, and invitations to be in company with him and the Rooks. The lingering want for each other's presence further increased. Their bond bloomed.

Reasoning might range from his friend's attitude towards tasks; straightforward and no loose ends, like how he does. Or maybe how they listened well, able to hear what he has to say on various matters without applying any sort of judgement he had grown familiar with hearing, but still got annoyed with. Or it was this — admiration, they had for his goals, intending to reach out to the disadvantaged in the cruel society built with Templar ideals and with blistered hands; to provide liberation to the ‘worst’ and take down the self-proclaimed ‘best’, no matter the cost it will be for Jacob. There was this almost mythical idealism to this, this dream of him being like a Prometheus for others after having seen the plight they experienced under Templar rule over London. A dream that can seem pretty unrealistic in some people's eyes, but it’s what drives Jacob on. It's what provides determination to keep helping, to keep protecting those in need. That protection also extends to his sister and (Name).

This same.. protection came in different forms. Generally it was the usual not letting them get randomly stabbed by a nobody when walking, and telling them to be careful, but mostly it's not letting them get involved in more hazardous Assassin errands, as knowledgeable or skillful as they could be. The idea of them getting hurt, if not fatally, when it could've been so easily prevented, always elicited this sickening feeling in that little heart of his.

In more.. rarer, instances, Jacob might accompany them to their errands, saying he wants to satisfy his curiosity. Saying how they already had insight on what he does, so it’s pretty fair if he learned about their own social life too. Good thing (Name)’s friends didn’t seem to mind him, enjoying his go-with-the-flow attitude and getting a laugh with him whenever they tease his little friend here together. He kept the moments sweet, always backing off on those antics if necessary: that is, if he still came along upon the saying the errand is more personal than what he can be there for.

He’d also have them stay in the company of him and the Rooks a little more than just for a few lousy minutes, the length of that time seamlessly extending whenever before they leave for the time being. He knows they might have their own matters to attend to – so does he! Like how he is yet to get his job done with the Templars! It’s just that aside from his sister and the man of her fancy, he doesn’t really have anyone to linger around: Sure, he literally has the Rooks, and he does make sure to stay open with the members, staying friendly and honest and all. But he’s still their leader; a friendship with a man you deem your superior is not the same as with someone your equal. So he wants to cherish what he gets with (Name).

However, to call it friendship didn't feel right. At this pace one should still be starting off with calling him an acquaintance. But with how he invited them into his circle so openly, how much he told them about anything, trivial or personal, how often he did things with them together, someone could suspect the two to be lovers: but that didn't feel right either, not even to Jacob. But one thing was for sure, (Name) trusted him with their life.

He very much made sure they express whatever they had to say to him whenever there was something troubling them. But to hear this from them, to hear about how they trust him dearly, caused him to momentarily stay silent. Jacob laughed it off when questioned though, teasing that they said it so incomprehensibly he had to process what they actually said. But it was evident he took that to heart.

Knowing this, he does here and there ask (Name) about how they’re doing, have they been up to anything lately, and tags them along with him more. While having this relaxed and confident attitude to his walk, a natural state, he still became a lot more observant on their surroundings. Those changes were discreet.

He loved hearing about what they had to say on their friends. He heard them out whenever they had a blast at a certain occasion, whenever they had something interesting discovered, whenever they had some kind of grievances against a friend. That’s where the further observation came in, in which Jacob would specifically ask about the less savory company, the person being someone he’d look into more individually next to telling (Name) to cut the friend off. If not, he goes to the person himself and tells them to leave his sweet kin alone.

It was strange to (Name) how whenever he warned about a friend who did something questionable, they suddenly have a fallout or they have to leave for another city. They suspected that Jacob had something to do with this, but they couldn’t jump to conclusions given they don’t have much to deem that assumption true. Or were they the problem in those broken friendships? Not really, given he had assured them it wasn’t their fault that their friend was like this. He simply observed and picked up on what could be problematic, and simply warned (Name). It just took a while for them to trust his judgement. He promised he’d be there for them if something worse happened between them and a friend.

…

But it's not like there was this emerging want to literally protect (Name) from everything; to shield them from the rest of the world and keep them unbearably naive to any sort of negativity;

it's just that he was more aware of what's best for them. He was annoyed though how they didn't seem to realize that, in which they, time and time again, try to argue with his decisions, saying that he's acting like he knows them better. But he does know!

