#clark is a little creature

[geelatinous]

“stay focused stay focused stay focused oh my godddd”

-clark probably

bruce is most definitely enjoying this. this is a one man show and he needs to assert DOMINANCE.

inspired off this scene 😮‍💨😮‍💨 saw a post on tumblr dot com about it and i thought the way he sat on the table was giving diva so. here we are.

[kindheartedgummybears]

Canya Tlarke.

[cryptidpandas]

mr mxyzptlk is literally the embodiment of

>:3c

[kxllerblond]

i think one of clark's favorite pass times is giving government secrets away to intoxicated ppl tbh

[puthyflapps]

Omg. How does Lexa fix this? She literally wrote their names down on the paper so that’s official right?

The paper literally says “Lexa & Clarke” already. That used to mean something 😪 like what is she supposed to do now, scratch out Clarke’s name?? That feels disrespectful

I think the best we can hope for is when the teacher undoubtedly sends Clarke to the nurse with a still woozy Lexa, Clarke takes some pity on her. Lexa will probably have like a grand total of 30 mins to put her best puppy dog eyes on and pout her way back into Clarke’s good graces before Indra bursts through the school doors frantically looking for her baby.

[thebibliosphere]

I feel like Bruce Wayne projects the kind of amiable playboy 'fun' vibe that he'd be the type of celebrity that certain interviewers feel comfortable surprising with puppies.

You know the kind of shows I mean.

The late-night talk show situations where they're making benign small talk with their smiling guest, and there's a segment where animals get brought out, usually to talk about some sort of ecological relief effort.

So you're watching your trash TV talk show late at night, and you get to watch billionaire pretty boy Bruce Wayne be begrudgingly talked into holding a (relatively) harmless creature which inevitably gets a lot of delighted shrieks from the audience as it starts being a lot more active than the handler promised. And to his credit, Bruce doesn't flinch, he doesn't freak out. But his eyes are a little wide, and his voice a little tight as the smile on his face takes on a slight rictus quality before he's inevitably rescued by an apologetic handler who is also laughing because they all know there was no real danger, it was just funny to put Bruce, who is an undeniable good sport and already laughing along, out of his comfort zone for the sake of charity.

Meanwhile, up in the Justice League headquarters, several founding members of the League are wondering how fast they can get a fake Oscar award shipped to the space station because fuck off. Absolutely fuck off, Bruce. Where the fuck did he study? Juilliard? (Probably.)

(Clark ends up going to a novelty store during the commercial break. It's faster than trying to get anything shipped, even with the infrastructure Bats built for them. He finds it several days later taped to his console in a conspicuously empty briefing room. It's gaudy and awful, the words "Best Actor" engraved on the plaque. No one's around to see him smile. No one comments when it vanishes. Everyone thinks it's been yeeted out an airlock. Dick absolutely comments when it shows up in the manor, stashed in one of the trophy cases that sprung up for all the bat kids' school awards. Bruce has no idea how it got there. Must have been Alfred. (It was not.))

Anyway, consider, for your amusement, Bruce Wayne getting highjacked on The Gotham Toight Show with a handful of wriggling puppies and, for a split second, not having to pretend he's delighted to be there.

[fandomfuntimem]

Dp x Dc

Clark got an invite to visit is cousin Maddie in Amity park! He always enjoys visiting them. Its a wild time, Maddie's kids are nice, and he gets to be the coolest cousin in the world. Impressing his little cousins with tricks that could only be explained by magic (he has litteraly crushed a rock to dust to make is "disapear").

But when he arrives this time, maybe bringing a few friends with him (i imagine the main group is Bruce, Clark, Lous, and maybe Damian, Tim, Conner, and Jon), the Town is chaos. Rouge government agents running around, magic undead creatures wreaking Havoc, and a young superhero barely holding it together. Even worse, Maddie and her husband seem so wrapped up in their work that they don't even notice their kids half the time! AND WHY DOES DANNY FORGET TO BREATH????!?!?!?!?!?

[nightingale-prompts]

Horrible Creatures-DCxDP prompt

Studying ghosts is always confusing. They aren't humans and they aren't aliens. They are entities unlike other sentient lifeforms.

Currently, three of them have taken up residence in the Watchtower. Not bound by the rules of mortals, the heroes had to make peace with them.

They had a system in place. Leave the big one alone at all costs. The middle one was in charge. And the little one will steal your food.

A good question is what are they?

