seviiul

[seviiul]

KAS KEEGI TEIST

MÄLETAB BANAANI JOGURTIT

MITTE SEDA PRAEGUST MIS ON IMETILLUKESTES PAKKIDES

ma TÄIEGA mäletan et meil eksisteeris seda samades pakkides nagu see 1kg Tere Emma maasika jogurt mis tänap��evil saame

ja ma mäletan et ma ei tahtnud ei mingit muud jogurtit, vaene vanaema pidi kaks tüüpi 1kg jogurtit ostma iga kord kui me külas olime

ja ma ka mäletan et viimane kord kui ma midagi sellist sain ma olin viie või kuuene

ja ma enam ei leia seda e-poodides sest nad ei tooda seda :C

.

( ma nägin kedagi internetis tegemas banaani pudingut ja mul tekkis KOHUTAV tahe banaani jogurti jaoks )

[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]

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]

Low-key tweaking out on the navigation post

It doesn't necessarily look bad

But like

I keep looking at it and it feels like smth ain't right 🙏😭

[seviiul]

Any of y'all have ORAL exams for your language classes in highschool/college?

Because I just completed mine for IB Spanish SL ~30 minutes ago

And JESUS CHRIST

MIS ESPAÑOL ES TERRIBLE ⚰️⚰️⚰️⚰️

[seviiul]

I hate how I misunderstood and thought "What's William Faulkner (like that author from the 30's) doing in the 1700's" and I got a brief whiplash 🙏💀

I find it so funny how chill Faulkner is about having Haytham aboard the Aquila when he and Ratonhnhaké:ton chase after Church knowing how he and Achilles were the only two survivors of the attack on the homestead that Haytham coordinated in 1763 and that the Aquila was the ship that was chasing Haytham while he was on the Providence

Like... Faulkner nearly lost his ship once trying to chase Haytham into a storm, then had it completely destroyed by the Templars, THEN saw all of his fellow Assassins get killed by Haytham, Weeks and Gist, and now 15 years later that man is with him on the Aquila and he's just like ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[seviiul]

Looking at the ways people format their fics (like, how they cite titles and provide overviews and how they decorate them and all that) and has me loving how people get creative with stuff like that (like how @ridingtorohan and @sun-snatcher do)

But it also makes me wonder that do y'all even see the fonts I use??

Like

I've had instances where some people with specific devices weren't able to see special fonts and everything in that format just appeared as those boxes

One of those boxes you might get if your phone doesn't have an emoji for something like another phone brand does

[seviiul]

Assassin's Creed set 4 ❤️ Ratonhnhaké:ton/Connor

I had so many ideas for him but I also had to make choices 😭 I should probably make some bonus sticker in the future hm... BTW!!! I will setup a way to download all the stickers I made on my kofi or somewhere else for ✨free✨ (and personnal use only) STAY TUNED 👁️v👁️

[seviiul]

Awesome sauce

And with how he first was at the very start of AC2

It fits

patron request!

[seviiul]

Ya we got an idea on how traveling to 1700's Assassin's Creed goes for us

But how would individual, self-insert(?) scenarios with specific characters look like

Like me and Connor for example: think about it,

This is two 17 year olds from completely different eras involved in the American Revolution

What could go wrong

Tell me your own ideas as well; I'm curious

[seviiul]

I have

A lot to say

For one yes(??)

Because sadly I never really hear an accent in my own voice but I keep having people tell me I have one

Either via pointing out I have this distinct accent (Estonian) and ask me where I'm from

Or via blatantly saying I now sound American when speaking Estonian (yes this one is targeted)

this isn't about whether you have one or what qualifies as an accent (bc every type of speaking is an accent yknow).

I'm talking about the self-perception of one's voice & word choices esp in comparison to others (and the media we consume).

To clarify:

As a self-perception thing, even if you code switch or anything like that, do you see the manner you speak most comfortably in as an accent?

Doesn't have to be whether u see ur english as having an accent. Go ham w any language

the option "I used to", it can be that you either used to perceive your manner of speaking as accented but don't any longer, or you purposefully taught yourself to change how you speak

Ex. I do feel like I have an accent bc I work in a very multi-cultural area, have most of my friends online, and my family have their own accents I've partially adopted from. I notice how I speak in comparison to others quite often

[seviiul]

MY NAIL

FFFUUUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK

[seviiul]

Make us proud 🫶🫶 lmao

My job has me pretend to be an sassy mother fucker, so I call upon my inner Haytham Kenway by watching clips

[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]

When you find pins/posts/things talking about tips on writing this plot the smooth way and writing that scene the correct way and then you're wondering what was going on in your writing process for creating that Arno fic then(???)

[seviiul]

EVIEEEEEEEEEE

JACOOOBVBB

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—

Nocturnal Animals

[seviiul]

When you be writing your fic and be frickling and frolicking thinking abt more ideas but then you're suddenly just mega self-conscious about your writing skills and now you're just

Ä. 😭😭😭