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chernabogs · 15 days

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Belladonna, Forget-me-not, Hyssop, dwarf sunflower 🌻

ouagh thank you for sending a request <3 check out the list here! <3

Inc: Lilia (both present and general), Reader, Silver, Sebek mention WC: 3.5k Warnings: War mention, arson, crimes committed during war time (all my homies hate Silver Owls). Lilia cussing, as he should. Flowers: Belladonna (a confession given without words aka we are pining mentally in the club), Forget me not (the one thing I remembered and how it brought me back to you), Hyssop (one last walk through a house—sort of), Sunflower, dwarf (how many ways do I have to confess for you to believe me?). Some flexibility with these. Summary: A trinket he had forgotten pulls him down a path of memories that he wishes he could forget.

There’s a sunflower in the garden this year.

He thinks it’s quite curious when he first sees the bud, its petals still closed tight as though afraid to enter the world. He’s standing outside of the front door of his cottage with a mug in hand as he gives it a scrutinizing look. The silence of the forest surrounding his home lets him focus ample attention on how this oddity came to be. Silver has run to town and won’t be back until the evening, aiding Sebek in purchasing school supplies for the coming year, and Malleus is likely packing in his eagerness to get out of the palace for another ten months.

It’s just Lilia, his mug, and the sunflower.

“Shy, are we?” He murmurs in amusement as he raises the mug to his lips before they twist to a wry grimace. Perhaps being alone is not good for him—he’s beginning to speak to his gardens like an old man already.

He wisely turns heel and re-enters the cottage as he downs the bitter coffee before discarding the mug in the sink. He’ll wash the dishes before Silver gets home, only because he knows the boy will do it all himself if he doesn’t, which would do nothing but make Lilia feel guilty. Silver insists it’s fine, he’s happy to help his father—but it shouldn’t be that way. His brow furrows in dissatisfaction as he weaves through the cottage's halls to arrive at his bedroom.

Contrary to his room at NRC, this one is so barren it looks downright unoccupied, like no one has ever lived in it to begin with. Lilia had moved most of his valuables with him when he had received notice of his pending enrolment alongside Malleus. This at least makes sorting out what he’s to wear today much easier as he pulls open the closet to peer inside. His fingers dance along the various fabrics as he hums, and haws, and already knows he’s going to wear the same outfit he wears essentially every day.

Lilia Vanrouge has become a man of consistency—another factor that serves to paint him as ‘old’.

“Decrepit, even,” he grumbles to himself as he tosses his clothes onto the bed. Perhaps he can spice it up a bit to combat these self-perpetuated accusations through the application of an accessory. The thought pleases him enough to make him reach for the top shelf of his closet, his hand hitting against objects and shoving things around in his bid to grab something useful. Maybe he would have benefited from just floating up to see what he needed to get, because his hand soon hits an item that topples off the shelf and nearly clocks him in the face.

“Shit!” He snarls as he moves back. The box clatters to the floor by his foot with a loud rattle, causing him to glare down at it accusingly. His eyes narrow as another low curse slips out and he fumbles to pick the box up.

It’s made of carved wood—oak, by the weight of it. Each etching along the sides paints a tale that draws Lilia to a stop as he turns it over in his hands. A figure perched on a tree branch with another sitting beneath, a blade and wood in hand. The two figures are next in a home, with a few flowers hanging to dry from a window. Then they are standing beside each other by a body of water; the carving here is detailed enough that he can see apprehension in one’s gaze and sternness in the others.

The final carving is incomplete, only because a blackened char mark has burnt the wood to an unusable state.

Ah.

He remembers why he didn’t take this to NRC. He remembers why he had it shoved in the back of the closet like something rotten, something meant to be concealed. He feels his mood darken as he turns the box over again. Each nick, each mark, tells a tale of something that stirs a burning shame in his gut. His hands tighten enough that he hears the wood creaking under his strength before they relax once more.

Then, he pauses. Silver won’t be back until far later in the day. He has nothing to do but wash a mug that now sits fermenting in his sink. Beyond this, he’ll simply be wandering from room to room in his cottage like a ghost, perhaps cutting some firewood, perhaps seeing if the bloody quails that have been tormenting his vegetable gardens are back.

Lilia moves until the back of his knees hit his bed and he sits down, cradling the box more gently now. A sudden urge—a bit of masochistic curiosity—tugs at his heart as his lips curl into a sneer. His thumb brushes against the carving of the figure crouching in the tree.

Well, if he needs a good way to kill an hour or so.

“All is as if it were days long past. No matter where it takes us, it will all be over in the blink of an eye. Far cry cradle.”

_________________________________________________________

The memory begins as it always did any time that he did this. He’s just over 300 years old, his hair long and his body perched on the branches of a tree. He forgot that if he’s personally in the memory, his magic has a habit of tossing him headfirst directly into his body again. The scent of pine overwhelms him as he looks across a Briar Valley that once was just as full of life as he. Green, as far as the eye can see, and the songs of birds that have since gone extinct filling the warm air.

He shifts on the branch and closes his eyes for a moment as he drinks it all in. Things long since gone, things he wishes he could experience just one more time in his current life. He almost loses himself in the memory—a dangerous risk—before he hears the faint sound of scraping from beneath where he’s perched.

Lilia’s eyes snap open and his gaze travels down to see a figure with a cloak sitting against the pine tree, their hood pulled up as their hands expertly carve a piece of wood with their blade. He can’t quite tell what it is they’re making—and truthfully, he’s long since forgotten.

But the sound of their voice as they hum an old folk song he hasn’t heard since the war times makes him tense all the same.

You.

Fuck.

The uncomfortableness of the situation, the realization that perhaps doing this was a mistake on his part, makes him shift back on the branch. This is enough to make a few twigs snap and force your attention to jerk upwards to where he lay. His red gaze locks onto yours as every sound in the forest falls silent and all he knows is the confusion in your eyes.

“How long have you been up there?” You blurt out, your voice sounding exactly how he hears it in his dreams for the past four hundred years. A strangled sound leaves his throat, and with all of the energy he can muster, Lilia jerks himself free of the memory.

_________________________________________________________

He stutters for air as his eyes open once more and he grips the box tight. The carving of his body on the branch overlooking yours at the base is now just a mockery for things he foolishly lost. The only way he can know you now is through the use of magic, and even that cannot return you entirely.

He shouldn’t be doing this. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him he was in the memory for fifteen minutes, despite it feeling only like mere seconds.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He turns the box over in his hand to look at the next carving. The two figures in a home, with a few flowers hanging to dry from a window. He notes with a bitter amusement that they’re all sunflowers.

The box should go back on the top shelf. He should lock it away again and forget it, leave it for Silver to find only once his father is dead and rotting under the earth. Perhaps the boy can finish what the humans started—burning it to nothing but cinders.

He shouldn’t be doing this to himself, and yet…

“All is as if it were days long past. No matter where it takes us, it will all be over in the blink of an eye. Far cry cradle.”

_________________________________________________________

Lilia finds himself standing in a small cottage eerily reminiscent of his own. He knows a few months have passed since the first encounter by the way there’s snow falling heavily from the skies outside. Briar Valley’s winters are vicious—as untamed as the land itself once had been before metal teeth had torn it apart and left the fae to clean its viscera. His gaze travels to the window nearby to look out at the landscape before it’s drawn upwards to the flowers hanging down from the sill.

Sunflowers, which look as fresh as the day they were likely picked, paint a cheery picture against the bleak backdrop beyond.

“I am afraid it isn’t quite perfect, but it should do the trick to warm you up.” Your voice's soft cadence causes his shoulders to tense as he doesn’t turn around to face you. He can hear you humming, the sound of a bowl being set on a nearby table, and the aroma of something so intoxicating it makes his stomach twist in phantom hunger. “Why were you rushing through this blizzard to begin with?”

Lilia blinks as silence falls. You’re waiting for his response. This likely won’t play out unless he gives it.

“Her majesty bid me to deliver a missive to Princess Meleanor.” He murmurs, eyes still fixated on the sunflower. They almost look real to him despite the knowledge that this is nothing but an illusion. He hears you hum in disapproval. You often did that—hummed a lot, laughed a lot.

“Terrible weather to be doing so, but I suppose if it’s urgent, you can’t sit on it. At least have something to eat before you go braving Briar Nation once more.”

His head turns slightly so that he can catch a glimpse of you in his peripheral vision. Your back is to him as you scoop more food into a second bowl. You’re not unique—just another fae in a nation of many—but you stand out to him. Four hundred years later, he still struggles to rationalize why.

“You must like sunflowers a lot.” He comments abruptly. He didn’t say this in the memory, and he can tell by the way it seems to stutter around him. You still turn and look at him in confusion, however. “You only have sunflowers hanging on your window.”

“Oh!” You seem surprised, and then delighted as a smile graces your face. He wishes he had never seen that again. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He wants to say something, perhaps ‘I know’, but the memory melts away before the words can leave his tongue.

_________________________________________________________

Lilia tastes copper when his eyes snap to the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes have gone by now—another fifteen in the previous memory. His hands shake slightly as he turns the box over like a man under a compulsion. The carving of two figures by the water seems to be taunting him as his thumb traces across your body.

He doesn’t even bother speaking the phrase clearly this time. It comes as a mumble, and suddenly he’s falling into darkness again.

_________________________________________________________

Tension is palpable when Lilia opens his eyes. Although it’s spring, the warmth seems nonexistent in the air as deafening silence fills where he stands. You’re by his side, your arms crossed tight over your chest as you stare at the pond beyond. By your feet, a patch of sunflowers smiles up at the bright skies above.

“How much longer do you think it will last before they wipe it clean?” You ask, your voice containing barely concealed rage as your nails dig into your sleeves. His jaw clenches as he shrugs one shoulder.

“A week. A month. A year. It could be any amount of time. They have new machines that they’ve been using—new means to rip open our nation to reach its heart.” He scoffs and turns sharply. “Fucking humans. Why did they need to come here to begin with? We were fine before they came crawling onto our shores, with their bitching, and moaning, and noxious fucking machines!”

“Lilia.” Your voice is calmer as he feels your hand touch his arm. His fury simmers slightly under this action. “At least we’re gaining some ground against them, right? And they haven’t reached all of Briar Nation yet. I can still provide game and herbs to the neighbouring villages—there’s an abundance surrounding my cottage.”