Sometimes they appear perfectly human even bearing a resemblance to Clark, Bruce or Diana. They only do this when they wish to communicate. Sometimes they fly about with wispy tails instead of legs. This is for when they fly outside the base in space. Other times they change into half human half beast things as they lurk around corners of the tower. This is for when they get hungry and want to scare Barry or Hal.

Most of the day they just sleep. Or what they think is sleep. The big one likes to find the hottest place to plop down and nap like the sun or the furnace. The middle one likes it cold so he's usually curled up in the walk-in freezer. The little one likes sleeping either in tight spaces like the vents or in the open like on the table in the middle of a meeting.

Diana once scolded her about acting properly to get her off a stack of documents. In response, the little ghost changed her form into that of a small cat. She then proceeded to yowl annoyingly until Clark held her throughout the meeting.

After that, the ghost favored turning into little beasts to pester the heroes. For what reason? Fun.

The following day the middle one waited until Bruce got a glass of water to shove his muzzle into the cup. When Bruce got a second cup the ghost wanted that cup instead. The only solution was to designate cups for each of the ghosts. It solved the issue until they wanted their own placemats for when they eat. Keep in mind they only like stealing food. They do have their own but unless they can bully you out of eating it they don't want it.

You can't even call them pets. They are sentient beings and they can communicate. They are closer to children, really ornery children.

Taking a nap was liable to summon one. Hal learned that if he dozed off they would join him and bury him.

The big one is roughly the size of a bear and just has heavy and has no respect for your space. It's his space now and he uses his size to his advantage by constantly bullying Clark and Barry.

What are they going to do? Stop them?

When Constantine finally got off his "vacation" he came to assess the situation he became a lightning rod for the ghost's attention. The ghosts followed him around loving the aura around him and the irritable emotions he gave off.

"So they have just been running wild and you let them. No wonder they are acting like this. They don't respect you so they do what they want. They must also like you because they would have left by now if they didn't."

Clark holding Dani

Danny trying to eat Bruce's food

Hal trying to sleep

[frownyalfred]

superbat is so funny when people say that omg clark’s the golden retriever and bruce is the growly little doberman because… that’s like not even true 😭😭

they’re both #1 little shits, and #2 i read somewhere that Bruce wants to think he’s a doberman but actually he’s a spoiled pomeranian and yeah that’s right.

and clark?? UNIVERSAL MENACE. that man is so insane and the reason bruce tries to get all that blackmail is because nobody believes him.

so yeah superbat isn’t grumpy x sunshine it’s bitch x spoiled bitch

Sometimes it’s fun to read Clark as Sunshine Boy, but I think we forget that creatures of light are often playful and mercurial. He is not innately good simply by existing; he works at it, grapples with it, and has faults and weaknesses like humans. Giving him complexity in that while still making him “good” is one of my favorite ways to write Clark.

[trensu]

Steve had always wanted to be a skilled fighter. The schools that churned out the best fighters all happened to be schools for holy warriors. It was possible that Steve maybe sort of lied a little (with the help of his friends Robin and Dustin) to get into this school by claiming he was full to the brim of religious fervor but hadn’t decided who to pledge his sword to yet. It shouldn’t have worked, if he were honest with himself, but by some stroke of luck it did, and he finished his training as one of the top combatants. 

The issue now was that he had to pick a god whose crest to carry. There were all sorts of gods. Gods of water, gods of air, gods of agriculture, war gods, cat gods, plant gods...the list was endless. And while Steve was one of the best fighters around, he was most definitely not one of the best researchers. Thankfully Dustin and Robin were very clever and knew where to find details about the many gods in existence.

“So what kind of god do you want to follow? Maybe we can start there,” Robin asked.

“Uh…a good one?”

“You’re no help at all, you know that?” Dustin grumbled.

They suggested a local god known as Carver who stood for righteousness, but Steve turned that down. It didn't feel like a good fit. They suggested a love god by the name of Chrissy, who valued love of all kinds, romantic, platonic, familial...Steve had been tempted, very tempted, because Steve had always carried an excess of love in his heart. Robin had vetoed that one stating that Steve was already too reckless with his love and she wouldn't stand by and watch him break his own heart over and over again.

Dustin suggested a god of knowledge, Clarke, who blessed and guided those with curiosity, imagination, and a knack for invention. Steve shot that one down immediately. He was never one to be overly imaginative or curious; he preferred to deal with concrete things. Out of their quickly dwindling list, Robin reluctantly suggested Hargrove, a war god favored by a nearby kingdom, but if Carver was ill-fitting, then Hargrove was outright repellent to Steve.

