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teecupangel · 1 year ago

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Another Desmond reborn as X, but this one is as Uberto Alberti's kid. Who we don't know anything about but "family" is the reason he betrayed his friend supposedly so I'd be interesting if Desmond could try and avoid it this time around.

According to the transcription of Uberto’s database in ACII:

Now, I found a backdoor into the Templars' database server, I've been combing it for some kind of smoking gun. I found it. Apparently, Uberto's family was evicted by the Medici bank. Uberto's been aching for revenge ever since, and the Templars promised him support. Ezio's father was standing in the way AND Uberto was jealous of his influence over the Florentine government. Two birds with one stone, isn't it? It looks like Uberto used his election to the Signoria as his opportunity to strike.

Apparently, he joined the Templars because the Medici evicted his family.

If he is part of the real House Alberti, there is no mentions of any evictions in wiki nor any mention of an Uberto. The Albertis were allies of the Medici as far as I read.

Returned to Florence, in the 15th century they were first allied to the Medici against the Albizzi. Main members of the period include writer Antonio Alberti, cardinal Alberto di Giovanni Alberti and architect and Renaissance theorist Leon Battista Alberti.

But wiki did say that they “divided into different lines, who owned several houses and towers near the modern Ponte alle Grazie” and “Some of them were admitted in the Venetian nobility late in the century” so maybe Uberto’s family wasn’t one of those few fortunate Albertis to gain nobility.

So, really…

Giovanni died and dragged his two sons with him because of his ties to the Medicis.

And Desmond would point that out.

In this setup, Desmond would probably think of Uberto as a good father as he did stress he did it for his family (although another setup is that Uberto is using the whole “I’m doing it for my family” to hide his greed and thirst for power but that would be a bit boring so we’ll go down the ‘a good man wishing to avenge his family’s misfortunes’ route instead).

So Desmond would want to protect his new family (especially if he has younger siblings). When they get evicted, Desmond understood why Uberto did what he did. Maybe add in the drama of the eviction being all of a sudden or not given any warning before they were evicted during a time when Firenze was having ‘money problems’.

Desmond knew that the Templars would contact Uberto then and tried to stop Uberto from saying yes to the Templars but he’d say that this was their only choice if they wish to protect their family.

(If you really wanna drive in a conundrum, one of Desmond’s siblings or his mother falls ill during this time and the financial support the Templars gave them is what kept them from dying or maybe said mother/sibling was already ill and almost died had it not been for the Templars’ money)

In the end, Desmond tries to leave the Auditores alone but, instead, Ezio found him and started to talk to him. Desmond couldn’t help but form a bond with Ezio anyway, maybe become a close friend who doesn’t really like to be seen with others.

Ezio knows Desmond spend most of his time caring for his ailing sibling/mother, and he remembers Petruccio so he has a soft spot for Desmond.

Anyway…

Uberto still becomes a Templar and Desmond tries to undermine him, first by trying to save the decoded message that Giovanni needed but that failed because Uberto knew that Desmond was trying to stop him so he’s become more ‘suspicious’. He never scolds Desmond though and he understands what his son is doing so he tells Desmond to continue to try and stop him…

“This way… no matter which sides wins, our family will be safe.”

And Desmond realized then and there that Uberto was ready to die if it meant their family would be safe and financially secured.

In the end…

Desmond helped Giovanni, Federico and Petruccio escape by unlocking their cage and telling them that Uberto’s a Templar. Desmond begs Giovanni to not kill Uberto, that he’ll be able to make Uberto understand that they have failed and they’ll leave Firenze, hell, they’ll leave all of Italia, just…

“Please… don’t kill padre.”

Giovanni promises not to kill Uberto if they leave Firenze as soon as possible.

And Desmond is able to persuade Uberto to do just that, telling him that revenge means nothing if it would lead to his death.

Now.

The happy ending would be that Desmond and Ezio would see each other and there will be this strain in their friendship because of Uberto’s betrayal that they will slowly get past.

But…

The more angst-filled route would be…

Lorenzo wants all the conspirators of the Pazzi conspiracy to be killed and Uberto was one of them. He orders Giovanni to kill Uberto and Giovanni tried to say no, at first, only to acquiesce once Lorenzo reminded him who he was ‘allies’ with.

Desmond finds an Assassin standing in front of his father’s bleeding corpse and the darkness and his shock made it hard for him to see the Assassin clearly.