Lilia wants to say that’s because all of the animals are being driven deeper into the woods, but he holds his tongue as he meets your steadfast gaze. In the period of time since he’s come to know you, he’s also realized that your stubbornness will have you refuting every claim with an optimistic one of your own. Already you had staunchly refused to leave your cottage despite the looming threat drawing ever so nearby.

“I need to go soon.” He finally sighs as he tears his gaze away from you to the pond again. He hasn’t seen this pond since the war era simply because he knows it was drained for the Silver Owls' use. He hears your own sigh slip out as you remove your hand. The skin that you touched aches in its absence.

He steals a glance at you and tries to preserve your side-profile in his mind. If he could, he would carve it onto every surface he possessed, marking every line and bump that comprised the masterpiece that is you to his liking. He has already devoted himself by this point to mapping these curves with his fingers under the shadow of Briar Nations endless nights. He has memorized every sound you make, as sweet as any song can be, and which places on your body elicit such music. You had both entered this dance as a means to release stress—but now, four hundred years later, he knows it meant so much more.

He wants to sweep you in his arms. He wants to pull you to safety, to silence your protests with hushed whispers and utterances of his devotion. He wants to pour his heart into your hands until he’s empty and belonging entirely to you. He is a man who, once he devotes himself to something, gives endlessly until he remains a ghost of who he once was.

He loves you in this moment, where the sun dapples your skin, and he can pretend he’s still in the Briar Nation he knew. So, he breaks conduct again.

“You should leave.” The memory wavers at his words. In the past, he had simply turned at this point to begin returning to your cottage so that he could ready his travel pack. “You should go to the next village over. Go somewhere safe.”

The memory wavers again, fraying along the edges, and yet still Lilia finds himself persevering. “Please. I don’t want to see what’s going to happen next.”

You turn to look at him as his vision begins to darken. Your brow furrows, confusion etching your face as the last words you speak feel like a nail in his own coffin.

“Lilia, this is my home.”

_________________________________________________________

He doesn’t immediately speak as he comes back again. The clock shows forty-five minutes have passed now, and the lighting in the bedroom he sits in has altered to reflect this. A numbness has crept into his body and settled just below his skin. It fluctuates and writhes like an insect and causes him to shiver as he rotates the box once more.

The last carving is incomplete. The black marks that mar its surface guarantee this. Faintly, he can smell smoke on both the box and his hands as he traces his thumb across this, as well.

It comes back filthy.

Lilia’s expression schools itself to a blank look as the silence of the empty cottage perpetuates. Only his breathing breaks the still air, stuttering slightly as his lips part.

“... far cry cradle.”

_________________________________________________________

Lilia can smell it before he sees it. Wood, smouldering in the unforgiving winter sun, accompanied by something more pungent and feral. He’s already running by the time he snaps into the memory, his feet dragging through heavy snow as he fights against the elements to reach the treeline. He can see dark smoke pluming upwards.

It’s always too late by the time he arrives.

His steps slow, his feet drawing to a stop as cold snow soaks through his pants. Before him lays a painting of carnage, crafted by human hands, and displayed for the eyes of any fae passing by. Footsteps trample in the aged snow that surrounds the smouldering husk of the structure. Your words regarding your cottage being in a hot spot for game and herbs ring as a mockery now in his ears as he slowly, slowly, inches closer.

“Hello?” His voice cracks as the words leave him. The forest echoes them back—hello? Hello? Hello?

Stone dust scatters across the white earth as his hand comes to touch the frame you had been so proud of when you had first shown it off. Burnt, with embers still smouldering in the wood. He feels afraid to step further, but he knows that if he doesn’t then he’ll never get the satisfaction of knowing whether you may have survived it or not.

Lilia passes through the door frame. He looks up to what remains of your roof, to the space where sunflowers once hung, and then just beyond the large wooden table you had carved for yourself as well. A small box sits perfectly on its blackened surface, like it had been placed on display intentionally for his discovery.

The memory begins to blur at this point. Things that should be there soon bleed into black outlines, dripping down onto the floor with a rhythmic thump. He can see static in what looks like the shape of an arm peeking out from behind the table leg as his stomach twists, and rage begins to flood through his veins in place of blood. A stuttering breath leaves him as the static arm remains still.

He is General Lilia Vanrouge. He is a soldier. He is meant to protect his people, and yet, and yet—

_________________________________________________________

Lilia snaps out of this memory by throwing the box to the floor. It clatters at his outburst before he kicks it viciously into the closet, his breath leaving him in ragged gasps as he does. His mind is a blur as his one hand grips the sheets beneath him and the other grabs his collar, trying to ground him in the moment before the whole world spins out of proportion.

He is not General Lilia Vanrouge. He is not a soldier. He is not walking into the home of the person he thought he loved, forced to bury what was left of them in a pauper's grave—just another loss in the wartime.

He is a man, sitting in his cottage, with a son who will be home by evening and a school he needs to pack for.

“Fuck,” he groans, pressing his face into his hands as he shakes himself free of the thoughts. “Fuck... fuck!”

A brief glance at the clock shows an hour has passed by now. His chest feels heavy, and his mind full of cotton as he dresses in a mechanical manner before going about his chores for the day.

By the time Silver returns, he’s fought off the quails, weeded the garden, cut firewood, and cleared the gutters. What he hasn’t done is clean the mug that’s been sitting in the sink since the morning—a task that Silver happily takes on after Lilia looks close to losing it.

If his son notices anything else off about his father, he says nothing about it, but Lilia does note the way Silver seems a bit more talkative than usual this evening. Lilia’s mind continues to replay the memories he experienced in a macabre theatrical viewing as he tries hard to listen to what Silver is saying. Eventually, they both fall silent as Silver washes the mug, along with the dishes from dinner in addition. The sun is beginning to set when he pauses to peer out the window with a curious expression.

“Did you see the sunflower in the garden?” Silver asks, his voice soft as he finishes drying off the mug. Lilia raises an eyebrow as he looks up again.

“What about it?”

“It opened up.” Silver looks surprised, and then delighted as a smile graces his face. Lilia’s eyes widen as he notes the similarities between the childish joy on his son's face, and that which he once saw on your own.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

#lilia vanrouge #lilia x reader #(ish)#twst #twst x reader #twst fanfiction #twst spoilers #yeah #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst lilia #phew ok girlies i think that hits it #anyway went off kinda... oop

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call-me-cheese · 1 month

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hiiii can you do separate stolas, Blitzø, and fizzaroli relationship headcannons? Srry if that’s too much

Blitzo x reader

Stolas x reader

A/n: I did not write Fizzarolli as you did not say you want him as polyrelationship with Asmodeus or not, sorry

Stolas

Stolas is just perfect for relationships

He's literally a piece of the green flag

Yes, he had a very bad first relationship, but that's why he's willing to work in a new one

In the series itself, he said that he tried to make Stella comfortable in their relationship, and it is clear that he succeeded, it's just that Stella is a crazy bitch

He's definitely going to be fun with him, and he's generally willing to try to understand your hobbies and participate in them

He will also be quite active in trying to draw you into his

You know the names of all the colors (at least desperately pretend)

Oh and yes, you definitely have couples suits, Stolas has been wanting to try this for a very long time, so once you agree, he will literally kick his legs for joy

You will most likely have a good relationship with Octavia, she needs an adequate mother figure

You'll move in with Stolas pretty quickly since you're on a formal relationship

You'll watch TV shows all night and then sleep sweetly all day

He officially loves cuddling, so you'll be together all the time

Oh, and he has money, literally money, if you want to go somewhere, then naturally he will go with you

You will accompany him to official events and he will gladly introduce you to anyone who asks

Blitzo

He will also be good in a relationship

We see how he takes care of his "family", so you are incredibly important to him

He will always be somewhere pockmarked with you, as he is a person of physical affection

You will be told about the activities of the HSM

He'll literally brag about you to Moxxie and Millie, because yes

You've got a chance to get a cop=a campaign consisting of Luna and Blitzo AND you to go to a party

He'll try to cook something for you (he's not going to succeed)

You'll get some trinkets from the human world

How safe are you? WELL, 50/50, What are the chances that you will be rescued? 100%, and very fast

You'll have to calm him down in his depressive moments

Perhaps you go to a psychologist with him several times

You are praised as a celestial, everybody else, because when you appeared, he stopped meddling with others

You'll hug with him too, but he's not going to let you go at all

I hope you enjoyed it!

I am so sorry for doing that sooo long! My middle exams took all out of me

#helluva boss x reader #stolas x reader #blitzo x reader #blitzø x reader #blitz x reader #headcanon

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factual-fantasy · 2 months

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Good evening Factual! (Or whenever you're reading this) I sincerely hope your day is going well! And in regards to my last Ask, thanks for the info and clarification regarding Larry and the General! I especially liked your idea for a more reasonable "exploding shell"!

And staying on the topic of the Koopa Troop- I have a bit of a strange question today- what would you estimate is the rough population of the entire Koopa Kingdom? And how does it compare to the Mushroom Kingdoms population? I'd assume it would be significantly larger- as the Mushroom kingdom consists purely of toads, while Bowsers Domain encompasses dozens of different species- or at least it does in the games.

And so that begs the question- do any other species other than koopas make up your AUs Koopa Kingdom? Obviously we've seen troopas and you've mentioned goombas a few times- but are there significant populations of shy guys? Spikes? Monty Moles? Boos? Piranha plants perhaps? And if there are- any idea how they all came to serve Bowser? Was it out of fear, or respect? And are any of the various "vassels" present in the command structure, like King Bob-bomb, king Womp, or everyone's favorite- Petey Piranha!?

No problem! And well, I'm doing much better today than I was yesterday at least <XD Aside from that I caught a cold. So I'm gonna have fun dealing with that for the next week- 🤣💔

As for the species that populate the koopa kingdom, its actually not what you'd think-

My Shy Guys have no alliance with Bowser. They are a species of.. strange woodland people..? That live in what is currently called "shy guy forest". No one really knows how many of them there are, but everyone considers them to be malicious creatures that you shouldn't associate with.

I'd consider Spikey's to be regarded as animals or pets, as opposed to citizens of the kingdom. Whos to say how many of them there are..

I'd also imagine Monty Moles to be regarded as animals rather than "people". And since Bowser's land is so unhealthy, I imagine that they don't live in Bowser's territory anyways..