"C'mon, Steve, you gotta pick someone!" Dustin huffed in frustration. 

Robin thunked her head against the table in the library where they were looking up deities. She was obviously at her wit's end too. Steve, however, just dug his heels in with a particularly stubborn scowl.

"I can't just pick anyone!" Steve said. "If I'm going to pledge my sword to someone, it has to be someone...someone good. Someone that, I don't know, someone I can believe in, even when--no especially when things go wrong. That’s the whole point!"

"Yeah, I get that," Robin sighed, a mix of fond and annoyed, "but this is the eighth book we've gone through and the only one left here is called the King of Darkness which is hardly going to--huh."

Robin paused mid-rant to look at the page more closely. Steve and Dustin both huddled around her to peek into the book as well. Dustin also made a sound of curiosity.

"That's weird," Dustin said.

"Right?" Robin asked enthusiastically.

"What? What's weird?" Steve didn't get what caught their attention.

"This god only has a couple of sentences," Dustin explained, "And they don't really make sense. Something about dark creatures and the undeserving? The grammar and structure is all weird though."

"It looks like a half-assed translation," Robin added with a nod. "We should find the original text."

"Yeah! And if we can make a better translation, we could get it added to the next edition and they'd have to put our names on the book," Dustin said excitedly. Robin's eyes lit up at the thought and they both rushed off to the stacks to track down any original sources.

"Guys! Guys, what about my..."

The librarian hushed Steve, irritated. Steve groaned in defeat.

"...godly choices. Yeah, fine," Steve slumped back on his seat. "I need to find non-nerd friends."

Two days later, Robin and Dustin finished translating a slim, dusty book. They were nearly vibrating in their seats as Steve reviewed their notes on what they found. Dustin gripped his arm and gave him a shake.

"So? What do you think?" he asked excitedly.

Robin slung her arm across Steve's shoulders. With more tenderness than Steve expected, she said, "I know it doesn't seem like it, he doesn't really fit with your whole style, but it could work."

"Yeah," Steve said with a hopeful smile. "Yeah, this feels right."

--

It took longer than Steve would've liked, but eventually he managed to track down a small, crumbling shrine. It was an alcove carved near the entrance--no more than a crack in the stone really--of a cave at the edge of a lush forest. He almost missed it, it was so drowned in overgrown crawling vines and weeds. It bore a modest statue, no bigger than Steve, standing atop an equally modest plinth. There was a spot that obviously held a plaque once, but it must’ve been dug out by thieves at some point.

The sight of it made something in Steve's chest twinge; a strange pang of melancholy at seeing a god so forgotten and abandoned. It surprised him as he had never been particularly religious, but there was just something about this one that drew him in.

It was the middle of the day, so Steve quickly made camp and took advantage of the light to begin clearing the shrine. He started where the plaque had been, scrubbing off the dirt and moss that had filled the indentation. He knew a good smith; he could commission a new plaque to be made. After that, he weeded the immediate area around the plinth where worshipers would typically lay their offerings and pray.

By the time he finished that, it was late afternoon and he decided that was good enough for today. He had to eat and get a few hours of sleep so he could be alert once night fell. When he curled up on his bedroll, he couldn't help the grin that spread on his face. He was going to offer himself to his god tonight, and with any luck, his god would accept him.

--

He woke to a multitude of high pitched squeaks and the sound of many, many flapping wings. The sun had just fully set, and the stars that could be seen through the canopy burned brightly. Steve took his time to fasten on his armor and scabbard properly, and fixed his hair so not a strand was out of place. He took a few deep breaths to calm an unexpected bout of nerves before going to the shrine and kneeling.

His god had no official prayers. Or rather, the prayers for his god were forgotten. Robin and Dustin did their best to find anything prayer-like but it had been in vain. They suspected that most of the god's holy items and lore were purposely lost. Lacking that, Steve decided it was best that he introduce himself.

"Um, hi," he started and immediately winced. "Sorry. I'm not used to...this. I couldn't find any of your…holy words? Prayers? The right ways to speak to you, I guess.

"I'm Steve. Steve Harrington. I'm a fighter. I finished my training a few weeks back. I was the top of my cohort when it came to combat. I'm good with my sword and I know how to take a hit. I can turn just about anything into a weapon if it's needed."

