#much less jon

[adalineozie]

"Why doesn't Dick have a Super?" "Dick should get his own Super!"

Dick's Super is Clark. Clark has two bats. No one ever said World's Finest was a duo, it's a trio. Superman + Batman and Robin.

[jokamachai]

✨ Jon ✨ and ✨ hands ✨

[grennseyelashes]

It's never not funny how personally Stannis takes it that Jon chooses not to be legitimised. Like what do you MEAN you don't want to, through circumstances you never predicted, take up your deceased brothers mantle and right the wrongs of the realm 🥺? Jon hate Stannis?? UwU????

[wait-whos-batman]

Any chance of you hosting another Batfam secret santa this year?

im currently running a MHA secret santa on my sideblog (peep @kacchanot-fucking-deal-with-this ), and alas, it is taking up much of my time... but! I am thinking about hosting a New Years Bang! for Batman/Batfam content where most/all of the work will be posted on ao3 in a collection for the event (and all linked on tumblr too!)

i want to do a soft interest check in the next week or so and then i'll probably make a form for everyone to fill out and sign up!

(if you've never heard of a fandom bang! it's when a bunch of people get together and create a bang in the fandom by mass creating fanart and fanfics!!! they're a fairly traditional event in fandom spaces)

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

One of the things that sticks out to me about Jon is just how active and readily available his kindness is. And it’s funny because the fandom at large considers Jon to be someone with a good heart, but he usually isn’t specifically linked to kindness as a key character trait even though he should be. Because every now and then, we have moments where Jon is just so proactive in how good he is to people. Not like it’s a performance, but it’s just something that comes to him naturally. And it doesn’t have to be big things either because sometimes, it’s really the little things that matter. Take this interaction with Tyrion for example:

“Boy,” a voice called out to him. Jon turned.

Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at him. “Is that animal a wolf?”

“A direwolf,” Jon said. “His name is Ghost.” He stared up at the little man, his disappointment suddenly forgotten. “What are you doing up there? Why aren’t you at the feast?”

“Too hot, too noisy, and I’d drunk too much wine,” the dwarf told him. “I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother. Might I have a closer look at your wolf?”

Jon hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Can you climb down, or shall I bring a ladder?”

- Jon I, AGOT

First, it’s quite adorable how readily he strikes up conversation with Tyrion, a man he’s just met. The hint of curiosity mixed with concern when he asks Tyrion why he isn’t at the feast is cute.

But it’s the last line that stands out to me. “Shall I bring a ladder?” Because he could’ve just said “shall I call for a ladder?” but he didn’t. The latter suggests that someone else will do the brunt of the work. It’s still kind, because he’d still be looking out for Tyrion, but it puts him in a passive role. Instead, he means to get the ladder himself. He will look for it, bring it, and position it for Tyrion to use. So now his kindness is very much active. His empathy is on full display here as well because he acknowledges that Tyrion may need assistance and takes the initiate to provide it.

This seems like such a silly thing to get hung up on but I love this small moment because it provides a lot of depth to a character who is meant to serve as the series’ traditional hero - a role that is often times “good” by default without exploring how or why. Anyone who’s read Jon I knows that he has spent the chapter being a raging jerk. But GRRM uses this moment to remind us that despite being a moody, asshole-ish, 14 yr old boy, Jon is a really good kid at the end of the day. He’s is kind and he’s so active in how he practices his kindness. Even to people he doesn’t know and has no obligations to.

Because we’ve had a bit of whiplash so far. Bran I established Jon as a sweet and empathetic, self-sacrificial brother. But the first part of Jon I makes us question that when we see his pettiness and immaturity on full display. It almost seems like a case of unreliable narration from Bran, until we get to this last part when Jon gets a small moment to redeem himself. Which he does ~ and it’s done beautifully because it later links to some of the larger themes in Jon’s storyline. That he is one who actively looks out for the “cripples and bastards and broken things”. It’s not just looking out for Bran when they found the direwolf pups, but looking out for Tyrion in this chapter, and then for Arya and Bran again in Jon II, and then for Grenn in the last part of Jon III, and for Sam in Jon IV, and so forth and so forth. It’s a pattern that’s established through big and small moments all throughout AGOT where Jon still has a lot of growing up to do. But these moments, at large, serve as an anchor to remind us why we ought to care for this hero’s journey.