The Boos have no alliance with Bowser whatsoever. In fact they reside closer to Peach's land then they do Bowsers. King Boo and his Boos are regarded as a small-ish community of.. faries..? Sprites..? What ever the word may be-- that live out in these big dark woods. They don't serve Bowser and don't interact with him in any way really.. other than taking some of his troops that may stumble into the forest--

Piranha plants are also held in the same value as "animals", rather than people. Though I did consider that they grow mostly in Bowsers land.. Though they probably have to be nursed in healthy soil until they are big enough to eat meat. In which.. Bowser's soil is unhealthy. Hmm.. there might not be a whole lot of them anymore-

King bom-bomb likely doesn't really.. exist..?? Yet?? The bomb-ombs are just living bombs created by Kamek. And King bomb-omb would just be a GIANT bomb-omb. But considering they want Peach's land due to how fertile it is.. they don't have any good reason to create such a weapon..

The Thwomp's are tricky.. There was supposed to be this ancient temple that was made of these HUGE stones with faces carved into them. Kamek brought the stones to life, separating them and making them do his bidding.. I considered that "King Thwomp" was a huge cluster of wall that the bricks couldn't be separated from. Making just.. one giant thwomp. What this means is, there is a limited number of thwomp's. Compared to the rest of the kingdom? Surly they'd only have a handful of thwomp's.. (You can see drawings I made of them here! :0 )

As for Petey, he's not in Bowser's kingdom anymore! :0 He grew so huge he was able to eat his way through the castle and escape. He was so big and powerful, and so fast- that no one could stop him. He scurried off in to the woodlands beyond Bowsers territory.. never to be seen by Bowser again.

That just leaves the Koopa troops and all their variants really.. including dry bones.. when it comes to their population? Its hard to say. I don't have any numbers in mind- but I can compare them to the other kingdoms a bit--

Lets use a 10 scale thing, lets say 10/10 is a completely overflowing kingdom. Way too may people to house and it just not even funny-

Peach's kingdom would be a 6/10. Her land is very healthy and their culture is big on family and generations and what not. So that number is slowly rising..

Daisy's kingdom might be closer to a 4-5/10. Less people but still, their land is healthy and that number is slowly rising.

Then there's Bowsers kingdom. I was thinking that his population is closer to 8/10. This is becuase the Koopa people have been around for many years and have had time to build up that number. I also considered that the Koopa people are a very tough species. So even though their land is unhealthy and doesn't bear much food.. they press on..

You might think that Bowser has Peach beat. I mean, its 6 (weakling toads) vs 8 (tough koopas). But actually Daisy and Peach's kingdom are in alliance. So if Bowser picks on Peach, Daisy will back her up.

So then it becomes an 8 vs 10-11. (tough koopas vs weak toads and sturdy Piantas). And now with the hero's of legend on their side? Beings capable of beating death? Its just a big lose for Bowser..

Wow. Okay I just stopped typing and realized that I kind'a flew off the rails there- I better cut it off here-- none the less I hope the answers to your questions are in that ramble somewhere or you at least enjoyed the read! <XDD

#my response #CRAZY RAMBLE MY BAD-#super mario bros #sometime I gotta talk about the twisted history of dry bones #and how their presence effects the mental stability of living koopas...😈

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total-drama-brainrot · 1 month

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TD World Tour Alenoah AU... Where Noah is immune to Alejandro's fake charm... Instead, Noah gets charmed by the true Alejandro's quirks and dorky interests like dinosaurs and puppets... How would Alejandro feel about Noah only liking Alejandro, when Alejandro is being himself?... Especially since Alejandro's family shuns him for being himself? 🦕🦖🦕

Now you're speaking my language.

One of the most common running themes in all/near enough all Alenoah central AUs is having Noah be the first person to see past Alejandro's persona and actually appreciate the person he is, or at the very least prefer the real Alejandro to his mask of perfection. It's one of the draws of the ship itself; the idea that Noah, being the blunt person that he is, can and will wage a war of attrition against the walls Alejandro has built up around himself- not just to keep others out, but also to repress the more authentic aspects of himself to himself- in order to reveal the person beneath.

I touched on this a little bit in a previous post concerning this AU, but Alejandro and Noah both see glimpses of the other that they try so valiantly to hide- in Noah's case, Alejandro sees hints of the scheming mindset he's pretty much supressed under layers of apathy and sloth (as Noah's laziness is one of his biggest character foils, alongside his snarky attitude), and in Alejandro's case he reveals tid bits of information about the Real Alejandro, not the persona he's usually portraying himself as, which is enough to humanise him in Noah's eyes.

They both become People Of Interest in each other's eyes, because they're both puzzles to be solved. Alejandro's curious and competitive to a fault so he'd dedicate himself to unravelling the layers behind Noah's stony exterior, as he'd see Noah's continued distance as a challenge. That's a given. But the topic at hand here is Noah's interest in Alejandro.

Because Noah's not exactly competitive, so why would he be so interested in unveiling the real Alejandro? That's simple; Noah values authenticity. Look at his friendship group, it consists of people who are unapologetically themselves. Noah is also unapologetically himself, in all of his sarcastic glory. So of course he's see flickers of the real, authentic Alejandro and his natural inquisitiveness would be piqued- a novelty for him, as Noah's staunch apathy generally tends to override any semblance of curiosity.

So Noah goes out of his way to make notes of the small interests Alejandro offhandedly mentions at one point or another, like palaeontology or puppetry or even his fifteen-step skincare routine- things that Alejandro shows genuine excitement or passion over that shines through the cracks of his perfect persona. He sees the dorky giddiness Alejandro experiences when Noah lets him ramble on about how Jurassic Park was incredibly inaccurate from a scientific standpoint but monumental for people's interest in palaeontology (or something along those lines, I don't know I'm not a dinosaur nerd) and suddenly the annoyingly flirtatious faker he's spent the better half of his time on the jet is A Whole Ass Person with interests and passions and a sense of depth he's been so bereft of until now. Suddenly Alejandro's more than just the antagonist of the show Noah's working on, he's an interesting person that the bookworm finds himself wanting to know more about. And, perhaps, he finds himself growing genuinely fond of the person behind the mask.

And he uses those notes to prompt Alejandro into sharing more of himself, the real authentic Alejandro, in the privacy of their interactions.

At first, Alejandro's fairly oblivious to what Noah's doing, since he's so caught up in his own enjoyment of Noah's company plans to essentially do the same to Noah that he barely notices his own tricks being used against him.

Of course, he's also just elated at being able to infodump to someone who isn't outright penalising him for doing so; not that I think Alejandro is even aware that what he's doing is infodumping, nor the fact that he's so obviously autistic, because his family is a particular brand of awful that would never let him get a proper diagnoses and in all likelihood forced him to mask/supress his symptoms.

It isn't until Alejandro realises that he's shared a lot of information about himself that he (as a Burromuerto) is expected to keep close to his chest, and he sees the glimmers of satisfaction in Noah's intelligent eyes, that the archvillain catches on to the fact that he's been played. But the thing that really catches him off-guard isn't the trickery, it's the fact that Noah's done nothing with the uncharacteristic displays of vulnerability.

Alejandro can't understand why Noah hasn't taken advantage of his "weakness" yet. Inevitably leading to him confronting the assistant, as Alejandro isn't the type to "let sleeping dogs lie" so to speak, and he's still very much so in the one-track mindset of winning the competition- thus he assumes that any show of vulnerability can and will lead to his untimely elimination. But when he practically demands that Noah reveal what he's been planning, why he's been sneakily collecting information on him, all Noah can do is shrug his shoulders and say;

"I guess I just like seeing the real you. That's all."

And Alejandro doesn't know how to respond to that. No one's ever wanted the real him, he's always had to play the role of the perfect son, the perfect brother. He doesn't understand.

And like most people when they're faced with a foreign concept they have no basis of behaviour for, he lashes out.

#ending it there on a sort of angsty note #alejandro “please treat me nicely” burromuerto when someone treats him nicely: Don't Know How To Proccess This :(#truthing autistic alejandro that's canon. not even a headcanon just canon #(they're both autistic that's why alenoah works. 50% of their interactions are parallel play)#(alejandro's an infodumper and noah's a listener match made in heaven)#honestly this scenario could be applied to most alenoah aus #but specifically in the assistant au alejandro feels there's a sense of power imbalance since noah DOES have some authority over the--#contestants. and alejandro's needling for information was him punching UPWARDS whilst noah's breaking of his walls was in alejandro's eyes-#an abuse of power. of course that's not the case but alejandro's less concerned with the morality of it and more so concerned with--#the “fairness” of noah knowing a lot about him whilst remaining fairly mysterious.#can you tell i kind of ran out of Writing Juice at the end there?#even outlines are taking it out of me lately. burnout is my enemy.#total drama #td alejandro #td noah #alenoah #assistant noah au #others' ideas #replies

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welcomingdisaster · 27 days

Text

A Refutation of Claims Made by Professor Basil Dyer in the Minas Tirith Review

for @silmarillionepistolary | M | ao3

It has come to my attention that The Minas Tirith Review has recently published an essay by one Professor Basil Dyer detailing and reinterpreting letters exchanged between Fingon, son of Fingolfin, and Maedhros, son of Fëanor, in light of recent translations and publications of long-censored exchanges. In his composition, Dyer claims the letters show evidence of long-established homoaffective relationship between the two, beginning shortly after Fingon’s arrival and in Beleriand, and continuing until his death.

This turn in the discourse is troubling, both because of the undue and perverse attention which it may attract to this noble publication and for the aspersions which it may cast upon the already well-sullied reputation of the historiographer. Perhaps if there was any academic merit behind them such faults may be forgiven, but they consist of nothing besides applying an all-too-modern understandings of customs (and the ever-loosening morality of the age of Man!) onto the long-gone age of the Eldar.

That said, I shall begin by laying out the terms of the engagement. Let us assume, for the sake of simplicity and brevity both, that there is no doubt on the matter of authenticity of the letters exchanged between our two principal figures during the Long Peace. Even the most recently recovered—and most hotly contested—of these letters, dated F.A. 345, referred to in the previous publication by the first lines (“Concerning the matter of honey…”) and sometimes abbreviated as the “honey missive” (alternately, in particularly tasteless publications, the “honey-thigh letter”) in such discourses, shall be accepted into our metaphorical evidence box (though indeed any reader familiar with my previous publications might be predisposed to hold its veracity in some doubt). I shall also reference the K. M. Singer translation of all available letters as the most widely-accepted and aspire to make no reference to the probable inaccuracies in Singer’s understanding of Quenya terms of endearment and vocabulary regarding parts of the body.

