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you-cant-spell-subtext-without · 3 years

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I know we are all discussing the latest episode of Season 16, but I need to wrap up 11 for my own sanity (because there is a LOT to discuss in my Season 12 rewatch already), so without further ado - more rambling for you.

I’m not going to include 11x20: Don’t Call Me Shurley because I think I’d like to do an entire Chuck - arc - series. Rob Benedict is a gift; that dad mug kills; and I love that the fan theories about Chuck spinning around this fandom for years turned out to be correct after all (WEIRD HOW THAT HAPPENS WITH CHARACTERS EH). Moving on.

As you will recall, two recaps and many many many crackhead other posts from my corner of super hell ago, I ended the 11x18 recap with this image of Amara realizing...”something” after Dean said Cas’s name (just before she took Casifer with her), Dean/Amara unbreakable connection be damned. Speaking of unbreakable connection this post is partially the AMARA DISSERTATION. Buckle up.

FF to 11x21: All in the Family; the boys are shooting the shit with Chuck and in the meantime, Amara is torturing Casifer. Important to note that just recently the actual Cas was enlightened that Dean wants him to cast Lucifer out, so I presume he is a little more active at this point, and that strengthens the following hypothesis. Look how Amara is looking at Casifer here:

And here, right before she touches him on the chest.

It’s the same look she gave Dean. She’s trying to decipher something; trying to figure something out.

She appears to Dean in the VERY next scene, to show him how she is torturing Casifer. But the real point is, of course, to show him how its affecting the physical form of Cas, reminding him its not just Lucifer who is suffering. It works.

DEAN

Amara is – she's in my head. [Sam looks at him sharply] Hey, I didn't ask for it, okay? She just showed up. But she's showing me visions of – of Lucifer. By Lucifer, I mean Cas, and he looks like crap – like she's really doing a number on him.

***Note, yet again, despite the *connection* Amara/Dean supposedly share, all he can think about and talk about is Cas.

And Amara knows it. That’s the realization she has in 11x18. Dean loves Cas. Then, in 11x21 she realizes Cas loves Dean. So, she uses it to her own ends. Smart girl.

Enter Donatello (I love him), prophet of (not) the Lord. He, Metatron, and Sam set out to rescue Casifer while Dean distracts Amara. If we start with the presumption she now has the prior additional insight, the following snippets of dialogue hit a little different.

AMARA

This place, this world hasn't been especially easy for you. Why not at least consider my offer?

*********

DEAN

You're right. I am drawn to you. And it bothers the hell out of me, 'cause I can't control it.

AMARA

Then why fight it? What you're feeling is that I am the end of your struggle.

***AHEM, this was not the FACE CUPPING I requested.

What keeps Dean from having it all? What is his struggle? It’s not the monsters or the hunting. Dean’s repeatedly shown he loves this life; he doesn't want anything else (and the one time he did try it in Season 6, it was half-ass at best, and he left the minute Sam returned to go back to hunting). Dean’s KEY struggle in the show is internal. He represses his feelings, pushes his pain aside, resulting in a cycle of self-loathing and anger. That cycle keeps him from having it all - accepting he can be loved, allowing himself to give his heart to someone else. And at this point, Amara not only knows that someone else is Cas, she knows that Cas feels the same way. Girl, welcome to super hell. Take a damn seat by Sam.

11x22: We Happy Few

I’ll skim through this one so this post doesn’t completely make your eyes bleed due to the sheer length.

The splicing with the scenes of everyone assembling different factions to form the new “line-up” needed to trap Amara is excellent. I’ve already done a short post on the brilliance of Dean heading to get Crowley and the ex-boyfriend mood of it all (Dean, of all people, telling Crowley to sober up gives me an ENTIRE head canon of the Crowley/demon!Dean unseen dynamic in Season 10). And of COURSE Dean knows exactly what to say to convince Crowley to get on board. I also enjoy our future Sam-witch as the emissary to Rowena (”three’s a coven” would be a great tattoo, TBH).

BONUS:

I love her.

Big fight scene with Amara ensues, but this isn’t the finale so she cannot be beaten. However, right before she mortally wounds Chuck, she does this:

[Yelling, LUCIFER charges her from behind again, but AMARA flings him hard against a support pillar across the room.]

AMARA

Goodbye, nephew.

[She banishes LUCIFER. CASTIEL slumps unconscious to the floor.]

DEAN: Cas!

(He rushes AMARA, but she flings him away without effort.)

***She banishes Lucifer. She could have just killed him. Ended him entirely, and Cas along with him. But she BANISHES LUCIFER. Because of what she learned in the prior episode. Because of the pain she saw in both of those idiots.

She does this for Dean.

Anyway, thank you Casifer FOR YOUR SERVICE. I miss you already.

11x23: Alpha and Omega

There is nothing more precious than Dean sending his brother to check on GOD while he goes to check on his boyfriend:

DEAN: [Grunting]

Check on him.

SAM: [kneels next to Chuck]

Hey. Chuck?

[Dean kneels down next to Cas and puts a hand on his shoulder. Cas stirs and looks up at Dean]

CAS:

Dean.

DEAN:

Cas? Hey, is that you?

***All the heart eyes for the reunion!!

*********ALSO SHOULDERRRRRRRR

Chuck is dying, Rowena bonds with him. Crowley is gold in this finale. I MISS YOU MARK. This line is NOT in the transcript/script I used, and it potentially being ad libbed makes it even better.

Dean decides to deal with the end of the world by drinking ONE beer, then deciding there is “not enough” beer and grabbing Cas for a beer (and....*feelings*) run.

DEAN:

You know what? This isn't gonna be enough. I better make a run.

[Sighs]

No reason to die sober, huh?

[to Sam]

You want to?

SAM: [frustrated]

No!

*********************

DEAN:

Be right back.

SAM:

I'll stay here, find our Plan B.

DEAN:

Okay. Cas, come on.

Nothing makes me more pleased than the assumption that of COURSE Cas is coming with him. I mean, he just got him back. Also, Sam is frustrated because he is back in super hell, obvi ;)

***Now we have the little “you’re our brother” bit in the Impala beer run dialogue, but to me it’s because Dean doesn’t know how else to express what he’s feeling. Repression, people.

The look of literal PAIN on Cas’s face at the “brother” line makes me cackle. Misha Collins DESERVES AN EMMY; he is doing the Lord’s work with his Acting Choices here.

This little part before is what really gets me though, especially with all of the WORDS OF AFFIRMATION:

[Dean and Cas are driving in the Impala]

DEAN:

How you doing? You good?

I mean, you know, the whole Lucifer thing.

CAS:

I was just... so stupid.

DEAN:

No, no, no. It wasn't stupid.

You were right. You were right to let Lucifer ride shotgun.

Me and Sam wouldn't have done that.

CAS:

Well, it didn't work.

DEAN:

No, but it was our best shot, and you stepped up.

CAS:

I was just trying to help.

DEAN:

Well, and you do help, Cas.

***ITS JUST SO LOVELY. Dean asking Cas how he is doing (what Cas always asks Dean); telling Cas he wasn’t stupid (throwback to Cas telling Dean he was stupid “for the right reasons”); acknowledging that Cas does HELP. That he is important and appreciated. THIS IS SUCH GROWTH. I LOVE IT SO MUCH. Speak his love language, King.

Anyway, then Dean turns into a human bomb because martyr!dean gonna martyr and be “daddy’s (Chuck filling that role here) blunt little weapon” and we get -

THE DESTIEL GOODBYE. Tell me they didn’t actually go canon for the FIRST time here. I will fight you.

LOOK at Cas watching him in the background.

These fucking desolate eyes. I’m crying.

THEY JUST GOT EACH OTHER BACK -

(I recognize this .gif is meh quality but I love that he turns and walks to him and Cas just GRABS him in this crushing hug)

DEAN [accepts the hug good-naturedly but then looks sad]

Okay, okay.

***”good naturedly??? ok Jensen “Acting Choices” Ackles. That is not “good nature” that is BLISS.

AND THEN THIS -

SOBS IN ENOCHIAN.

***I literally had to remind myself that the reunion hug is coming; it’s just an episode away. I’ll make y’all feel better too; here it is - A PERFECT PARALLEL. Curse this show.

MORE OF THIS “GOOD NATURED” HUGGING PLEASE.

Anyways, back to depressing subtext.

DEAN:

Okay, look. I want a big funeral.

All right? I'm talking epic.

Okay? Open bar, choir, Sabbath cover band, and Gary Busey reading the eulogy.

*****This scene lives in my mind rent-free as PROOF 15x20 doesn’t exist.

I can’t skip over further growth in Dean’s goodbye to Sammy.

***He’s being serious. Seasons 1-3 Dean would never have admitted this. I was a blubbering mess at this point.

So, Dean heads to Amara, and the rest of the gang heads to the bar.

CROWLEY:

Your round, Moose.

***I would love an entire bottle episode of Crowley, Sam, Rowena, and Chuck at that bar TBH.

And then, Dean saves the day. BUT NOT by dying and sacrificing himself, letting himself be used as a weapon of mass destruction. No, he fixes the DAMN WORLD by connecting to Amara emotionally, and bringing her and Chuck back together, because he understands that not to be alone is what she really needs; that her own struggle is the same as his - letting in love instead of raging against it and fighting her own need for companionship. Because that’s where ELDEST SIBLING AMARA AND Dean Winchester CONNECT. Amara isn’t in love with Dean. She identifies with Dean. She sees her own feelings in him, her own pain, and that’s why she exorcises Lucifer and saves Cas - FOR Dean. Amara’s just a Dean girl, everyone. And we know Dean girls protect Cas at all costs.

Yup. Amara Dean Girl Darkness Heller.

That’s it. That’s the dissertation.

See you in Season 12, where I will attempt to figure out the reason behind the British Men of Letters, killing Hitler, the brain melt that is Celebrating the Life of Asa Fox, the comedy of errors that is Cas playing Dean hot and cold, and the Mary Winchester of it all.

#destiel #spn analysis #spn meta #supernatural #spn family #spn fandom #spn season 11 #amara #spn recap #dean winchester

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sparxwrites · 4 years

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(first tma fic, kids, let’s go!! set at some ambiguous point in s3 or something, idfk. massive thank you to @capitola, @hoodienanami, and @ladyofrosefire for beta’ing / looking this over and reassuring me it wasn’t terrible. massive thank you also to mr sims for my life lmao.)

cw for minor body horror, and eyes in places they shouldn’t be

[ao3]

There’s a light on in Jon’s office.

It’s not a bright light, just the soft glow of a desk lamp spilling out from under the door, but still. It’s well past midnight. No one should be working – hell, Martin’s only in the Archives because he’d forgotten his phone when he went out with the others for drinks. And sure, Jon’s known for his late nights and early starts, but verging on one in the morning seems ridiculous even for him.

Martin hesitates outside the door for a full minute before knocking, once.

There’s no response, but Jon’s definitely in. Or someone is, at least. There’s a voice – muffled, but still audible, speaking continuously – from inside the room. Statements, then, probably. Though why Jon would be reading statements at this time of the night is beyond Martin, especially when he’s been at it all day, too.

He hovers for another minute, another two, but the voice doesn’t quiet. The light doesn’t go off. He’s half tempted to leave his weird boss to his weird work hours and just not interfere in what could be some weird Beholding ritual for all he knows. That would be the sensible thing to do, really.

After a cumulative three minutes of worrying, Martin resolves to open the door. Just a little. Just to check if Jon’s okay.

It’s not locked, which – given the hour, and the Archives’ track record with murder attempts and/or supernatural infiltration – seems like a safety hazard. Martin pushes it open, gingerly, nudging his way into the doorway and peering inside, fully prepared to get snapped at for intruding.

Jon’s sat at his desk, which is normal, and has a half-drunk glass of whiskey by one elbow, which is not. His hands are laid flat on his desk, either side of a sheet of paper, and his face lit in strange, sharp angles by the desk lamp’s single point of light. The ever-present tape recorder whirs away in front of him, hungry for his soft words.

It’s a fairly typical scene, other than the lateness. And the whiskey. And the strange energy in the air, prickling, not the usual light touch of being watched, but the heavy weight of something present. He’s trying not to think about that one, though.

Martin watches, silently, unwilling to interrupt. Jon doesn’t appreciate being interrupted mid-statement, he’s found. Besides, it sounds like the statement’s ending anyway – something about an improbable underwater fire at an oil rig, as far as Martin can piece together from the closing remarks.

Politely reminding Jon of the twin values of sleep and of locking his office door can wait until he’s finished.

