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uhlikzsuzsanna · 3 years

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Richard E. Grant Reveals Whether Classic Loki Is Gone for Good: 'How Do You Top That?' (Exclusive)

[Warning: The below contains MAJOR spoilers for Loki Season 1, Episode 5, “Journey Into Mystery.”]

Richard E. Grant seems the ideal candidate to be conscripted into Marvel's cinematic universe: He's an Oscar nominee (Can You Ever Forgive Me?) who doesn't take himself too seriously (he's been in two Hitman's Bodyguard movies) and he's already on the Disney payroll (having joined the Star Wars franchise for The Rise of Skywalker). Yet, the actor says he and Marvel had never discussed his entrée into the MCU until Loki.

"I'd been in Logan, but that's completely separate," he told me over Zoom. "I'd joked on and off down the years with Tom Hiddleston, because of some vague similarity in the way that we look -- me, a much older version of course -- about working together as father and son in something. I assumed because I was asked to play Old Loki, I thought, 'Oh, this is the call finally,' because of the physical similarity. So, that's as much as I knew."

Grant made his Loki debut in the post-credits scene of episode 4 as "Classic" Loki, a Variant of our Hiddleston's God of Mischief who dons Loki's comics-accurate green and gold getup and ultimately goes out in a blaze of magical glory in the penultimate episode. Ahead of the Loki finale, Grant chatted with ET about answering Marvel's call, his one major complaint with his costume and whether Classic Loki is gone for good.

ET: Beyond you looking Hiddleston-y or him looking Richard E. Grant-y, what was it about this character in this story that you knew, "Yes, this is my part in the MCU"?

Richard E. Grant: Well, the key is in Old Loki, because being 64, I was older than anybody on the entire crew or cast. So, that was the clue in, I thought, "Old Loki, that's it -- I'm in the old age roles now."

What else were you told about him in that initial pitch? And was the costume part of it? Because it seems so much part of the character.

Yeah. And when the costume designer showed me my face on this costume that she designed and I saw the Jack Kirby drawings from the '60s, I thought, "Oh, great! As I have no muscles" -- as you can see -- "I'm finally going to be in a muscle suit. I'm going to have muscles like Tom has got!" And of course, I got there and I said, "Well, where's the muscle suit?" They said, "You don't have a muscle suit. This is what you're wearing." I said, "But this is like Kermit the Frog. There's no muscles. There's nothing here! How can I fight in Asgard?" [Laughs] "No, no, it's your magic that counts!" And I said, "Help me. Just give me the muscle suit," but they refused. So, I'm still sore headed that I was never given a muscle suit to fight Asgard as in all the drawings. I still don't really why they didn't do that, but maybe they wanted withered Loki. Who knows?

So, what was your reaction the first time you got all the garb on and saw yourself in the mirror?

Horrified, because I had no muscles! I was standing there like sort of a geek with these Y-fronts. I remember when I was a kid in the back of all the comics, they used to have these little drawing adverts with a skinny kid having sand kicked in his face. And they used to have these chest expanders, they said, "Send off for one of these chest expanders and you too could look like Thor!" Well, I never did, and I thought, well, finally, when I'm cast as Old Loki, this is going to be my chance. And damn, they took it away from me in that too. So I'm pissed at them for that.

How did Hiddleston react when he first saw you in it?

He said, "You have no idea what kind of response this is going to elicit when it comes out." I said, "That doesn't sound too positive or hopeful to me without the muscles, Tom." And he said, "No, no, believe me, I've been playing this part and there's a universe of people who are so obsessed and so ready to see Classic Loki. Be prepared for it." I didn't really take him seriously. I thought, "Well it's a TV series. How many people will watch this on a new channel?" Yada, yada. And how right he was looking into the crystal ball and how wrong I was, because since it came out last Wednesday, I have been absolutely flabbergasted by the response. My Twitter feed and Instagram have increased in vast numbers, and the response has been pretty astonishing. I'm amazed and grateful that it hasn't been negative so far.

I loved your post, by the way, about how your father would have reacted to this costume.

Well, he was right! I'm still at 64 earning my crust by wearing makeup and green tights. [Laughs]

I have to assume this was also your first time with an alligator as your scene partner?

It was. And in reality it was three stuffed cushions sewn together. Sort of fun to hold!

Alligator Loki is such a breakout star and I loved seeing the blue plushy you used on set. What was it like filming those scenes? Did it feel absolutely ridiculous?

No, because I was grateful. Very often you'd have dots or crosses or just a tennis ball on a stick to react to, so the fact that we actually had the soft cushioned shape of something alligator-like was a help. But it's just the nature of being an actor. You know that the CGI and the graphics and production design department, they come up with something amazing. What I didn't take on board is that, of course, he'd have these beautiful gold horns on top of his alligator sideways eyes. I love that. I've only seen the stills of it, but it looks amazing.

Your final moment in the episode is so powerful. I'll tell you, it brought tears to my eyes. On set, I imagine you're probably in front of a blue screen having to use your imagination. Tell me about capturing that emotion and how you and Kate Herron found that moment together?

The camera was on a big sort of jig crane thing that was at the highest section of the studio and I would follow a mark on that and they had, I think, three or four aircraft-sized wind machines blowing the Bajesus out of everything. And I thought, having wondered whether the helmets and the horns had to be quite so tight, I was grateful for them on that day because they did not move despite the amount of wind that was blowing at me. It was scripted to say, "He's laughing and shortly and cackling in the face of his own imminent, catastrophic death in the mouth of [Alioth]," it was very empowering to be able to just give it the full welly at doing that. So, I enjoyed that hugely.

You said you've only seen stills of Alligator Loki. Have you seen the episode yet?

No.

So, you haven't seen how the scene looks with all the CGI yet?

I've seen stills that I'm holding up the city, so I've seen that. I have never got used to watching myself on screen. I love watching other people, but when I come on, I just-- I'm astonished that I get any work. So, I've learned decades ago just to never watch. So, when you see a still, you don't have the horror of your shortcomings to mull over.

Well, I will tell you, you looked pretty bad ass in that moment.

Good. Thank you, John!

This seems like the end for Classic Loki, but if this series has taught us one thing, it's that Lokis survive. Do you think we could see him again someday? And are you down to play him again?

As you just said, everything's possible. But I think that's because his sacrifice is so huge and it's going out with such a bang, how do you top that if he had to come back? I have no idea. You know, it's not within my arena to do that. But I wouldn't say no, if asked. Put it that way.

#Loki #Loki series #Richard E. Grant #interview #etonline #Tom Hiddleston #2021.07.12

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sleepysailorjunko · 3 years

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flowers in your hair

The flowers are plentiful here, the sunshine warm and the day pleasant. It was serene here.

There was almost nothing like this in the wasteland. Anywhere else, this would be a trap. Just as they started to relax, something would attack, or a thousand rigged explosives would detonate.

Only, not this time. This seemed to be a place hidden from the world, not a fragment of the old world ravaged by nukes. Untouched and timeless.

Tracey breathed softly, threading her fingers through the soft soil. For once her geiger counter was silent. With her enhanced eye, she couldn't see any dangers. A warm, familiar hand settled on top of her own.

"Decorum prohibits it, but I feel like being close to you." her lover said, sitting beside her. She leaned on his shoulder. Neither of them were wearing their heavy armor-there was no need for it here. Power armor had been set aside for flannels. Tracey had put away the majority of her weapons, only her handgun was still on her person.

"I feel the same."She said. Danse raised her hand up to his lips as if to kiss it, only to be interrupted.

"Ugh, get a room!" MacCready whined, as if he wasn't laying half on Tracey's lap.

"Oh, let them be cute and mushy together! It'll make for a good story. i wish we could print pictures in the paper, like they did in old world papers!"She gestured at Tracey and Danse, as if targeting them in a camera. "Because let me tell you, this would sell a million papers!"

"How about no?" Tracey said, looking bemused at the situation. Danse set her hand down, not fond of public displays of affection. He didn't let go off her hand, though.

"Very immature, MacCready." Danse responded gruffly, a little embarrased. Maccready sprung to his feet.

"Noo!" he rejected.

"Yeah, sure." Piper said.