Like how he knows many of their friends are a bad influence on them! Just days ago (Name) and a few of their buddies made a name for themselves with how they trampled stumbled clumsily from bar to bar in celebration of the incoming Summer that night; how they were hopping from place to place while wasting away pounds on beer; wine; absinthe; whiskey; whatever they could still taste as alcohol had dulled the taste buds beyond sensing any flavors in the substandard drinks or any of the burning sensation in one’s throat as one swallows; whatever still caused this whiplash, this obvious downgrade of the senses as they blur beyond feeling anything if not incoming vomit traveling up the esophagus.

It was beyond midnight by the time they wrapped up their marathon. It being done by blacking out in the building's alleyway as their impulsivities had them so drunk, they no longer can distinguish between south and west; between are they walking or standing with no effort put into staying upright as their spines arched forward; between are their loud declarations straightforward in meaning and words or clear nonsense to any bystanders who could only grimace from their reeking of alcohol as they passed by, perhaps cursing and complaining.

Is this what Evie would feel whenever she watched Jacob return from similar rounds with the Rooks, as he observed for hours how (Name)’s drunkenness got progressively worse? This,,, disgust, over the lack of self-control and the company that reduced them into something like this; this worry over their well-being and how would they handle the drastic after effects of binge drinking this hard; this blank thought that wouldn't go to the back of his head, quietly seething over what kind of ‘friends’ are these people his dear kin was trapped with.

However; it just wasn't the moment to stay and let the ends of his thoughts meet. Hence why he straightened himself up and climbed down one of the roofs he had waited; observed the friend group at (roughly an hour.. Or perhaps a little more) and approached the alley to check the conditions of each of them — He left the rest there though, having (Name) on piggyback as he carried them away from that wretched place. He wanted to dissociate from the idea that they do something like that, at least until he tells them they shouldn’t be around people who are so obsessed with alcohol.

..

“Who are you to tell me about who I should be in company with?” (Name) for once spat out, having strutted back and forth during their ‘louder discussion’. Jacob in the meantime inhaled, thinking that maybe he shouldn't have brought that up after all.

“You’re not listening, (Name). They’re not good news! I’m telling you that it won’t end well if you keep going out with them!”

“Oh so you found me drunk with them just this once and now you think they're going to coax me into a crime ring.” The sarcasm was strong in their voice as they scoffed. So many thoughts hung unseemingly in the air, ranging from how annoying it was to (Name) how much Jacob wanted them to cut off friends over the most menial mistakes or actions. Jacob on the other hand was annoyed over how they didn’t accept the idea, over how they doubted his judgement again.

“You know that’s not what I mean — I mean that I’m concerned over your health if that’s all you do with them in particular!. Don’t go out to drink like that!

“You’re saying this as if you don’t get drunk with the Rooks too.” (Name) commented, causing him to be slightly taken aback. It was true; it would seem pretty hypocritical to say it’s harmful but still do it anyway, wouldn’t it?

But he had an answer, albeit delayed; he replied with “Is it really so bad to not take good advice that you don’t seem to acknowledge? How is it that you find what I say a problem now and not earlier!?” His tone became progressively angrier, if not confused.

“Maybe it’s because you didn’t have me break friendships over the smallest things back then!”

“Going bar to bar wasting money until you’re blackout drunk is not ‘the smallest thing’. Especially if you do it all the time!” He continued, raising his voice with them as he kept observing their movement.

Their face grimaced in sudden thought, silence briefly engulfing them both. Jacob wanted to tell them, tell them to stop this nonsense, maybe compromise. He could only open his mouth before (Name) asked “How do you know I went to multiple pubs a couple days ago?”

He blinked in confusion, briefly wide-eyed. He evidently didn’t expect them to ask that.

“I’m assuming you did. And I think you’ll do that again and–”

“Did you watch me and my friends go to pubs yesterday?” Next question emerged, their grimace deepening as their eyes widened in both anger and disbelief. Maybe disgust as well.

“I watched a little. The last and the one before. That is if — if it was more than that.” Jacob answered, his voice having calmed a little in the sudden surprise, but the tenseness was still there. But oh, those eyes betrayed him. He was there a lot longer than that.

“That’s really fucking creepy, you know that?”

“(Name) –”

“You know what, nevermind! Say what you want. Just don’t be a weirdo and watch me mind my business you’re not involved in.” They shook their head as they started walking, heading towards the exit of the train cart they were arguing in.

“(Name)!” Jacob called for them again as he quickly stood up, wanting to follow suit.