“…Statement ends,” concludes Jon, voice soft and flat in that way it only ever gets when he’s recording statements. The real statements, that is, the ones that will only go on tape. His eyes are unfocused, distant. He doesn’t even seem to be looking at the paper in front of him, which… unusually, for a statement, seems to be mostly blank. Instead, he’s staring unseeingly at the wall opposite his desk, perfectly silent and perfectly still.

It’s not like Jon’s never worked late before, and it’s not like Martin’s never found him reading statements at some god-awful, unsociable hour of the night or morning, but this… Something feels different about this. Something feels weird, and Martin’s gotten pretty confident in trusting his gut about weird feelings.

“Jon?” he says, softly, nervously. He’s still hovering in the doorway, uncertain, unwilling to cross into the room proper on sheer animal instinct.

He gets no response. Instead, Jon flinches, like he’s been stuck with a needle.

It’s an oddly restrained motion, given he doesn’t seem to be entirely present, a sort of full-body twitch accompanied by a quiet hiccup of sound. Like he’s swallowed down a sob. His breath stutters in his chest, hitches. A high-pitched, drawn-out noise of pain strangles itself in his throat, escapes through his nose instead in a long whine.

His eyes don’t refocus. His hands never move from their place settled flat against the desk. His expression doesn’t change.

“…Statement of Mrs. Anisha Singh,” he says, eventually, his voice still level and calm. It would be almost soothing, if not for that fixed stare, the line of tension in his shoulders, the whiskey on the desk. If not for that strange, heart-stopping moment of quiet agony. “Regarding the disappearance and return of a beloved family pet. Statement begins.”

Now Martin’s looking for it, he can hear the note of strain that colours the edge of each word, pain or exhaustion or some other ragged, aching thing entirely that even… whatever it is that’s keeping him blank and still can’t quite exorcise entirely.

“Jon,” says Martin, a little more firmly, because this is– weird. Even by Jon’s standards, even by the Archives’ standards, this is really, really weird.

“We’d had him for years, you see. Mr. Kibbles, I mean.” Jon’s voice softens as he slips into the statement, pitches up a little into something more female than his usual tone. There’s the slightest edge of an accent to it, though Martin isn’t sure what accent. “Years and years, and he was always so sweet. He was a rescue cat, so of course there were some issues at first, but–”

Martin hesitates and then, swallowing hard, crosses the room and scoots around the desk, until he’s standing at Jon’s elbow. “Jon?” he says again, without much hope. When he gets no response, he sets a hand on Jon’s shoulder, and shakes him, ever so gently.

“–why we thought it was strange, when he went missing,” says Jon, still staring straight ahead, hands still flat on the desk. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond, doesn’t so much as blink.

Martin shakes him, again, a little harder. Then his nerves run out, so he switches to sort of awkwardly rubbing Jon’s shoulder, his back, as insistently as possible. Even through Jon’s customary jumper and shirt, he can feel– bumps, almost, strange raised nodules that he thinks must be scar tissue. Must be from the worms. He shudders at the thought, and distracts himself by calling Jon’s name again, louder than before.

Nothing. It’s like Martin’s not even there.

“Okay,” says Martin, as easily as he can manage when everything in his nerves sings wrong, when there’s a prickle on the back of his neck like Jon’s staring at him. It’s ridiculous, Jon's eyes aren’t even focused, but… “Okay, right.” He unwinds his scarf from round his neck, and shrugs his jacket off, his motions jerky with unease. “I’m– I’m going to go make us some tea, then.”

It seems a bit pathetic, when he says it out loud. But it’s not like there’s any employee manual segment on what to do if your boss gets possessed by his god in the early hours of the morning, and he figures making tea can’t hurt the situation. Perhaps the warmth and steam of a cup on his desk might help… bring Jon back to himself, or something.

At the very least, doing something with his hands might stop them from shaking.

He makes the tea on autopilot, mostly, drifting from sink to kettle to cupboard, retrieving mugs and teabags and milk. His brain is too busy whirring, turning the image of Jon over and over in his head, to concentrate on the process all that much. He’s desperately trying to work out if this is okay, if this is normal capital-A Archivist business, or if this is something new, or something dangerous, or something…

The tea’s oversteeped, by the time he remembers to take the teabags out. Not that it matters, really. Only one of the cups is getting drunk, after all, and Martin’s too strung-out on nerves for overly bitter tea to be anything other than a laughable distraction.

By the time he gets back, Jon’s nearly done with the statement. He hasn’t moved an inch, hands still on the damn desk, eyes still fixed unseeing on the far wall. Martin sighs, and sets the tea on the desk a few inches from the whiskey nonetheless. “There you go,” he says, and immediately feels guilty – because Jon’s doing a statement, the tape recorder’s still running, because he’s ruining the recording.

He figures, as he retreats to a chair tucked against the wall, next to one of the bookshelves, that his priorities probably say something about how badly this job has messed him up. Boss might be possessed? It’s probably fine. Ruining a statement, though? Unforgivable.

“–know what I’m going to tell the kids,” says Jon. “They loved the cat. They were so happy when he came back. But they didn’t see it. Not like I did. They didn’t see what those fleas had done to him. They wouldn’t understand, if I told them what I had to do.”

Martin winces, and takes a sip of tea to try and stop from thinking about that too hard. It scalds his tongue a little. He’s missed the bulk of the statement, but he’s got a pretty good idea of what bugs can do to a person – or a cat, as the case may be. And he’s got a pretty good idea of what Mrs. Singh might have had to do to get rid of them.

“I’d suggest we go to the local rescue this weekend, get another cat to replace Mr. Kibbles, but… I don’t know if I’m ready to have another pet right now, after all this. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to have another pet again.” Jon pauses, unblinking, unmoving – and when he speaks again, his voice is back to his own, albeit still coloured by that awful, artificial flatness. “Statement ends.”

And again he flinches, like he’s been stuck unexpectedly with something sharp, hunching in on himself. He hiccups out another sob, another aborted hitch of sound, and then keens. It’s an awful noise, a long, drawn-out whimper so full of pain that Martin’s on his feet before he can even think about it.

He’s not sure what he can possibly do to help with this, especially when he doesn’t even know what’s going on. But it seems wrong to just sit there, to just watch, with Jon hurting in front of his eyes.

Before he can take another step, though, the skin of Jon’s neck starts to– shift. It’s not a warping or a melting, exactly, nothing like the things the Desolation does to human flesh. It’s more of an unfurling, skin parting and opening as though that was what it was always meant to do. Except it’s that’s not right, because that’s a neck, because skin doesn’t move like that, because necks don’t open–

Jon’s whine finally, finally cuts off, with a frantic gasp.

“Oh, god,” says Martin, faintly, frozen in place with his hands white-knuckled around his mug – because there, on the side of Jon’s neck, is a wide, brown eye.

It blinks, slowly, its thick black eyelashes brushing across Jon’s skin. Then it spins in its– socket? God, in whatever’s anchoring it into Jon’s skin, and Martin really doesn’t want to think about that– and settles its wide and fixed gaze on Martin.

When Martin takes a tentative step to the side, it tracks his movement, smooth and unblinking. He thinks about the bumps under Jon’s jumper, oddly soft beneath his hand, and is abruptly overcome with nausea.

How long has this been going on? How long has Jon sat here, unnaturally still, giving statement after statement with no paper to read from and no pause between? …How many of these eyes are there, under Jon’s collared shirt and long-sleeved jumpers and carefully pressed trousers, scattered across his ribs and stomach and thighs?

From the presence of the whiskey, Martin has an awful feeling that this isn’t even the first night this has happened. That this is something Jon had braced for, from prior experience.

The idea of Jon sat alone in his office, blank paper and a waiting tape recorder in front of him, grimly downing spirits in anticipation of the pain to follow, sets Martin’s chest in an abrupt and unrelenting vise.

“A-aah. Statement–” starts Jon, and there’s a definite waver to his voice now, an unsteadiness apparently even the Beholding can’t eradicate. There are fine tremors starting up across his shoulders, and wetness around the rims of his human eyes. “–o-of Mr. Gregory Freeman, regarding th-the circumstances of his daughter’s death on a family hiking trip. Statement– begins.”

Four statements later – a young woman ravenously hungry for her own flesh, a house that seemed to shrink with every passing day, an elderly man with a sudden and violent phobia of cameras, a woman who had started leaving cobwebs on everything she touched – and Jon is still going. Martin’s made another two cups of tea for them both, out of sheer anxious energy, replacing the undrunk and cooling mug on Jon’s desk each time.

Four more statements. Four more eyes emerging somewhere on Jon’s body. Four more points of pain, sending him flinching and sobbing between each statement.

Martin watches them all and clutches his empty mug, white-knuckled, helpless. He watches Jon finish each statement, watches him weather the pain, watches him start up once again– and he goes to get more tea. There’s nothing else he can do, but be witness to this, whatever this is. Be a witness to Jon’s suffering.

Jon finishes a fifth statement, and is halfway into a sixth, before he starts crying. Thin trails of tears start to drip down his nose and cheeks, over his constantly moving lips. They’re barely visible in the half-darkness, just a faint gleam as they catch the raking light from his desk lamp. His expression doesn’t change, nor his tone, but he cries silently nonetheless. The eye on his neck is not so much as damp.

Martin cries with him, softly, for a while.

No other eyes show up on his face or neck, despite the endless statements, the endless gaps between. One does form on his wrist, though, right over the bone of it, pale blue and half-hidden by the cuff of his shirt. It blinks once, indolently, at Martin, before rolling to stare fixedly at the doorway to the room. Quietly watching.

The one on Jon’s neck still stares at Martin, unblinking, single-minded. He gets used to it, after a horribly short space of time.

The time passes strangely, elastic. Martin drinks his tea, makes another cup, and drinks that too. He replaces Jon’s whenever it gets cold, out of some weird sense of duty that Jon will have at least warm tea when he snaps out of whatever’s going on. He dozes, at some points, lulled into an uneasy sleep by the soothing sound of Jon’s words. He’s inevitably reawakened when the statement ends, though, by Jon’s noises of pain, louder and less restrained each time. By the end of, he’s crying out openly with each new eye, voice hoarse and raw in a way that never carries over to his statements.

It’s six in the morning, by the count of the clock on the wall, before Jon finally stops. “Statement ends,” he says, and Martin waits, patient and exhausted, for him to start again with statement of – but it never comes.

Instead, Jon– collapses. Crumples over his desk with an unsteady exhale, like a puppet with its strings cut. Out of the grip of the eye, the shaking is worse – violent, shocky, like he’s about to fall apart.

Maybe he is.

For a second, Martin’s worried he’s having a seizure, or some more eldritch equivalent. Then he realises Jon isn’t just breathing, jerky and unsteady and on the edge of sobbing. He’s speaking, still, muttering soft and frantic to himself.

“No more. No more. No more. Please. No–”

“Jon?” says Martin, as gently as he can manage, because he can’t bear it a second longer. “Are you–”

Jon goes silent in a heartbeat, and as still as he can with the tremors still running through him. “Martin.” His voice is wrecked, but he still cuts Martin off with such authority. “What– what are you doing here? God, what– time is it?”

He’s slurring a little, under the hoarse rasp, but Martin’s not sure it’s anything to do with the whiskey. There’s a giddy edge to it that rubs up against the exhaustion, like he’s overstimulated and wrung out all at once. Perhaps he is, after a night of being force-fed statements directly into his brain.

Jon drags himself upright again, slowly, painfully, until he’s at least slumped in his seat rather than collapsed over his desk. There are dark bags under his human eyes, and his hair’s a mess, and that wide, brown eye in the side of his neck is still staring. Martin really wishes it wouldn’t. Wishes that it would at least stare at something other than him.

The eye, as though reading his thoughts – and god, for all Martin knows, it is – blinks. Just once.

“I, um. It’s about six, I think. In the morning. I, I came in last night, and you were– aha, well, um, I don’t really know what you were! But it seemed kind of weird, so I thought… I’d better keep you company. In case it got weirder, you know?”

It feels stupid, when he says it like that. What did he do, other than sitting there, watching, making tea? It was ridiculous of him to have thought he could help in the first place.

Jon opens his mouth as if to reply – but his eyes catch on the lukewarm cup of tea by one elbow, and he stops. Swallows. Closes his mouth. “…That was– thoughtful of you, Martin,” he says, in the end, which isn’t quite a thank you but is remarkably close. He grabs the mug of tea, and downs half of it in one long swallow, before reaching up to scrub a hand over his face, his neck. “I suppose it goes without saying that this–”

The moment his fingers touch the eye, he freezes. Then he slaps a hand over it, almost guiltily, and stares at Martin with wide, wild eyes.