[valahelart]

horror podcasts be like what if there was a little british guy who opened an evil book and now he's plagued by The Horrors

[mildcicada]

Hehe

[shippy-from-apocalypse]

Ok im Very sleepy rn it's 2 am bare with me

What do we think Jon would think of How The fandom sees him? And I don't mean this in a pedantic "oh fandom bad because dumbed down and Insert Petty Headcanon Disagreement"

I mean this entirely in a "How would Jon, The man who believes himself to be an Irredeemable monster who is to blame for everything that ever went wrong, react to Just so so many people listening to his shortcommings and ultimately seeing his side"

Like yeah everyone agrees he's kind of an asshole sometimes but he is so beloved by The fans?

I'm sure some people did but I've never seen anyone doubting his humanity or blaming him for the horrors™ he Just clearly understood as his fault? Like yeah Martin tried telling him it wasn't but what I'm getting at is

I love to think about what Jon would do If he saw just the ocean of people who listened to (what he considers to be)

the most unsympathetic person in the world becoming a monster and making choices that brought the literal apocalypse upon humanity

and pretty much everyone saying "he did the best anyone could reasonably expect and he is not a bad person for being caught in the crossfire of an impossible situation with no good solutions"

remember that time in mag 187 a lady grabbed jon in fear and he shouted and presumably pushed her away? and everyone and their mother defended jon's humanity because that was a textbook trauma response i think he would break down crying if he saw that

[two-wizards-in-a-trench-coat]

i wonder why everyone usually depicts martin as being super tall. was he ever described that way and i missed it? always pictured him small and easily not spotted for obvious reasons lmao

[november-rising]

This post from @cruciomione got me thinking thoughts.

It’s fascinating that a ship with canon evidence of sexual intimacy hasn’t made as much hoopla as us with every lingering gaze, check in, awkward quip/conversation, family turmoil, sudden loss of knowing about UPS and acceptance (Carmen, Natalie, and Ritchie encouraged Sydney to say, “Let It Rip”! LET IT RIP! THE BLEEP!). And, when I do think about Carmy/Claire: The sex scene, though showing how sensual Carmy is (to me), it was the hues and lighting that were interesting. All I can recall is Blue. There’s a well written post by @thoughtfulchaos773 that examined color choices. What I like to mention is that the hues or filter or insert the technical term moving forward are so tightly connected at the beginning of Omelette.

Deep Blues of Intimacy (opening scene) to the softer tints of blues and greens of Sydney’s chef (stained) white jacket in the following scene are important. I capitalize the DBP because, for me, this scene was obviously hitting on something... It was stark and intense and hollow. It feels purposeful – hard hitting in an expectant way. The transition to a lighter blue/green filter to Sydney preparing with her stained chef white jacket feels significant. It’s about Sydney trying and trusting.  

And then THE alley scene with the same pale, cooler color tones. Carmy is trying to manage through the "warmth" (warmer tones) of his past that is actual chaos. And then there’s Sydney. Cooler, calmer, more his speed in the sense of recognition of same knowing same. There something so...wholly complicated and knowing about Season Two.

[leupagus]

A Gale of Wolves, Chapter 4: Jon

"I think she's come to take back Winterfell, Your Grace," he answered, then dared to add, "just as I think she'll be wanting you to call her Lady Stark."

The king looked doubtful, even as he grasped Jon's meaning. "Lady Stark of Winterfell? A woman as Warden of the North?"

"A woman whose mother rode with her son through every one of his victories," Jon pointed out, though not without feeling the irony of his own admiration for Lady Stark. While she'd lived, her hatred of him had been like the noonday sun: too bright to note any detail of her beyond the outline. Now with her safely dead and gone he could see her more clearly, and in some of King Robb's success he suspected more of the mother's political maneuvering than the son's military brilliance. "A woman who survived King's Landing when stronger men all around her were dropping like flies, including our own father. I haven't seen Sansa since she was a child, Your Grace, but I'd not underestimate her."

"You think the lords will rally to her?" asked Stannis, clearly still skeptical. "They were failed badly by her brother, and she has no call on their loyalty except her maiden's name."

"It's a powerful name, Your Grace. The direwolf has flown its banner over the North for centuries; the Boltons can't wipe out that memory no matter how much blood they spill. If Lyanna Mormont and all the rest of them want a King in the North whose name is Stark, well." He tucked Sansa's message into his breast pocket. "It seems you've found her."

*note: chapters will be posted once a day from April 18 to May 11. Some will be shorter than others, but hopefully this schedule will work for people who a) like to know when they can read the whole thing in one go and b) like to read chapter by chapter as they come.

[malkaleh]

Julianna of Conte is a perfect princess. But for her Bazhir blood that gives her olive skin instead of ivory and her Gift. But she is perfect - graceful, charming, witty and a perfect hand at her sewing, music and dance and her fashion. That she is also intelligent, wise and kind matters little and less. That she loathes her cousin Roger matters not either.