“Listen to me!” He yelled as the door hit shut in front of him. He huffed at that, knowing they won’t hear him out even if he was to pursue them. They already didn’t upon the advice he gave them. What they both need right now is to calm down, maybe meet again over what to do with this friend group.

…

Where they went outside the train hideout was unknown. But one thing was for sure, the ending part of the conversation felt sickening to (Name).

They couldn’t put a finger on it as there were many mixed emotions lingering from his confrontation. Anger at him hiding the truth, like how he stalked watched them the whole night. Disbelief over how could he do something like that. Worry over their friends, and how will Jacob continuously tell them to cut those friends off.

Except that worry was exponential, and that wasn’t worry.

Paranoia. The thought of what would Jacob exactly do slowly started to eat away at their thoughts as they kept walking. They knew it was brotherly love from him wanting to look out for them, but it didn’t feel right. Their skin felt a bit clammy at the thought. No words seemed to be able to come out. Their hand went to their mouth the more they spiraled over what he could do to cut them off. How will he persist? Will he stick to words? Will he do more than just spew words at them? Will he do that to their friends?

Just what will he do?

The mere idea caused their stomach to churn in discomfort.

They didn’t want to think about it.

They need to go.

They need to do something to get their mind off of that.

...

They hadn’t spoken for weeks. It was evident their argument left a mark on (Name) and Jacob alike.

The fact they hadn’t was distracting to him. For days he had been working on his pursuit for Templars. But he seemed to have his eyes on everything else as well as he was patrolling on the roofs for any Templar presence, in the meantime hoping to find (Name) anywhere in hopes that they’d come and apologize for being wrong about his judgement — and he’d apologize too! He’d tell them he shouldn’t have been weird and let them do their things without being watched. He’d assure he wouldn't do something this drastic again for the sake of maintaining their bond.

That moment was when he noted some Templars laughing boisterously down on the walking path. It was a group of 6, adorned with a mix of Blighters and a couple of Templars with no affiliation to the gang. With their looks around the street they seemed to be looking for trouble.

The group went on into a pharmacy store, notably dragging the apothecary out by the collar as she dropped a couple vials. They seemed to be asking for something. Their conversation was hard to hear, but from the looks of it, they were asking for money in exchange for protection from Assassins. But she seemed to refuse, evident in her scowl.

IS THAT (NAME)?!

They pulled through the group of people to be in front of the apothecary, talking to her as well, as if to convince her to provide the cash, that it’s for her own good. Jacob couldn’t budge to do anything but stare, eyes wide and mouth agape in disbelief under his hood.

He watched how the woman shook her head again, stubborn to give in to the request. They pulled out a pistol over that, causing him to gasp.

“No,”

“No no no no no no don’t do that -–”

He exasperatedly groaned in defeat as they did, in fact, shoot her— right in the foot— causing him to turn to lay on his back on roof tiles as he listened to the apothecary woman cry out in pain.

Unbelievable, he thought, rubbing his nose bridge as he thought what to do next. Just how did they end up amongst the Blighters of all people!?

No no. There was a new threat in this district. He needed to think about how to eliminate it; how to get it back into the hands of the Assassin Brotherhood and the Rooks.

But he was impatient to do something about it. In a way, he was pretty pissed off over what (Name) was up to. To think he let them into his circle only to find out they’re now getting into bed with Blighters? What’s next, telling Starrick personally what he’s up to?

He’ll probably let the Rooks handle them. That’ll teach them about who they should and shouldn’t be in company with.

..

Now one would say Jacob himself acts oddly as of late.

To be frank, his decisions; ideas; actions are always rather questionable: not in the way that they make most people question his morals, but more of how is he still alive with this supposedly brash aspect of his character.

Well, his actions towards sweet (Name) have been questionable too, but this is something else. If a familiar paid attention to his movement, changes to his behavior are vast: his shoulders a little more tense; his walking being less of confident, leisurely patrol and more so indicating purpose; the huffs from his nose reflecting his crazy fast heartbeat as he is making a futile attempt at controlling his breath.

And oh,

his gaze.

Also his expression.

The furrowing of his brows and widened eyes of his grimace exposed so much anger, threatening to burst out as he was currently marching down the street. And his silence acts as a warning to try not to alleviate it.