Here Steve paused for a moment, straining to hear but there was nothing other than the typical sounds of a night out in the woods. Steve took a breath and plowed forward.

"I want to be more than a fighter, though. I don't want to just wave a sword around for nothing. I want it to...to matter. So I spent a lot of time trying to decide who to wield my sword for. It took me a while, but I found you. I want to be your shield and sword, if you'll have me."

Steve stopped again to listen. Nothing. Robin warned him this might happen. Gods didn't always accept warriors who offered themselves to them, and forgotten gods weren't always reachable. It was fine, though; he’d try again tomorrow night. Steve turned in just before dawn, eager for night again.

--

Steve worked on clearing the vines tangled around the statue's legs and feet. He yanked out the thick, scraggly vines, and carefully picked apart the prickling thorny ones. There was a particular gnarl of vines that didn't seem like they had a stranglehold on his god's statue. They were healthy and strong, and the way they curled and grew looked more like a caress than an invasion. He decided to leave those on, though he gently rearranged them while removing the more invasive vines so they looked more decorative.

When night arrived with the sound of squeaks and wings, Steve went to kneel at the shrine. He introduced himself again, gave the same spiel as the night before. Still he heard nothing. He scratched the back of his neck in mild insecurity.

“I guess I should tell you I didn’t find you on my own. My friends Robin and Dustin helped me. They’re way smarter than me, you know? Total nerds. I can swing a sword like nothing, but books and research? Yeah, that never works out for me, so they helped me look up all sorts of gods.

“There’s a lot of them. Way more than I thought. Dustin and Robin both recommended me ones or vetoed others. They were getting frustrated with me because I kept rejecting the ones they gave me. 

“Then Robin found you. Kind of by accident, to be honest. But she did her research thing and I knew that I wanted to carry your symbol. It took me forever to find this shrine. Robin said this was probably the only shrine you had left, so I had to find it. 

“Dustin kept saying it was on the other side of the forest, but obviously he was wrong. Not that he’ll ever admit it, the little shit, but whatever. I’m sorry your shrine was abandoned like this, but I promise I’ll fix it up. I’m good with my hands, I can do it.”

There was no response to his admittedly disorganized ramble. It was fine, he told himself. He needed to be patient. He’d come back the next night.

–

Around the statue’s waist there was another tangled mess of vines, except these vines had died and rotted to dark sludge. There was fungus growing on it, and it reeked. It was gross. Steve scrubbed at it for hours because the rot had stained the stone. He was able to get rid of the rot and most of the stains before going to catch a few hours of sleep in the afternoon.

Night fell and Steve was kneeling for the third time. He repeated most of what he said the previous two nights. There was still no response. He thought maybe he was pushing too hard. He’d never been the super talkative type anyway. He could share the quiet night with his god, if that was what his god wanted.

A few hours passed when he was startled out of his near meditative state by the sound of snapping twigs. He leapt to his feet, hand on his scabbard. Someone–a man by the look of it–stumbled out of the woods. He was pale and dark haired, dressed in ragged clothes that were probably awful even when they were new. He looked like a vagabond. 

Steve stepped in front of the shrine, protectively. The stranger grinned at him and Steve could already tell he was not going to enjoy the conversation that was about to happen.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” Steve asked firmly, cutting the man off before he could speak. The smile only grew wider.

“I could ask you the same thing, sir,” the man said, adopting the annoyed huff of a wealthy lord. Steve scowled.

“I asked first.”

“I asked second!”

“You didn’t ask me anything,” Steve responded, somewhat smug. The man paused and then snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, okay.” He raised his hands in mock surrender. “You got me.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” Steve repeated shortly. The teasing grin was back, and Steve felt his scowl deepen.

“Nothing and no one, m’lord,” the man bows mockingly.

“I’m not a lord.”

“Huh. Could’ve fooled me. You’re certainly as demanding as any lord I’ve ever met.”

“Oh fuck you,” Steve snapped. “I’m a holy warrior.”

The man laughed at him outright.

“Well that doesn’t sound very holy warrior-ish. Are your type allowed to swear?”

Steve grinded his teeth and decided it was not worth it to continue this conversation for much longer.

“Look, if you’re here to steal, I’ve got nothing on me.”

“That’s exactly what someone with something to steal would say.”

“Well, I don’t! I’m on a pilgrimage and I don’t want to spill blood on holy ground. So.” Steve wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword. “Leave. Please.”