It may be wise to note before we begin that ladies of a delicate composition and children may find frank discussions of homosexual activity unnerving and inflaming. I would urge readers to exercise caution.

And so, our terms of engagement well-laid, I shall begin by establishing the reasons any romantic or sexual entanglement between Fingon of the House of Fingolfin and Maedhros of the House of Feanor is entirely impossible, then move on to a sensible and scholarly interpretation of the letters.

First, I draw the attention of noble reader first to the matter of cousin-marriage among the Eldar. While laws prohibiting cousin-marriage may appear novel and controversial to the modern Gondorian—indeed even a generation ago such unions were common among Men—the Eldar have once again proved perceptive beyond the ancient days during which they lived, and our betters in matters of morality and purity.

I will not bore the reader with a recounting of the Fall of Gondolin, but work only to draw the reader’s attention to the doomed romantic entanglement at its center. Maeglin, the nephew of the King, coming out of savage darkness, saw Idril, the king’s daughter, and loved her. Given the depth of infatuation he purportedly developed it seems likely to the modern sociologist that for some time she encouraged this attention. Of course, as a highborn Noldo raised among a peoples of impeccable moral discretion, she had known for the beginning that such an affair could not bear any fruit. Such knowledge could not be expected from Maeglin, and many attribute his eventual decline and betrayal of the city to a broken and aching heart.

That such an understanding was so plain to her and yet not to him may seem strange. Were they not both elves, living in the first of age of Arda, and nearly of the same blood? The answer to such a query might come from the relative moral tightness of Noldor society. Recall that Maeglin was no native Gondolian, but a son of the house of Eöl, and so of mixed Sindar and Avar heritage. All recording of first-cousin marriages among Elven Kin, as few as they are, come from lowborn elves among these two tribes. Recall that neither grey-elven nor dark-elven tribes, as their names suggest, had ever journeyed to the sacred light of the Blessed Isles, nor received council from the Valar. Their traditions and customs, then, may seen as more akin to those of Men than elves, lacking the moral rigor of their light-elf counterparts.

Though I do not claim to liken homosexual acts to the sacred institution of marriage, one must admit that the act of bodily union is shared among the two, and so may be held in common as forbidden under the laws of the Noldor.

With those facts in mind we must return to the matter of Fingon of Hithlum and Maedhros of Himring, famously first-cousins through the lines of their fathers. There is no question that that both were elves full-grown upon their departure to Middle-Earth, that according to all sources Fingon was a particularly devout follower of Aran Einior, the lord of air and great judge. Though the latter acts of Maedhros indicate a rather tenuous connection to the sacred laws of his people, Fingon’s devotion did not waver in his lifetime. Raised in such a morally upright culture, neither of them likely would have been able to conceive of engaging in any unholy union. Indeed, such a thought must have been so far from their minds as to allow a certain looseness of the tongue and purity of platonic intimacy, as evidenced by some of the exchanges I address.

Next we must discuss homosexuality among the Eldar. For years the historical establishment has maintained that no homosexual activity had ever existed among elven-folk; indeed, it is an affliction that appears to trouble only the modern Man. That school of thought has been challenged recently, with very little justice. Basil Dyer and Feya Patrice, two of the most infamous names subscribing to this school of thought, point to articles of elven art which they claim contain themes of same-sex entanglements. Most notable among these are Fragment #221 by Daeron the Bard, which appears addressed to a male lover, surviving recreations of Lalwendë and a Friend in Bed by an unknown artist, and a series of oil lamps recovered from Eregion which seem to depict various sexual acts between elves. This evidence is scant, and spurious at best. More detailed refutations of the first two—clearly expressions of deep platonic affection or affectation of a different character—may be found in my earlier bodies of work, while the last is plain done in the spirit of parody.

Indeed writings by earlier historians indicate that no desire could occur between elves without procreative desire, plainly rendering same-sex unions impossible. Relationships which modern historians sometimes interpret as homosexual are indeed better described with the elven understanding of melotorni and meletheldi, translated as chosen love-brothers and love-sisters respectively. That some form of platonic physical intimacy might have existed within these bonds is inarguable, but plainly it did not rise to the unholy stirrings of the flesh.

All of the surviving letters available to us are those addressed from Maedhros to Fingon. Though these do not use the term meletorni directly, it is plain to see that many terms of brotherly affection to enter their forms of address. The opening of letter #5, addressed F. A. 302, has been much maligned, for to a modern reader it appears rather excessive in its affection. “Most beloved of cousins,” Maedhros writes, “how I miss thy kisses, and the weight of thy body atop mine, and the sweet softness of thy ear-tips beneath my mouth” —and on, in such a fashion, for a time. A modern reader may see conventions of a love-letter within these words. A historian intimately familiar with the details of the correspondence of the eldest son of Feanor would argue otherwise. Indeed, Maedhros appears often expressive of his affection.

Of his surviving letters only remains which is addressed to Maglor the Bard, the eldest of his brothers and his second in command, mailed in F. A. 456, pleads with him to “take heart, and hold close my kisses.” Similarly, journals kept by contemporaries note nothing unusual in exchanges of kisses between friends, brothers, cousins, and so forth. A later elven play following the events of the Fall of Nargothrond features a kiss between Finrod and Orodreth in parting; similarly, artistic depictions of Finwë’s death often show his son kissing his face and his lips. What may seem unthinkable to the modern Gondorian was indeed quite commonplace among the Noldor.

Which brings us to another turn of phrase in letter #5, which has gained some level of infamy among those determined to read perversion into the intimacy of their friendship. Lines 304-314 read as follows: “I have received thy handkerchief, with the sweet scent of thy sweat and thy perfume, and the imprints of thy lip-paint kisses. Know that I have sewn it now against the heart of my sleep-robes, so each night I might feel thee upon my breast, and that a hundred times now I have kissed the same cloth as thou hast.”

I would not blame the modern man whose mind conjures a young woman pressing lipstick-kissed onto a postcard for her beloved, but in cultural context the meaning of these words changes. While it may appear rather odd in our time, lip-paint was common for men and women both among the Noldor. Being, for all their nobility, at times a vain people, the Noldor historically likened physical beauty to battle-prowess. The sending of lipstick-prints can be read as a show of force and physical ability between two young men, somewhat akin to bragging. The answering kisses, then, signal not a desire for intimacy but answering show of strength and of power.

I may go on for some time to discuss each mention on kisses in the surviving letters, I would assume any discerning reader would be able to understand them by now as brotherly affection. And so, without further delay, I will move on to address the honey missive.

First, let us examine lines 2-13 of the honey missive, the most hotly debated in meaning:

“Concerning the matter of honey; while I should be glad to sample any taste of the spring of Hithlum thou shouldst be willing to share with me, we have no great need of in trade. The wiry clover and harebell of Himring make for surprisingly subtle yet fragrant honey, thick and amber-gold. But indeed so taken with thee I am that even thoughts of trade I return to thee, and of honey; how I sit and think of thee bare before me—of how I might take such sweetness and spread it upon thy handsome thighs, to work clean with my mouth. I would be much obliged if thou wert to write to me of how thou wouldst stir beneath me, and call my name—indeed nothing now could make me happier.”

In interpreting this passage, we must remember the positions of the Noldor as craftsmen and admirers of art. Despite being remembered now primarily as a warlord, Maedhros was born the son of a gem-smith and a sculptor, and was raised in a society which placed much appreciation on both masculine and feminine beauty. That in his time Fingon was considered beautiful is undoubtedly true. The rest, while resembling a sexual act to some readers, is plainly ridiculous, meant in all likelihood as a joking exaggeration. It is common among young men even in our time to joke crudely with each other; if we had Fingon’s letter of response I am certain we would see a laughing refusal.

Having examined the scope of the evidence before us, I believe any reasonable reader would be forced to yield to the rightness of my position, and to admit there is nothing at all to the claims of those like Dyer, who seek to introduce perversion into the annals of history. We must then examine the motivations behind these claims, and wonder if Dyer and his ilk might not mean to work backwards, seeking justify their modern-day inclinations by creating precedent where is none. It is said, after all, that Basil Dyer has not cohabitated with his wife since the first two weeks of their thirty-year marriage.

#my fic #russingon

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giorno-plays-piano · 9 months

Text

Metamorph

Part I

Pairing: art teacher!Aemond Targaryen x reader (Horror AU)

Warnings: dark!Aemond, obsessive behavior, murder, horror, yandere, kidnapping, misanthropy, general creepy stuff.

Words: 1.5k

Summary: Drawn to the artworks of one of the most esteemed artists in the city, you wish to learn from him and find out what inspires him to create his masterpieces. You have no idea how much his secrets will cost you.

P.S. Unhinged Aemond, my dear Ewan nation! No physical harm done to the heroine, though.

___________

"Are you ready?" He asks you calmly, but you can see his impatience, the way he restlessly looks at you and back at the door leading to one of the smaller studios he always keeps locked at all times. Aemond can't wait to show you something, some other paintings of his he prefers to hide from others, and you feel both intrigued and disturbed by what you will find.

He is a genius, no doubt. One of the best artists of the century, the critics say, and while your city literally consists of art studios and galleries, people speak of Aemond Targaryen with a weird reverence, and his name is constantly on the ear.

His drawings caught your attention the moment you saw them online, mindlessly looking through your feed. It was hard to explain what exactly made you stop and look at them - even after months of attending his course you still couldn't quite put your finger on it - but you saved the pictures, printed them out, and then was staring at them hanging from the wall for days like you had been hypnotized. The ones you stumbled upon first depicted all sorts of buildings, always only in black and white, overgrown with... something. Flowers, vines, some greenery that looked like flesh and bones, painted in vivid red, of course. It was sort of scary... but also sort of not. It was a work of art, not some background picture from a cheap horror movie. The architecture he chose, they way he drew it as if he was recording his own perception onto the paper, each stroke written with his style, perhaps his very soul embedded in it... It was impossible to describe it with words. One had to see it to understand.

So, you had visited a gallery where his works had been exhibited, and since then you were fully supportive of city's infatuation with Aemond Targaryen. There was no way you could stay indifferent to his art, especially considering your own desperate attempts to get better at drawing.

How could he be so expressive while mostly using just black, white and red paint? Most of the time, he wasn't even painting but drawing, making sketches, that sort of thing. And yet you were obsessively saving and printing all of his artworks you were able to spot online. Some you hang on the walls of your apartment, some - the ones that made you held your breath - you kept in a drawer like you were a dragon guarding your treasure chest. One time when your mom accidentally spotted them you literally wanted to fall through the floor. It was... too intimate for sharing with anyone. Despite the paintings and drawings showcased openly in the galleries for everyone to see, they felt like they were your great secret, your own hoard, too precious to even talk about it, less let people see printed artworks you kept hidden in the bottom drawer of your cabinet.