To think several minutes ago he watched how (Name) barged into the train cart, fat tears rolling down their cheeks, resorting to go and hold his dear kin in a warm, comforting embrace, hearing what they had to say as he placed a kiss on their tear-stained face to soothe them. Hearing what made them cry through their choked sobs, the cause having, evidently, very much upset them. Given how it took them a while to soften to his touch, he figured they didn’t want to see him. And yet, they came to him, having none else to go to for solace.

..So this was because of a man. A man completely estranged in Jacob’s eyes, but worthy of much attention in (Name)’s own when they first introduced the man to him. A man who, by Jacob’s belief, had slithered his way both into their life and between their bond, trying to turn them against him and make them lose their trust in him completely. Someone must’ve soured their views on his judgement and kept their time away from him, somehow.

Tears, tears, tears; oh how many unnecessary tears were shed for someone Jacob deemed unworthy of (Name)’s affection by then; someone he deemed a traitor. He held incredibly high expectations for this man after all, expecting him to protect and look out for them as much and as dearly as he did. And now the man doesn't anymore? Just like that?

In that same embrace (Name) realized — (Name) felt — the dear ‘eldest brother' may not be up to any good: his hold became progressively tighter, shudders making their way through his body as he held in this adrenaline rush, rooted in this mix of emotions he felt: anger at their ex, sadness for his kin, need to act; need to show how much pain they went through because their man decided to do something this selfish as to go behind their back and bring anyone but (Name) to their bed.

So, quickly the comfort they felt from Jacob’s embrace turned into fear for what he'd do. It was evident in their eyes too, with how they gawked as he slowly loosened the embrace, his grimace forming as he started to walk around the train cart, seemingly picking up a couple things.

“Are you going to kill him?” They shook as they watched in fear, their heartbeat picking up. They spotted a knife sliding into his pocket, alongside his brass knuckles.

“Jacob are you going to kill him?!” They proceeded to shout, not having gained any reaction from him since they poured out their feelings that stung at their heart. They only got a reply, “Be right back,” following a smooch on the forehead and a reassuring rub at their back, before he left the cart.

“Jacob!” They shouted again.

“Stop!” And again, as they followed suit, unable to keep going after he used a grappling hook to get to the roofs.

…

And now there he was, looking around for this supposed sweetheart of theirs who dared to wrong them. Who dared to wrong him. He supposed that he should be close, given he was around the block his address is registered in.

He found him. Talking to a lady, seeming very comfortable with doing that. The sight only made Jacob’s blood boil even more.

“You!” he shouted, voice strained in anger while pointing at him. The man quickly turned his gaze at him, not wasting time to take off. Oh, he knew very well what Jacob was there for.

But running won’t save him today.

Jacob picked up pace as well, making much progress to chase after him as the lady foreign to the situation could only come around, confused. It wasn’t long before she stood still, aghast from the sight of him having tackled this coward down.

He started to punch at him. Not aimlessly, of course: going right at his face, sometimes his neck.

Face, for Jacob doesn’t want to see his face around dear (Name) again, but figuratively and literally.

Neck, for he doesn’t want to hear any of his lousy lies he’d make up, either denying he did it, or that he’s got the wrong guy. Oh, please. The man is vastly underestimating what Jacob is like. He knows that’s him; and he knows he’s now too scared to admit what he’s done.

There’s no need. He doesn’t want to hear him anyway. Not even his cries of apology.

He delivered another blow. And a second. And another. He kept going even as he watched the man’s face become further bloodied, it only driving him further on teaching a lesson.

“Stop!” The lady screamed, hands at her face as she cried, unsure how to help the helpless coward. Regardless, Jacob continued hitting him, making note of how the man’s nose was broken, face scarred, becoming further so as he was persistent in this.

“STOP!” She screamed again, the man now wheezing as the amount of blows to him decreased. Still, those blows were harmful, a couple of them leaving them unable to cry out from pain due to a punch delivered at his throat. It was all getting dark red, even in the sclera of his eyes as it became difficult to close them from the bruises and cuts from the brass, facial blood oozing into them.

“STOP!”

“STOP!”

It did.

Finally.

Jacob stood up from the battered face of the man, staring down at him as his knuckles and brass alike were bloody red. He himself had seemed to calm down from the wave of anger that had washed over him before he attacked the man. The man itself had fallen silent, pupils blown as he didn’t move. The lady threw herself at the man, crying her heart out at the sight and the predicament.

Bystanders wouldn’t dare even look at him. Not after having witnessed how he just beat a man to death.

But Jacob had an idea.

An albeit sinister one at that.