“…It’s been watching me all night,” says Martin, and winces as he watches Jon’s expression crumple. “Look, don’t– here.” He grabs his scarf off the back of his chair and stumbles over to the desk, shoves it towards Jon in a bundle. “You can cover it up or something, if you want. And… please don’t freak out, but– there’s one on your wrist, too.”

Jon stares at the scarf for a long, long moment, before laughing hollowly. When he reaches across the desk to take it, he uses the hand that was covering his neck, and that wide brown eye stares accusatorily back at Martin. He doesn’t put the scarf on – just sits there, holding it, fingers white-knuckled against the soft wool.

“I was doing so well,” he says, and he sounds exhausted. When he reaches for a drink again, it’s from the half-full glass of whiskey. “I was doing so well, keeping them covered…”

There’s a comment to be made about drinking on the job, and also about the ill-advisedness of whiskey at six in the morning, but Martin bites his tongue. “Maybe they want to be uncovered…?” he offers, and winces immediately. “Just. You know. Eyes, and all that. Maybe they want to be able to see.”

“They can see whether they’re covered or not,” mutters Jon, sourly. “They’re not– this,” he gestures to his neck, “is just another, another test, or some kind of sick game, I know it. It’s just–”

“How many are there?” blurts Martin, because Jon’s starting to spiral, and it’s the first thing that springs to mind. “–Oh, god, you. You don’t have to answer that, just forget I asked, really. Really.”

Jon hesitates, before standing up abruptly enough that his chair screeches against the floor. “Oh, damn it,” he mutters, setting the scarf down on the desk and knocking back the rest of the whiskey. He pulls a face at the burn of it, but his hands are already fumbling with the hem of his jumper, tugging it off over his head and immediately going for the buttons on his shirt. “Damn it all–”

His hands are shaking badly enough Martin almost wants to help, but the situation is weird enough already without offering to help his boss strip, so he… doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, awkwardly, as Jon fights to get the buttons on his shirt open.

When he finally manages it, Martin can’t quite hold back a sharp, panicked intake of breath.

“There’s more lower down,” says Jon, quiet misery in his wrecked voice. “And on my back. And my arms, and– I don’t know how many. I… I haven’t counted. Maybe– a hundred? More?”

The dozens of eyes across his torso don’t blink, but they do shift, pupils contracting in the sudden light and darting around for something to focus on. They’re different sizes, shapes, colours, peppered across his skin and overlapping with his many scars as though competing for space.

Jon prods at a red-rimmed, newish-looking one on his stomach, scowling, and hisses out a breath of pain at the unpleasant, yielding contact between eyeball and finger. It blinks in retaliation, and somehow manages to look annoyed.

For a strange, nauseating second, Martin isn’t sure whether he wants to run, or to step closer, to fit his hands against the curve of Jon’s too-prominent ribs and feel the soft brush of eyelashes against his palms. In the end, thankfully, he does neither – just stands there, dumb, staring, as Jon reaches for his shirt buttons and starts to dress himself once more.

“You– you should sleep,” he offers, unsteadily, as Jon tugs his jumper back over his head. “I can go set up the bed, if you like. You know, where I slept, when…”

Jon finishes wrestling the jumper into submission, and collapses back into his chair, sighing. “I… yes. I suppose I should,” he says, and the slur is stronger now, without the anger and panic to camouflage it. The trembling, never quite banished from the line of his shoulders, is coming back stronger again. “Sleep would be– nice.”

There’s something bitter in the way he says it, almost sarcastic, but Martin’s too tired to call him up on it. “Okay,” he says, instead. “Okay, I’ll go, um, I’ll go set up the bed then. You just wait here, and, and maybe… drink some of the tea? Might help your throat. Definitely no more whiskey, though, please.”

Jon huffs out something that might almost be a laugh, though it sounds raw and rasping. “No more whiskey tonight– this morning,” he agrees, groping across the desk for the by now rather cold mug tea. “The pain’s fading now, anyway, I’ll be fine.” The words seem to slip out of him, an admission of vulnerability he’s too hurting and exhausted to hold them back. “…Thank you, Martin.”

The hand not currently curled around the mug of tea has found the wool of Martin’s scarf again, fingers curled absently into the softness of it. Martin’s not sure if he’s getting that back. He’s not sure he minds, either.

“It’s no problem. Really!” he says, with a small smile – and, despite the night full of confusion, and worry, and far too much oversteeped tea, he means it. He means it with all his heart. “You’re– you’re welcome.”

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jon sims #jonathan sims #jonmartin #only a lil bit but it's There #fic #tma #tma fic #(pls tell me if this is not correct tagging etiquette for the fandom and i'll fix it btw!)

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ialwayscomewhenyoucall · 4 years

Text

Next Time

I just realized I never posted this on Tumblr, so here it is...

for @buckybarnesbingo and @winterhawkbingo !!

by Lira (me!)

square(s) filled: BBB - K1 - knives; WHB - G4 - massage

main pairing: Bucky/Clint

rating: T

major tags/warnings: implied/referenced self-harm (more like self-neglect), massage, nightmares, angst, fluff, first kiss

summary: Clint's nightmares often drive him to the range in the middle of the night, where he pushes his body harder than he should to try to get rid of the images in his brain. When Bucky finds him there, both of them get rather more than they're expecting.

word count: 1741 (+834 in the bonus scene)

Clint sends his arrows down the range, one after the other, not even looking to see where they hit. He knows, anyway. He makes intricate patterns–spelling his name, outlining the targets, drawing the shape of a man then shooting it in the eyes, in the throat, in the heart.

It doesn’t help.

He feels the nightmare with every draw. The numbness, the cold calculations, the blind obedience.

The worst part, the part that makes his stomach roil and his head swim, is remembering how good it felt to obey. Blissful. Like putting on a pair of jeans he’s had for five years, washed so many times they’re worn just right. Like the first gulp of coffee first thing in the morning, singing on his tongue and zipping through his veins.

His muscles ache, then burn, but still he shoots, emptying his quiver over and over...and over. A tiny voice whispers if he can just shoot enough, if he can just fall completely into his body and out of his mind, he’ll be able to destroy his personal demons. Or at least exorcise them for a little while.

He lets out a hysterical giggle. Get it? Exorcise? Exercise? You’re a fucking genius, Barton.

When the noise comes behind him he doesn’t think, only reacts. He spins on the ball of his foot, bow drawn, aimed true.

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink.

“I couldn’t sleep either.”

Clint lowers his bow. Too out of breath to speak, he just nods.

Bucky nods too, downrange. “Nicely done. Can I help?” Before Clint can answer Bucky’s unstrapping knives from their sheaths and flinging them toward the targets, black and silver flashing in the dimly lit range. The knives thunk home in the man-shaped target Clint made out of arrows–one in the forehead, one in the gut, and one in each knee.

He’s poetry with a blade. Clint’s seen him before, of course, but never like this, never up close and focused and easy.

“Nice,” Clint says. Or tries to. It’s more of an unintelligible croak that comes from his mouth. He tries to clear his throat but his mouth has gone dry, and it’s then he realizes he probably should have had some water, and probably shouldn’t have gone at the training quite so hard.

But he’d had to. Anything, anything, to get rid of the fucking nightmares.

Bucky’s face is doing strange things, and his voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, like maybe he’s standing at the end of a tunnel. But that doesn’t make sense, he’s only a few yards away. He reaches up to check his aids, only then realizing that his hand won’t obey, and that he’s lying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. When did that happen? And how?

Yeah, definitely some water next time.

He hears Bucky and JARVIS going on about something, time maybe? Or hours? And then he hears something about water and that makes him open his eyes and hey, when had he closed his eyes?

When he manages to get his eyes open all he can see is Bucky. Bucky, kneeling beside him, leaning over him, giant anxious eyes staring at him. The look is all concern until Clint manages a weak smile, then Bucky beams. The only person Clint’s ever seen truly turn into a beacon of joy like that is Rogers, and that’s never been directed at him before; having Bucky look at him like that…

“You had me worried. JARVIS said you’d been training nonstop for nearly five hours. Without any water.” There’s a bit of reproach at the end there, but Clint focuses on the smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s lips.

Bucky’s lips. He licks his own lips, suddenly aware how chapped and dry they are from lack of water. Suddenly aware that he’d like them to be softer, nicer, because maybe he’d like to use them for something besides speaking sometime in the near future.

And then Bucky’s arm is around him, pulling him upright, so he can sip from the bottle of water at his lips. Clint doesn’t remember the bottle getting there, but he just goes with it. Most everything seems to be going in and out anyway. Eventually he’ll be all awake again.

“Easy,” Bucky says, his tone low and soothing. “Just little sips.”

The water is the best thing Clint’s ever tasted. He tries to reach up to hold the water on his own, or at least help, but before he can reach the bottle he’s overcome by pain and nausea. He cries out, losing some of the water in the process, and almost choking on more.

Aw, water, no.

“Shoulder?” Bucky asks. His voice is still calm, still soothing, and even as Clint gives a very abbreviated because of pain nod he feels the effects of Bucky’s calm helping to ground him.

“Maybe I pushed a little too hard,” Clint says, avoiding eye contact. Bucky huffs a noncommittal noise.

After a breath of silence, Bucky says, “Let me help?” Clint’s eyes snap back to Bucky’s, looking for something in that mysterious blue. “Just trust me,” Bucky says, and that’s enough.

“I’ve done this too, you know.” Bucky, still holding Clint in a sitting position, eases him to the floor. Then, as if it’s nothing, he pulls his sweatshirt over his head. Clint’s somewhat thankful he’s wearing a t-shirt underneath, though in pulling off the sweatshirt the t-shirt rides up, and Clint is treated to an all too brief glimpse of Bucky’s bare stomach.

Bucky’s still talking, and it takes Clint’s brain some effort to go back to listening to the words instead of thinking about that bare strip of skin. “...elf too hard, and had to pay the price after.” As he speaks, still gentle and low, he rolls Clint onto his stomach, folds the sweatshirt, and puts it under Clint’s head. “Not much of a pillow,” he says, interrupting his own narrative, “but it’ll do.”

Clint closes his eyes and listens to Bucky’s voice, breathes what he suddenly realizes must be the scent of Bucky. Leather, metal, the oil he uses to clean his weapons, and–very faintly–chocolate. It’s a good smell, almost as comforting as the voice swirling around him.

“A hot bath would help, but this is better. Stevie’s always goin’ on about human contact and all that; and please don’t tell him I said this, but in this case I’m pretty sure he’s right.” And then Bucky climbs on top of him, straddling his lower back but keeping all the weight on his own knees, firm on the floor on either side of Clint. Even with all this it’s not until he feels Bucky’s hands on his shoulder that he realizes what it is Bucky means to do.

“Ohhhhh.” The sounds coming from Clint’s mouth are close to obscene, but it feels too good for him to care. “Buck, that’s…”

Bucky chuckles. “Again, don’t tell Stevie. Punk. He’s the one who taught me how to give a proper massage. Said I had to learn so when he gets sore I can ‘ease his suffering.’” Clint can’t see Bucky, but he can pretty much hear the eyeroll. “Such a drama queen, that one.”

“Thank god for Captain fucking America.” Clint’s babbling in between his moans, going on about Bucky’s magical hands and needing this after every mission because Nat’s hands are nice but are too small and the others are great but how do you just walk up to someone and ask for a massage? And every time Bucky’s hands touch the bare skin of his neck his brain just whites out, just stops, because it’s soft and electric all at once and he can’t compute.

But if he says anything odd, or if Bucky notices the odd stops and starts in his speech, he doesn’t say anything. He just keeps going, working the cramps and the stiffness out of his shoulders and arms and neck until Clint feels like he must be just a puddle on the floor of the range.

He doesn’t want Bucky to stop. He doesn’t want Bucky to ever stop. But eventually he says, “Bucky. If you don’t stop soon you’re going to relax me right to sleep. What’re you gonna do then, carry me to bed?”

As soon as the words are out he wishes he could draw them back somehow. Because of course Bucky could carry him to bed; Bucky may be smaller than Clint but he’s the Winter fucking Soldier. He could probably carry two Clints to bed and not break a sweat. But he’s here doing something nice, something he doesn’t have to do, and then Clint has to say something to maybe ruin it just because he’s all sleepy and comfy and suddenly realizing that he wants more from Bucky than someone to hang out on the range with or sit by on movie nights. Those things are great–but so are his hands, and his big blue eyes, and the way he makes fun of Steve while making it clear that Steve’s his best friend and always will be. He’s strong and sweet at the same time, and fuck all if Clint doesn’t want everything with Bucky...and when did that happen?