All he knows…

… was that the Assassin was wearing Ezio’s robes…

In this setup, Desmond would be torn between wanting to take vengeance or being the person to cut the noose of revenge that keeps looping and looping around all of them.

His trust in the Auditores would be destroyed and Desmond would want to believe that it wasn’t Ezio, that maybe it was Giovanni or even Federico but a part of him would whisper that it could have been Ezio. Ezio wasn’t there when Desmond begged for his father’s life.

Last time he saw Ezio, he was wearing those robes…

And Desmond can’t…

… will not kill Ezio even if a part of him wished to avenge Uberto’s death.

They had no reason to kill him.

His family had exiled themselves away from Firenze, living as normal farmers of all things.

He…

He needed to know the truth.

And, once he knows it…

That’s when he’ll decide how to end this chain of vengeance.

With blood spilled… or not.

#it’s giovanni #giovanni’s the one who killed uberto #but desmond can’t be sure #his grief and desire for answers and vengeance is messing with his eagle vision #ezio has no idea that his father killed desmond’s father #federico told him desmond saved them and talked his father out of this entire thing #ezio misses desmond #but he also knows it’s better if they don’t see each other anymore #ezio and giovanni are wearing similar robes #too similar that desmond’s vague bleed memories think they’re the same #i don’t know what else to add #uuuhhh #lorenzo is just trying to avenge the death of his brother?#i guess?#no one is absolutely evil in this one #no #desmond won’t be a templar #his hatred for the borgias would not allow that #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #ezio auditore #fic idea: assassin's creed #teecup writes/has a plot #uberto alberti

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yurozo · 3 months ago

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the monomyth, (leon kennedy x reader)

the exodus, also aptly known as retirement, has been sending leon for a loop. you are there to pull him back down to earth. (smut/fluff/overuse of greek references)

a/n: 18+ readers only! anyone under eighteen will be personally chased by me at full running speed. i am very much a classics nerd, as will be glaringly obvious in about three seconds. i love you nerd leon, no one understands you like i do.

shoutout to @vaaaaaiolet who was forced to listen to me ramble about this fic for three entire days

a single structure repeats itself in an endless loop of tragedy and non-tragedy, operating through the cycles of aristotle’s poetics in order to create a universal narrative of the roman hero. prologue, parados, episode, stasimon, and exodus– recycled and reused to form the endless configurations of misfortunes that befall the heroes. what is pervasive, and often tragic, about these heroes is not their moral struggles against the physical evils, but instead an internal and divine battle against a common enemy– time.

ultimately, what defines the perfect tragedian hero is the prevailing feeling of inescapability. they cannot run from the ties of fate that rely on them as a catharsis for conflict, and instead must emotionally resolve themselves to their social positions as a weapon for the gods, regardless of the institution’s ideology. this priori of obligation forced by an infinite and perfect consciousness is what makes the tragic hero tragic; this life is not one that they choose for themselves, but one they are forced to live until that last grain of sand slips through the hourglass.

leon’s eyes had started to burn thirty minutes ago, long ignored in favour of another jstor binge at a truly ungodly hour of the night. he, at least, had the chivalry of keeping his phone brightness on the lowest setting, screen carefully tilted away from your resting eyes.

this whirlwind of information had started with the myth of perseus, followed by odysseus, and then a countless amount of papers analyzing the hubris of the tragedian heroes. supplementary material for tomorrow’s breakfast conversation, so that he can talk at length over eggs and coffee across from your bright eyes and eager expression.

that’s what always killed him, just how genuinely interested you were in whatever he said. god knows that was especially rare, particularly from the other women in his life. claire was always half-listening whenever he lost himself on a tangent, and don’t get him started on trying to get ada interested in anything he had to say.

but ada was long gone, and claire was always delighted on your talent of getting leon off her back.

how contentedly boring his life has gotten that the most exciting part of his day is your opinion on his recent fixation, just to listen to you fill in all the missing pieces he never realized were absent. you were like that in almost every aspect of his life, the golden glue that slowly puts poor humpty dumpty back together again.

wrong type of mythology. regardless, you were something he never realized he desperately needed until that warm feeling of being content started filling his chest. a passing comment on his resemblance to a greek god had established this whole spiral– a form delicately cut in marble and praised over the centuries for the countless deeds committed in a long war to protect his people.

perseus, maybe. or odysseus, but that was too easy. too cliche. leon was never one for divine glory, instead preferring the silent type of satisfaction that came from finally putting some good back in this world. or preventing more terrible things from happening, more like. a careful balancing act, another stupid cycle of finally feeling like a person again until he can get home and stop the dreams of people screaming in your ever-so-loving arms.