Who was he, the man who brought these breathtaking paintings to life, you had often wondered. How had he done it? How did he make the red paint so vivid, so expressive and yet not vulgar? How could he lay strokes with such precision, but not the same way most artists did? How did he build his compositions that they felt real and surreal at the same time? What sort of magic was that? Everyone around joked he must have sold his soul to the Devil.

When you saw Aemond for the first time, you thought the same thing because he scared the Hell out of you. First, he wore an eyepatch and had a long, ugly scar crossing half of his face. An incident from his childhood, someone whispered to you. Someone had stabbed him in the eye.

This felt disturbing and surreal, too. Stabbed a child in the eye? What the Hell? Wasn't he from some wealthy, upper-class sort of family?

Perhaps, it was one of the reasons why Aemond seemed so sullen and chilly, his only presence making the temperature in the room drop a couple degrees. Despite his obvious attractiveness, it felt like he was an alligator waiting in front of a crowd of stupid bunnies who came to admire his teeth. Didn't help he was dressed in all black, and both his skin and hair were alarmingly white like he wasn't really a human being.

A stupid suggestion, really.

He'd been through some serious shit, someone kept murmuring you in the ear as you stared at the artist, open-mouthed and frozen in place. His dad was really wealthy, but rumors had it he didn't really care about him or his siblings, and his mother was constantly on antidepressants. Then the incident with the eye-stabbing happened, but it was still shrouded in mystery even with journalists trying to dig up the truth for years. After he grew up, Aemond went to study business and started working under his grandfather. Rumours had it he made some crazy money but started hating his life, ended up having serious issues with drinking, and at one point, he suddenly left everything and disappeared.

Whatever happened then was a mystery, too, and the artists never spoke about it in any of his interviews expect for saying that drawing has saved him. Although nothing suggests he is a former alcoholic and had once been homeless thanks to the immaculate way he dresses, you thought there was something in his face that made you wonder if he actually got better. Aemond seemed... very hostile.

But he'a an artist, too, and you've found all of them weird in one way or the other.

Of course, despite the fact that you've been drawing for years, you've never thought yourself an artist. No, no, you just enjoy it as a hobby, and you're nowhere near people like Aemond Targaryen.

But when you heard he opened a drawing course for the general public, you were so frantic about getting in you swore to yourself, regardless how much it costs, you would get in. Even if you wouldn't be eating for the next few years.

Seriously, it was Aemond freaking Targaryen you were talking about. A literal King! He had been the talk of a month even in the capital thanks to his recent dragon paintings collection that was sold in an auction for a ridiculous sum of money. So what if he's scary and had this chilling-to-the-bone stare? Most successful people you knew seemed at least a little frightening. Besides, if anything, you could just drop out of class.

But if you were brave enough to apply, you could have a chance to actually see him at work.

How did his studio look? What sort of routine did he have? What kind of paint and pencils did he use? How had he gotten that amazing crimson color you were trying to replicate for months without any success? What did he use for inspiration?

Clearly, you just couldn't let this opportunity slip away. You had to try to get in.

Surprisingly, the course wasn't even that expensive, sold at nearly the same price as most other art courses as if Aemond was just like any other artist in the city. The problem laid in his way of choosing the students: he requested to see the artworks of applicants to determine whether he'd take them or not.

It nearly put a stop to the whole thing because you were terrified of him seeing your drawings. What would he think about an amateur like you? How could you even dream about coming to him instead of improving your technique first with some other, way less known artists? He was Aemond Targaryen, for God's sake.

But you knew he might never take other students again. He might even move to the capital that would give him much more than your city ever could. What if he just disappeared? It could have been your only chance to see him work.

When he accepted you along with 9 other students out of more than two hundred participants, you thought you were dreaming. How? Why would he? You were far from professional. Goodness, you weren't even planning on becoming a true artist, and it felt like you were cheating on people who did. So, how could he take you, knowing that?

Not that you were going to drop out before the start of the course. Over your dead body. You literally spent the entire week shopping for new materials even though you knew he would give you suggestions later. But how could you show him your pencils and brushes that looked like your dog chewed, ate, and then threw them back up? You'd rather jump from the roof.

___________

Alas, on the first day of the course, you stood there among other students, holding your breath as you watched the door of the studio open. Aemond Targaryen was going to teach you his art.

Part II

Tags: @heavenly1927 @yazzzmints @devils-blackrose @lost-and-founds @kennafild

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond #aemond x reader #ewan nation #hotd #house of the dragon #the house of the dragon #yandere

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360iris · 1 year

Text

good days | vampire!steven grant x reader (feat. jake lockley & marc spector)

please read all of the following warnings before reading!

2.7k word count // this fic includes: the drawing, oral ingestion and consistent mention of blood, the breaking of skin, cum eating, afab!reader, PnV intercourse, assisted handjob. Feel free to notify me if there is anything missed!

credit for fic idea goes to @melodygatesauthor & @welcometostayingawake // co-written by @melodygatesauthor // tagging @in-between-the-cafes for all the vamp boy goodness, hope you like it!!

Fridays are typically relaxing. Easy days spent tucked in on the couch with your nose practically pressed to the screen of your phone until it’s time for Steven to come home from work at the Museum.

Today you’d noticed the day had taken more out of him than usual, or perhaps he’d already been running low before he’d even left out. Either way the second he comes home you know he’s going to need more than a little tender love and care.

You can see it in the way he drags his feet, sags his shoulders forward and blinks back at you so blearily whenever he’s asked a question. He’s thoroughly exhausted and miserable.

“Was work difficult today, honey?” You ask quietly, watching as he wordlessly settles in beside you on the plush burgundy cushions. Pulling the covers up just enough to get under them himself before cuddling as close to you as he physically could without forcing you to move into his lap.

“My boss is a right B-word.” He mumbles softly making you chuckle as he rests his forehead against your left shoulder. Eyes closed, his arms reaching around your waist and resting there.

“What has Big D said now?” You ask amusedly, bringing your left hand up to lace your fingers in his curls. He leans into your touch, nuzzling further against you.

“I don’t want to talk about it if that’s okay.” He answers back politely.

“Of course it is, honey.” You’ve set down your phone, nuzzling back into him as well.

Steven is never warm temperature wise, his body hasn’t generated heat in years— the change made sure of that, and the difference in his touch is stark from what it was beforehand. So his fingers make you jolt an inch when they begin sneaking underneath your sweatshirt.

His progression promptly halting when you jump, stalling for a moment as he waits, undoubtedly listening to your heartbeat and waiting for it to even out before continuing.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Your voice comes out airy and a touch warbled as his fingers fan out against your skin. Wide palms finding their way under your top and massaging your waist.

He remains quiet in response, shaking his head as he continues leaning against your shoulder.

His hands instead begin edging upward, slow, languid and firm as he takes his time just feeling you. He knows what he’s doing, purposefully building up your need for him and inciting anticipation.

Enjoying the way your heart begins picking up speed and the low surge of your blood rushing in the veins beneath your skin.

It’s only when he reaches your breasts, fidgeting with and pinching your nipples in a very stop-and-go manner, that you finally realize this is a game to him. One of waiting, listening and denying. Delaying both your satisfaction and his own, like an infuriating little tease.

You honestly didn’t think he’d go this route, drawing out both your pleasure and his just because he can. Racking your brain, you search for the quickest and fail safe way to get him to speed up, to get to the main course instead of lingering on foreplay.

“Do you want to bite me, Steven?” You ask innocently enough, but it still causes his movements to stop all together. His hands remove themselves from you entirely as he picks up his head.

Steven doesn’t feed on you often, getting his daily blood consumption instead from blood packs (Marc has a guy who supplies him with them, and apparently it’s a whole thing that’s either very simple or extremely convoluted but you can never decide which was the case.)

His eyes become wide at the proposal, settling on yours and really looking to better gauge you.

“Really, love? You’d allow me?” He asks moving to clasp your hands in his. “You really don’t have to, you know how I get. Tend to be a bit of a nightmare, don’t I?”

“It’s never anything I can’t handle. Besides, Jake pushes me way harder than you ever do.” You mumble as he begins tracing the outline of your neck with his eyes before looking back up at you.

“Well that’s not a good thing, is it?” He says squeezing your hands protectively but you pull them back to bring your sweatshirt over your head.

“I want you to bite me, Steven. I can handle it, I’m a big girl.” The material gets tossed absentmindedly to the floor. “So. Bite. Me.”

He scoots forward, moving what little hair obstructs his go-to spot to bite before moving in closer. “I know that.” He murmurs, ducking his head down to the juncture of your neck.

His right hand settles at your hip, the other grasping the left side of your neck to keep you still.

“Just a sharp prick and then it’s done.” He cautions you the same way he always does, kissing the spot tenderly before opening his mouth wide. And from your proximity, you hear the exact moment his fangs pop into place. The soft and almost inaudible wet click of his top canines extending.

The tips of his fangs are sharper than needles, thin, exacting and precise. And though technically all the boys share the same mouth, with the same teeth, none of them bite alike. Each somehow making the initial sinking into the skin of your neck feel different from the others.

Steven always starts out slow, edging in until he hits the right artery and savoring the first mouthful with tentative lips. But it just gets messier from there on out as the feeding frenzy kicks in.

He begins breathing heavier through his nose by the third inhale of plasma, his hand on your hip tightening as he all but moans into your neck.

The older man releases a long and needful wail against your skin, and that’s when you know he’s been overtaken by his relatively newfound primal urges. His thinking mind clouding over as he does the one function his body has adapted to do.

Once Jake had described to you what it felt like to feed and his words have been seared into your mind ever since.

You’d spent the entire day curled up in bed with the worst cramps you’d experienced in months, and with his help, had managed to limp into the bath he’d drawn for you.

“Fucking carnal.” He’d admitted quietly, squeezing a pink dollop of shower gel onto your loofa before working the suds across your back as you rested your left cheek pitifully against your knees.

“How so?” You asked curiously. And you remember the way he paused, taking a moment to lick his lips as he thought on it further. The action causes your cunt to clench as you watch him, hugging your knees closer just as his penetrating gaze flickers back to your face.