There are fingers in his hair now; not tugging, just a reassuring touch. When the backs of Bucky’s fingers trace Clint’s jawline he lets his eyes flutter open to see Bucky sitting on the floor next to him, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I really don’t want to undo all that relaxin’ I just poured into your muscles,” Bucky says. “Think maybe we can save the goin’ to bed part for next time?”

“Sure,” pops out of Clint’s mouth before he even thinks about it. Then, “Wait, what? Next time?”

The fluttering in his chest is something new, something unexpected.

It’s hope.

The smile on Bucky’s lips becomes genuine. “You heard that, did you?”

Clint wants to jump up, but he’s still just a puddle. Instead he grins, asks innocently, “Is kissing safe tonight? I wouldn’t want to do anything against my doct–”

He’s laughing when Bucky rolls him onto his back and cuts off his words with a kiss soft as butterfly wings. They smile into each other’s mouths, and Clint’s never had a better first kiss.

Or second.

Or third.

Bonus Scene

-for @feedmecookiesnow and @elenorasweet, because they asked 💜

Clint blinks drowsy eyes at Bucky. “So. Are you gonna carry me to bed, or do I have to sleep here?”

His grin is lopsided and tinged with exhaustion, and all Bucky wants to do is kiss that adorable face some more. But he’s more in control of himself than that.

That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Because he has to kiss something, he takes Clint’s hand in his and kisses his wrist, then his palm. “I think something can be arranged,” he says. “I don’t want you to wake up on this floor with a stiff neck. Or to try to get back to your floor yourself and trip over your own feet.”

“I wouldn’t–” Clint starts to protest, but Bucky silences him with a finger to his lips.

“Barton, you’re graceful as a ballerina with a bow in your hands, and damn near as pretty, but you have a knack for injuring yourself.”

“I don’t know what you’re–” Clint mumbles against Bucky’s finger. This time it’s just Bucky’s stare that stops him.

“Fine. I concede.” Clint’s wink is sloppy with sleep, and Bucky has to hold himself still again. “But only ‘cause I want you to carry me to bed.”

As if Bucky needs to be talked into it.

Kissing Clint’s palm again, he says, “Think you can wait for me to clean up? I don’t particularly want to wake up to a lecture from Stark about leaving my weapons all over the range.”

Clint nods. Bucky can see that he’s still pretty blissed out from the massage and the rather extensive make-out session afterward. Bucky’s pretty far gone himself; he’d gone from waking up screaming from another horrible nightmare to finding Clint at the range to watching Clint nearly pass out to feeling Clint’s muscles under his hands to feeling Clint’s lips against his own. Not exactly what he’d expected from the evening.

The knives go back in their sheaths–”How many knives do you have on you, anyway?” “More than the four I threw…”–and the arrows are returned to their proper place in the armory. The bow gets hung up as well; Clint tells him it’s just a practice bow, not one of his good bows. Those are upstairs. Apparently Clint is a bit of a snob when it comes to his bows. Bucky has to turn away to hide his smile.

“Alright, let’s get you up,” he says, easing Clint up to a sitting position. Clint’s not going to make this easy, he really is about half asleep already so isn’t helping much. His head falls forward onto Bucky’s shoulder and he makes a happy humming sound, burrowing his face a little deeper into Bucky’s neck.

“Can’t you help a little? I can’t even get my sweatshirt back on.” He’s able to grab it from the floor where Clint had been using it as a pillow but before he can begin to even try to pull it on Clint, showing far more alertness than Bucky expects, snatches it away from him.

“Mine!”

Even though he’s fair exasperated, Bucky laughs. “It won’t even fit you. Your arms are twice as long as mine.”

“Makes a nice pillow,” Clint murmurs, clutching at the fabric.

Bucky sighs, then gives in and kisses Clint’s cheek. “It’s yours then, sweetheart,” he says, and he knows then he’s gone soft for this fella. “Can we get you to bed, though? You really need to sleep.”

Somehow they manage to both get to their feet. “Now hold on,” Bucky says, and he scoops Clint into his arms.

It should be ridiculous. Clint’s got so much height on him it should just feel silly, like a toddler carrying a teenager. But somehow it just feels...right. Clint belongs here, in his arms, his own arms draped around Bucky’s neck. Clint’s heartbeat against his chest, his breath tickling his ear.

The walk to the elevator, the ride up to Clint’s floor, it’s all over so fast. Too fast. Before he knows it he’s easing Clint out of his arms and onto his bed.

His arms feel empty.

Clint looks up at him, biting his lip, like he’s deciding something. Bucky’s about to just say goodnight when Clint blurts out, “Stay?”

Bucky freezes.

“Not for sex.” Clint stumbles over the words, trying to hurry in his overtired state. “I’m too tired for sex anyway. But just...stay? I think there’s a pair of sweatpants in the bottom drawer,” he adds, nodding toward the dresser.

Bucky just looks at Clint for another full minute. Finally he says, “Yeah, and I’m sure they’re about three feet too long for me.” But he’s already at the dresser when he says it. He finds two pairs, pulls them both out, and throws one at Clint. “Wear something comfortable to sleep,” he says.

“Yes sir,” Clint says, only a little mockingly.

It only takes one night to learn that cuddles are a good defence against nightmares. Even better than time at the range.

#lirael writes #buckybarnesbingo2020 #winterhawkbingor2 #winterhawk fic #two sweet boys #implied/referenced self-harm #(more like self-neglect but i'm being careful)#fluff #angst #first kiss #nightmares #massage #cuddles #clint barton #james bucky barnes

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albatris · 4 years

Note

T for the oc asks?

hey! thanks for the ask! I think I have two T characters that I can remember and I have another T in my inbox so…… as per usual I’m gonna start with the easier one hahaha

which would be Tris, much to the surprise of……… no one, probably?

also, obligatory apology for the lengthy rambles

I swear not all my responses will be like this ok

I just don’t know how to, like.......... shhh, ever

Full name: Tristan James Greer, n like. as mentioned in a previous ask he and his older brother Jacob share a middle name because of just. incredibly stupid reasons. both in terms of canon explanation and Me As A Writer explanations

Nicknames, if any: technically I guess “Tris” is the nickname, although it would be more accurate to say that “Tris” is his name and “Tristan” is a word he is entirely divorced from and will not respond to, unless you’re one of his two siblings, or his parents using A Certain Tone Of Voice, or sometimes Shara who forgets, or legal forms, or it's pertinent to a joke he'd like to make

Hogwarts house: Hufflepuff

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Ace, definitely at least a little bi, not that it ever really comes up in a major way in-story. Like, could definitely be argued he had a crush on Kai when they first became friends, but like. who knows whether that was legitimate romantic attraction or whether he was just so unbelievably caught off guard by someone being genuinely interested in and nice to him that it immediately crashed his entire emotional system and caused his brain to short-circuit. could go either way. also who of the atdao gang DOESN'T have at least a slight crush on Kai, probably

A song I associate with them: How about five instead!! Good Tris tunes include but are in no way limited to: “Boys Will Be Bugs” by Cavetown, “Sloom” by Of Monsters and Men, “If This Ship Sinks (I Give In)” by Birds of Tokyo (melodramatic edgy Tris vibes), “Monsters” by The Boy Least Likely To and “The Future’s Right In Front Of Me” by A Great Big World

3 important relationships:

Okay so first off would be Noa, his best friend of an amount of years that I always just fucking make up because I can never remember. More than 3 and less than 7. Anyway these two only started hanging round each other ‘cause it was mutually beneficial, ‘cause kids are mean and they eventually twigged that they were less likely to be targeted as a pair than on their own, but pretty soon they were like "oh wait hey you're actually a nice person and I genuinely enjoy ur company and we make a good team" and their friendship grew from there n now they're bros.

honestly I have like seven hyperspecific rambles in my drafts about Tris and Noa's friendship n how they relate to each other could honestly talk abt both of them for hours

in terms of Tris I will say that Noa is part of the extremely extremely small group of people that he's generally willing to trust completely with zero strings attached, which is like. sure something. n she's someone he generally considers a touchstone of reality and someone he can rely on when he can't necessarily trust his own perceptions. also she's someone who is a half-decent opponent at upside down Mario Kart which is a plus

and also, Jacob, arguably the most important person in Tris's life, someone he thinks the world of and considers his biggest role model. like. not in terms of Jacob's intelligence or success or how hard he's worked n all the reasons their parents think he's the ideal Tris should be striving for, just in terms of like. the sort of person he wants to be, someone kind and well-liked and fun, someone with a good heart, which is super corny now that I write it. Cool. Great. Cool. Tris did not have a lot of super great adult role models growing up 'cause his parents are a nightmare and most teachers found him frustrating beyond belief, nor did he have a lot of friends being a weird neurodivergent kid lmao, so his relationship with both his siblings but especially Jacob has been one of the only sources of stability and genuine warmth and connection through most of his life

so I mean basically he pretty much thinks of Jacob as Literally The Coolest Person In The Entire World which is funny because Jacob is just a complete dweeb

n then thirdly. I mean. parents, again much for the same reasons as I listed in Jacob's post. controlling, emotionally distant, impossible standards, more concerned with maintaining a perfect image than any of their kids' actual wellbeing, blah blah

Jacob is currently the only Greer sib who has any real grasp on exactly HOW unhealthy their relationship with their parents is? Tris has a whole thing going on in the story where he's kinda juuust starting to come to grips with things and work through some of his complicated feelings towards his parents and reconcile the ideas of "I love these people" and "these people kind of really truly genuinely fucked me up and none of what happened to me was normal or my fault and I'm going to be untangling the repercussions for a long time" and how both these things can be true for him at the same time

also Jacob's like thirteen years older than Tris I feel like I forgot to mention this here

I'm tired, yeah

2 fears:

1. everything

2. literally everything are you kidding me. weird birds. diseases. public transport. dying. sudden change. loud noises. crowds. hot weather. roadworks. natural disasters. people walking behind him. it'd be easier to list the things he's not afraid of. it's a miracle he leaves the house at all

ok those aren't good answers ummmm let's see

here's one: being somehow responsible for harm coming to the people he cares about, being the cause of something that directly hurts someone else, etc. etc. in broad general terms, but also in terms of intrusive thoughts and in terms of delusions/hallucinations that sometimes wander into the realm of threats, orders, "do this thing or your best friend will die horribly", kind of thing. so. the stress that he's going to disobey something or misinterpret something and his loved ones being punished for it....... all of that

1 element of their backstory:

his parents once tried to have him exorcised as a child and he’s only just now beginning to realise this was a "legitimately fucked-up experience” not “haha relatable childhood hijinks”

also on a lighter note he insists to Shara that this makes him immune to demons and she is fairly certain this is not how it works at all, but neither of them can technically prove it's NOT how it works without actively trying to get Tris murdered by demons, and while this DOES sound like a fun after-school activity, both their parents said no

anyway cool that's it from me! I'm not going back to edit this at all! I don't remember what I wrote even slightly! I'm going to bed! I should have probably picked a more fun backstory fact! The one I chose is horrible! Goodnight!

#atdao #tris #long post #so many of my answers make this story sound. real grim. lmao #it's FINE tris gets to go on INTERDIMENSIONAL ADVENTURES with a SWORD it's FINE he's ok #also sam and shauna greer do not get a redemption arc like if anything the conclusion u can jum to with the direction #tris is heading is that one day he's just gonna fuck off to the bahamas or more likely perth probably and never talk to them again #he's not there yet! but he's on the way #but anyway #exorcisms are a demon immunisation shot............. maybe #like. i think tris and noa both have had a lot of Bullshit go on in their lies n #when they bounce off each other in conversation i think they both r so used to it all that they forget #Hey That's Not Normal Or Universal #like #he mentions it to shara and kai in passing just like. haha here's a fun vaguely relevant anecdote #and is legitimately taken aback when both of them are just like. fucking horrified #and he's kind of just like. oh. excuse me i need to go reevaluate certain things about my life right now immediately maybe #also additional fun fact #the greer siblings all share one brain cell but it's divided equally between them all so #occasionally when all three of them put their heads together and really concentrate they can achieve one (1) rational thought #Anonymous

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reallylonglies · 5 years

Text

Taylor Swift - Demon Hunter : Part 4

Blake was exhausted. She had work. She had kids to chase around. She had a husband. She didn’t have time to pass messages between a demon and a lightning rod like they were in a really messed up fifth grade class.