bellerophon is the final choice. a figure riding into battle against the monstrous chimeric beast with only a tamed ally and a lead-tipped weapon. a hero that was never satisfied, choosing bigger and bigger fights until he falls from the heavens and into the dirt below. a god angered at his success, a product of an institution that brought him into a war he never asked for as a weapon, and left him crippled to wander the world alone when he ascended too far.

maybe retirement really was getting to him. this so-called period of exodus, a final parting song and the materialization of the final crisis.

you stir in your sleep then, arm sliding across his chest until your head is tucked against his bicep. he moves to rest his arm underneath your head instead, which instead of achieving its original purpose of comforting you, only causes your eyes to blink blearily up at him.

“get off wikipedia,” you mumble, shifting the blankets until it sufficiently covers the both of you. another thing he never noticed, how cold his legs were, sprawled uncovered on the mattress. this kind of comfortable routine is where you and leon thrived, so used to each other’s presence that accommodation was natural. “you should be sleeping, we have a big day tomorrow.”

“i’m on jstor. totally different site.” he supplies unhelpfully, earning a stern glare in return. his lips peck your forehead a moment after in apology. his version of proskynesis, a gesture of reverence towards his god that showed him admiration instead of ire.

“i was thinking of taking the bike,” the change in subject is nonchalant, like it’s not three thirty in the morning and you’re definitely functioning enough for idle conversation.

“hell no,” you grumble, sinking further into the mattress. “i’m not getting on that thing with you.”

leon shifts until he’s on top of you, now wide awake and grinning slyly down. “not a fan of my chariot?”

“while i usually do love riding you, that thing is a death machine.” the glimmer of amusement in your eyes now match his own. finally, you’re actually awake. an unspoken question, a command, given from the divine to its mortal instrument. “and i’ve seen the way you drive it. i very much value my life.”

“that’s different. i can’t exactly go slow on those things when there’s rabid dogs chasing me.” he alleviates his statement with a slow string of kisses down your neck, soft and gentle like he can’t snap someone’s neck with his bare hands. “and i’ll be careful. promise.”

“like you promised not to get hurt in alcatraz?” your rebuttal doesn’t phase him, his mouth still preoccupied with tracing down your neck until his fingers start to pull the collar of your shirt down.

“extenuating circumstances,” he mutters, lowering himself down the blankets until his mouth is in line with your hips. divine fate, maybe, or some other twisted machination of a higher being that decrees his near-death every six months. it’s hard to stare up and curse at the gods when they brought you to him, his own piece of olympus pliant in his hands.

your hips lift off the mattress as he pulls at your shorts, another directive he is all too happy to follow. hunnigan would be furious at his obedience, like a dog all too happy to head the leash.

“besides,” he continues, lips brushing against the frail skin of your upper thighs. “i’m officially a retired man. long past my prime.”

why does tragedy exist? is it purely to show the power of the gods, that they so fiercely defend the threads of fate that control every aspect of their existence? is it simply a consequence of the endless cycle of war invited by a world whose very frame requires an institution to desire it? regardless of its source, a world born of this mindset cannot escape an endless cycle of war that legitimizes a world-destroying violence, with no true winner other than the institution that began it.

his clothes are pulled off quickly, following yours. scraps of fabric thrown haphazardly around the room, ignored in favour of hands tracing along the contours of your body. gentle, reverent. nails tracing down every scar, every piece of evidence that you are real, that you are alive, and there’s nothing within these four walls that can take this away from him too.

“not too far past to not be horny in the middle of the night.” you huff, curling your hand in his hair to pull him back down to you. his breath ghosts over your thighs, his tongue darting out instinctively to wet his lips.

“i’m a simple man,” he lowers his mouth to you, licking a premeditative stripe up your folds. “got a beautiful wife in my bed. just can’t help myself.”

the hand in his hair pulls him closer, and leon understands the simple action for what it is. a cue to stop talking and get to work, to use his mouth for something other than popping off one-liners at inopportune moments. a man’s place is on his knees, and all that.

where leon is rough in every aspect of his life, he is always careful with you. he eats you out like it’s somehow the last time he’s ever going to do it, and the first time he’s ever tasted anything so divine. equal parts eager and careful, even as his fingers prod at your entrance.

you jut your hips up again, and he slips two in easily. every part of you is familiar with every part of him. his tongue and hands start a rhythm, a soft push and pull that slowly eases you to the peak. a peaceful trek to that coiled tension starting in your legs, thighs squeezing around his head in the way you know he likes.