"Aw, whatever. Who needs your approval anyway?" He settled back onto Tracey's lap awkwardly, and somewhat crankily. Tracey ran her fingers through his hair fondly. "Ah stop that, boss! You're getting my hair dirty."

"Fresh round of lemonaid for everyone?"Codsworth floated in, two cups already at the ready.

"Sure, Codsworth. I'm sure everyone would appreciate that." Tracey answered. Codworth busied himself with passing out pre-war cups filled with juice. It was similar to lemonaid-citrus plants were too hardy to die off entirely. Not quite the lemons she remembered, but really, how often did she notice? Still lemons, they just tasted a little different.

She drank the lemonaid slowly, savoring the taste. Her throat was more dry than she thought. The cup clanked gently against her holotags, and she leaned back on her other hand, winding it into the flowers.

The flowers were golden and the stems were such a vibrant green. They were some sort of marrigold, or maybe a yellow daisy. Look, Tracey was a detective, not a florist. It seemed like they were healthier than even pre-war plants.

She remembered the days she and her sister had spent in flower patches like these. Those afternoons spent playing in the farmhouse yard, making daisy chains and memories. Within a few years, her sister and mother would die and her father would abandon her. No one could have predicted any of that, but it didn't stop her from over analyzing, looking for any sign of her sister's illness.

How unlucky did a person have to be to outlive not one, but two families? And their entire world?

Part of her wondered if she would outlive the one she was trying to build. She hoped not, knowing that trying to move on if she lost Danse and MacCready would kill her.

Danse took her hand again, holding it in both of his, pulling her back into the present.

How lucky had she been to be given three different families? Sure, the time she had spent with them was shorter than it should have been, but it was time that she treasured.

Taking her hand back from Danse, she picked up a flower. Then another, piling them on MacCready.

"Stop putting this shi-stuff on me."

"Jusy hold it for a second. I'm doing something." MacCready was a brother to Tracey, sure, but he was whiny sometimes. Taking two in her hands, she bent one under and over. Her hands were clumsy with particular movement-it had been a while since she had made a flower crown.

"Feeling creative today, Miss Tracey?" Codsworth quipped.

"Whatcha doing there, Blue?" Piper asked, looking on in confusion.

"You'll see."

Danse watched the movement of her hands as she added to the crown and weaved more flowers in. She roughly guessed out how large it would need to be and finished it. Gently, partially because she didn't want to jostle MacCready, raised her arms up placed the crown on Danse's head.

"Do you like it?" The paladin was flushed, a healthy pink glowing on his face. It was an intensely beautiful sight. Danse was an exceptionally handsome man, and it was complimented by the golden flower crown.

"Hey, Blue, I think you broke him."

"It's beautiful, Tracey." Danse finally responded. "Thank you."

"Hey, where's mine?" MacCready said, complaining playfully. Danse glares at him for a second, still wearing the flower crown as Tracey gathers more flowers for the craft. Just as she had the first time, she began. Soon enough, she had finished MacCready's crown.

"Sit up,"she nudged him.

"Aw Tracey, you didn't have to. Well, since you already made it..."

Rolling her eyes, she placed the flower crown on his head. Just then, quick hands grabbed it from him.

"Piper!" He shouted, springing to his feet like a Jack in the box. "I'm gonna get you!"

He and Piper ran around, the reporter trying to keep the flower crown from him, and the sniper trying to get it back.

Even Paladin Danse couldn't stifle a small chuckle at the sight.

Clumsily, his own hands retraced the same movements Tracey had used. His technique was unpracticed, but he imagined few people had the luxury to do this sort of thing on a regular basis.

He placed the crown on his lovers head, then caressed her cheek with his hand.

"For you." He almost whispered, drawing close to her. He pressed his lips to hers, pulled her into his arms. "I care very deeply for you."

Tracey cuddled into his arms, drawn to his warmth despite the warm day.

"I care deeply about you as well. I love you." The ways she said was almost like a confession, something she needed to be reprimanded for. "I don't know what I'd do if something happened to you."

He didn't promise that nothing would happen. To do that would he a lie, and he did not want to lie to Tracey.

"You are so beloved, my dear." he said simply, kissing her cheek with chapped lips. Then again, slightly below, and again, dappling her cheek with many kisses. "I love you."

"Ha, look who's laughing now?" MacCready boasted, holding his flower crown up like some sort of trophy. "You're just jealous anyways."

"Jealous of what? Your immaturity?" Piper responded.

"No, my fabulous personality, charming wit, and great hair."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure you're very popular with the ladies."

"Being popular with women isn't important, Robert." Danse said, like that was some sort of comforting point. "It is more vital to show strong character and good morals."

"Yeah? What peice of Brotherhood propaganda did you get that from?"Piper sniped, another quip readied about how she didn't know Brotherhood soldiers even knew about sex, being that they just assembled new soldiers. Then she thought about how he had been kicked out of the Brotherhood for being a synth, and decided not to.

"Well, actually it's from-"Then Danse came to the realization that the reporter was ridiculing him, and cut off abruptly. "Never mind."

"I'll have you know, Piper, I'm plenty good with women. They can't get enough of me."

"Sure, not everyone digs the whole dirty-rat-mercenary look though."

"Geex, you wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something?"MacCready asked. "Or are you just sore that I caught you earlier?"

"No, I let you win! I was bored of it anyway."

Tracey fiddled with the switches on her pip-boy idily while they argued, flipping from the statistics tab to the equipment tab and back again. She smiled to herself as she poked through the notes on her pip-boy.

Taking Danse's hand, she helped pull him up.

"Ready to go home?"

#i just wanted to write fluff #Tracey love #paladin danse #codworth #piper wright #maccready #rj maccready #fallout 4 #fluff #flower crowns #like blatant overuse of flower crowns #op has never once made a flower crown so make a note of that #i live in a desert and I ain't never seen that many flowers ok cut me some slack

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taradiddled · 5 years

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For the anon who asked for more Helsa genderbend fic. I’m sorry I had to delete the post with your ask, nonnie. It kept freezing up on my computer and no matter what I tried to do to edit, it would embed properly.

Story under cut. I also changed Hanna’s name to Hanne, because Hanna is already the name of a character in my other fic series, “Breaking the Frozen Heart”, and I don’t want to get mixed up.

When Hanne first saw her wedding dress, she could have sworn the white coloring was mocking her. It was a beautiful dress, simple in design, with a faint rosemaling of ice upon the the bodice, no doubt by the King’s own hand. It was cold when Hanne finally put it on the morning of her wedding, and she swore she felt her self-loathing increase two-fold when the maids finally finished sculpting the dress to her body and forced Hanne’s feet into a delicate pair of gold slippers that ended up pinching Hanne’s feet.

The proceedings were unbearably dull — the maids hardly spoke throughout the dressing, except to make small orders that Hanne lift an arm, move a leg, or rearrange her feet. Several times, Hanne thought they were purposefully poking her with needles as they sewed her into her dress, but she’d kept her mouth shut, not wanting to make any sort of fuss.

She stayed her tongue when the maids forced her into a chair before her vanity, and kept back her cries when their hairbrushes pulled most roughly at her scalp. Every single one of Hanne’s natural waves and tipped curls disappeared as the maids pulled and stuffed the princess’s hair into an elegant chignon coiffure. Hanne’s scalp ached terribly by the end of it, and she winced when the maids finished the updo by sticking pins into the bun to keep it in place.

After doing Hanne’s hair, the maids started doing Hanne’s makeup. The princess tried to remain still as her cheeks were pinched to pinkness, her lips painted red, and a faintly red powder was applied to her cheeks. When the maids were finally finished, Hanne hardly recognized the beautiful woman in the vanity mirror’s reflection. But it only took one glance into the reflection of her miserable, aching green eyes, and Hanne knew herself right away.

The final touch was the veil, which the maids pinned to Hanne’s hair, right beneath her bun. Though Hanne appreciated that she would not need to cover her face, she found the veil’s train far too long and heavy, forcing her to move with measured steps as the women proclaimed her “worthy of King Elliott’s gaze”, and then ushered her out of the room and down the halls.