“Holy ground? Here?” the man barks out a laugh. “Don’t you know what this place is?”

“Yes,” Steve says shortly, placing himself more firmly between the shrine and the man. “Please leave. There shouldn’t be violence done here.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that. This place used to belong to the King of Darkness. It’s said he was so evil that nothing grew here until he was run out and defeated by the god of righteousness. You know the one. Really plays up the holier than thou thing by making his hair all gold and glowy? Gotta say, you could give him a run for his money though.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No really! Your hair is great. Way better than Carver, even with the glowy thing.” 

“Not that!” Steve said in frustration. This guy really liked the sound of his own voice and Steve was starting to get a headache. It was near dawn and all he wanted was to spend the last hour or so in the quiet night with his god.

“So you agree your hair is better than a god’s?” The man tsks at him. “That’s pretty blasphemous. Are you sure you’re a holy warrior?”

“No! I mean, yes. Wait,” Steve growls at his own bumbling. “No, I’m not better than any god. But I am a holy warrior. Kind of.”

“Kind of.”

“Look, I’m working on it so I need you to leave. You’ve insulted him enough already.”

“Your god is the King of Dark–”

“Call him that again, and I will draw my sword,” Steve said, voice steely. “He’s the Lord of Night, and I won’t let you insult him at his own shrine.”

The man goes quiet for the first time since he showed up. He looked almost surprised, his mocking grin gone. His eyes flicked over to the dilapidated statue and then back at Steve.

“Lord of Night doesn’t sound much different than what I called him,” the man said lightly.

“Well, it is,” Steve told him. “Now, will you please leave?”

The man stared at him for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah, alright.” And then he left as suddenly as he had arrived.

The tension that had built up in Steve’s shoulders drained away. He went back to kneel in front of the shrine again when he noticed the barest hint of sunrise on the horizon. He cursed under his breath then was hit with a wave of embarrassment at cursing in front of the shrine and the whole situation that had transpired.

“I’m sorry about that,” Steve said, abashed. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

–

It happened again.

now with an additional snippet here and here

ps: i do not do those reader tag list things. if you'd like to keep up with my stuff, follow my writing tag: trensu tells stories

[geelatinous]

it’s like my second time tweening so enjoy 😜

[sharksarewaterdogs]

Now I know "Bruce knows the League's secret identities while they have no idea who he is" is a thing & all and it can be used for some fun scenarios, but consider—

A Clark who knows Bruce's secret identity and a Bruce who doesn't know Clark's.

And better, a Clark who doesn't know Bruce doesn't know.

It's Bruce Wayne's first years as Batman. He is Mr. Edgy Loner Man to the max, except he's just recently had a brightly colored child following him around (???? Is it a demon, is it his spawn, who knows). Very little is known about him outside Gotham except that he is a cryptid-ass Dark and Brooding type who wants other heroes to keep tf out. He's encountered Superman a few times and seems to despise him.

Clark, our young investigative journalist, looks into Batman to make sure he's not actually the Devil of Gotham, a vampiric creature with an iron fist over the city draining its lifeblood, as the rumors go. Finds the dots. Connects them.

Almost immediately ends up covering an event attended by Brucie Wayne and his new ward.

Oh god. The Bat knows. Backtrack backtrack backtrack, get through this & never meddle in the affairs of the Bat or Gotham again.

Except, the thing is—Clark is nice. He is a sunshine guy, bleeding heart, he exudes hope and comfort.

And Bruce is actually in his Overstressed Emo Loser era.

He's in way over his head. He's got trust issues ×1,000. He's a new dad and a CEO and a superhero in one of the most crime-riddled cities of America. The press is his mortal enemy & he's battling it now to seem like a good enough guardian for Dick when he's not even sure if he is. He's running on caffeine and anxiety.

And Clark is the first reporter who he feels actually seems to see him & his kid as people, and who is just so... kind.

So he tries to pull strings to get Clark to interview him more often.

(The Batman might not be known much outside Gotham, but Bruce Wayne is a celebrity & a mysterious one at that, who disappeared for years after his parents' death and only semi-recently started out in public life again. Any newspaper, not just Gotham ones, would leap at a chance for personal interviews with him.)

(Probably idk how newspaper shit works tbh go with it for the Story.)