that one took a while for him to admit; that he liked the feeling of being crushed between you. it was a long-drawn experiment on how far on the pain threshold he could bear before it got too much for him, until it started to push past pleasure and more into the drowning in the too-high waters of a lab territory. years of experience has taught you where to stop, his secret little tells that no one else knew about burrowed deep into your memory for safekeeping.

that furrow between his brow deepens, and you know to ease off a little. he kisses your clit in a silent thanks, before his rhythm resumes. while leon may not feel the decreased stamina of age yet, you are too aware of your limits to handle two orgasms, so you have the mind to pull him off before that point of no return.

leon sprawls on the mattress next to you, hands gently easing you up until your knees are bracketing his hips. not usually his preferred position, considering his penchant for control.

“my back hurts,” he mumbles softly, bringing your hand up to his mouth to kiss along your knuckles. “want you to ride me.”

“if you make another chariot joke, i’m seriously going to hit you.”

“ye’ of little faith,” his hand drops yours to line himself up with you, and a gentle push of his hips drives the tip of him into you. “i never make the same joke twice.”

your only answer is a shuddering gasp until you gain your bearings enough to sink down onto him fully. he lays still for a few seconds, letting you get used to the intrusion. his breath stutters in his chest as your hands lay flat onto it, right palm splayed right over his heart.

an uneven thump, beating so fast in his chest that its a god-given miracle he hasn’t keeled over yet.

there’s a unique type of mythmaking when it comes to the tragic heroine. it is a story of fear; innocence; fall from innocence; catharsis; being desired by the right people; being desired by the wrong people; by dangerous people; by excitingly dangerous people. revision is a privilege given to so few who desire it, and to be tender-hearted in a world defined by tragedy is to die.

and yet, the fruit of consideration when it comes to tragedy is not the moral resignation that comes with that acceptance. instead, it is a revealing of the self’s utter dependency on others. the reason that tragedy works is that character is built through this adversity. just as the nature of goodness appears in the face of moral evil, tragedy shows what is fragile and ultimately human about us.

but you are not a god, and he is not a myth. there is no divine fate here, only a random calculation of ethereal and clunky moments that controls so much of his life that he just has to live it. that dependence is the one good thing that has come from all the fighting, and the aching, and the loneliness. a perverted sort of serendipity that leon thanks the heavens for every waking moment.

he is real, and you are real, and that’s enough for him.

both of you are moving in tandem, chasing the upcoming release with a soft desperation. his hands are firmly grasping at your hips, kneading the flesh there like its the only thing tethering him to this reality. that heat of pleasure starts to coil in your gut, and judging by the twisted expression on leon’s face, he’s not too far behind.

“please,” he gasps, shoving you down until your chest is pressed against his. “i need-”

“i know,” you answer softly, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips that delightfully juxtapose the depraved way his hips are slamming against yours.

it’s like falling down from the heavens, except this time there’s no splatter of a body onto the earth. only a light feeling crawling through his limbs, like that final moment of peace before succumbing to the darkness. if the gods had asked him now for a sacrifice, he would have gotten on his knees all over again to keep you. when tranquility was once the bane of his existence, now it is the center of it.

you tense above him, like a goddess struck in stone until you are returned to the flesh, crumpling on top of him. a soft cough escapes him, a wheezing sound that signifies that you are most definitely crushing his lungs. the forces that be roll the both of you to the side until you’re facing each other, his hand unconsciously reaching for yours under the mattress. happy, warm, and sated– leon’s husbandly duties have officially been achieved.

“i love you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t even realize the tear escaping his eye until you gently wipe it away. every part of him now is soft and malleable, even the parts so carefully hidden from everyone else.

“love you too, old man.”

a final kiss to your forehead before he tucks you into his chest, “we’ll take the car tomorrow.”

two more hours until he can eat eggs and drink slightly shitty coffee, and finally fill you in on his newfound epiphany. his arms wrap around your half-conscious figure, body curling around you like something to protect. you hug him tightly in return, bare skin soft on your cheek. your arms hold him like he is sacred too.

#top academic of the police academy would absolutely go on random academic tangents and no one can fight me on that #thank you vaaaaaiolet for listening to the nonstop writing process #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #resident evil #resident evil x reader #leon kennedy fanfiction #leon kennedy imagine #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy/reader #resident evil imagines #ali writes #leon kennedy smut

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