(Girl! Jon of Conte as a result of discussing with @eidetictelekinetic <3)

[ashironie]

Damn I really gaslit myself into thinking Gwen was a main main character bc I love her too much…

I was reading the tmagp wiki so that I can find out how to spell Sam’s name for a chat fic and read that Alice was the other main character aside from him

I completely thought Gwen was and even told other people she was…

I swear to all things holy and not if she fucking dies I will lose it

Please Jonny, Alex…

Please…

[atopvisenyashill]

jon/ygritte is very interesting bc even tho their situation was pretty fucked up jon did love her! gendrya is cute but arya is too young and the books are never being finished so yeah

yeah those are both very fair. i think if we got the finished books, gendrya would be in that category of “genuine good love story” bc right now it’s like the beginning and middle build up but, especially from gendry’s end, no real climax. i don’t think arya is aware she has romantic feelings for gendry, i’ve said before i think he’s aware of her feelings and just didn’t know how to handle it, and now feels some extreme guilt over ~rejecting~ her unknown crush. and i think that’s very typical sort of romance novel misunderstanding that could come to a very lovely conclusion. but right now arya is still an eleven year old completely unaware of the romantic undertones of that entire thing while gendry is (i always forget his age is he 15??) just like, trying not to die in the riverlands while he stews in his guilt lol.

jonygritte meanwhile is VERY much one of those toxic romances but i think people are really silly about it. there’s significantly more romanticism in this relationship than other ones, and i think it’s silly to ignore that aspect for the hardline anti ygritte takes the same as like, ignoring those toxic elements really takes away how interesting this relationship is. on the one hand, there’s very much a reason that this romance serves a similar narrative purpose as like, dany/drogo, tyrion/tysha and tyrion/shae, sansa/sandor, etc, and it’s bc there’s some FREAKY consent issues going on here lmao but on the other hand….jon’s feelings for ygritte have impacted not just his own feelings on romance but also his entire leadership arc re: gender & culture it’s so stupid to pretend like she’s ONLY there as a negative influence (this is how i feel about sandor too).

[i-will-change-this-someday]

Something that keeps nagging at me is, why did Jon continue to take statements?

I’m not talking about season four. In episode 120 it is revealed that Jon gets dreams of the statements, and in episode 114, Daisy asks about his shirt, meaning the dreams weren’t just happening during the coma. (Also 120 states that he’s had these dreams before)

And look, I know Jon loves trying to deny things, he spent the entirety of season 1 doing just that, but he’s not stupid; no one would think “hm, I’ve been getting dreams of the live statements, where I watch them live through their trauma again and I’m turning into something not quite human, probably just a coincidence. Nothing to worry about.” So why does he continue to take live statements?

Because even if Jon doesn’t know that the other person shares the dream, why would he want to keep dreaming them? Because he enjoys it. He’s not suddenly more “monstrous” in season 4, taking strangers statements, it wasn’t like he suddenly started making these selfish decisions, he already was.

I’ve seen a lot of people say that Jon doesn’t become an avatar until season 4, but, to me, he already was one, his choice in episode 121 is more about becoming the Archivist not an avatar of the Eye. Because in season 3 he can already compel people, he can already Know things, and he is already enjoying people’s fear. He plainly tells Gerry that he likes compelling people.

So, I think, Jon enjoys taking peoples statements, and he enjoys watching their dreams, because he doesn’t have a choice. Jon admits that he thinks he’s losing himself to the Eye:

“ARCHIVIST

Avatars! But they end up getting these abilities, and they lose a lot of their self. Sometimes all of it.

GEORGIE

And you think… that’s what’s happening to you?

ARCHIVIST

Yes. Yes. The Institute serves one of these beings.”

The Eye took a part of him, and now he has to enjoy others’ suffering, he still feels immense guilt for his actions, but as Helen said “When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?”

[fellpyrean]

Claps hands alright we’re doing this! So I started listening to magnus archives a few months ago and it really did things to my writing ideas, so now I’m gonna round some up and post ‘em. 

I forget where/when I first saw a moth!jon but u know. He’s cute. So here is some moth!jon AU! Corruption Jon :Dc and archivist Sasha! ~1800 words. 

Since he is a corruption avatar in this, there is (as expected) some possibly gross bug imagery, but not a lot of holes. And no worms! :D

______________

The flat is quiet. 