Clark? Panics. This is a power play. This is a threat. The Bat is dangling it over his head that he knows that Clark knows and maybe the Batman can't defeat Superman (debatable, Clark doesn't wanna push his luck), but Bruce Wayne can Absolutely defeat Clark Kent. Sure, if Clark disappears in Gotham his bestie Lois will come in swinging with the steel chair, but he's not even sure she can take on Bruce Wayne.

Goodbye world it was nice knowing you.

Clark reluctantly accepts the jobs, and gradually starts to know Bruce Wayne. He is still convinced it's a threatening power play, esp as Bruce will occasionally let slip that his grudge against Superman (he is convinced there are some skeletons in that guy's closet, no one is that nice—except Clark, Clark's the one (1) exception). But Bruce is just so good at his nice guy/tired dad front it pulls at Clark's heart strings anyway and Oh No he's getting feelings this is bad bad bad bad bad.

(Yeah Bruce isn't putting up much of a front with him actually, and doesn't realize it but he is Crushing Hard on Clark.)

Dick liked Clark immediately and also probably immediately recognized him as Superman but he's not going to say that, are you kidding, he's a feral goblin child, his middle name is Mischief.

Alfred really wishes Bruce was less oblivious to his crush but he's too Reserved British Butler to say so clearly. He very much approves though.

Eventual Superbat happy ending ofc but it is a Trip to get there.

[markitchi]

I think it would be really sweet if Clark embraces his roots and goes all out whenever he flirts and coos at Bruce, calling him all sorts of nickname in private, only in private, because he's not letting anyone sees how Bruce's eyes soften and his usual >:( turns into a :| with a hint of soft pink on his cheeks and ears. Only he can see Bruce becoming soft and pliant.

(More scenarios under the cut)

"Pumpkin pie" he purred, gently squeezing Bruce's shoulders as he kisses his neck, wanting to initiate a love making session together.

"Doll face" Clark coos as he craddle Bruce's rugged face with his hand, his beloved Batman sitting on his lap, pouting like a spoiled boy.

"Sweetie" he whispers as he tries to get Bruce to get his eyes off the screen after his dearest does a full blown all night research about someone suspicious.

"Honey" he whimpers as he begs Bruce for attention as he gently squeeze his thighs, acting like a needy puppy.

"Sugar" he lovingly call out to Bruce, who's wearing a crisp, freshly ironed suit and tie.

All spoken with that twang Bruce loves so much, something about it makes him feel warm and fuzzy. Not to mention with how natural it feels when those words of affection spill out from Clark's tongue.

Bruce's favorite must be Pumpkin, or munchkin, or maybe honey? Or that one time Clark calls him "my oeey gooey honey pie, my cute little pumpkin, I want to kiss that sugar lips of yours, by sweet munchkin" when Bruce finally wakes up around 1 PM after a rough night patrol on a sunday. His hair is tousled like crazy, bruises from fights covering his pale skin, yet Clark gazes at him like he's the most beautiful creature he has laid his eyes on.

Bruce never teases him about his accent, Clark never has to control his tongue or think twice about what he's going to say, being with Bruce makes him appreciate his accent more, especially with how Bruce melts onto him whenever he calls him "honey pie".

Then one day Clark calls Bruce "pretty kitten" with that sweet, sweet thick midwestern accent, while that is under the sun, carrying hay to feed his horses in the Farm, while he's covered in sweat, only wearing a cursed white t-shirt and a pair of tight jeans-

"Hey pretty kitten, you okay? You look as red as a tomato! Cool down in my bedroom, doll face, turn on the AC, it's old, but it works"

Bruce folded and squirms, Clark grins and teases him more. It ends up with Clark pinning Bruce to the nearest barn wall and purring all sorts of nicknames right to his ear. What a day

[vintagegeekculture]

The Evil Little Hairy Cave People of Europe in Pulp Fiction

From the 1900s to the 1940s, there was a trendy theme in occult and horror stories that the explanation for widespread European legends of fairies, brownies, pixies, leprechauns and other malicious little people, was that they were a hereditary racial memory of the extremely small non-human, hairy stone age original inhabitants of Europe, who still survive well into modern times in caves and barrows below the earth. Envious of being displaced on the surface, these weird creatures, adapted to the darkness of living underground and unable to withstand the sun, still mean mischief and occasionally go out at night to capture someone.... usually an attractive woman....to take to their dark caves for human sacrifice.