Portraits of Arendelle’s past kings and queens seemed to stare down at Hanne with steely eyes as she was lead down the halls, Hanne trying to not let her eyes wander as the maids brought her into the castle’s main foyer, castle staff pausing in their work to watch as the princess passed by. Though they did not glare, nor did they say anything unkind, their eyes spoke of their disapproval, and Hanne found herself staring at her feet as she was guided out the castle entrance and into the courtyard, the chill of wind hitting her with a sharp bite that had her shivering.

Elliott’s personal assistant and royal secretary, Sir Kai, was waiting at the bottom of the raised steps, a decorated carriage parked behind him.

Kai looked Hanne up and down, before he gestured to the carriage. He had opened the carriage door before Hanne had arrived, and a little stool was placed beneath the door, no doubt for Hanne’s benefit.

“The carriage will take us to the chapel,” he informed the princess. “King Elliott personally asked me to escort you.” He folded his hands in front of him. “I hope you don’t mind.” His tone said that he wouldn’t care whether or not Hanne minded at all.

Hanne looked at the carriage that would take her to her fate, at its impeccably dressed driver, and the four beautiful white horses drawing it, and, for a moment, imagined that she was anywhere else in the world. But that moment dissipated, and she took a step towards the carriage.

“I don’t mind. Thank you.” She tried to get up onto the stool herself, but her veil’s train weighed her down. A maid had to help Hanne by gathering the train up and following Hanne into the carriage, gently laying the bundle beside Hanne once the princess was seated.

“Careful to not tear it,” the woman told Hanne. “It belonged to the King’s mother.”

A stone of misery sunk in Hanne’s stomach. She wanted to wet her lips, as they’d become rather dry, but feared that she might smudge her lip paint.

“I will be most careful,” she promised the maid. Whether or not the maid believed Hanne, she accepted the princess’s words and sighed.

“See that you do.”

The maid then vacated the carriage, leaving Hanne with less than a minute of solitude before Kai climbed in and seated himself across from Hanne. The carriage door then shut, and Hanne could hear the driver start to call order to the horses. Kai made himself comfortable where he was sat, folding his hands in his lap.

Hanne, however, sat with her back ram-rod straight, her shoulders tense, and her eyes focused on the tips of her slippers peeking out from beneath the skirts of her dress. She remained staring at her feet as the carriage began to lurch forwards, and did not look up to look out the window as the carriage’s wheels began turning down the courtyard’s cobblestones.

Neither she nor Kai said a word all the way to the chapel, and when the carriage finally came to a stop, Hanne considered throwing open the carriage door and making a run for the fjord. But it seemed Kai has noticed the crazed look in Hanne’s eyes, because he took her arm by his hand when Hanne started to rise from her seat, squeezing a brief warning.

“All of Arendelle is waiting for your arrival,” he calmly told Hanne, tone measured and cold. Then, because he must not have thought Hanne understood, he added, “The King is waiting.”

If Hanne weren’t about to be bound in matrimony to her worst enemy, perhaps she might have been indignant at Kai’s daring to lay a hand on her. Instead, within the confines of the carriage, Kai’s hand on Hanne’s arm sent a rush of nostalgic fear into Hanne’s heart. Her mind rushed with panic, and she found her tongue far too heavy to twist into words. So, instead of speaking, she nodded her head, eyes wide and skin pale.

Kai must have accepted Hanne’s nonverbal response, because he released her arm, just as the carriage’s door was opened. Hanne’s stomach twisted as she saw the displeased face waiting beyond the carriage door, his hand outstretched towards Hanne, and his blue eyes hard as they noticed the veil pinned to Hanne’s hair.

Prince Anders of Arendelle let out a huff of resignation, and moved his eyes to meet Hanne’s.

“You don’t deserve any of this,” he said. For the briefest moment, Hanne imagined Anders was being kind, and that he believed she didn’t deserve to be forced into marrying his brother, but the moment passed, and Hanne knew Anders was only telling the hard truth.

Hanne didn’t deserve to be wed to the man she almost killed. She didn’t deserve to get some form of what she had initially wanted (marriage to a powerful king) even though none of this was what Hanne wanted now.

Forcing herself to maintain eye contact with the prince, Hanne nodded, and took Anders’s hand. His fingers curled about hers like gnarled branches, reluctant to touch, even through the silk of the prince’s formal gloves.

“I know.”

#Happyhoganon #helsa #genderbend #cisgenderswap #fanfic #hanne and elliott

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thecorteztwins · 4 years

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Well, these are some headcanons that I have for some of my favorite minor Marvel characters that I don’t have a blog for-- Aireo, Aqueduct, Catsye, Darkstar, Fantasma, and Skein. Under the cut in alphabetical order!

AIREO AKA SKYBREAKER - Aireo was originally imprisoned in Attilan for rebelling against Black Bolt’s rule. And after he had been exiled into the human world and became a criminal there, he was imprisoned in a superhuman jail, where he said that it was even more regressive than his fellow Inhumans. Based on this, I think he probably had a lot of problems with the shittier aspects of how Attilan was run, like the arranged/forced marriages and control of who could reproduce with who. He clearly thinks Inhumans are still superior though, as evident by remarks he makes to Firestar. - He’s frequently sick due to the pollution of the human world. This is also why he has to only eat organic. - He’s a vegetarian, since Attilan doesn’t have animals that’s what he’s used to. He finds the idea of eating meat to be barbaric. - His skinniness might be unhealthy on someone else, but it’s how he’s SUPPOSED to be, to facilitate flight easier on the winds he summons. - His brother is HELIO, another villainous minor Inhuman with long hair and wind powers. - He connects with his teammate Terraformer over their respective lack of humanity (in the sense of literally not being human), with Firewall over their mutual anger at regressive systems, and yet it’s Aqueduct, who has the LEAST in common with, that he’s ended up being best buds with...even though he won’t ADMIT that he’s FRIENDS with a HUMAN. - After being exiled from Attilan, I think he just kind of fell into human crime because it was all he could do? He has no human identity, citizenship, or documentation, he has no job skills or degrees, he wouldn't even understand human culture or money when he first started. I imagine he was probably manipulated and exploited a lot for his powers at first, which didn’t help his opinion of humanity. - It pisses him off EXTREMELY how his former boss Maximus gets all the second chances just because he’s Black Bolt’s brother. AQUEDUCT aka Peter Van Zante! - There are SO MANY Peters in Marvel already that I always refer to him by his codename, so I would write him as strictly going by Aqueduct, Aque, Van Zante, Van, or Zante because calling him Peter just makes even ME think of other characters...and after typing that I nearly called him Peter instead of Aque during every point of this list. - He fought in Vietnam so of course he’d be much older if he aged in real-time, but this being comics he gets to eternally be 30 to 40. I picture him as like....33. Maybe 36 max. - He just seems to be a real loser in canon no matter what he’s doing and who he’s fighting, and I like that. Being an aquekinetic should theoretically be an INCREDIBLE power, especially when he gained the ability to instantly dehydrate someone to death, but the poor guy has just never managed to be anything above a D-list threat. He doesn’t seem very smart or imaginative in how to use his powers, and he also just has terrible luck in terms of the heroes he winds up going against (who often end up being immune to water powers in some way) All of this makes him super endearing to me because of course it does. - Heterosexual. He’s had three steady girlfriends in his life, none of which worked out, and he’s not great with women. He’s visited strip clubs and even paid for sex before but he’s not proud of this, he’s just lonely. -His self-esteem seems very easily influenced by external events. For instance, when he's suffered a setback or defeat, he becomes insecure, pessimistic, and dumps on himself terribly. All the insecurity vanishes, however, the moment he has the upper hand. He becomes a gloating megalomanic, drunk on his own sudden rush of self-esteem, certain of his unbeatable supremacy. - I think he feels much better when he's working with a group; he hasn’t left Force of Nature since he joined up. I think it’s because he can enjoy the mental high of success, but escape the lows of defeat by deferring the responsibility for it on to whoever is in charge. But I also think he genuinely enjoys having friends and comrades. -We never see or hear anything about his family so I headcanon they’re estranged from him due to his being a loser, like he probably has borrowed a lot of money from his parents over and over that he never paid back, that kind of thing.