She stomped down the stairs to Taylor’s gym. It was quiet there when Taylor was touring and she needed some time to get a little work done. She found a semi-comfortable seat and began to leaf through a script she’d been sent. It was quiet and cool in the gym, and the script was actually good enough that she found herself engrossed. An hour passed before she realised she wasn’t alone.

There was a faint hum in the air and a warm, spiced scent. She slipped the script into her bag, took off her earrings and readied herself for a fight. Only two people had the combination code for the door, but all that meant was that whatever was in here definitely wasn’t a person. Tucking her hair into a neat ponytail, she called into the darkness.

“You can come out now, she’s not here. Just little old me,” her voice echoed, the comfortable cool of the gym had become spine-tingling chill. She felt the air moving around her.

“A breeze in a basement,” she muttered to herself, “Happy Tuesday to me.”

Suddenly, it was in front of her. She sensed it before she saw it. Every inch of her body told her to run and never look back. From experience, she knew that this was the most important time to stay completely still and focussed. The discomfort she was feeling began to take shape in front of her. Despite her thudding heart, she found herself rolling her eyes at the over-dramatic process of manifestation. She really didn’t have time for this shit, even if it was scaring the living daylights out of her. She needed those living daylights to get through the rest of her busy life.

After a minute or so of overdramatic swirling, the spirit manifested in front of her. She’d never seen anything like it. Except she had, she’d seen something exactly like it, but she’d never seen that thing manifest in front of her. Taylor usually just entered the room through a door, not as a swirling cloud of vapour.

“If you’re trying to convince me you’re my friend, you’ve already made several mistakes,” she said, sounding nonchalant is second nature when you’ve spent as many years in teen dramas as Blake had.

“I’m not trying to trick you,” it said, it’s voice was not right either. Taylor had a human voice, this was a low growl with a rasping quality that made Blake want to dive for a packet of vocal zones.

“What do you want?” Blake asked, slowly moving her hand up her back, between her shoulder blades. She grasped the handle of the small dagger she kept there, and silently thanked Gal Gadot for inspiring this little trick.

With unseeing eyes, the spirit tilted its head at her. The eyes roamed up and down Blake’s whole body as if they had never been set on a human being before.

“She took my friend, put her in a song,” the figure circled Blake, Blake concealed the dagger behind her wrist.

“What are you doing?” she asked it as it passed behind her, when it stood in front of her, she took a sharp breath.

“Learning,” the word escaped from Blake’s lips in Blake’s voice. Staring in horror at the uncanny figure before her, the real Blake stifled a scream. She slashed with the dagger at the demon, who dodged, then looked down at her own right hand. It revealed its identical dagger. The stifled scream became a roar of frustration. Blake threw herself into battle for the first time in over a decade.

*****

I don’t attend awards ceremonies as a rule. There’s enough awful people there, I don’t need to add any more malice to the mix. I once had to find one of my old apprentices at the Oscars, the stench in that room… it was like garbage, emotional garbage. Everyone in there has so much hanging on a little golden statue. And people mock me for my crucifix intolerance.

I sensed almost instantly that something bad had happened to Blake. I don’t know what gave it away. Was it something she said? Something she did? The fact that she had obviously been replaced by a powerful fallen angel out for vengeance?

One of those things definitely set my alarm bells ringing when I went to her with a message for Taylor. Fallen angels are honestly the worst because if you bump into one unprepared they can do a lot of damage. They can stop you manifesting, give you a headache or in this case they can force you to possess the husband of a good friend against your will.

She gestured to him, cowering gently in a corner.

“Get in,” she said, she’d really nailed the voice.

I have to tell you inhabiting a human host is gross enough but this guy had only recently been exorcised and whatever slovenly spirit he’d been possessed by did not clean up after itself. Anxieties everywhere. Nightmares left unfinished. The guy even left an existential crisis just lying around for me to trip up on. What a hack.

We so rarely talk about what it feels like to possess someone, allow me to describe it. It’s a little like tapping into a phone line except the phone line is the person’s physical presence in the mortal dimension. Unfortunately, the host is still using the phone line so you get a live feed of all their thoughts, and this guy was a big thinker. A lot going on in his mind. Gave me a migraine almost instantly.

Walking the red carpet, I saw Taylor at a distance. Unfortunately there was no way for me to signal to her in front of that many photographers. I didn’t want to risk the exposure of the entire demon realm over something so small as a potential apocalypse. Also, any time that a person is working hard to perform the act of “being myself” it is actually surprisingly difficult for an incumbent Demon to take over. They’re too conscious of everything, all their boundaries are up. It’s sticky and gross and I hate it.

Fallen angels love, love having their pictures taken. Ever seen those old-timey exorcism pictures? All that ectoplasm shit? Fallen angels, they love to showboat. As soon as they get in front of a camera they have to show off. If you look at any pictures of Blake from this awards ceremony, you might be able to see the image warping a little at the edges, or get a chill when you look at her eyes.

So anyway, the red carpet probably was simultaneously the best and worst place to attract Taylor’s attention. Demon Blake was distracted having her picture taken. Great. Stupid human host Ryan was on his best “being myself” behaviour. Not great.

As luck would have it, my host needed the bathroom. Admittedly, I had spent the entire afternoon making him thirsty in the hope that this would give me the out I needed. Slipping through the crowd, he passed Taylor and I pushed myself to the top of his psyche so that she couldn’t fail to hear my tune blaring out over the shouts of journalists and photographers.

Her eye met Ryan’s and she filled with fiery rage. I fist bumped, there was no way she could ignore this.

She stormed into the bathroom while my host was washing his hands. Another insignificant human squealed at her, she swore at him and he left in a panic. It wasn’t classy. I loved it.

“You,” she fixed me with her hardest stare, “get out.”

“You’re blocking the door. I’m also really not sure you’re meant to be in here. This is the men’s room and you’re not a men,” Ryan’s babbling continued until he looked in the mirror above the sink and saw my face beaming back at him, “Oh God, not again, how does this keep happening to me? Do I have a possess me sign on my back?”

He was still chattering as I drifted gently away from his feeble human body and manifested next to him.

“Wait why is he wearing a tux, do demons wear tuxes?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “It’s a special occasion I wanted to look nice. Do you always wear a tux, dumbass?”

“No,” he asked, “Why do you look like John Mulaney?”

“It’s a passing resemblance, why do you look like Picasso’s biggest mistake?”

Taylor interrupted our vocal sparring by aggressively grabbing me by my bowtie. I had manifested too solidly for that not to hurt.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked, twisting the bowtie tighter.

I made some garbled gasping sounds, she relented and loosened her grip.

“Blake… fallen angel… very bad… big event… tonnes of demons…” partly I was getting my breath back, partly I preferred talking in bullet points.

“How many?” she asked, taking a series of silver rings out of her garter and slipping them onto her fingers.

“Sevent…” I deliberately mumbled the second half of the word.

“Seventeen? That’s not so many,” she shrugged, I made a guilty face “Oh, seventy, that’s many, a lot of many. Is there anyone we can call?”

Zendaya was out on a film shoot somewhere. Aniston was retired. Dunst had a lifetime ban because of the Bettany fiasco. I racked my brains.

The door opened. Two figures in black suits appeared.

“Miss Swift, pleased to meet you, we’ve heard a lot about you,” the one that spoke had a gentle accent and dreamy eyes, the other one was Keanu Reeves.

“It seems you have a bit of a situation on your hands,” Reeves answered, “How can we be of service?”

Taylor looked taken aback. I looked taken aback. Ryan looked deeply confused.

“What the hell is going on? Why is Neo here with this tennis player? Are we giving Golden Globes to tennis players now?” these were all logical questions.

“This must be confusing for you,” with perfectly applied pressure from his palm, Reeves gently put Ryan to sleep. The other guy caught the body and slid it under the sink, where they kept the hand towels and soap refills. Watching these two work together, stirred a memory in me, something from an impossibly long time ago.

“Holy shit,” I said, “You’re Reeves and Federer.”

“Who else would we be?” Federer asked as he arranged some hand towels under Ryan’s head to make him more comfortable.

“Wait, the Reeves and Federer?” Taylor chimed in, “I thought they were from like, the 18th century.”

“We are,” they answered in unison.

Reeves and Federer: immortal vampires. I couldn’t believe they were still around, which in hindsight felt particularly foolish. They were immortal vampires, of course they were still around.

“Alright,” Taylor and I didn’t have time to fangirl the way I wanted to over these two absolute heroes of the dark world, “I have a plan for this but it’s going to take a lot of work. What weapons are we working with?”

Reeves and Federer opened their jackets. I gasped audibly.

“What do you need?”

******

Blake woke in the gym, her hands were tied to a leg press machine. She rolled her eyes, and without even flinching, dislocated her thumb to break out of her bonds. She sighed, popped her thumb back in and straightened her dress.

“Fallen angels,” she muttered, collecting her handbag, “Amateurs.”

*****

Demon Blake waited for the ceremony to begin before starting her big show. The sound system began to crackle and pop like a nervous bowl of rice krispies. The host apologised for technical difficulties. The technical team shook their heads in confusion.

The lights went out. A room full of expensive people gasped expensively in shock.

“Silence,” a voice throbbed from the center of the room. Blake had risen to her feat and was glowing blue in the darkness, “Stand.”

A bunch of bozos in suits stood up. Taylor sighed, we were concealed behind a thick velvet curtain.

“There are so many,” she whispered, “Reeves and Federer had better remember the plan. Are you ready for it?”

“I was hewn ready,” I replied. It was a lie, if I was physically capable of wetting myself I would have done.

“Ew, that’s gross,” she answered as we watched Demon Blake rise into the centre of the room. I get telepathic when I get nervous.

There was a shuffling sound behind us, Taylor turned, instantly ready for a fight. Blake, the real one, not the floating ball of demonic rage, appeared from the shadows.

“Hey,” she smiled, “What did I miss?”

“Oh, nothing, just that your demon twin is trying to take over the world,” Taylor answered as Blake rummaged in her handbag and changed her heels for comfortable pumps.

“So, just another Tuesday then,” she answered, “Where do you want me?”

“The tech desk, I need you to raise the curtain when Reeves and Federer give the signal,” Taylor kept her eyes pinned on demon Blake, who was now floating through the audience monologuing about mortals heeding her will or something. Typical fallen angel garbage, these guys are 80% propaganda.

“Wait,” Blake paused on her way to the tech desk which was hidden at the back of the room, “The Reeves and Federer? I thought they were a myth.”

“Yeah, me too. Now it makes sense that John Wick looks so fighting fit at fifty,” Taylor gestured that Blake should hurry, the possessed hordes were beginning to bar the doors.

Just as the tension in the room mounted to a peak, there was a loud shout from a balcony above the stage.

“Hey, crazy demon!” the words were less than poetry, but they sounded so good in a swiss accent, “Possess this!”

He threw what looked like, but certainly wasn’t a tennis ball into the air, jumped and served. The point blank blow knocked demon Blake out of the air, she crashed dramatically into a table surrounded by influential aged filmmakers.

It occurred to me suddenly that I had no idea where he’d been hiding that tennis racket.

Taylor was still biding her time, she made her way towards the center of the stage, behind the curtain.

Reeves had made his way to the middle of the room, gently bringing protective posessees to their knees on the way. It was good that he was used to hurting people without actually hurting people, that was working in our favour.

Demon Blake saw him coming and aimed a bolt of lightning squarely at his chest. He dodged it, letting Quentin Tarantino take the hit. Boy howdy he was going to have a headache when he woke up.

Federer had climbed athletically down from the balcony and was approaching Demon Blake from behind, apologising courteously as he elbowed his way through the crowd.

Reeves cricked his neck as Demon Blake moved towards him, real fire blazing in her eyes.

I’ve rarely engaged in hand to hand combat with a fallen angel. In fact, I would go so far as to say I have never in fact engaged in hand to hand combat with a fallen angel. It’s risky, and hard, plus in high stress situations I have a habit of turning into a cloud of greasy smoke so it’s difficult to keep up with the “hand to hand” thing. With that for context, let me tell you that I was impressed with how long Reeves held out.

First she came for him with a left hook.

He caught her fist in his and forced her backwards.

She burst into flames and he was almost incinerated.

Stumbling backwards, he pulled a chair out from under a possessed Jude Law and shattered it.

He struck out with a chair leg and clocked her across the face.

At this point she lost control and contorted briefly into her true shape, horns, wings and all.