It always felt like he could read you as easily as words on a page, but he simply goes back to washing your back, edging towards the nape of your neck in tight circular motions.

“Imagine the most turned on you’ve ever been. When you’ve just reached the height of it, and you’re getting to the best part. Can you think of it?” He speaks lowly, sensually almost, as he moves to wash your right arm.

It takes you a second to get the thought, but he waits until you give a nod of your head before continuing.

“Think of the exact moment you know you’re getting worked up to cum. Where you know there’s nothing you can do but allow yourself to continue getting built up. You’re going up, and up, and up until you reach the edge, and you fall.”

You’re looking at him entranced, holding your breath as he describes it.

“Feeding isn’t the build up, or the realization that you can’t go back. It’s the freefall, the entire way through. You’re just.. blinded, with pleasure.”

His eyes flicker to yours again, darting down to the way your mouth is parted slightly in awe. “What?”

“That’s beautiful.” You answer truthfully but he laughs heartily.

“Beautiful?” He laughs again. “Sure.”

Your blood is coating Steven’s lips, dripping down his chin and lining his throat as he sucks hungrily. And the hand he had on your neck has begun wandering, palming down the thin white spaghetti strap shirt you’re wearing and easily slipping underneath.

And this time you don’t flinch when his fingers touch your skin, cool and just as equally bracing as they were before. You’re too overheated for that.

The coolness is welcome as you bring your hands up to grasp at his broad shoulders. Not attempting to stop him but just better anchor yourself because you feel like you’re floating and it’s just as equally pleasurable as it is scary— no matter how familiar you try to become with it.

He’s begun rutting his clothed cock against the softness of your thigh, panting into your skin desperately as he drinks deeply.

The sounds he’s making are filthy and utterly obscene and they fill the room by the minute. Easily drowning out your languid whimpers and garbled whines.

When he pulls back he’s dazed, on cloud nine and going higher as his mouth painted red opens wide when he gasps in a deep and greedy inhale.

Finally able to get a decent look at him you’re able to see how messy an eater he is— teeth, lips, chin and throat thoroughly dyed with your blood as he closed-eye smiles dopily.

It’s a sight that should be alarming and wholly disconcerting.

You should want to run, hide, scream. Any normal person would. But instead your stomach gives a leap as you weakly clench your thighs together to alleviate the throbbing between your legs.

Steven leans forward again, but rather than go in for more he licks a wide and hungry stripe against the puncture marks before working his way up your neck, to your lips.

His eyes are open as he leans forward to kiss you and you hold his gaze right up until the taste of your own plasma hits your tongue and you’re swarmed with the metallic taste.

He kisses you passionately, needily. Quickly drawing your attention away from the liquidized iron and more towards the feeling of his body against your own.

He’s revitalized, energetic and firm as you melt against him— pliant and shapeable beneath his hands. The perfect apex predator and his more than willing prey.

You give yourself over to him wholly, mind not even fully registering the faint clinking until he breaks the kiss to unzip his jeans.

His movements are clumsy as he retrieves his cock from his pants, his knuckles bumping against your thigh and arm before he finally grabs ahold of your left hand.

Bringing your motionless hand to his length, he wraps it around himself until you’re fisting him to the best of your ability. “I know you’re tired, love. I know, but I just need— I really need to feel you. Can I feel you? Will you make me cum, sweetheart?”

And he asks so nicely, so sweetly and you’re so in love with him already that you can’t help but nod weakly. Allowing his hand to close around yours before beginning to fuck your hand with uncoordinated thrusts.

“S- So good. You feel so good, I knew you would. I knew you would feel this good.” He babbles nonsensically and you keep your eyes on him the entire way through. Watching as his head bobs this way and that, like he’s drunk. His eyes closed one second and open the next as he moans shamelessly.

You liked seeing Steven like this, you knew he deserved to just forget things for a while. Everything didn’t have to be so serious all the time, it was okay to allow himself to just be once in a while.

Precum leaks from the dark red head of his cock as it coated your fingers, making the slide of your hand and his foreskin easier as he chased his high.

“You gonna cum, pretty boy? Hm? You gonna cum for me, honey? Paint my hand white?” You asked sweetly, putting a little more energy into your grip as he jerks his hips incessantly.

He stutters, not just his words but his whole body gives a shutter when you speak. His eyes rolling back as he begins nodding his head eagerly, feverishly. “F- Fuck. Yes, yes, yes. Gonna cum for you.”

“Good boy, I think you should. Fucking my hand like it’s my pussy because it’s so good. It’s a shame you’re not fucking me like that though. Don’t you think?”

“I could, I could!” He blubbers, unable to stop the movements of his hips. “I could fuck you.”

You hum disappointedly, shaking your head. “I don’t think you could, baby. You’re so close to cumming already. And you already promised to finish on my hand. Didn’t you promise me that?”

He gives a desperate nod, his forehead falling to rest on your shoulder. “I did, I’m gonna—“ and before he can finish his sentence he’s coming long and hard against your hand. Borderline sobbing into your ear as he shakes and jolts.

When he brings his head up, he’s a bit bleary. His forehead coated with a thin layer of sweat causing his dark curls to stick to his skin.

You bring your right hand up to his face, pushing and combing back his damp hair with your fingers. Holding his eye, you bring your other hand up, presenting your cum coated digits to his mouth and watching transfixed as he licks them clean.

Within an instant he’s got you on your back, his movements quick and in fluid succession as he kisses your skin, pushing your lounging shorts and underwear aside— he lines up with your entrance, his eyes drawing up to your face searchingly and needy before you catch his meaning.

Your head gives a rushed nod and he’s looking down once more, rubbing his tip through your folds, taking the time to coat you with himself before pushing forward.

He adjusts your legs as he’s sliding into you, his broad hands grasping underneath your thighs and hauling both of your legs up to fold you in half in front of him. The change in angle wretches a moan from deep in your throat as he positions you like his own personal sex toy.

His cock is thick and unrelenting, demanding all of your focus be placed in relaxing your muscles as he starts thrusting slow but firmly.

Setting into a rhythm, he pulls the hem of your top up until it’s bunched at your collar, your chest on display as his mouth descends greedily.

The proximity of his fangs to your skin makes you dizzy, and though he doesn’t make a move to bite— settling for mouthing and licking at the soft mounds, the sight alone makes your eyes roll back as he thrusts forward and hits your gspot square on.

“Steven! Oh- Steven, there. Right there.”

Lips wrapped around your left nipple, his hands hold your lower half still before he focuses his hectic movements as best he can. The pressure sending tears to your eyes as all the words get caught in your throat, leaving you so that all you can do is utter low shrieks and moans.

Angling his thumb over your clit, he begins rubbing against it rigidly. The slight pressure you feel at your neck as his fangs press into your skin is the final straw, and luckily you can’t move an inch under his weight because you jolt violently as he gives a single suck before pulling away.

Mouth red as he moans into your shoulder, spilling inside of you in warm jets, he holds you securely underneath him.

Wrapping your arms around his back, you lace your fingers into his hair as you attempt to steady your breathing. His sweaty forehead slumping further just enough to meet the fabric of the couch before he stiffens.

Releasing a sharp hiss, his leg twitches and he’s regaining his bearings before pushing himself up to look at you.

“Steven?” Comes out through deep breaths, although you recognize the knitted brows and lucid eyes instantly. Marc.

Bringing a hand up from your thigh, he brushes his fingers against his lips and looks at the pads dampened red before staring up at where the wall meets the ceiling.

Taking a moment to listen before looking down at you, he gives a shake of his head. “He fell asleep.” And you’re huffing out an equally tired but amused laugh.

#vampire!steven grant #vampire!marc spector #vampire!jake lockley #moon knight system x reader #moon knight headcanon #steven grant smut #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight smut

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riddle-me-ri · 10 months

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A/N: honestly didnt think I would come up with another astv fic so quick after the first one lmao but I got inspired for this scenario based on the overall consensus struggle artists are having drawing Miguel (me included asdfhjk). I was stuck between doing a drabble or a list of headcanons and doing some other characters as well. But I decided to keep it simple for now, but if you guys would like to see headcanons of the other characters reacting to you drawing them, feel free to let me know and tell me about any other ideas you guys may have!

Trigger Warning: none

Word Count: 795

Miguel O'Hara x Reader - Drawing Practice

Being a part of the Spider Society definitely had it’s perks and setbacks.

Yeah, it can be stressful, exhausting, and anxiety inducing. Honestly, that just came with being a Spider-person in general.

On the plus side, it was nice to be a part of something so extraordinary. Just when you started to feel lonely, you were soon thrusted into this whole other universe of other walks of life that were like you.

Which easily kept you inspired for your art. You had a plethora of finished sketchbooks, scrapbooks of your drawings you did on notepads, napkins, and other materials.

When you weren’t on missions in your own universe or serving as backup for an anomaly mishap, you were likely swinging around the headquarters looking for your next subject. (Not to mention there was no angle quite like the one you could get hanging upside down…)

During one of the more calmer days, you were sifting through your latest sketchbook. It was almost full. Mostly consisting of whatever caught your eyes, some new environments from different universes, and all sorts of different Spider personas.

Well, most of them anyway. There was still probably many more you have yet to see…or one in particular you see almost every day.

Spiderman 2099 a.k.a. Miguel O’Hara a.k.a. The guy that founded and ran this whole thing. He’s also Mr. Tall, Dark, and Intimidating…and handsome…but mostly intimidating.

You rarely spoke to him outside of certain missions where he requested you for back-up or for any sort of follow-up meeting.

You definitely can't forget his face though…perhaps you could draw from memory? Maybe start from his mask and go from there? It can't be too hard. It's not like he's ever gonna see it anyway, and besides how are you going to draw everyone else but him?

You got comfortable at a nearby corner seat in the food court area. You took a deep breath and started sketching.

The more you sketched the more all the hustle and bustle started to fade away. It was you and the sketchpad. You could almost hear the pencil scrape the paper and the thumps whenever you had to erase something with your eraser.

Some significant time had gone by, and a certain leader was looking for you. Yet you didn't have the slightest clue.

Miguel cleared his throat to get your attention properly and you almost jumped to the ceiling.

"Oh, uh…hi, Miguel…w-what's up?" You really wanted to ask how long he was there. And damn your hyperfocus for interfering with your spidey senses.

You clutched the pad to your chest, trying to keep him from seeing what you were doing. You hoped he never even noticed.

"I wanted to ask you about this new mission. If you wouldn't mind following me so we can discuss it in private?"