- He's moody, and not very bright. He's not bad socially, definitely the sort you could have a beer with, but he's also not the most sensitive or astute. He’s probably the nicest person on the Force of Nature squad, though of course he’s shown to hesitate to kill at all during his job as a merc for exco-terrorists. - While I see the rest of Force of Nature as genuinely having some degree of personal investment in Project Earth (the eco-terrorists who hired them) I don’t think Aque does. He doesn’t hate nature or anything, just the usual limit of his “environmentalism” is that he’ll put his beer can in the recycling bin if one is around. - He’s listed as rather overweight for his height. That’s probably meant to be muscle mass, especially given how he’s drawn...but his teammate Aireo/Skybreaker is listed as drastically underweight and drawn the same way, suggesting more to me that the artists just can only draw one body type for men. Because muscles or not, there’s a 100 pound difference between these dudes, they should NOT look this close in size. So my headcanon instead is that AIreo is super skinny and Aqueduct is kinda hefty, and I draw them that way. While there can be many reasons a person is fat or chubby, I admit I do go the common cliche route with Aque---he just doesn’t have a great diet, I picture him as mostly eating at greasy cheap diners and fast food and probably having one too many beers at times. - He’s pretty much trapped in villainy at this point, he can’t really get any kind of legitimate job anymore, so he’s just go to keep doing what he’s doing. He’s not opposed to it, he doesn’t have a moral issue or anything, but he doesn’t like not having a CHOICE, or the knowledge that he put himself here. - He doesn’t seem to have any issues from being in Vietnam, but his encounter with the Ghost Rider and the effects of his whole hellfire-stare thing messed him up so badly he had a mental breakdown and spent time in an asylum, and loses his shit whenever the Ghost Rider is near or even mentioned. So I don’t think it’s even a headcanon to say he’s traumatized by that, it’s just canon. All of Force of Nature also gets a little unhinged from the weeks they’re trapped fighting in a Trans-Sabal war zone, and I imagine there were effects of that afterwards for Aqueduct too. - He’s introduced with SHORT HAIR when he’s the solo Water Wizard, but gets a LONG HAIRSTYLE when he joins Force of Nature that later changes to a MOHAWK STYLE...I draw him with the original short hair, I like it best on him and I think it suits the personality that I read into him. - We never see him in civilian-wear, but I picture him as in just like...very basic working-class guy stuff? Like flannels over t-shirts with jeans and work boots, that kind of thing. Probably leans towards blues and greens with brown neutrals. CATSEYE aka Sharon Smith! - Fanart often depicts her with collar-style necklaces and chokers, but I headcanon her as hating these, since a lot of real cats actually can’t stand them. - She had to be taught to wear clothes, of course, and that was a battle for Emma, but now that she does, she picks her own out. She has a preference for things that are comfy and allow for a lot of movement, without being too restrictive or too loose. A lot of her stuff is therefore athletic-wear, and she always has a swimsuit-like garment underneath that is made of unstable molecules so she can transform without being naked when she resumes her human state. She’s developed a surprisingly good eye for what colors look best on her, such as yellow, orange, pink, and teal. She even knows to limit the purple she wears, and to not wear it close to her face lest it clash with her purple hair, despite purple being her FAVORITE color because that’s what color she is! - According to Emma’s files, Catseye could detect lies and hated them, but it’s never explained HOW she knew that someone was lying. My headcanon is she could smell them, or more specifically, smell the subtle physiological changes that accompany someone lying. So if someone is lying and THEY KNOW IT, she’d smell it. If someone thinks they are telling the truth, these changes wouldn’t take place, and thus she’d believe them. Likewise, these scents won’t accompany things like billboards or commercials, so she would believe those, hence one issue where Jetstream explains to her that television is a bunch of lies. - Emma’s theory is that she was abandoned at birth for her mutation and adopted in a feral cat colony, but my theory is she was actually abandoned at an older age, around five, at which point she’d have already learned how to speak English. She just forgot it, along with her formal life, after years with the cats as a cat herself. So it’s not that she LEARNED English after never having known it, she REGAINED it. This is much more realistic for a feral child; if a child isn’t exposed to language by a certain age, it is pretty much impossible for them to learn to talk at a later age like Catseye did. I looked up a bunch of real feral child cases, and age five is the youngest at which they could be abandoned and still regain speech later. Obviously, telepathy from Emma would help too, along with Sharon’s own ferocious intelligence, which is probably how she managed to do it so quickly instead of it taking years and years! - Catseye was a lesbian. She only ever remarks on the appearance of girls (Amara, Angelica, Rahne) and if she finds them pretty or not. I just think it would take a long time for her to come around to it, not because they are girls (she doesn't care about THAT, she never absorbed any homophobia to internalize from CATS) but because they're HUMAN, which she does not see herself as being, so feeling attraction to humans is super weird for her. - I think that Jetstream really looked out for Catseye. He does things in canon like stopping her from jumping on Magma when she's in flame mode, or explaining to her that she can't trust what the television tells her. I think they were total bros and he was always making sure she didn't hurt herself or get in trouble as best he could. And while Catseye didn’t think she needed the help, I think she was affectionate to him right back, there’s a panel where she rubs against his hand in feline form, which we never saw her do with anyone else to my memory. - Sharon same allergies and dietary limits as a cat (such as lilies making her very sick), and is vulnerable to feline diseases along with human ones. But she also has the feline resistance needed to do things like eat raw meat without fear of illness or parasites. - We know animals have their own languages in Marvel (see: Squirrel Girl talking to squirrels) so I headcanon she can communicate with cats, they just don’t give a shit what she says because they’re CATS, they’re not going to do what she says the way dogs or squirrels do. So what if she’s another cat? People don’t do what another person tells them just because they’re both human! - She’s not afraid of water, nor does catnip make her go crazy, but the laser pointer does! She also has a big collection of things like milk bottle rings, hair bands, and other things pet cats love to play with. DARKSTAR aka Laynia Petrovna! - At the board I write her at, I write her as a lesbian. There is admittedly NO canon evidence for this, but there’s also very little against it? She’s only had ONE boyfriend, when she first showed up, and none since. There could be a LOT of other reasons for this, of course, but I also think it’s totally beieviable that a teenage lesbian (I estimate she was like 19 at that point) who was in the employ of the SOVIET UNION (which was not nice to gays) to have a beard (and probably believe herself she was straight) and to stay closeted as an adult since because Russia is still...not great, to the say the least. I think she’d be cute with Monet, so based on that I’m going to say her type is good-but-dangerous women with shoulder-length-or-longer hair who have toned arms/biceps and are moderately-to-high femme like her. - I estimate her age as around 33 now? Like probably close in age to the O5 X-Men. - Based on a remark she made to Iron Man in one issue, I see her as viewing anyone she fights beside as automatically being her friend, even if they don’t feel the same way. - We rarely see her in civilian clothes, I think only once, so my fashion headcanons are all based mostly on her costumes. I think she bases her outfits around a dark, cool color scheme, like black or blue, then adds bright accents/accessories. Due to coming from cold Russia, short bottoms aren’t in her wardrobe and most of her sleeves are long. She favors high-necked blousy belted tops with sleek pants and functional but pretty boots. Her long blonde is eternally pushed back. by some sort of headband. Cloth, plastic, wood, plain, pearls, bejeweled, patterned, she has them in near every variety possible and they are her most common accessory. She also owns a large assortment of stylish winter coats, scarves, gloves, and hats. Because, again, Russian. She's not much one for bracelets, preferring brooches and pendants more, typically in oval or starburst shapes. She has a love for black velvet, and it will show up for dressy events in forms such as a rhinestone-dotted envelope handbag or round-toed pumps with ankle straps. - Laynia collects small antique music boxes and crystal glass figurines of pretty things like ballerinas and swans. She likes black velvet jewel pillows, gemstones (clear, black, or yellow) all sorts of museums (but especially art, astronomy, and natural history) and the sight of pure white snow under the street lamps at night before people can ruin it into dirty slush the next day. Laynia likes sweet delicate desserts like rock candy, powder candy, jujubes, marzipan, and bliny or oladyi with varenya style fruit preserves. She likes classical, romantic, disco, pop, and synth music. Her favorite animals are white weasels/minks (because they're so pretty and cute) and wolves (because they're beautiful too, but also such social animals with strong family dynamics) Laynia likes “slice of life” fictional media, such as domestic drama novels or family-centered sitcom shows. These are fantasies for her, these are escapes from what’s “normal” in her life. For the same reason, she avoids spy thrillers and similar genres, no matter how unrealistic they are in their depictions. She delights in mundane tasks. Likes working in small groups, dislikes working alone or large groups. Black flowers and butterflies