He walked up to the laying man again, gently shoving the woman aside as he picked him up, not having a care in the world over how the blood on the man’s face got onto him.

It was about time he did something about (Name)’s lousy friends, too. He had already exercised too much patience for a man of such short temper.

..

“Jacob just tell me what happened between you and my boyfriend.” (Name) spoke, voice tone serious, yet dreadful over the idea of what could’ve happened between them.

“Relax, baby bird it wasn’t anything too bad! I came, I saw, I punched, I argued. I got over him! You know how I am with things.” He replied, chuckling at his word choice as he watched them follow after him there and then.

“Right. I’ll ask him later. I haven’t seen him since he..” They abruptly stopped, shaking their head, his answer having done nothing to assure them. That fact annoyed him again.

“You might as well ask him in vivid detail. He’ll tell you if he needs to!”

They both were walking between stenching tenements, the cramped, multiple floors almost reaching to the skies as they tried to get through. There were men, women, and children alike lined up in some way or another. Some didn’t even answer as English was unfamiliar to them, some recognized Jacob from the help he provided for many of them. But the conditions of living were still there.

“The place doesn’t look the best, but I’ve made sure the Rooks are looking out for any Templars here, not to worry. Besides, everything has its charms.” Jacob eventually commented, turning his face back at them with a grin as he looked around for something specific.

“Ah, here we are.” His face brightened up as he found a door, old and crooked. But despite his appearance it only seemed to excite him more. He scooted behind (Name) and placed a piece of cloth to their eyes, causing them to tense in their body. It wasn’t long before they felt a hand around their own, its force going to be a guiding way and a way of reassuring them. That it’s alright.

“What did you even bring me here for anyway?” They eventually asked, slowly coming along as they heard Jacob push the door open, entering the abandoned tenement. To think in such desperate living conditions, not even a person wants to take advantage of this lot. It must be that bad. So why are they both going right in?

“I have something to show you. I’ve worked on it for a while.” He replied, slow in their steps so (Name) wouldn’t be disoriented too much. They could sense how they both now were stepping down a set of staircases.

That made them only more nervous, both from fear of the unknown and excitement rooting from interest on what exactly he would be up to in terms of creative work. There also rooted the idea that this is what he’s been up to all these times that he’s been absent from either missions, the Rooks, and the train.

Then they were hit with this HORRIBLE stench.

It stunk. So badly. They wouldn’t even get to pointing their finger on what smell is that before they were gagging. The smell might be even stronger given they don’t have a sense of sight, being more reliable on the rest of four.

Then they got into a halt. Seems like they’ve both arrived.

Jacob went on to turn to them again, going behind (Name) and taking off the cloth obscuring their vision.

They started to gag, momentarily, even more. It stopped as they moved back in many mixed emotions.

This project was scattered around the majority of the basement floor. The inclusion ranged from their boyfriend to their friends. All of them dead and cold.

It was only a moment before they started to stumble backwards, needing air. But they were stopped, a strong hold from Jacob’s arms keeping them in place and in front of him. They could only shake in fear and sadness and everything else, tears welling up in their eyes.

“You made horrible choices in friends, (Name). They tried to break the relationship I had with you. Break the trust and bond between us. They were going to ruin everything what was going on between us. I couldn’t let that happen!” He spoke into their ear, frantic to not let them leave. “I did you a favor. It wouldn’t have come to this in the first place if you would’ve just LISTENED-” He turned around so they looked over his shoulder instead, arms still tightly around them as they could only oogle at the corpses of their friends and boyfriend.

They were all bloodied, one way or another. Boyfriend had his face beaten beyond recognition. A couple of friends had a slit throat, among other cuts. One had blunt force injuries to the head, the side of their face still red from the blood. Else? They seemed battered to death as well. One thing was for sure. None of them had a quick nor merciful death.

His hold onto them only tightened as he felt choked sobs come from them, his hand moving to rub at their back again to alleviate it. “You don't need anyone else. I’ll make sure you still have friends from among the Rooks it’s — it’s okay, don’t cry, don’t cry. Shh..” Jacob whispered, his face moving to their ear with a couple, occasional kisses to the side of their face.

“You don’t need anyone else from the outside. Not even the Rooks if you want. You have me. I'll look out for you. I'll keep you by my side. You will always have my trust. Haven't I always been enough?” He whispered to his sweet sibling, letting their tears run once again.