Displaced by the arrival of Indo-European language speakers at the dawn of the Bronze Age, these original, not quite human stone age people of Europe were driven deep underground into caves and barrows below the earth, where they went mad, adapted to the darkness and acquired a fear of daylight, became extremely inbred, in some cases acquired widespread albinism. It is these strange little people who gave the descendants of Europeans a haunting racial dread of places below the earth like mines and caves, and it also is these strange, hairy troglodytes who originally built the uncanny and mysterious menhir, fairy rings, and stone age structures of England, Scotland, and Ireland that predate the coming of the Celts and Romans.

In some cases, these evil troglodytes are usually identified with the mysterious Picts, the pre-Celtic stone age inhabitants of the British Isles. In some cases, they are identified with the Basque people of Spain, best known as the inventors of Jai Alai, and the oldest people in Europe who speak a unique language unrelated to any in the world.

The original codifier of this trend was Arthur Machen, a horror writer who is less remembered than his contemporary, Henry James, but who may be the best horror writer in the generations between Poe on the one end and Lovecraft/CL Moore/Clark Ashton Smith on the other. His story, "the White People" from 1904 (a reference to their strange cave albinism) was a twisted Alice in Wonderland with a girl who is irresistibly attracted to dark pre-Roman stone age ruins and who is eventually pulled underground.

In addition to being a great horror writer, Arthur Machen was a member of the Hermetic Society of the Golden Dawn, an occult organization, and was often seen at the Isis-Urania Temple in London. Many of his works have secretive occult knowledge.

H.P. Lovecraft in particular always pointed out Arthur Machen as his single biggest inspiration, though he combined Machen's dread and occultism with Abraham Merritt's sense of fear of the cosmic unknown, seen in "Dwellers in the Mirage" and "People of the Pit."

Another and scarier example of this trend would be "No Man's Land," a story by John Buchan, a Scotsman fascinated by paganism and horror, who often wrote stories of horrific discoveries and evil rites on the Scottish moors. He is often reduced to being described as a "Scottish Ghost Story" writer, a painfully reductivist description as in his career, Buchan wrote a lot of thrillers, detective, and adventure stories as well. In later life, he was appointed Governor General of Canada, meaning he may be the first head of state to be a horror writer.

It was Buchan who first identified the cave creatures with the Picts, something that another Weird Tales writer decades later, Robert E. Howard, would roll with in the 1920s.

Howard is a very identifiable kind of modern person you often see on the internet: a guy who talks tough, but who was terrified to leave his small town. He created manly man, tough guy heroes like Conan the Barbarian, Kull, and El Borak, but he himself never left his mother's house. It's no wonder he got along well with his fellow Weird Tales writer and weird shut in, HP Lovecraft. With 1920s Weird Tales writers, despite your admiration for their incredible talent, you also can't help but laugh at them a little, a feeling you also apply to a lot of Victorians, who achieved incredible things, but who are often closet cases and cranks who died virgins ("Chinese" Gordon comes to mind, as does Immelmann).

With Howard, his obsession with the Picts and the stone age cave dwelling people of Europe started with an unpublished manuscript where at a dinner party, a man gets knocked out and regresses to his past life in the Bronze Age, where he remembers the earliest contact between modern humans and the original inhabitants of the British Isles, the evil darkskinned Picts. This is a mix of both the "little cave people" story and another cliche at the time, "the stone age past life regression novel," another turn of the century cliche.

Still with the Picts on his mind, Howard would later create Bran Mak Morn, a Pict chieftain, who predated Kull and Conan as his Celtic caveman muscle hero. Howard was of Irish descent and proudly anti-Colonial and anti-British, with his Roman Empire and Civilized Kingdoms as a stand in for the British and other Empires, which he viewed as rapacious and humbug, a view shared by his greatest inspiration, Talbot Mundy. His "Worms of the Earth" gets to the heart of why these little cave people scare us so much: they remind us that we live on land that is impossibly ancient and we don't fully understand at all.

It was another Weird Tales Writer a decade later who wrote one of the last stories about the little hairy cave people of Europe, though, Manly Wade Wellman in 1942. Wellman was mainly known for creating the blond beefcake caveman hero Hok the Mighty set in stone age times, and for his supernatural ghost stories of Silver John the Balladeer set in modern, ghostly Appalachia (like many ex-Weird Tales writers, he made a turn to being a regional author in his later career, in the same way Hugh B. Cave became a Caribbean writer), but Wellman also had a regular character known as John Thunstone, a muscular and wealthy playboy known for his moustache who used his great wealth to investigate the supernatural and the occult. Thunstone had a silver sword made by St. Dunstan, patron of Silversmiths, well known for his confrontations with the Devil.