- Dislikes: Being asked about Putin or the Romanovs or things like that, just because she’s Russian. People not knowing the difference between Russian and Belarusian, zhurek and tukmachi (too fatty), any kind of preserved fish dish (fish should only be served fresh or not at all!) Getting her eyelashes in her eyeball when they fall out . - In one comic, she anthropomorphizes the Darkforce, calling it "she" and believing it has feelings or at the very least is capable of pain. My headcanon for what she actually feels when she feels the Darkforce in "pain" is due to simply her mental connection to her own Darkforce constructs that allows her to create, maintain, and manipulate them. When they are attacked, dissipated, or changed against her will, she feels that as pain, and interprets it as the Darkforce being in pain "herself" - Based on a comment she makes at one point, I think that though not religious aside from a vague conception of Heaven and its goodness/judgement, Laynia is a strong believer in the supernatural, in particular of ghosts. She is not, however, a fan of them, and would prefer to stay away from anywhere that is rumored to be haunted, had a tragedy occur there, or simply feels creepy to her (based on another comment she makes in another instance) - Because Laynia was brought up not to complain, she often won’t express that something is bothering her or that someone has offended her. She thinks she’s doing the right thing, but many people would in fact far prefer that she speak up if she’s got a problem. -Laynia lacks a lot of basic life skills because they simply weren’t taught to her in the “school” she was raised in. For instance, what outfits are appropriate where, car maintenance, budgeting, cleaning, and cooking. She was taught how to find and prepare food in the Siberian wilderness should she ever be stranded or stationed there, but not how to go to the supermarket and make a normal meal in a normal kitchen. She knows to turn to Google for most of this stuff, she's not stupid, but it can be surprising to some people what she doesn't know, and she often doesn't even know it's something she needs to know until it comes up. - Laynia is automatically inclined to trust and obey doctors, professors, and similar people, as well as military personnel. It doesn’t mean she’ll do or believe absolutely anything they say, that depends what it is, but she gives their opinion and approval more weight than she does other people. Laynia also takes criticism from her superiors very personally, but doesn't show it. Crying every time you get reprimanded of course wasn't something you're allowed to do when being trained by the State, so of course she'd never show it, but she would FEEL it because she was taught that her entire purpose was to serve said State, thus her self-worth hinges on it, and a failure hurts that self-worth. This need for approval from authorities means she’ll try to evade blame when something goes awry, and is loath to step out of line. This can make her a snitch, a suck up, and disliked by her peers for it. Laynia does her best to put up a kind and cordial demeanor to all, and retain a polite decorum even when it’s not returned. This is more to avoid making waves in the team than anything else. If there is discord in the ranks, she refuses to ever be the one to blame for it. It’s not that Laynia doesn’t question orders ever. She does. And she does sometimes find her moral conscience at odds with them. The problem is that she seldom acts on these thoughts, instead proceeding with her missions despite her misgivings. FANTASMA sometimes called Fantasia (all for her PRIOR to finding out she’s a Dire Wraith and resuming the evil ways of her kind) - Given the name Faina Neizvestny (Neizvestny meaning "unknown" rather than the usual patronymic Russian surname) and the codename Fantasma. She thought this was a reference to how she was essentially a ghost, someone with no past and no paper trail. In fact it was someone's idea of a joke---a phantasm is a ghost, and another word for ghost is wraith. She didn't know the implication, but she felt far more connected to her codename than her civilian name, perhaps because it wasn’t a human name at all. She quickly grew to only introduce herself as Fantasma whenever possible, and to only answer to such. What’s more, she leaned towards preferring codenames for her teammates well, finding it somehow infantile that they kept their human names when they had earned something grander. Nicknames: Fanny, Fanty, Fan, Tas (all disliked) - Likes elegant perfume bottles that are as much decoration as container, beluga caviar and raw squid, The Conet Project recordings (it's basically music to her) as well as Imogen Heap/Frou Frou, ethereal darkwave, and some trance music, the cold Dislikes confined spaces (we see this in canon) When one first meets Fantasma, she gives the impression of being cool and aloof. Despite her unfailing and prim politeness even in dire circumstances, her manner is cold, brusque, and impersonal, even among those she counts as allies and friends. The best way to describe Fantasma might be a sociopath who is trying not to be a sociopath. In fact, that’s exactly what she thinks she is. Fantasma does not have an internal sense of empathy or morals. She wants to, and she does her best to compensate for this lack, but it's not something she naturally has. Her bio-fields allow her to recognize the pain of others, to share in it, but she doesn't actually feel anything when she sees people hurt or danger. Not without the aid of tapping into her bio-field. And while she will do her best to save innocent people from being hurt, that's because she knows as an intellectual fact that it's what a "good person" would do, and she desires to act as a good person would. All her good actions are exactly that, an intellectual choice to be what she deduces from the norms of society is "good"; she has no internal guiding sense of goodness whatsoever. She wants one. But it's not there. So she just does her best, trying to learn what's "good" from outside sources---books, television, the actions and reactions of other people--and act accordingly. But her heart isn't in it; she knows logically that murder is worthy of greater punishment than jaywalking, but she doesn't feel greater ire at one or the other. She simply understands both are wrong by the standards of law and society, and one is considered more wrong, and should thus be treated as such by a "good" person. Fantasma often feels disconnected from the rest of humanity, like she's a monster or at least not normal. Partly, it's because of her aforementioned lack of "human" mental traits. But it's more than that. She has a constant, distinct sense of simply not belonging, like she's perpetually a stranger in a strange land no matter where she goes, no matter how long she's been there. She doesn't even feel comfortable in her own body, no matter which form she takes. When she's in her true form, she feels like a hideous monster, because that's what it is. But when she's in the beautiful human form that she's so painstakingly crafted to be perfect, she feels what almost might be called dysphoria. She hates both states, and also craves them equally, wanting to be herself and wanting to be a beautiful normal woman. It's torment. It's this feeling of alienation that drives her to try to be as "good" as she can. She feels that she can "fake it til she makes it" in terms of being a normal person, that if she just ACTS like a person with normal empathy and morals enough, she can eventually be one, or at least indistinguishable from one. She'll be like everyone else. And then she won't have the horrible feeling of NOT being like anyone else. Her feeling of not belonging has also made her desire acceptance, and she's learned that her natural personality doesn't win her any favors from most folks, she feels that she can instead be loved and accepted for heroic actions. This has the added bonus of letting her be loved and accepted from a DISTANCE, by society as a whole, rather than having to develop an actual relationship with another person. One can imagine how someone like her might have trouble with that. And she doesn't really want it anyway. She doesn't want to be close with anyone, not anyone she's ever met anyway. She just wants to feel she's one of them. She wants to feel comfortable in the world she lives in, like she belongs in it. Maybe once she does, she'll feel comfortable in her own skin too, or at least one of them. And...she really does want to be good, to be a person. She's aware she's missing something, she's aware she's probably little different than many of the evil individuals she's encountered. But she can be different in her deeds, at least if not her soul. And doesn't the DESIRE the be better than what she is, in itself make her better? While she has an intellectual understanding of how to be deceitful, and will do so in the service of the greater good (ex: lying to an enemy), she cannot understand how to be truly manipulative, as that requires understanding of the normal human thought process and emotions that she does not have, and Fantasma’s feelings are mainly loneliness, irritation, and resilient acceptance. She doesn’t feel affection and love but knows when she should and based her relationships on that. Her sense of pleasure is mainly physical, though she’s never found any food or drinks she actually LIKES, nor is she sexually attracted to humans. Might seem odd that someone essentially asexual dresses as she does, does so for approval, desire, to show off her body and be wanted and seen as beautiful. She's proud of what she's made, and wants it to be admired. She also of course perceives the negative emotions that her attire elicits---the scorn, the the scoffing, the catty comments, the raw animal lust and sexual presumption--but she has decided it's an acceptable cost for the right to display herself as her own living work of art. Her feelings seldom run hot even in the height of battle, and when she's angry, it's an icy cold anger. When not merely coldly polite and cordially distant, she'll often use her bio-field abilities to simply tap into the other person's mood and reflect it back at them. Fantasma prefers cold climates She innately respects female authorities more than male. She’ll obey a male commander because she’s supposed to follow who’s in charge, but dominant “alpha” females in positions of power give her an actual URGE to obey them and seek their favor (based on Dire Wraiths being matriarchal and serving a Queen Moher) Fantasma can be loyal if she chooses to be. And she does choose it. It's a deliberate choice, not a feeling. She selects what organization she will be loyal to (she has an easier time with these than with individual people) based on how ethical it is and the opportunity it will allow her to use her powers for the good of others. She knows that she herself may not be able to find these opportunities on her own, nor always make the right ethical decision on her own, and thus prefers being able to look to an official authority, such as the state, for instructions. She's savvy enough, of course, to realize that a government-sanctioned team will be given instructions with the government's benefit in mind, but so long as that also involves protecting and serving the people, she's willing to do as she's told either way. Thus, she chooses to be loyal by simply acting as a loyal person would, taking orders and carrying them out, and taking a bullet for her teammates even if she feels nothing for them personally. Fantasma knows when others dislike her, but never feels hurt or angry about it. She's the definition of not taking it personally, even when it's very personal. Because of this, she is never one to fuel a feud or participate in petty squabbles. She does feel vindictive when slighted, but since she believes good people don't seek vengeance over personal slights, only justice against real evil and wrongdoing, she does not act on these feelings. Not many things give her joy. But she sometimes feels an urge, something deeper and far more primal than a daydream, of pieces of herself spreading far and wide, taking over everything, overtaking all life like a fungus covering a forest. And that...feels so right. Overall, Fantasma is basically a humanitarian robot, going through all the motions of goodness and compassion as dictated by the norms of society, without any of the internal drive normally behind such actions. She essentially encapsulates the philosophical question---does one's motives for doing good matter, so long as one does it anyway? SKEIN aka Sybil Dvorak - Her backstory is that she was always a loner who kept to herself by choice, til she fell in love with an American movie star who took her back to Los Angeles with him. Because she was an illegal immigrant (and he wouldn’t marry her to make her legal) she ended up confined to the house, and she suspected he was having affairs. After she got her citizenship and he mysteriously died, leaving everything to her, she started a “cult” in which she provided drugs to junkies in exchange for them worshipping her and bringing her soft things. Now, the thing is, drugs are going to cost more than fabrics, feathers, and even some furs. If she JUST wanted soft stuff, she could have bought it directly herself. I think what she really wanted was the people. Despite how much she came to hate her late lover, she was lonely after his death, something she had never experienced before, having always previously been a loner by her own choice. She wanted people around for the first time. But this time, she wanted the control. Hence, the use of drugs to keep them wrapped around her finger as their provider. - She has a cold, haughty, almost emotionless affect when she first appears, and for awhile after, as well as speaking very formal English and wearing a very modest costume. In the 90s, when she takes the new codename “Skein” as opposed to G****y Moth, she also takes on a new thrill-seeking and hypersexual persona, a revealing costume, and a much more casual way of speaking. My theory is that as she became more exposed to wild and criminal lifestyles through the junkies and through the other supervillains she worked with later, she began to find that thrillseeking hedonism made her feel “alive” in a way she hadn’t previously been, hence her change from a cold personality to a very hot one. I feel like engaging in lots of sensual pleasures is all an extension of her sensory fascination with soft things. As she spent more time in America, her English also just naturally got more casual since that’s how most people around her would be speaking it. - Problematic representation though she is, I do indeed agree with the fanon opinion she’s hinted as bisexual. - She’s from Romania, but her surname (Dvorak) is Czech. As it happens, Czech Romanians are an ethnic minority there numbering about four thousand, so my headcanon is that’s what she is. - Her canon backstory is that she was “raised by Roma” (except of course Marvel uses the g-slur) which...implies she’s NOT Roma, and that they just raised her, which begs the question of what happened to her family? It reminds me of antiziganist myths about Roma stealing children, not to mention that given how Roma are stereotyped as thieves (and the women as hypersexual) I decided to minimize her connection to anything Romani in my headcanon, and say instead that she came from a Czech Romanian family and she just TOLD other kids she was “raised by Roma” because they seemed cool to her, being the little loner she was. - I headcanon that her love for softness extends to people, that she’s most attracted to people who are “soft” in some way, be in physically or in their personality. Case in point, I headcanon her with a crush on Haven, because like...curvy body, soft hair, soft clothes, soft-looking eyes, soft voice, gentle personality. Total package right there as far as Skein sees it...aside from not being sexual at all or at all into women. Drat! (I feel like Aqueduct is kinda sweet on Haven too, though I feel weird about making TWO characters attracted to her but I mean...shit, I would be, and she’s not even my typical type!) - I think being overtly flirtatious might be the only way she knows how to connect with people. I don’t mean to pathologize her sexuality, like women can just BE sexy and flirty without there being some deep reason, and I think that’s partly it here too, but also in the context of her larger personality I think this is partly it as well.