Taylor motioned to me to move to the orchestra pit. My part of the plan was, though I say myself, a big challenge. I was being very brave. Landing in the pit I centred myself and extended a telepathic field across all of the musicians.

Just as I got the last flautist under control, I heard Reeves and Federer give the signal. It was meant to be “now” but it came as a slightly garbled scream somewhere in the vicinity of now.

Luckily Blake got the message and the curtain on the stage rose. I connected myself with Taylor, a conduit for her to control the orchestra. She let out a single, incredible note. Demon Blake turned, dropping both Reeves and Federer to the floor.

“You,” the Demon floated towards Taylor at an alarming pace.

Taylor replied with a low hum, the orchestra started up, perfectly in tune under her control.

“You hid my friend in that stupid song,” the demon had dropped its Blake disguise in its fury. Fallen angels, not pretty. Would not recommend this as a Halloween costume.

Taylor started the song, the orchestra was building with her. I’d never heard this one before, it was incredible.

The angel was uncomfortable, its tune was hiding under the verses, woven tightly into the chorus, but it fought back. Blue lightning flew out of its hands towards Taylor. She dodged, rolled and didn’t miss a line of her song.

The Angel looked upwards as it began to weaken under the intensity of the music. Taylor nodded at me, as we had planned, I extended the telepathic field to include everyone in the room. Hundreds of voices raised in unison and the fallen angel writhed and glowed with pale fire.

Reeves and Federer gazed up at the demon, Blake’s eyes were fixed on Taylor as she fought her greatest battle. In an explosion of fire and fury the fallen angel dissolved. The song came to an end, Taylor fell to her knees on the stage. Silence fell across the room, followed by a low whooshing sound as if a gale was blowing through the building. Seventy demons evacuated their influential hosts, eager to escape the wrath of the most powerful lightning rod they had ever seen.

More silence, then Reeves clapping, Federer joining him, Blake whooping - the whole room erupted with applause.

She stood, shakily. Smiled the same smile she had on her face the first time she vanquished a level five fire demon, and bowed.

As the applause died down, and I began gently wiping the memories of everyone in attendance. Taylor had a sudden flash of memory, she turned to Federer, who was folding napkins and straightening cutlery.

“Did you leave Ryan locked in an under-sink cupboard?”

“Oh, shit, yes,” he looked at Blake with panic in his eye. She was tucking into a tray of canapes.

“Leave him there, it’ll be good for him,” she said, through a mouthful of salmon puffs, “I’ll get him out in an hour.”

#Taylor Swift #demon hunter #buffy #fanfic #blake lively #ryan reynolds #keanu reeves #roger federer #fan fiction #spooky #serial #finale #john wick #reputation taylor #reputation #writing

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whitelippedviper · 7 years

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Andrea Pazienza's "Mardi Gras Night": Can't Say Shit If You Aren't About Shit

I think in western comics the images are trapped in echo. On facebook I belong to a comic fan group that posts a lot of Marvel, Image, and DC stuff, mostly geared toward people excited about superhero comics. Which...I just like that there are people excitedly talking about SOME kind of comic. Anyways, the other day someone posted a pinup that Amy Reeder had done, and Reeder is a good artist, I like her work fine, I was a really big fan of that Madame Xanadu work she did ages ago--but it was this pin up she did of Swamp Thing. And it’s just Swamp Thing walking through water in black and white pen and ink. It’s very by the book both in terms of a pinup and in terms of what you would expect from a Swamp Thing drawing. It’s this character people like, positioned centrally, doing something vaguely like what they would do--and someone liked it enough to save it, and then share it to the group. And I thought--what if this image wasn’t of Swamp Thing? What if it was just some guy Reeder made up, in the same pose, drawn the same sort of way--would people still care? Would as many people still care? I think that’s the edge of something that really strikes me about artists right now in the west. It’s why there’s usually this huge drop off when an artist goes from drawing superhero stuff for DC and Marvel to doing their own thing. It’s why you see a lot of artists at cons kind of chained to their table having to draw more DC and Marvel stuff for scratch. When I tabled with Katie Skelly a few years back in Seattle, that was something that really struck me, because she does commissions--and a lot of the people who would buy her commissions wouldn’t pick up her books as well--or ask her to just draw whatever, or even draw her own characters. They wanted to leave the con with an icon of their favorite character in a style they thought was nice enough at a fair price. They don’t really want Amy Reeder’s Rocket Girl, at least not as much as they want her Supergirl. Which is a thing larger than fan culture. It’s like you just want that poster of Christ to hang on your wall, and you don’t care if it looks like dumb as fuck. The image isn’t really there, just its placeholder. And that’s inside of comics too. I read a lot of comics where people are doing images in certain spots because that’s the spot they are supposed to be in, if that makes sense. Like for example, a last page shocking reveal has a formula that the audience reacts to and artists play to, especially in event books. This emptiness becomes especially problematic given the homogeneous nature of the demographics of the people most visibly making comics, particularly when married to their newfound predilection toward branding themselves as allies to the marginalized. It’s like, I need a black body in this space, and it doesn’t matter how or why or in service of what--just so long as I put it in there, then job done. The recent(note: originally wrote this when it was recent) ignorant bliss podcast on the Dilraj Mann Island cover gets into this quite a bit. A society built on vacuous imagery will BE vacuous. If our images lose value, then we lose voice, art loses meaning, and you end up fucking with people for no reason to no end, just because you have nothing to say. And I’m not even saying this as like a social justice position. Take that iconic page Ditko did of Spider-man trying to push up this huge machine while water floods in around him--a page so iconic that if you’ve seen it at all you automatically know exactly what image I’m referring to. You don’t have to know Spider-man to get that page. To feel the heroic effort, and weight of pushing against that machinery. That image isn’t just an echo or placeholder. It is the thing it’s depicting.

So I’ve been reading the Andrea Pazienza Zanardi collection that Fantagraphics put out this year. And this question of value to the image comes up in my reading. Because to me, Paz is this unrestrained expressionism in comics--his devotion to the image is so total that style cannot contain it. There’s almost a mania to his work trying to exorcise these images from his soul. “Mardi Gras Night” isn’t the work that’s the absolute best example of this because the linework is mostly taking a backseat to the painting--but I think of all of the comics in the Zanardi collection, it’s the most interesting to me because even though it is a very base, mean, nihilistic story about some cute italian boys pillaging a religious all-girls boarding school it is also a comic of completely holy images. Stuff that you can only explain with the image itself. Stuff that sticks with you for days on end, rolling around in your brain. These aren’t empty placeholder images, even though they are in the service of a story that is so debauched.

This image in particular is the one that haunts me. It’s this silent panel of Petrilli and Zanardi pouring alcohol on the floor of this boarding school, that they plan to ignite. I think in general when “Mardi Gras Night” pivots from boys sneaking into an all-girls school to see naked women, to like...arson is generally the point in the story, where you are kind of stop like “wait? What the fuck? Surely not” and right before they set the fire it’s this panel. It’s like the way that the alcohol matches the leotards, but also sits on top of the floor like blood, and that it’s pissing out of Zanardi in the foreground...and the way that Zanardi and Petrilli are leaned like they are performing some kind of ritualistic dance. This pagan thing in the middle of all of these crosses.

It’s this moment where the story turns from “boys peeping on girls” to a story of ecstatic religious terrorism. There’s a pit here that you fall into. And the pages after this are panel after panel of the boys grabbing panicked women by the hips and breasts and running around like sexual mass shooters against the backdrop of crosses and screaming nuns while the fire they’ve started grows proportionally like a bright purifying jizz.

And you’re like “what the fuck am I reading?”. It’s beautiful and insane, and then as the boys get away from the fire, the colors cool for a minute, and the weight of the human repercussions of their actions hits Petrilli so hard he folds himself over at the crotch in anxiety before running back in to save the trapped Roberta.

And even as he is carrying her through the flames like some great hero, he’s still grabbing at her naked breast and butt--and it’s such an insane space to be in, because Petrilli CAUSED the fire. It was him and his friend’s raging boners that started the whole thing. Petrilli manages with one last grope of Roberta’s ass to push her to safety, as he is now himself closed off within the burning building. And the comic warps into this hell. Petrilli’s leotard and hair melt off. His skin boils and pops. His eyes become orange and red pools of pain, and when he finally gets out of the main part of the fire, it’s to these steaming tiles which scald him further--he’s become this grotesque impotent goblin man, screaming to God to give him mercy and end his pain, and then Paz draws him in this blasphemous Pieta pose of tiny dicked broiled Petrilli before the building collapses in on him. Grace, Paz style.

Even without Cola’s deeply ironic “moral” of the story where Petrilli becomes a lionized hero of the community the fucking like...old school profanity of the thing hits like a wall of bricks. It’s such a vicious repudiation of heroism, of religious morality, and even of masculinity(here masculinity manages to encompass both rapist and heroism very comfortably!). And it’s for sure incredibly base, with panels of Zanardi sniffing women’s underwear--but it scales so quickly to these holy images. I don’t think I’ve read anything like it before. I mean there are other great Zanardi stories that I’m going to write about eventually, but “Mardi Gras” is a really special comic. I keep coming back to this, which I spoke about in my Ranx article, when we talk about transgression in comics, for a lot of people, that just means they get to say “faggot” or draw a lynching of a person of color, or like draw muslims in horribly hateful ways. But their shit is so stupid. They don’t really care about any of this shit. They might as well write their scripts in tongues for how articulate they are--for how much value there is behind what they’re doing. It’s empty and passionless iconography done simply to continue an echo.

But Paz says shit. I mean like it’s literal shit, but it’s the truth of the shit. The shit has weight and stench. You can hold it in your hands and you won’t forget the day you held this shit. The man has seen a good painting in his life. He’s read a book or two. He’s not saying shit just because he has nothing to say, but somehow since he can draw, he has to fill up the page and do the job--there’s so much force behind his work. Even when it is ridiculous, style can’t contain him. That’s what the page says to me. There’s meaning here, even if it was just “I felt the conviction of this line, this story, this thing and so I made it”--it’s not cynical, it’s pure. And not only that, it’s pure AND the man is a master artist. Which I think is something of a theme for the work I’ve focused on this year in my comics criticism. And I do it because that’s what I see as lacking for the most part. Like a lot of comics day to day I feel like is asking me to read books that are both compromised AND look and read like shit. And there’s things like this that come out and you don’t hear a single peep about them. A quick glance at google only turned up one review, a negative one on Paste that complained about how the book was too mean with a closing paragraph about the art being “somehow compelling”--which someday I need to write an essay about how for as supposedly progressive as people in comics position themselves as, their POV on a lot of things just sounds like your parents. I swear comics these days is a lot of adults wanting themselves to be raised by comics they can aspire to, rather than art they can think about. I mean imagine being an adult unable to process art because it is too violent, or has sex in it. I had parents growing up, I don’t need a comic critic parent as an adult, thank you very much. But I mean that goes back to it. When the shit that is being put out are these empty echoes bereft of anything but their iconic placeholders it’s hard to really say there is much there to consider as an adult. But then when there is stuff like this put out, it’s not shared around, no one reads it or talks about it, they’re too busy swapping icons of their childhood--and I’m just like...wtf are you here for? You know you don’t get to actually be a kid again, and that time is ticking, death is coming--demand something so great that you sound like an idiot trying to explain it to anyone!

If you liked this essay, and want to see more like it, subscribe to Sarah Horrocks’s Patreon. For as little as a dollar a month you can help a comic topic in need get the coverage it deserves.

#My Writing #Zanardi #Sarah Horrocks

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occidentaltourist · 6 years

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“Secular Christian ideas/imagery,” probably wasn’t the right phrasing (my brain was a bit on autopilot last night lol). Think along the lines of how Christmas has become very secular. Yes, it’s still very much a christian holiday, but you don’t necessarily have to be christian to celebrate it. It’s become so ingrained in western (US) culture that it’s normal to take part in the tradition (trees, lights, decorations, presents, parties, even Santa Clause) with none of the religion. (1/14)

My dear anon, thank you so much for your analysis; this was a very interesting read and your thesis certainly provided a lot of food for thought! I’m putting the rest of your analysis under the cut (which I encourage those reading this blog to read in its entirety, and I hope you eventually post sometime as well).

With the caveat that unlike films, which are also of course collaborative but almost always directed by one person and typically have one cinematographer - television has even more ‘cooks in the kitchen’ and variability in creative visions/directorial choices from episode to episode … I would agree that religious imagery or symbolism appears in the show. Maybe this seems intuitive, given that Supergirl is a being imbued with godlike powers on this earth.