© SEVIIUL do not plagiarize, steal, use for AI training, repost on another platform

[seviiul]

Okay but a platonic Connor, Reader, and Haytham dynamic can be so funny if done right

Think about it, while also ignoring this tragedy the death fallout between Connor's and Haytham's relationship was

You have this well woven friendship with Connor and help him out with less hazardous Assassin missions and other domestic things within the Davenport homestead

And then you learn about him meeting his father and plans for working with him, how he has so many questions and thoughts about their interaction. At this point you have ideas that there's at least some form of beef towards Haytham, one sided or not

And there's a certain point, for a certain reason, when you become involved and see first hand how Haytham and Connor go along their father-son dynamic

And surprisingly you get along with Haytham??? High probability that your agreements don't come in with your ideals, but you get along just great with other things like interests, experiences or shit talking people while Connor can only stare at you like "Wtf man I thought you're on my side"

And at just a moment when he needs to speak with him on something while the three of you are walking, you can hear him gently whisper "traitorrr" while passing by to approach Haytham

..IF we try to make something more romantic out of this, it can be two things—

Either 1) with Connor, sweet yet a little angsty where at a certain point, when just the two of them are together, Haytham questions the dynamic between Connor and the friend of his. Upon learning that he has grown to romantically like them, he approves of his choice and advises him to pursue them, a fatherly aspect inside him happy to hear about his son's love life and the fact that he has met his soon-to-be lover before things turn to the worst for them both;

Or 2) where Reader starts to get into Haytham while Connor gets a long lasting headache that lasts throughout their interactions, knowing that his friend has a crush on his dad

[seviiul]

We get us traveling into the 1700s and we get modern AU's

But what if our sweet old, non-modern storyline ac characters get transported into 2025

Specifically I'm referring to ac III / IV / Rogue era characters

Ik that for one I'd have them abstain from any of our processed snacks (sour patch kids, bubblegum, jelly beans etc) bcs if you ask me, some of these have enough chemicals and sugars to probably kill a man from the Revolutionary Era /hj

I'd love to continue on what else would go down but senioritis has made my brain feel like mush

[seviiul]

Looked at my U.S. history book because I have an exam on that soon and

It brought up, en quote, how at a certain point president Kennedy "unleashed his Irish temper" on some politicians because well John F. Kennedy's roughly 3rd-generation Irish American

Now the thing is it makes me wonder how would that look like on sweet old Shay Cormac

I didn't really pick up on enough cues from Rogue's gameplay to understand what would Shay look/act like when angry

But like

How would he lash out

How much would it take to bubble such anger out of him

Would it interfere with his communication with other Templars or would it make them want to interact with him less as, next to shunning him for being Irish AND Catholic, they also look down on him due to 'how he always has such a bad attitude with everyone'

[seviiul]

𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓, 𝒍𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒆

𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐖 :: ( oneshot ; 1.7k words ) He doesn't find his dearest in bed with him, having left... downstairs, trying to recite his middle-of-the-night piano tune he formed in his head

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 :: ( assassin's creed ) Arno Dorian; male (pianist!) reader

𝐁𝐄𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐄 :: mentions/descriptions of nightmares (Arno), mentions of death (within those nightmares)

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄 :: reader is referred to as (S/o) ( first fic! )

He doesn't understand.

For a while — a measurement long having lost its precise definition — he has awoken from dreams; memories, each one being a different person he was there for to witness the death of.

There is a range to those peoples: loved ones; familiars; some poor soldiers he needed to end for the sake of anonymity; faces he had long borne awful resentment to. The list doesn't go on for long, fortunately or not.

He has gotten used to them — in a way. Still he wakes up with cold sweat and a fast paced heartbeat; but it isn't as bad as it first was, for both him and his dear.

But Arno never fails to, every time, have moments of contemplation over those night terrors; mainly revolving around why does he must suffer from them. Wasn't being a witness enough already? Must he see these faces again any longer, and not remember them the way he did when they were still alive, instead of seeing these… distortions, in his nightmares? Must they come and haunt him again, time after a time?

Tonight was all the same: another night of bad dreams; another night of awakening with cold sweat and faltering breath. As of now he stared up at the ceiling of the room in silence, arms crossed and stomach quietly churning over the not-so-fleeting memory of what he saw.

He was growing restless over his thoughts, starting to constantly shift in his shared bed and change from position to position; none of them providing any newer sense of comfort. The quiet ticking of the grandfather clock didn't help Arno distract himself either.

What did, however, was the realization that dear (S/o) wasn't next to him, making him do a double take in the process. The certain messiness to his sheets indicate that he left in a rush; and the lukewarmness? That it was not that long ago. And of course, Arno had to go look for him!