#marvel #marvel comics #marvel villains #marvel headcanons

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higuchimon · 5 years

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[fanfic] False Escape: 1/1

Foggy over there.

Johan tried not to laugh at this. He wasn’t sure if it was even funny or not. But he thought it every time when he woke up and every time it remained true.

Fog encircled the tower where he lived. In specific, fog encircled the valley that surrounded the tower. The tower rose high into the sky, with the valley stretching around it in every direction, an endless stretch of flawless emerald green grass, dotted with brilliant spots of red and blue and gold and violet.

Johan wasn’t sure of how he knew those colors. He couldn’t see them up close and there weren’t many other colors inside the tower itself, except for black. But he knew what to call them all and he stared at them every day.

He missed other things too. This place, regardless of having grass and flowers, did not have a sun. Sapphire blue sky arched overhead, sometimes with puffy white clouds floating by. If he strained his eyes, he could see something that might be mountains beyond the fog.

Johan thought they were mountains, at least. He’d never been close enough to see them.

But that would change. That would change today.

He ran his fingers over the rope that he’d found. He wasn’t sure why the Tower provided him with a rope, but there it was.

Of course, the Tower provided him with everything that he’d ever needed or wanted, with the exception of a door or any information on how to escape or what the outside world could be like. He had food and drink of every kind he could imagine and some that he’d never imagined, but it appeared regardless.

Time to go. Johan carefully tied one end of the rope around the end of his bed and began to feed the rest of the rope out of the window. He peeked down; the rope reached all the way to the black stone courtyard. All right. This’ll do it.

He climbed out of the window, gripping onto the rope, and started moving downward, taking everything as carefully as he could. He’d dropped small wine glasses out of there before and heard them shatter below. He didn’t want to shatter.

So moment by moment he made his way down, gripping the rope, hoping that eventually he would feel his feet touch the pavement.

Only no matter how far he went, he didn’t feel as if he’d actually gone anywhere. When he looked up, the window wasn’t there and when he looked down, the pavement looked as far away as it had from the window itself.

What’s going on? He kept going down. The farther he went, the more his limbs ached, and his breath started to catch in his throat.

Johan stopped, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the Tower’s cool exterior, then breathed in, hoping that this time when he looked, he’d see the pavement being much closer.

Carefully he tilted his head away and opened his eyes, turning downward.

The pavement was as far away as it had been. Nothing changed. Nothing at all.

No matter how far he moved, that was how it was. He worked his way down for what seemed like hours, wearing himself to the bone, and there wasn’t any sign that he’d grown any closer to the end of this. The rope kept going. He kept going.

Johan stopped. He stared down again, then upward. Everything remained identical in both directions. He pressed his lips together.

What else can I do? He didn’t want to go back to his room. But if he couldn’t climb down, then what?

Only one option and he couldn’t imagine how it would work. But he wanted to try. He needed to try.

He closed his eyes again, adjusted his sweaty grip on the rope for a few seconds, then released it, throwing himself backward. This would hurt. This would hurt so much.