Most John Thunstone stories featured familiar stories, like a demon possessed seance and so on, but one in particular featured a unique enemy, the Shonokins.

The Shonokins were the original rulers of North America, descendants of Neanderthal man displaced by American Indians. This fear that the land we live is ancient and unknowable and we just arrived on it and don't know any of its secrets is common to settler societies, who often hold the landscape with dread, as in Patricia Wrightson's fantasies of the Australian Outback. It was easy enough to transport the hairy cave people from the Scottish Moors to North America. I suspect that's what they are, a personification of a fear shared in the middle class, that in the back of their minds, that everything they have supposedly earned is merely an accident of history, built by rapacity and the crimes of history, and that someday a bill will come due.

A text page in the May 1942 issue of Weird Tales gives strange additional information on the Shonokins not found elsewhere:

Since then, there have been too many examples of evil cave people who predate Europeans. Philip Jose Farmer's "The All White Elf" features the last survivor of a pre-European people who live in caves. A lot of other fiction of course has featured the Picts, but according to our modern scientific understanding, which describes them as much, much less exotically, as a blue tattooed people not too different and practically indistinguishable from the Celtic tribes that surrounded them, and which they eventually blended into.

[kxllerblond]

Yun Seo-yeon -— " ANIMAL CONTROL "

Every hunter has their origin story and most are steeped in the blood of a loved one-—and Seoyeon is no different. Born as the second eldest in what can only be described as a painfully average and healthy family, she had dreams of practicing animal medicine and had little worries save for juggling her studies and the social life typical of a young woman her age.

With the news of being accepted into a highly-regarded university, the family had decided on a celebratory trip abroad, well aware that once she began, there would be little time for much else.

One simple night was all it took to rapidly change the trajectory of her life. One wrong place, one wrong time and everything had come crashing to a halt, her old life and future ahead left as shattered pieces at her feet.

She couldn't tell you the creature the American hunter had been after, the creature whose life had been more important to take than her family's life had been to preserve. COLLATERAL, she'd come to know it as. The lives of her loved ones reduced to something as inconsequential as a meager word for this hunter to mumble later when recanting the situation.

She couldn't tell you a thing about the creature the hunter had been 'saving' mankind from, but she could tell you everything about HIM, about the monster slayer. His eyes, the curve of his nose, the way he had gripped the pistol he'd fired round after round from until both the creature and her family lay bleeding (SILVER bullets, she'd learned later). She could tell you the fleeting look he'd given her, how he'd fled (not like a brave hunter, but a COWARD). Most of all, she could recall the burning rage she'd felt in that moment. A clashing of grief and anger, hurt and unbridled fury.

Laid with the cooling bodies of her loved ones, so too laid her old life and the future she'd once strived for. The monster, the creature slain-—now shifted into a mere man, another corpse amongst the rest. Here now resided who she would come to be.

She researched, she learned, she delved into a world previously hidden to her. She came to know every creature that went bump in the night and, more importantly, she came to know just exactly the sorts that hunted them. Many had noble intentions and many held their codes and had their systems in place-—but some, far too many were reckless. Stricken with grief and rage like she and it had made them careless, made them selfish. They hunted without regard to anything else, blind to anything beyond their own violent goals, uncaring as to the corpses they left in their wake as long as the big bad monster was amongst them.

Dogs, she'd thought. Like hunting dogs gone rabid. No longer helpful, but feral and violent. They were like rabid dogs and someone needed to put them down. And so she did. In a world that held no checks and balances, she became them. In a world where these hunters played judge, jury, and executioner...so too did she become theirs.

She came to hold the reputation of ANIMAL CONTROL, a hushed and whispered and often spat moniker uttered like a cautionary tale to those who toed the line just a bit too closely. A reminder to hunters of the supernatural to keep their heads clear and their intentions pure and just and their hunts free of 'collateral' lest they have animal control on their trail.

[jesterraconteuse]

I don't think you understand the perfection of Jimmy Olsen in MAwS. The fact that he's just a little bit right about everything despite the way he presents as an internet conspiracy theorist. He knew who Clark was. Yeah the alien starfish does exist. There are terrifying creatures in the woods. The government is hiding mutants and aliens. Like he comes off as goofy but this makes him the most intelligent person in the room! Because this is DC! All his theories are right!