But he didn't even get up from the bed yet before he received a hint on where he was: playing of a piano could be faintly heard from here, immediately giving him an idea where (S/o) was at. That is when he went ahead and started to walk his way towards (S/o), the gentle tune becoming increasingly more audible to him the closer he made it to his person of interest.

There he saw him at the open door of a lounging room: (S/o) was playing away at the tiles of the piano with his fingers, while his foot occasionally pressed a pedal. No music sheets were to guide him on this, his hands evidently careful with trying to figure out the right notes to press, at the same time seeming like he was holding his breath as if it would help him focus on the melody he had in mind.

And he made it all look effortless, like he’d be the second Mozart gracing Arno with his presence. He already is, in a way; letting him listen to his music so peacefully, without asking for anything in return; with no additional pomp or formality included, like in the French high society (S/o) often had to present himself to.

The moment of peace from the piano tune halted, just as suddenly (S/o)’s playing did. Arno too heard why: he had pressed the wrong piano tile and it didn’t sound right; it felt out of tune.

That second of realization was also when (S/o) let out a shaky breath, at once being able to calm his mind from the pressure he placed on himself to achieve perfection. And yet, his body wasn’t calm, his hands wanting to keep pushing away as the adrenaline rush hadn't died down just yet.

But with no more motivation to continue for now, a groan left his lips; hunching over the piano as his hand started to mindlessly press at the tiles in an attempt to find either the right tile or the second burst of motivation for the night. His other hand was in his hair, letting the side of his head rest in his palm, his fingers bunching up some strands in between as a way of getting the adrenaline out, if it meant he had to lose a couple hairs in the process.

Only by the time Arno spoke his name was when (S/o) realized he was there. He didn’t know how Arno had reacted to this tendency of his so far; he didn’t know how he figured that he was here; he didn’t know had he listened to his piano all this time. But by then, he didn’t exactly care. He worried over why wasn’t he sleeping with how.. busy, his career can be during the day; as if he himself doesn’t neglect sleep at the moment.

“Arno,” (S/o)’s voice descended to a whispering tone as his head rose up, trying to meet his gaze. “Please go back to bed, you need the sleep.” his attempt at eye contact failed as Arno placed his hand over (S/o)’s own on the piano, his mouth resting on the left side of his head while interchanging to talk into his ear.

“But what about you?” He slowly moved (S/o)’s hand off the tiles as indicator to take a rest. “You need it as much as I do. Why not join me?”

“It’s not exactly a good time to recite one of your new melodies, (S/o), don’t you think?” Arno continued on, as if he knew he would try to protest his request, saying he wants to finish the tune before he comes with him.

“It’s not the first time I’ve been up like this, monsieur,” He replied, again finding a method to say no. It was a rarity when (S/o) referred to Arno as Mister, even when in formal circles; and when he did, he does it as means to say to not boss him around, when ironically he lets those governors and governesses and whatever tell him what to play next.

To that, Arno let out an exhale, unclear was it a chuckle or a scoff at his statement. A short yet an obviously awkward pause laid unto them both, the tapping of Arno’s index against (S/o)’s back of his hand being a moment when he tries to think of a reason, a reason for him to leave that piano be for another several hours. He was still albeit determined to get him to join him in their shared bed.

“I woke up from another nightmare”, a whisper (a mutter?) from Arno, was what this time had (S/o) direct his attention at him better, now removing his hand from his hair to look up at him.

Arno wasn’t keen on using this as a reason to have him moving; this isn’t the first time (S/o) is to do something about it, and they both preferred to keep the topic of his night terrors between each other in their bedroom. But if it meant he just comes to bed and for once gets his rest with him, he was willing to go a little bit underhand.

At once he was able to meet Arno’s gaze, a sigh leaving his lips at that fact.

“Why must you suffer this way,” (S/o) whispered to him, turning from his stool to face him just to cradle Arno’s face in his hands. There was no ill intent towards that statement, not any kind of tone indicating annoyance or anger – not even slight inconvenience – to him. But it was still simply sad how great an effect an individual can have on anyone, even when long gone. A part of (S/o) knew Arno was pondering on his saying just as much as he was.

Another moment of silence between them was interrupted when Arno, face still in the hold of the other’s hands, leaned forward and gave a kiss, that catching (S/o) by surprise – it was as if he broke him out of this sorrowful, thoughtful trance; breath faltering and all from the sudden contact.