Johan fell. He had no idea of how long he fell. He stared up at the sky and wondered if this would be the last time that he ever saw it.

The sky vanished. Overhead he now could see the ceiling of his bedroom, and underneath himself he could feel the warmth and comfort of his plush bed. He hadn’t even fallen into it. It was just there.

Slowly he rolled over, staring around himself. Everything was just like it had been before. Everything in order. The door that led to the Hall of Doors remained there, closed as he’d left it.

The rope tied to the bed still hung there. Hung out the window, just like he’d done it.

Slowly Johan started to wind it back up again. His movements were slow and jerky, a faint hint of exhaustion whiffling all through him. Exhaustion shortly met by fear when he heard footsteps approaching.

Johan wasn’t sure about most colors, but he knew black for two reasons. The Tower was black. The Tower had always been black, with other colors only visible in the décor.

But he wore black armor, with a cape of blood-red. And hearing him approach sent terror coursing all through Johan.

He’d just barely sorted out the last of the rope when the Hall of Doors entryway opened and he stood there.

He wasn’t much taller than Johan, but he radiated fear and power. His armor wrapped close around him, black as the Tower, and with far more spikes than anyone needed for anything.

Johan seldom missed his voice. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever had one, in truth. He certainly couldn’t talk when he was around. But his first instinct was to quaver out a single word that he never could.

Haou.

Haou stepped over to him and Johan’s knees gave out, sending him crashing to the floor. He hated this. He hated the absolute terror that filled him when he saw Haou, rendering him almost incapable of doing anything. He wanted to fight back. He wanted to do anything he could.

Instead he knelt, shivering, and Haou’s armored hand touched his shoulder.

“Look at me.” Haou’s voice, cold and empty, echoed ever so faintly behind his visor. Johan lifted his head, his heart triphammering. “You tried to escape.”

With the rope there, Johan couldn’t exactly deny it. He shrugged the faintest bit. He could offer nothing to explain himself. Haou knew full well that he couldn’t speak. Haou very seldom asked anything that Johan couldn’t answer in body language.

Sometimes Johan wondered if there were other ways to communicate. He’d tried to draw pictures, but he wasn’t very good at it, no matter how hard he tried. All he seemed able to make were images of things he’d never seen. He did keep them, though, tucked up under his pillow.

“You can’t leave here by yourself,” Haou told him, a stern look visible regardless of the visor. “You can only leave here with me.”

Johan stared, not entirely certain if he understood that at all. Why? Why would Haou do this? Was Haou the one who did this at all? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. Haou hadn’t ever told him who put him here. He just showed up every few days and talked to him.

Haou tilted Johan’s head up a little. “I should punish you for this. But I will spare you, for now. Never try this again. Do you understand?”

Johan wanted to rip himself away. He hated the sensation of cold metal against him. But Haou remained so much stronger than he was and he couldn’t get away. He had little choice but to move his head forward into a slight nod.

“It's for your own safety,” Haou told him. “I protect you.”

He’d said that before. Johan couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. But again he tilted his head. There weren’t many other options.

He thought that maybe Haou smiled. It felt as if Haou tried to smile. Maybe it was supposed to make him feel better?

It didn’t, not really.

“Get some rest. You’ve worn yourself out today.”

Johan wasn’t going to argue with that. For all that he’d gone nowhere, he was exhausted. Haou turned and headed out the door without another word.

Johan had followed him once when he left. All he’d seen of Haou leaving was going to a blank spot on the wall and vanishing through it. When he’d touched the wall, there’d been nothing but shadows there.

Now he didn’t bother following. He just stayed on the bed, eyes closed, and let himself slowly slip into slumber. He would escape from here, one day. He didn’t know how or when or where he would go, but he would leave and never look back.

And he would find whoever put him here and ask them why and why they’d taken his voice, and why only Haou could reach this place.

The End

Notes: I am whistling innocently and grinning evilly. Just so you know.

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imagine-femblem · 6 years

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Alright Tumblr was being annoying lol. I'm not sure how much you know about Xenomorphs/Aliens, but if you know a bit, how would Deirdre, Micaiah and Elincia react to their S/O suddenly bringing home a pet Xeno? This is more of a joke request, but I'm curious how you would do this! Take As long As you need? Also, maybe the Xeno is, super over protective over the Summoner? Like they would try to kiss the Summoner, then Xeno pops up and hisses out of nowhere? If you can't do this, just let me know!

(This is easily the strangest ask I have received yet, and the hardest to write for because it is obviously utilizing non-canon elements. Because of this, it’s less a HC/Imagines/Etc, and more an introspection to the FEH world from an alternate perspective. This one took forever to write, and had me thinking for days! I’m honestly not sure if the character interactions are sufficiently different from each other, as I feel most heroes would respond the same way.

Also, yes I am aware that “Fang and Claw” type could refer to other units, such as Panne, Keaton, etc., but I am using Tellius only Laguz units for better flow.)

Breidablik. An ancient relic sealed away from a time lost to many. This weapon was familiar to Kiran, as their world had firearms, but this one was special: it consumed magical orbs to “fire” heroes out of it! This led to a chaotic time, with Kiran and the Askr trio constantly finding new ways to farm this magical resource to bolster their numbers. Summonings were a well-loved event for many of the Askr castle residents, particularly Sharena who loved Heroes more than anyone, and many heroes would gather and crowd the summoner to cheer them on or to pray for the arrival of a familiar hero from their own world. It was also well known among the heroes that the summoning altar would present multiple colors of orbs for the summoner to shoot with Breidablik. Red contained heroes with swords or dark magic, Blue held lances and both light and thunder magic, Green hid axes and wind magic, and Colorless orbs contained everything else, from staff healers to dagger ninjas. There were exceptions to these, as Bows in other colors began to emerge in recent days, as did Daggers, but as a rule of thumb it was a tried and true method of determining what kind of hero would be summoned.

Until one day.

A day like any other, Kiran received the latest shipment of orbs from the messenger bird Feh, and rushed to the summoning altar. A small crowd and the Askr trio gathered, as was the norm, as the summoner took their place with Breidablik, some hundred feet from the Altar.

Red, Young Ike. Blue, Lukas. Blue, Cordelia. Colorless, Matthew. Red, Soleil. No new heroes, but useful copies of some for Merging or Skill Inheritance, a strange ritual that involved sacrificing heroes as tribute to others for power. Not a fun feeling, but nobody seemed to question how it worked.

The summoner fired orb and orb, heroes rushing to their friends and designated “acclimation partner”, heroes that helped others adapt to the new world, others were led to the barracks to await orders.

And then, a new color of orb appeared from the summoning altar.

Everyone gasped in shock, and speedy heroes like Kaze and Elise rushed around the castle to spread the news. Steadily, nearly everyone in the castle had gathered to see the new breed of hero. Upon closer inspection, Kiran was able to discern that the new purple orb contained a Fang and Claw icon for it’s obtainable heroes, a fact that was met with cheers from the heroes of Tellius. Hurriedly, Ike, Elincia, and Micaiah pushed their way to the front of the crowd, eager to meet a Laguz hero from their homeworld. Sharena stood on standby, arms wide, eager to meet the legendary “Laguz” that Princess Elincia spoke so highly of. With the stage set, Kiran turned the Breidablik upon the orb and fired, the magical ammunition shattering the orb in a blast of light and smoke. The crowd surged forward, knocking Kiran aside.

A small black creature rose from the shattered pieces, standing a mere three feet tall. A hush fell over the crowd, as all eyes moved from the creature to Ike and co., waiting for someone to claim the new “hero” as one of their friends. Or rivals. Or pets.

Nobody moved.

Sharena shrugged and walked forward to welcome the creature, her arms outstretched wide. Most heroes were weird at first, the whole “new world” and “summon jetlag” thing going on, but this creature was different. As Sharena approached, it hissed at her and rushed the crowd, leaping over some and ducking under others until it found the Summoner. Heroes of all worlds leapt to the Summoner’s defense, drawing weapons and channeling magic to destroy the creature. Kiran raised their hand to steady everyone, reminding them all that Breidablik didn’t allow summoned heroes to commit acts against the Summoner’s intent (to an extent), which means the creature posed no threat to anyone in Askr. This was a feature of the firearm that proved invaluable for controlling some heroes, such as Grima, Valter, and now, this little black thing.