"Uhh. Yeah. Okay, sure." You got up from your seat, still clutching your sketchbook like a lifeline in treacherous waters.

As you followed behind him, you couldn't help but feel conflicted.

On one hand you didn't want him to see and on the other you kinda wanted to know what he thought about them. Would he appreciate them? Would he think it was weird? It's not like it was just him, you drew all the Spiders…

"I like your drawings, by the way." He commented over his shoulder as you got closer to his desk.

"Oh. Uh..uh thanks…"

"Gotta admit, I've never had anyone draw me before…" Miguel mentioned.

"That was my first attempt, you're the only Spider I haven't drawn yet."

"Felt obligated to add me in with the others?"

Before you could stop yourself, you said. "More like saving the best for last…"

You both stopped simultaneously in your trek. Both of you were shocked at the sentiment.

Miguel was far from perfect, despite how hard he tried to be perfect and in control. Despite his flaws and his cold aura. You admired his determination and dedication (even if it bit him more often than helped him.)

He turned to face you, as if expecting you to take it back or say it was a joke.

"Really?"

You nodded.

You couldn't help the soft swell in your chest when you saw the faintest hint of a smile grow to the side of his lips.

You tried to train your eyes and brain to take a mental photo for later.

You two started walking again in comfortable silence, until Miguel's voice perked up.

"Although. I don't think I have that many wrinkles." He quipped.

You quirked your eyebrow, questioningly. "With your stress?"

Miguel nodded in a huff. "Fair enough. You should probably add more."

You tried to refrain from giggling as he tried to refrain from smiling any wider.

#ri writes #miguel o'hara x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #atsv miguel o'hara x reader #atsv spiderman 2099 x reader #atsv x reader #across the spiderverse x reader

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machtwehr · 5 months

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Accentuations of Nigel and Alex.

*Accentuation of personality is the personality traits that tend to move to a pathological condition. Possible negative aspects of such state between normal and pathology usually occur under the influence of unfavorable external factors.

I had the option to use the Leonhard type classification, but it is quite outdated and has some inaccuracies, so I used the Lichko classification. According to Lichko’s classification, all types are described in more detail, and the classification itself is more popular. I haven’t found any more common or newer classifications. In addition, the Lichko system is more applicable to teenagers, so I think the choice is more justified.

If we look at the film directly, without taking into account any guesswork. Nigel has the traits of Schizoid, Paranoid and Epileptoid. Alex Hysteroid with paranoid traits.

Nigel, as we know, is a mentally and physically developed person, he is of normal build. He is consistent, attentive to details, calm, careful in his notes and clothes. He has a difficult relationship with his parents, who raised him in conditions of increased moral responsibility. In addition, there may have been a harsh upbringing because Nigel is able to tell by ear whether his Father is picking up a gun. In addition, he hates his father, which can also indicate that their relationship had a harsh upbringing and increased demands. However, everything seems to be fine on the mother’s side, because he talks to her about what he cannot tell his father.

These types of unwanted upbringing and family environment can provoke accentuations close to psychopathy.

Nigel is definitely and predominantly typed as Schizoid. Nigel is shown to us as essentially withdrawn. He is mostly isolated from others, he does not want (more likely does not want than is not able) to establish contacts with peers, he has a reduced need for communication. He is cold and does have the untypical restraint for a teenager. Spiritual loneliness does not particularly bother him, because the only contact he established was only with Alex and only when he decided that Alex was worthy of this very contact. Nigel lives in his own world, with his own unusual interests and hobbies. Hobbies of an intellectual and aesthetic nature are characteristic of a schizoid. All this is never done for show, only for oneself.

Despite the fact that Nigel conditionally penetrates Alex's thoughts, he still does not intuitively grasp the hostile attitude towards himself and when he should not impose his presence.

The inner world, as already indicated, is always closed from prying eyes and only in front of a select few the curtain can suddenly be lifted. Interests are shared in exceptional cases. Perhaps Nigel, in a lesson where Alex was arguing with the teacher, saw a hint of a common interest between them. Alex is the chosen one for Nigel, so he begins to actively draw him into his inner world in all available ways.

In addition, as we can observe, Nigel's behavior is quite contradictory. At first he was silent and looked closely, then he opened up and gave Alex smiles more than once.

In addition, Nigel has clear features of the Epileptoid type and has Epileptoid type affects. (nothing to do with epilepsy). The affect of an epileptoid is like a steam boiler; person incubates for a long time and conceals within itself emotions that find a sudden release, an explosive reaction. (Suicide with collapse of beliefs). In general, the suicide scene also demonstrates the suicidal model characteristic of Epileptoid. Nigel shot himself from Alex's hands rather to show him the state of affairs that Nigel himself sees. It is possible that this was also intended to punish Alex for his resistance.

Epileptoid also corresponds to scrupulousness and pedantry in running any household, including student farming.

Nigel's love (maybe it was love, who knows) is colored by the dark tones of jealousy. Jealousy is quite strong, reaching the point of a valuable idea. In the end, out of jealousy, he goes to kill Susan. Probably so that she doesn't interfere.

In addition, he suppresses Alex's will and tries to gain power over his minds. The desire for power, extreme actions - all this is characteristic of an epileptoid.

Traits of the Paranoid type manifest themselves in overvalued ideas. Nigel is confident in the uniqueness of his origins, especially his destiny. Everything Nigel says is absolutely true. Nigel is confident that he has the right to everything he puport. He overestimates his personality, wisdom and understanding of everything.

He cherishes his ideas and shows extreme fanaticism towards them, bringing an extremely valuable idea to the status of a “crazy idea”.

She gives herself to the idea with exceptional passion, does not accept rejection, and convinces Alex of the value of her idea. It is common for a paranoid person to suffer defeat in a war for his beliefs. But having been defeated, he does not despair, does not become despondent, does not know that he is wrong; on the contrary, from failures he draws strength for further struggle.

Alex. Asthenic, also mentally developed, physically corresponds to his age. He was also brought up in undesirable conditions, without a real home, with increased moral responsibility. His father is emotionally distant from him, does not listen to his son’s requests, and is not interested in anything other than Alex’s assessments. Even in a difficult situation, he still distances himself from Alex. There is no mother.

Throughout the story, he demonstrates obvious features of a hysteroid.

All his behavior is aimed at capturing the attention of anyone: his father, school friends, Nigel, a psychologist. Demanding admiration, surprise, and reverence for one’s personality. Boundless egocentrism. At worst, he prefers indignation or hatred, but not indifference. Suggestibility, which is often brought to the fore, is selective. Hysteroids willingly act in public and show artistic abilities. Apparent emotionality actually turns into a lack of deep feelings with great expression of emotions, theatricality, and a tendency to show off and pose.

Alex also has the easily wounded pride characteristic of a hysteroid. He read the diary and Nigel's opinion about himself and decided to teach him a lesson, to show that elders should be respected.

Hysterics retain the childish reactions of the opposition. Having received a rebuff from Nigel, Alex took on the role of a “quiet” teenager who seemed to be sick from the outside, putting on a mask of indifference and painful loss.

It is also possible to refuse all “masks”, since Nigel literally saw through it. Withdrawing into oneself and leaving the company in this state of affairs is a typical reaction of a hysteroid.

The emancipation of a hysteroid has violent manifestations: running away from home, conflicts with elders, demands for freedom and independence. All this was also demonstrated to us. Alex constantly ran away from school at night with his friends, and demanded that his father not move neighbors in with him.

In the group, Alex characteristically takes the position of leader. In an impulse, he can easily lead a company. Alex also has a good intuitive sense. He reads the horror in the eyes of a friend on the verge of death, guesses who is giving him unusual “gifts”, and finds a good moment to ask Susan out on a date.

Hobbies are concentrated in the area of egocentric hobby. Just like schizoids, they pick up unusual hobbies, but unlike schizoids, they are more for show. Knowing that Alex's school is quite religious, he studies history and presents the facts to the teachers in such a way as to once again omit religious motives, bringing more prosaic ones to the fore.

Alex's self-esteem is far from objective; he emphasizes traits in himself that can make an impression at the moment.

Just like Nigel, he demonstrates paranoid type ideas. The extremely valuable idea of its exclusivity.

No wonder Nigel confirms this with his note “Alex is an egocentric megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur.” In addition, Alex is painfully touchy.

He evaluates all the people with whom Alex comes into contact by the attitude they show towards his activities. He does not forgive disagreement and indifference.

Now, if we look at the story in reverse, from the perspective of an unreliable narrator. Alex is the mastermind, Nigel the victim.

They, in fact, change characters with each other, but everything takes on more sinister and categorical features. Their Types become more pure.

Alex takes on the image of a more classic epileptoid, who is terrifying in his behavior in essence.

Long-lasting dysphoria comes first in Alex’s behavior and motivation, which, transforming into affect, is completely taken out on Nigel.

Alex probably has sadistic tendencies if he was the one who intimidated Nigel with a severed hand and a bloody knife. (We swapped them after all). It is possible that Alex committed the murder of Susan, because again, I repeat, such extreme actions as murder and fights at school are characteristic of an epileptoid.

In such positions, Alex is definitely a quarrelsome, conflicted teenager. In addition, the methods of reprisal against the victim by epiletoid teenagers are more developed. They are distinguished by extraordinary meanness.

The paranoid component of an overvalued idea is also present.

Nigel, if we consider him from the position of a victim who, by the will of fate, was not lucky enough to get along with Alex, loses all his epileptoid and paranoid traits. He still has the Schizoid type.

#I started a course in psychiatry at university #Could I pass by and not write this article?#Absolutely not #Of course there may be inaccuracies #because psychiatry is as accurate as astrology #like minds #like minds 2006 #murderous intent #nigel colbie #alex forbes #like minds analysis

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vhstown · 9 months

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42!MILES BOXING AU

a wiki-style post — by @vhstown <3

HELLO this is just some extra background info i came up with for the earth-42 boxing au i wrote about in my two-shot fic time out

all of the ideas in this post i came up with by myself! nothing to do with x reader this is just totally nerdy au rambling (how id envision this au in a comic book / fighting shonen etc)

i don't write fighting stories and im not a boxer so soz if any info is unrealistic i just be making this up fr. it's fiction have fun w it!

spoilers for the fic? i guess? i basically just mansplain EVERY little detail cuz i don't have the balls to write a series

a little contents page for your sanity:

KEY FIGURES: Miles G Morales "The Prowler" // Norman Osborn // Harry Osborn "The Green Goblin" // Wilson Fisk "Kingpin" // Adrian Toomes "The Vulture"

THE UNIVERSE AT LARGE: Boxing generations // Sports journalism // Human enhancement and experimentation // Boxing and the criminal underworld

KEY FIGURES

Miles G Morales / "The Prowler"

The big man himself! Started out boxing with his Uncle Aaron after his father's death as a way to cope and get closer to his uncle.