Some thoughts:

Worldkillers and the concept of possession and exorcism

I’ve read some posts about the WKs that use terms and concepts from clinical psychology, but I agree that the possession/exorcism is probably a more applicable concept (given that this is a show that’s, by definition, not rooted in the ‘real world’ as we know it).

I’m not familiar with the different kinds of kryptonite - all I know is the regular green and the infamous red from S1 -,but I understand kryptonite has other colors too. Maybe the eventual solution also involves the use of some kind of ‘magic rock’ that exorcises the ‘worldkiller’ from the ‘human’ - if indeed the WKs can be saved?

Corville and his role

I’m on the fence about the choice the writers made to bring him back and have him be the one delivering the doomsday ‘prophecy’ about the rise of Reign and Kara being a savior. It weakens the point I thought they were trying to make in ‘The Faithful,’ about charlatans and cults vs. religion and spirituality.

Why not have Alura’s hologram be less cryptic, and serve this role instead? Maybe that’s coming, and the link of the Worldkillers to Zor-El/the House of El is something they’re saving for 3b.

(Just my opinion about where the story is going. I do think that, like the Medusa virus, the link to Kara’s own family will eventually be revealed. Which aligns with what you say below the cut about good and evil essentially springing from the same source.)

Again, THANK YOU for this thoughtful and thought-provoking ask! Please come back soon with your excellent insights. :)

They use christian images and ideas in a secular way, in the same way Christmas can be celebrated without the religion. It’s not like veggie tales or purposely trying to tell a christian story. They pull some concepts, images, and/or ideas to build their own story that has nothing to do with religion or god. Christian concepts constantly show up in comics, especially Superman and by extension Supergirl

(Which is somewhat odd, because Superman was created by two Jewish teenagers in response to rising anti-Semitic feelings in the United States due to the influx of Jewish refugees because of the Nazis rise to power in Germany and said refugees then being forced to assimilate.) That being said, Supergirl doesn’t see as much of it, both in the comics and the show, because they’re always trying to depict the refugee side of the story.

She’s old enough to remember Krypton and morns it’s loss while having to learn to assimilate on Earth. But these concepts and images still pop up, especially on the show that passes through many creative hands per episode. Using ‘The Faithful’ as an example- They borrowed from a recognizable religious (christian) image (the stigmata) that would emphasis the importance of the scene while fitting with the overall theme of the episode, which was about belief and religion. She’s old enough to remember

Krypton and morns it’s loss while having to learn to assimilate on Earth. But these concepts and images still pop up, especially on the show that passes through many creative hands per episode. Using ‘The Faithful’ as an example- They borrowed from a recognizable religious (christian) image (the stigmata) that would emphasis the importance of the scene while fitting with the overall theme of the episode, which was about belief and religion.

The show also borrows ideas from christianity again when setting up the cult. They’re depicted worshipping and praying to Rao while also seeing Supergirl as a god and praying to her, but they believe she was sent by Rao to save them (that point is driven home when Kara goes to visit Corville in jail to find answers about Reign).

It’s very reminiscent of the holy trinity, a christian doctrine which states that god is one essence that has three distinct external persons (God the father-God the son-God the holy spirit). Christians believe that Jesus was god’s only son sent by god as a savior but Jesus is also god, which is why Jesus is worshipped with as much fervor and reverence as god.

Similarly the cult believes Supergirl, the last (only) daughter of Krypton “Rao’s external persons,” was sent by Rao as a savior, but Supergirl is worshipped with the same reverence as if she were also an extension of Rao. Jesus son of god, Kara Zor-el daughter of Rao. This makes that “stigmata scene” all the more fitting and relevant, but it can also go one step further. As you know, the stigmata are marks or wounds that correspond to those left on Jesus’ body during the crucifixion.

It was at his crucifixion and death that most (if not all) of his disciples and apostles lost their faith and ran away into hiding. In that scene when Kara cuts her palm all of the followers, even Corville himself momentarily, lose their faith and run away.

Then, fast forward to the prison scene in 3x09, they had Corville make direct references to christianity: the end of days, “a Lilith,” sign/mark of the beast, the devil, prophesied events that single the coming of the end of days, describing the worldkiller as one would the antichrist, once again propping Kara up as the savior sent here to defeat the beast/devil. The writers definitely made this cult have a christian… flavor to it, and then built other scenes and images up around that.

Now keeping with the theme, Corville keeps saying that she was sent here as a savior. If it does come to pass that Kara and Kal-el were sent, “specifically to protect [Earth] from another Kryptonian-created menace,” it would create another christian parallel that’s a bit more subconscious in its creation. (This is what my last sentence was referring to.) The whole premise of christianity is god sending his(her/their/its) son to save humanity (salvation) from evil (i.e. the devil).

Everything is based around that point. Kara and Kal-el being sent here by their parents to save humanity from an evil Kryptonian creation, would parallel that. The parallel would deepen with the Kryptonians creating the worldkiller and god creating Lucifer (According to christianity, god created the angels and Lucifer was an angel before his fall). There are also other images they’ve used throughout the show.

Notice how when Kara is defeated in battle, and they really want to make a show of it, her body will be straight (except for perhaps a bent knee or something) with her arms outstretched. The last time we saw this was in 3x09 after Reign dropped her from a skyscraper (which would tie in with all the other parallels they’ve made this season). It’s also seen in 2x18 when the nano swarm pins Supergirl (upright with arms outstretched) and Lena had to sacrifice Jack to save her.

The worldkillers are also somewhat interesting with how they’re writing the human vs worldkiller in each of them, because it’s eerily similar to possession. You can look up cases of supposed possessions and exorcisms that have been documented by the Catholic Church, or you can just watch movies that are based off of them to get the general idea (I mean we’ve all at least heard of The Exorcist).

It happens against the will of the person, they can suddenly become ridiculously strong and/or fast, do things that they normally couldn’t do or shouldn’t be possible, they become completely different when whatever is doing the possessing takes over, the only way to “win” is to attempt to save the person and calling on that person to fight and reject it. (Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this dissertation that went waaayyyyy longer than I originally intended.)

#supergirl #religious symbolism #dctv #krypton #anonymous

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thebibliomancer · 7 years

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Essential Avengers: Avengers #152: NIGHTMARE in New Orleans!

October, 1976

It’s a shame sometimes when timing just doesn’t work out. I was lucky enough with a bit of double time that I got the first Mantis appearance out in time for her screen debut. But here we have what would have been a perfect Halloween issue (it was even published in October!) and I got to it a week too early!

I could just put the blog on hiatus and post it in a timely fashion but what Avengers-related content will people read in the meantime? I couldn’t deprive them of that.

So lets get to this book that features Wonder Man being pretty blase about being an unliving slave.

And never wonder how far down that inverted cross goes.

So.

Last time: After many trials and tribulations and some drama and bad decision making, the Avengers selected a new roster. Its a pretty typical Avengers roster. Really only missing Thor. We have Iron Man, Captain America, the Vision, Scarlet Witch, Yellowjacket, Wasp, and Beast.

Oh and when they announced the new roster, a giant crate that was shipped to them burst open to reveal the not-quite-dead Wonder Man who accused Vision of being a mind-taker. WeeeeeeEEEEEEoooooooooo mind taker.

And forty-two seconds has passed between issues and undead Wonder Man is still repeating the same accusation.

Cap is worried that for some reason, this will drive the crowd to become a hysterical mob but before that can happen, Wonder Man collapses.

The Avengers act fast, picking up the collapsed dead superherovillain and frenemy.

Sam Reuther tries to get in their way to interview them but Iron Man and Cap tell him to fuck off.

How dare he try to do his job right now? Although in fairness, he really shouldn’t be getting in the way.

Iron Man muses that the Avengers have been under a lot of stress going through one crisis after another since... hell probably since the Celestial Madonna Saga.

Anyway, Wonder Man is brought inside to the Laboratory of Hanks. Where Hank and Hank examine him. And here’s the weird thing Hank (Pym) discovers. He’s not actually undead. He’s alive. Dun dun dun?

Meanwhile, outside, Sam Reuther casts suspicions on the Avengers for their secrecy, alluding to Watergate-era White House.

So Jarvis kicks him off the property. Cast your suspicions from outside the gate, newsman.

Meanwhile, inside, the Hanks brief the others on what they discovered. Wonder Man has all the biometrics of a living person who is alive and not dead. Except one weird thing. His brain has been wiped clean of all memories except that one sentence he kept repeating.

It’s pretty chilling.

Vision decides to feel the human emotion of guilt over all of this. He has decided that Wonder Man’s accusation is true. What right does he have to the mind that was rightfully Wonder Man’s?

Nobody asks to be born, Vision. They literally can’t. And you’re not to blame for your asshole dad. But, eh, emotions are frequently irrational.

Scarlet Witch calls shenanigans on Vision’s self-loathing. Whoever sent Wonder Man to sort of spook the Avengers is the one responsible for his condition. Not the Avengers and definitely not Vision!

So she heads outside, blows the lookie-loos away with a localized hurricane, and goes to investigate the crate Wonder Man came in.

Maybe there’s a return address or... clumps of dirt.

What is this, a Batman story?

Instead of a Bat-Computer, Scarlet Wanda has her new witchery and she uses the witchery to psychometrize the dirt. She gets an image of men performing a ritual around a fire and of a place. A big easy place. A New Orleans place!

Oh boy, the Avengers are going to New Orleans! Maybe they’ll team up with Monica Rambeau oh she doesn’t exist yet. Dammit.

Yeah. So she tells the rest of the Avengers what their precious science with all of its chemicals and instruments couldn’t. WONDER MAN HAS BEEN TURNED INTO A ZUVEMBIE!

Which is a made-up word that Marvel uses to not get in trouble with the comics code for saying the zed-word.

I imagine that Marvel Zuvembies would not have sold as well. What a world that would be.

So the Avengers pack up some stuff, including Wonder Man’s not-deceased body, into a Quinjet and blast off.

And the trip is long enough (and the Avengers are outgoing enough, which I guess is the expected default in the superheroing biz) that we get some character moments.

Wasp apologizes for pressuring Yellowjacket into rejoining the Avengers. He was just so grim recently that she thought it might be good for him to get back into the action-adventure life. And forcing him into things for his own dubious good is the only tactic she has for helping him.

He apologizes for being grim but says that he’s grown out of trying to be a swashbuckler. He feels kind of silly in the superhero life.

Wasp insists that he’s just insecure because being insecure is basically Hank Pym in a nutshell.

Meanwhile also, Beast is grappling the absurdity of the situation, I guess? One would think he saw weirder things when he was an X-Man. Like an island that walked like a man? But whatever.

Cap tells him that when you’ve seen the things he’s seen, nothing is really strange anymore. True story: he fought a Nazi vampire (now there’s a mashup: Captain America/Hellsing). So voodoo hoodoo ain’t a big to do.

Iron Man chimes in that he teamed up with a werewolf recently, perhaps being that guy who always has to one-up any stories. And then he very insensitively points out that when you come down to it, Beast himself looks like a monster.

Which isn’t exactly a thing that Beast was thrilled to here. So he spends the next hour and forty-eight minutes exactly brooding.

The Avengers land their very boat looking Quinjet at an abandoned Algiers airport and then get a quick ferry ride across the Mississippi.

Because fording would have been far too dangerous with Iron Man along. He’d sink like a stone.

In New Orleans, Scarlet Witch spots one of the people she saw in her dirt vision and the Avengers immediately start running at him screaming because nonchalantly walking up isn’t an option when you’re dressed in bright colors.

Everyone in the bar goes running because uh yeah a bunch of superheroes just starting running at them and they all have some petty crimes on their conscience but the man in the borsalino hat knows they’re after him.

He must escape to warn the Master! But not that one! I think!

Wasp and Yellowjacket give chase, in tiny size. And Wasp is gratified that Hank is sounding more like his old self, cracking jokes and such. And as much as he won’t admit it, she knows that the superhero life is in his blood.

Anyway. Yeah. Yellowjacket ties the man’s shoelaces together and this superpowered application of a childish prank sends the man down long enough for the Avengers to catch up with him.

But he refuses to tell them anything so Scarlet Witch steps up.

And she casts a spell. And in a voice inaudible to the Avengers but audible to the perp, she says something so terrible that it makes him crumble with fear and spill the beans.

Le Mort Bayou.

So that’s where the Avengers go next.

And the trudge through the swamp is long enough for a character moment! I love when there’s enough transit time for some character moments.