With some coaxing, Kiran was able to touch the creature, and the crowd quickly dispersed away to ready a home for the beast, or to simply get away from it. The creature proved to be incapable of combat, being too small, incapable of speech, and not having many heroes that would even be near it, so it was adopted by Kiran as a pet creature from their home world, and it was left to it’s own devices in the castle.

As with most things summoned from Breidablik, the creature never grew older or changed appearance, and to everyone’s shock and glee, another purple orb was never seen again…

For character specific interactions:

Elincia gives the creature a massively wide berth, and only tolerates it because Kiran asks her to. Not because it’s particularly ugly or anything, it is simply strange. Horses and Pegasi are unnerved whenever the creature is near, so it has to be kept far away from the stables, and even further away from the royal stables. If hissed at, Elincia meekly shys away, perhaps even cries, but at Kiran’s behest the creature will nuzzle her leg as a show of good will and everything will be alright for the time.

Micaiah finds the creature cute in it’s own way, and Yune excitedly chirps at it as they play a bizarre game of tag/don’t get eaten. Whenever hissed at, Micaiah lightly taps the creature on it’s plated head before moving back in for a fast peck or two, or asks Yune to distract the creature.

Deirdre accepts the creature as a pet, her holy blood acting as a strange attractant for the creature, but she gives it a wide berth all the same. Whenever she moves to kiss Kiran, the creature hisses at her until she backs away. Kiran can kiss Deidre however, and the creature remains neutral. Julius, Sigurd, and Arvis are often chased about the castle of the creature, and it becomes a sort of sport for Deidre and Kiran to watch the chaos unfold.

#Fire Emblem #Fire Emblem Heroes #fire emblem genealogy of the holy war #Deidre #Micaiah #Elincia #Ike #Arvis #Julius #Sigurd #Fire Emblem Path of Radiance #Fire Emblem Radiant Dawn #Sharena #Alien #Alien vs. Predator #AvP #Xenomorph #Crack Canon #Non-Canon

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archivesdiveronaevents · 7 years

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DATE: January 9th, 2017

LOCATION: The Colosseum

TIME: 3:00 PM

The Colosseum is alight with a mid-afternoon glow, the sunlight tentatively warming the dust of the arena and the skin of those who have come to worship at the altar of tradition, of the pride of a city and its kings. Utterances of the day’s beauty slip from the mouths of spectators, prayers of thanksgiving they may or may not have meant to say.

Una bella giornata. Even the heavens have given their blessing.

A gentle breeze breathes life into the many colorful flags of the slowly assembling parade, toying cheekily with the flaps of the contrada member’s tunics like a child come to enjoy the festivities. The horses, too, seem touched by a deity, coats slick and shining and ears pricked to the sounds of the Palio: the chorus of voices that seems to float on the wind, the faint blaring of trumpets in the distance. Each who enters the amphitheatre pauses to admire the raw elegance of it all, a glimpse of living history surrounded by the opulence of a new order. As they search for their seats—or if they’re brave enough to situate themselves in the thick of the procession, their spot beneath the white tent enclosed by the barrier—they can’t help but think that it’s not terribly hard to believe that something holy happened here, that something holy might happen again.

It began as a celebration of the appearance of an apparition—Madonna di Provenzano, named for her sightings near estates owned by a gentleman of that name—and evolved into something of a tradition among the contradas and then among the families that hailed from them as the years went on. There are few things men love more than the feeling of self-importance inevitably brought about by the visitation of a spirit, but the most prominent of these is their pomp, their pride, so it should come as no surprise to any deities watching that the Palio has shed some of its baser traits in favor of luxury, of the glint of gold, silver, and the jewels that accompany them. There are pilgrims of two kinds in the crowd today: those who worship the God said to have walked the earth, and those who worship the gods who still do.

The last of the historical procession fall into place, flags held high and shoulders back—ready, at last, to offer sacrifice. The call of a trumpet demands that every spectator lend both their eyes and their ears, and they do so willingly (nothing can quiet a person quite like the presence of divinity). Then, as if on cue, the stallion bearing the flag of Verona surges forward in a pompous prance, head held high in the sort of arrogance that befits magnificent beasts like him, and the colosseum erupts into cheers, each patron craning their neck to catch a glimpse first of the beautiful costumes and then of the competitors, the true stars of the afternoon. The parade makes its way through the arena, trumpeters, drummers, and flag-bearers heralding the arrival of the barberos and barbarescos—the race-horses and their jockeys.

A blood bay decked in emerald green and royal blue leads the charge, spiriting forward at a trot that demands his lead horse break into a canter in order to keep up. Murmurs about his energy—be it of promise or nerves—arise as he passes, setting the bar high for the judgment of those horses he precedes. Next comes a dappled grey donning red and white, unique both in its coloring and its tepid temperament. Had it been a gloomy day, the wise gamblers would’ve put their money on him, for it’s been said that in rainy conditions, the only grey horse in the field will seize the crown. But alas, the sun shines down on Verona this fine afternoon, and the ashen sheen of his coat rewards him little more than momentary interest.

The same cannot be said for the horse cloaked in purple and silver, a dark brown bay with four white socks, but the attention he garners is hardly positive. It’s been said that a chrome horse brings nothing but bad luck, and the people of Verona are considerably superstitious (why, they’re here, aren’t they?); thus, the gelding who precedes Cosimo Capulet’s horse is met with suspicion and dread—raised eyebrows, scoffs, and every slightly insulting gesture imaginable in between. But the horse bearing the Capulet crest, a fiery chestnut with an immaculate white stripe down his nose and a lone sock on his right foreleg—the mark of a swift steed, some say–draws attention to himself in a pleasing way. The sunlight hits his reddish coat and paints him nearly scarlet, a sight even if it weren’t for the silver nearly dripping from his tack. The spectators’ eyes linger, sizing him up against the others who have come before him, and many raise their pencils to jot down their bets.

But those who are none too eager to throw their lots in so prematurely wait for what they hope will be an earthquake among tremors; it’s no secret that the Montagues have won the Palio Cup more times than one could count, and they’ve garnered a bit of a reputation for running some of the finest horses in the field. Those who pause in anticipation are not disappointed; the glossy black stallion bearing the Montague crest is every bit the stud they’d expected (if not more), but all traces of gold, save for the threads woven into his saddle blanket, are gone, replaced with black alone—the color of mourning. He’s a sight, surely, but the unusual circumstances regarding his colors perplex the audience far more than the dilemma of their wagers ever could, and murmurs arise as he passes, pitch black flag waving. “They scratched him, did you know? The Montagues scratched him.”

“I do have to wonder why, as wasn’t he the favorite?”

“He was; it said so. I liked his odds.”

“Damiano did lose a dear friend a few weeks ago; perhaps he’s withdrawn in his honor.”

All is quiet for several moments following the unveiling of Verona’s most prized steeds, and then the silence breaks. Ladies in divine silk brocades and gentlemen in suits of splendor alike surge forward to snatch their ticket and place their bets, their conspiratorial whispers a buzz throughout the Colosseum. “Which one, which one, darling?” “I like the look of that dappled fellow!” “Pass the program, who’s the jockey for number six?” “Brielle King, she’s the one to look out for, the one riding the black bay!” “Why, I heard she came in from the east specifically to ride.” Binoculars press indentations into porcelain faces, lacquered nails flip through the Daily Racing Form and programs. There is endless energy to be found in glamour and the fleeting distraction of gambling, and the stadium is alive with anticipation, their collective breaths held as they cast their bets. Anything can happen, anyone can win, and anyone can profit.

“In bocca al lupo!” Someone cries.

“Crepi il lupo!” Another answers.

TASK: Among the most decadent and powerful of Verona, there is no short of vices and sins, and certainly no shame. Your task is to pick one of the seven deadly sins (pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, and sloth) and describe how your character embodies it. Bonus points if you can relate it to their event ensemble!

Please tag your character’s ensemble/ensemble descriptions as #diveronaraces and your event interactions as #event: races. There is no deadline to complete the task, so take as much time with it as you feel necessary.

#act i #scene iii

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