“Come on,”

No more words were exchanged following Arno’s whispered request, him slowly pulling away as he had (S/o) get up from the stool as well, guiding him to stand onto his feet via Arno’s hold onto his hands. No more words were exchanged neither following the quiet steps towards the exit of the lounging room, their hold onto each other firm yet soothing as slowly, gradually the want for sleep set in for the pianist.

“Who was it this time?” The silent corridor was suddenly audible with (S/o)’s question, head turning towards the other in reference to the aforementioned night terror. Arno’s answer being a mere rooftop soldier caused the other to let out an exhale through the nose: he did worry over the nightmares he had, and wanted to be there to let him talk, let him cry, wallow, scream – whatever, to get the tension out of his breath and mind. But he had expectations that it was a bad case of a nightmare for this one, coming all the way down to him and all.

“Bastard,”, in a lighthearted note, following a scoff, was (S/o)’s only reaction to his statement, however; a light smile crept onto his face just like for Arno, having caught him go a little underhanded to get him back to bed.

None of them had the energy to keep talking; to bicker at the little trick he pulled as their bodies were almost consciously aware that they’ll shut off for sleep soon. The need for the newlyfound comfort of the shared bed came faster as they shut the door, once again all their thoughts and sayings left in the intimate secrecy they held there.

He lied on who he saw in tonight’s nightmare.

To be frank, he didn’t recall who was it either by the time (S/o) inquired him about it; even by the time he saw him play away at that piano.

He didn’t want to, honestly; the fact that he had another one of those night terrors alone gave him this sickening feeling in the heart: he didn’t need to remember who was it about to add to it.

The 'tune' I had in mind:

© SEVIIUL do not repost, steal, use for AI training.

[seviiul]

Lmao okay but Lo-fi boy Haytham

Think about it

Think about how the atmosphere of the Lo-Fi room(??) is dim, the only provided light being the dusk outside and candles illuminating the desk

How Haytham is quiet in thought, reflecting on the documents he received from fellow Templars and how to write about it in his journal, the only noticeable sound from him being the occasional scratching of the quill against the paper and the noise of crickets and whatnot, heard as the window is opened to get fresh air in during the warm spring like this

How one could hear the faint piano playing a calming song or two outside his room, in the inn's reception area, sometimes a sad, old viola following suit as he and the other customers alike can succumb into their thoughts during a particularly thought provoking tune

[seviiul]

When you're out of writer's block and get inspiration to write but it's inspiration to write your platonic yandere Jacob Frye fanfic instead of your IB English Higher Level essay

[seviiul]

How ironic do you think it would be when one of us Haytham's fangirls gets brought into the AC3 era Boston

we meet him at a certain point

and next thing we sit down somewhere alone and go just

sighs lovingly

he's so fucking ugly

[seviiul]

When you're excited to move onto a particular fic idea you have but you're hit with writer's block immediately after opening the Google Docs you'd write it in

[seviiul]

Having your self-insert travel back in time into Assassin's Creed's 1750s-70s sounds rad but with how much information and conveniences we have accessible at this day and age I'd likely, probably, very much get a cultural whiplash in realization just how UNSANITARY and IGNORANT and STUPID so many people are

And not to mention our fundamental rights that extend to the most of the world now were either incredibly lacking or still in the works at the time

And not keeping these in mind there's a chance people would persecute us or smth for speaking BLASPHEMY against GOD when it's just basic historical trivia

Orr we'd get put the closest equivalent of a nuthouse

I have this thought that with Templars and/or Assassin's hearing about this supposed tough nut they'd try to get their hands on us because of how the info we know might be useful to them but aha

Little do they know literally most of the stuff we know would be irrelevant to their textbooks of their time or would only happen long after they're Dead™

And the misogyny???

WHOOh 🫠

I GUESS we could get by just fine if we don't speak too much but like????

Okay my train of thought died.

Me traveling to AC3 — oh sweet I get to meet Connor and Haytham and probably also meet Shay and his Morrigan crew tooo

..

What do you mean I'm the only one here who knows basic math

..

What do you mean you all still believe blood-letting is the solution to disease

..

What do you mean my mind is too fragile to wrap my head around that fact

[seviiul]

Trying to get this Jacob Frye fic done for once while listening to Richard Wagner on loop

[seviiul]

Another post on a WIP except it's a meme

(from right to left)

[seviiul]

Finally able to delve into my drafts more