Although its an unhappy character moment. Beast tries to reassure Vision that they’ll know who was behind this zuvembie stuff soon and then Vision can relax.

Vision: “No matter what the outcome today, certain doors have been opened, which before this were closed. There are questions which require answers, questions I must ask myself -- concerning my ‘immortal soul.’”

But Vision realizes time and place and quits bumming everyone out.

Scarlet Witch hears a silent calling which makes Wonder Man stir. A zuvembie master’s summoning!

So they set him down and follow the shambling plot element from 140-some issues ago. They let zuvembie Wonder Man go ahead and watch from the... trees or something.

And watch in apparent mute horror at the voodoo ritual they discovered. It has everything you might expect a hollywood comic voodoo ritual to have. Zombies Zuvembies pulling themselves out of the ground, drums, people dancing with snakes.

Wonder Man joins the other zuvembies in front of the ringleader. The man in the chicken suit. Black Talon. Because, he’s black. If he didn’t have black in his name, someone might think he was not in fact black.

But Black Talon is surprised and alarmed to see Wonder Man. He should be in New York. Zuvembies can’t catch a plane back to New Orleans. What’s going on here??

But rather than really question it, he decides to just destroy Wonder Man.

So the Avengers jump out and start punching.

And apparently punching a voodoo cult is just what everyone needed after all the craziness in their lives recently to get them back in rare form.

Except Vision.

He’s doing the thing where he lets people jump through him but only in a very bitter way. Scarlet Witch is worried about him, not taking any joy out of people bonking heads while trying to double team him.

Wasp and Yellowjacket dismiss Black Talon as inconsequential to go fight some of the cultists. Which turns out to be a mistake.

Black Talon can apparently summon the spirits of the loa and a nasty sounding fellow called the serpent god Damballah.

And something enters the clearing shrouded in shadows and the Avengers all fall. The cultists and zuvembies too.

Its a huge, oppressive force that feels like being stepped on and crushed by a giant.

But there is one person unaffected.

The Scarlet Witch.

She’s getting a real good showing today, huh?

Her role as a sorceress apparently protects her from the being-stepped-on effect. But Black Talon just tries to strike her down with magical bolts of possibly lightning.

And while Scarlet Witch’s power comes from within, Black Talon’s might is the might of the dark god Damballah.

And after getting blasted some more, Scarlet Witch has an epiphany.

Dark god. Lurking shadowed.

So she throws a burning branch at the dark god, exorcising him.

Good job, Wanda.

And then she uses her witchery to pelt Black Talon with wood until he gives up.

It was a good showing for Scarlet Witch. Unfortunately, Black Talon doesn’t know anything.

Wonder Man was brought to Black Talon by his servants already “alive” with a message from someone known only as “the one whose will we serve.”

So the mystery has unpeeled into another mystery. Like an enigmatic onion.

And also, Wanda is quitting the team.

Whaaaaaaaaat?

She beat Black Talon and Damballah but what if she hadn’t? It’s possible that she could have maybe possibly lost the fight due to her incomplete self-knowledge! She needs to go on a journey of discovery!

Vision doesn’t even argue. Just wishes for god to give with her. Even though she’s decided to have her ‘I must go off alone’ journey right in the middle of the nowhere bayou.

Couldn’t it have waited until they got back to New Orleans?

Also: Damballah is apparently an actual loa under vodou and doesn’t seem to be an evil shadow god of evilness. Good job respecting other cultures, Marvel!

Also x2: next time the Living Laser again? But that guy was the worst! He’s probably the one who was whining about Wasp not loving him in the previous issue.

Ugh.

Well at least I’ll get to see him get his ass kicked again.

Hey. Why not follow @essential-avengers? Its the dedicated sideblog just for these posts and also I accept questions. Like. About Avengers stuff.

#Avengers #Black Talon #Scarlet Witch #the Vision #Wonder Man #Beast #Captain America #Iron Man #the Wasp #Yellowjacket #you remind me of the babe #today Wanda broke a man just by talking #and we'll never know what she said #until we get a better explanation i'm assuming that leaving wonder man on their doorstep was just trolling #like the superhero equivalent of a flaming bag of poo #the triumphant return of robo angst #and the stunning debut of fuzzy angst #Essential Avengers #Essential marvel liveblogging

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reekierevelator · 5 years

Text

Crime and Punishment

a short story by Brian Bourner

‘Can I have a word, sir, what’s your name?” The officer’s expression, under his flat chequerboard patterned cap, was serious. His appraising dark eyes met mine as his thin lips posed the question. He was younger and fitter than me, self-confident and authoritative.

‘Douglas Shevlane,” I replied without thinking, aware of my cheeks colouring, my nervousness just at the idea of being directly addressed by the police.

It was late Saturday morning and I’d been at an office leaving do the previous evening. It was a great party: loud chatter, music, even dancing, and inevitably too much to drink. I regretted it even as the taxi was carrying me home in the early hours, not so much because I'd drunk too much but because I knew I shouldn’t have gone in the first place. I should have stayed on at work and finished the presentation for a potential major new client, Lightning Connectors. They were coming to see it on Monday.

So on Saturday morning I’d woken up, thrown on some casual clothes – an old grey polo shirt, trainers, jeans, and a sort of donkey jacket I usually only wore to outdoor sports events - and hadn’t bothered shaving. I still felt sickly, green about the gills. The mirror confirmed that apart from some dark stubble my face was a deathly grey.

By the time the bus reached the office I felt marginally better. Some pills, aspirins and pick-me-ups for late night work when I was flagging, were in the desk drawer. They relieved the headache somewhat and helped me gather together enough energy to get on with the task in hand. In fact I cracked the job after a couple of hours. As I left I picked up a piece of mail from my pigeon-hole that must have arrived after my early getaway for the party. I walked round the side streets for some distance aiming to clear my head. When my legs tired I joined the queue at a bus stop on Leith Walk and stood silently in the drizzle, watching the traffic rumble by as I waited for my double-decker to arrive.

Then the two-tone siren was coming closer, an almost everyday occurrence, people in the queue barely looking up as the blue lights came bouncing round the corner and raced past the bus stop. But a hundred yards up the road the police car suddenly braked, its driver unceremoniously executing a swift U-turn that no normal driver would have dared, and brought the car to a screeching halt alongside the bus stop. The faces at the bus stop lit up. They focused on the two men who jumped out the car in hi-vis jackets, hats in hands, and anticipated some light entertainment. But my bus was already drawing up behind the patrol car and I boarded along with several others, taking a seat upstairs.

Yet the bus remained stationary. A low rumble of voices on the lower floor recognisable as the police officers talking to the bus driver. And then the officers emerged at the top of the stairs, their heads stooped low under the bus’s roof, and came towards me. Some passengers looked straight ahead and others glanced towards me, suspiciously, before quickly looking away. As one officer took the seat beside me the other, bigger built, sat behind. You could hear a pin drop.

The one beside me spoke, his steady baritone asking for my name. My own reedy voice replying.

‘Do you have any identification?’ he brusquely enquired.

‘Not my driving licence or passport if that’s what you mean. I’ve got a credit card with my name on it.’

The officer pursed his thin lips into a sort of sneer. I could imagine how many stolen credit cards he’d had to deal with. Then I remembered.

‘Oh, and there’s a letter I’ve just received.’ I pulled the unopened envelope from my pocket and handed it to him.

He held it up so the officer behind could see it too. And I watched as he read the mailing address – Dr Douglas Shevlane BA(Hons) DipCIM, PhD, FCIM. c/o Blue Angel Agency. Room 405 Blue Angel House. 14 Bernard Street. Edinburgh. EH6. The professional association’s return address was printed in small writing on the back.

The officers exchanged glances which seemed to say ‘You just can’t tell who anyone is these days, can you?’

The officer seemed friendlier as he handed the letter back, his thin lips attempting a smile. He spoke more quietly, like a priest taking confession. ‘I’m sorry about this sir but you fit a description we’ve been given. For the record, would you mind telling me where you’ve been in the last hour?’

Being cornered by a policeman in a public space where there is silence but you know others are listening is an unpleasant experience, even if they seem the epitome of understanding and politeness. Visions of white tiled police cells and slopping out in primitive Victorian prisons like Peterhead still swim through your head. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts.

‘I was at work,’ I said, ‘finishing off a job.’

‘And you work at the Blue Angel Agency?’

‘Yes, I’m a writer and graphic designer, leading a marketing team.’

Again, the exchange of looks. At twenty-nine I was still often mistaken for a student.

‘The Blue Angel Agency’s building is on Bernard Street?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘That’s some way from here.’

‘I went for a little walk after I left the office.’

‘I need to ask where you walked to Mr, er, Dr Shevlane.’

Although the policemen were proceeding competently an atmosphere of silent animosity was unmistakeably growing on the bus. There was some sighing and rustling of feet. People wanted the bus to move off, they were keen to get going. They had places to be and wanted to get there soon. But I paused to think about the route I’d walked.

‘I, er, turned left out of the office, along to Constitution Street, er, over on to the Links, up through Easter Road and then I, er, turned right on I think Albert Street to come back and hit the main road again to catch my bus.’

‘You’re sure you didn’t turn right out of the office? Maybe headed up Henderson Street to Great Junction Street? Maybe turned up Bonnington Road to Pilrig Park?’

‘No, as I said, I was on the other side of Leith Walk. What’s all this about anyway?’

‘There’s been a serious assault’, he told me quietly, ‘near Balfour Place, off Pilrig Street.’

‘A serious assault?’

‘A man died.’

‘Oh, - that’s awful.’ It made me feel sick to my stomach.

‘Can you tell me where you live sir?’

‘Morningside.’

‘Where exactly sir - just for the record?’

’37 Cluny Crescent.’ Just saying it drained me, like making a confession.

‘You have family there?’

An image of Janis in the lemon yellow dress she was wearing when we first met floated though my head. But after three years of marriage she was bored and took up with someone else. The mortgage hung round my neck like a millstone.

‘No, I live alone.’

Then he looked from me to his colleague for confirmation.

When his colleague offered a cursory nod he said ‘Well, thank you for your help, Mr, er, Dr Shevlane. That’s all we need to ask.’ Then louder, to calm all the itchy feet on the bus, he called downstairs ‘That’s us driver. You can let us off now and carry on your way.’

The bus doors wheezed open. The policemen exited. As the bus pulled away a mild collective sigh passed among the passengers, one or two still glancing accusingly at me as the cause of their delayed journeys.

I found my eye developing a tic and my knees trembling. After we’d travelled along Princes Street and up Lothian Road towards Tollcross my hands had begun shaking too. The accusatory looks of other passengers served to remind me only too clearly of that man’s face.

Alighting the bus before it reached Morningside I drifted like a ghost over Bruntsfield Links. The man had been rushing, not looking, not caring. He’d crashed into me as I turned the corner on to Balfour Place, his burly chest hurling me against the wall. And yet he simply strode on, oblivious or indifferent. What with the sore head, having to work on Saturday, the pills, my estranged wife divorcing me, the stress of pitching for a contract from a potentially big new client on Monday, - suddenly it was all just too much. It coalesced in my brain into an urgent need to hit out. There was no-one else around. He wasn’t expecting it. One fierce punch to the side of his face felled him. He toppled like a tree and I heard his head crash down onto the kerb. But fear welled up in me that he would immediately rise from the pavement and start beating me. A discarded wooden baton lay in the gutter; the very tool to exorcise stress and frustration. I picked it up and had it above my head ready to strike before registering that the man wasn’t moving. Blood was pooling under his head. And then a figure appeared in the distance, walking down towards me from the top of the road. I dropped the weapon and hurried off, dream-like, down a side street towards the bus stop on Leith Walk.

So now I rush around the Meadows in panic, the prisoner of ghastly daytime nightmares bursting with public shame and prison horrors. Dr Jekyll has become Mr Hyde. I recognise the tiny spots of blood on my trainers that the police didn’t see. But the description fitted perfectly. They’re bound to come again. They’ll know I lied. Go on the run? Hand myself in? Plead ‘mitigating circumstances’, not, not, not murder? The dark Crags of Holyrood Park look remarkably inviting. People are always falling from those cliff-faces. For even if I’m never caught, never enclosed by stone walls or cages, yet I’ll always be a prisoner.

And the calculated deceptions of marketing expertise offer no solutions as they stir and boil in my mind alongside the shocking guilt and dreadful fear. There’s a desperate need for any kind of hope and forgiveness as I stumble blindly into George Square and find the doors of St. Albert’s open and beckoning.

#short story #edinburgh #scotland #Crime #Reekie Revelator #police

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