Aaron is pretty well-versed in boxing and likely competed back with the older generation of boxers in Earth 42. Likely fought alongside Miles' dad Jefferson too back in the day and that's why Miles takes particular interest.

Miles' mom is hesitant about letting him go to Las Vegas to compete (drawing parallels from 1610!Rio not wanting Miles to move out of state for college) but eventually gives in.

I think in this case aging up Miles would be appropriate considering he's fighting adults but who says a 15-17 year old can't take on fully grown adults (fiction!!!!)

Miles gains temporary fame after beating "The Vulture" who is an old generation boxer.

Miles wants to make his family proud and also take the opportunity to make money so his mom can live comfortably but obviously that goes wrong because his manager is...

Norman Osborn

One of the sport's big shots. Has a LOT of the industry under his influence and potentially rigs matches?

Miles' first manager — Osborn takes on Miles but later lets him go because he's not "worth" the investment (which has nothing to do with actually winning as you'll see later.)

Involved in illegal human enhancement and experimentation, particularly on:

Harry Osborn / "The Green Goblin"

The boxer that takes out Miles in one punch and gets Miles' contract nullified

No consistent fighting style, flimsy and appearing to be nothing like an actual boxer but his win streak is building like no other boxer.

He's juiced up on something 😭 This is one of the main plot points of the AU where boxers and other athletes are being experimented on to acquire "superhuman" qualities. Norman is basically experimenting on his own son (for reasons maybe similar to the canon Green Goblin? Perhaps because his son wanted to be a boxer but couldn't because of a degenerative disease.)

Motivation for Miles would be to fight him again but obviously he can't immediately after losing so he has to build up his wins again and so he goes to:

Wilson Fisk / "Kingpin"

Ex heavyweight boxer and champion, probably an older generation of boxers that came before all the experimental stuff and is now a manager and big-shot and rivals with Norman.

His main thing is rigging matches and earning money through betting systems that only he profits from.

Used to manage "The Vulture" who left his contract after being beaten by Miles.

Miles goes under a contract with him after Fisk takes an interest in his win against The Vulture, and now he's masked boxer (which is pretty uncommon I heard so he sticks out and becomes popular again pretty fast) with the ring name "the Prowler"

Miles very quickly realises that Fisk is shady and he decides to break through the rigged matches that he's meant to lose and win anyway which only builds his popularity and the people betting on him.

Fisk sees opportunity in this and decides to let Miles do his own thing so that he can take down his rival Norman Osborn when Miles finally fights against The Green Goblin again.

Adrian Toomes / "The Vulture"

Long-time boxer with an unbeatable win streak, lightweight champion. By the time Miles is fighting him he's on the brink of retirement but stubbornly fights him anyway only to lose.

More of a minor villain at the start however after being let go by Fisk he turns to Norman Osborn and his experimental technology to make a come back and hopefully face off with Miles Morales again.

THE UNIVERSE AT LARGE

A quick note on "generations" of boxers

Old generation = Aaron's boxing era, prime time to be a boxer more about the sport less about the money, fame, etc.

New/second generation = Includes the Sinister Six and experimental work and crime and the whole shebang. Miles experiences boxing through this generation.

Sports journalism

The Bugle is not only a source of everyday news but they have a department dedicated solely to sports journalism!

In my fic MJ is the one who reports on Miles' win however there's definitely Gwen Stacy potential! A rookie journalist doing an internship at the Bugle and might help out Miles on his boxing endeavours (or you could sneak in an x journalist!reader if you're cheeky.)

If you wanted to take a more classic Gwen route you'd probably involve her in the next thing which is:

Human enhancement and experimentation

Oscorp in some capacity would exist in this universe, likely using the front of a company that supports athletes and their development with their technology.

Osborn uses the company's power and tech to fuel the regeneration of his son Harry Osborn and puts him into boxing (as Harry wanted.)

This technology eventually branches out into other boxers in a new-generation of genetically modified boxers — also the opponents that Miles would have to fight, likely in the form of the Sinister Six (including The Vulture.)

All of the experimentations have weaknesses to them that Miles can take advantage of (e.g. The Green Goblin is only a threat if he can land a hit.)

Boxing and the criminal underworld

Miles Morales soon realises that boxing and the sports world in general is just a massive front for criminal activity.

As he fights more and more matches under Fisk he realises the true extent of not only Fisk's world but the entirety of the boxing world in this "second generation" of boxers.

Aaron quit boxing for this exact reason and him and Miles eventually work together to take it down.

Potential for Miles to be the regular Prowler here? It's pretty much open-ended so he could be written as a vigilante with his usual gear or as a fists-only fighting shonen protagonist.

May include some link as to why Miles' father died? I kept it pretty ambiguous in my fic so he could be a police officer or ex-boxer or whatever you'd like — point is, his father's death motivates Miles to take over the boxing sphere!

a note from me

hello hello this is vee! amateur writer and even more amateur athlete (im not an athlete at all 😭)

this is just a post of my personal ideas, again none of this is canon i just put a lil spin on the original villains

if you're going to write this please tag me because id love to see!!!!!!!! even if it's not related to anything in this post AT ALL if you write or draw anything to do with boxer miles please tag me i am Starving

none of these ideas are very refined and open to change / adaptation! feel free to tack on your own ideas too

i highly doubt anybody's read this but if you did i appreciate u 😭🙏

MAKE MORE ATSV AUS PLEASE (frothing at the mouth)

ill edit or reblog this with any other ideas i might have so this is subject to change i guess <3 have a good one

#vee rants #vhstown #miles g morales #miles gonzalo morales #prowler miles #miles 42 #spiderman atsv #atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse #atsv fanfiction #spider man: across the spider verse #atsv au

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llamagirl28 · 1 year

Note

Honestly, I would love to hear more about the ROs that haven’t appeared yet.

Of course! Under the cut, cause it's getting long

Nimue appeared briefly in chapter 2 but I'm going to include her here anywhere. So, as you may know, she's Merlin's daughter - and only child - as well as his apprentice. Her mother is a High Priest in Avalon, and Nimue herself will admit to missing Avalon terribly - yet she chose to become Merlin's apprentice. She keeps a curious eye on Mordred (watching their career with interest so to say 👀).

She loves long walks in the woods, loves to be by water and enjoys swimming. She's a good cook. Out of everyone in Camelot she's closest with Gawain. She's very fond of cats (I may actually give her a kitty in game). She has a beautiful singing voice, and often hums to herself while working.

She hates the cold. She's always bundled up in winter. Her favorite colors are those shades ranging from green-blue. She loves reading, and Gawain is all too happy to provide her with suggestions. She keeps a lot to herself. Has a penchant for eavesdropping 👀 and generally at parties you can find her roaming the room, observing people. She's a very skilled sorcerer, and also an adept of the Lady of the Lake. Her outfits consist a lot of stays over chemises with petticoats and overskirts, kirtles over chemises. And belts with pockets to carry stuff.

Elaine is the youngest child of the Astolat Ducal family. Has always been very sporty/outdoorsy and would spend hours playing outside and watching the knights play. She befriended a dragon, Felix, around her age, bonding over their shared love for flying, sports and nature, and they'd often joked about becoming knights. She's a light weight when it comes to alcohol. She loves showing off her muscles. Has always been intrigued by dragons' culture and history.

About Sophie, I actually did some changes to her backstory! Interesting ones. She had a brother before too - tho he was younger. Now it's her twin brother, Magnus! He's still the one preferred for the throne, despite her being first born by a couple minutes. The Council of Nobles (who are the ones actually in power, behind the scenes) in her kingdom don't want her as Monarch because she's actually really interested in taking an active role in leading, uncovering their corruption and making all sorts of changes - including perhaps an attempt at democracy 👀

She loves dogs - and got a dog of her own when she moved to Camelot to become a knight. Elaine uses she/her (doesn't bother her/doesn't really care) but she's not comfortable being considered a woman - or a man. Loves bread and pastry. It's just so good. Wears pants with tunics/shirts/jerkins/doublets in either soft, pastel colors (like violet, blue, yellow, mint) or simple browns. Goes for comfy, cozy, practical clothes but does like to dress up in elaborately embroidered doublets and shirts for special events.

She's always been very studious and diligent, becoming intrigued by different topics and subjects. Has random knowledge on all sorts of things as a result. She can wield a dagger well enough. She loves wearing flowing dresses in all sorts of pastel and soft colors - her favorite color in pink. She loves flowers and plants. Has a sweet tooth. She also draws very beautifully.

Agravain is a fellow knight who joins the Round Table after Mordred. They're the bastard of some Camelotian noble, whose mother is a servant at his castle. Their father has always resented them and they've been badly treated by him, his wife, and their oldest child. Agravain actually looks up a lot to Morgana - and wishes to befriend Mordred. They feel they have a lot in common, that they're kindred spirits - very much "us against the world". Mordred's relationships with them will have a big impact on Agravain.

They're sweet and earnest, and sort of bashful, though they can get very snappish and irritable and angry in certain situations. They get easily jealous (not just in romantic relationships, but friendships too). They're afraid Mordred - or anyone else they become close to - might abandon them. Has worked very hard to become a Knight of the Round Table. They have a passion for sewing and love designing and making their own clothes. Thinks cloaks are very cool.

Isac is a sorcerer, and son of the so called Rebel Queen. The bloodline of sorcerer he's a part of originates from the Deer King himself, and their affinity is for plant manipulation. Which you bet comes in handy for robbing people on highways that go through the forest, and protecting their castle which is also found within the woods. He's very easy going and a shameless flirt who will shoot his shot with Mordred - but backs down the moment you refuse/aren't interested in his flirting. He loves deep, lush colors, low v-neck shirts, wearing lots of rings and walks in the deep parts of the woods. His favorite hanging spots are some abandoned Deer King Temples. Has a streak for mischief. His childhood best friend is a dragon. There's one cousin close to him in age that he's also closest to, whom he loves to (affectionately) annoy.

#the bastard of camelot #Boc ros #Nimue #Sophie #Elaine #Isac #Agravain

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