Quieter than Sasha expected, and much neater too than she expected when they connected this one to "Filth." The lights are off and there's a faint dusty, sweet scent in the air as she cracks open the door, torch slicing through the dark. 

It catches on motes of dust. She thinks she hears movement, a susurrus of rustling like fabric faint in the depths of the place but little else. She pushes the door further, feels it catch on the ragged old rug on the floor and watches moths flutter up, batter against her torch in little puffs of dust before they flutter away. 

Part of her worries as she steps inside, as she closes the door behind herself - leaving just a crack in case she needs to get out fast. 

This is too quiet for something of the powers. The flat should be more of a wreck, more… more miserably bloodstained, more disgusting and unnerving, but it looks, honestly, just a bit messy, a bit moth-eaten. The couch sags a bit wrong, but hell, she can't pretend she's never had one like it. There are shelves of books, their edges chewed and pages no doubt holey, there's even a mug left forgotten on the kitchen counter. It's all dim; lit only by what spills around heavy curtain edges and her own torch as she steps further in and - and hears that rustling again from the end of the hallway and heads straight for it. 

More moths flutter up at her steps, and she is wary, she is. But the things just… flutter uselessly at her hands, their wings shedding dust and their fat abdomens plump and full, but hardly a threat before they fly - further inside. 

Towards that faint rustling noise, towards the door at the end of the dim-lit hall that is just open enough to allow the frantic moths to flit inside. Writhing and wriggling at the crack between door and jamb just a moment before they vanish inside, but the movement… it makes Sasha swallow. 

Something about the way the bulbous little things squirm before they pop through sets her stomach on edge. Too many of them; more than she thought, all struggling to squeeze into that door. 

The crack writhes by the time she reaches it. 

She can swear she hears them whine and click and screech in tiny voices above the din of their frantically fluttering wings.

She uses her torch to push the door open. Fast, loosing a cloud of moths from the stuffed crack that fall and flutter and scatter into the dim room before her. 

The rustling has not gone quiet. Neither has the soft, whining song of flapping wings and voices she cannot place as she raises her torch high, fumbling for her pepper spray in her other hand. More of a comfort to herself than any real belief it would accomplish anything against something abnormal, but the room doesn’t… change. Nothing leaps out of the dim shadows, nothing comes ravening towards her with a horrid, dripping maw. 

It’s a bedroom. The bed is really as far as the light peeking around the curtains lights, in thin, dusty stripes across worn rugs and a small pile of abandoned clothes. 

“A-Ah.” 

Sasha whips her torch towards the voice, and stills. 

There is… there is something like a man there. Tucked in the corner, with all the moths frantically fluttering, scuttling towards it. She watches, stomach queasy, as the moths drill between the heavy folds of the blanket? The wrap? It has folded around itself. It reaches a hand out to a particularly fat straggler and cradles it in its palms like a treasure, bringing it up slowly, carefully, and opens thin, paled lips and lets the thing crawl straight into its mouth as Sasha gags. 

It is almost worse then when it looks up. 

Long, straggling hair that was probably rather nice once. Now it is loose and lank, black shot with grey and dust that hangs over… over his shoulders, over the thing he has cocooned himself within. His eyes are dark. Too dark. 

There are no whites, she realizes, and cannot help but feel her fingers twinge around the pepper spray. 

But he isn’t attacking. He is just looking at her, head cocked like a curious animal as the moths burrow back into the shelter he offers. 

She can work with this. She sucks in a breath, wills her stomach to settle as she tells it it could really be so, so much worse, and points the torch further towards the floor. Good manners. Going out on a limb that he’s probably not too fond of bright light. 

“Hello,” she says. The strange man stares at her. Hard enough she swears she can feel the tracks his eyes leave on her skin, but she only makes herself stand taller. He seems to like that. He laughs. Not maliciously. 

It’s soft. Like cotton, like it’s been a long while since he’s used his voice, and the rasp sticks to it as he speaks and Sasha tries not to linger on where exactly that moth went. 

“Hello, Archivist. Doing house calls?” 

He’s smiling. And that’s what gets her. 

His voice is soft and smooth like old silk and his smile stiff like he’s unused to using it, but something about him feels familiar. It’s there, just at the corner of her mind, and she knows she’s frowning deeply as she casts a line and tries to hook just why she feels like she knows this strange man, but then he laughs again and stands. 

He rustles as he does. That… that thing wrapped around him doesn’t move the way it should, not like cloth, but she can’t immediately place that, either. Not until he walks a little closer and her torch light catches on it and it… shimmers. 

Like moth wings. And Sasha sucks in a breath. 

She can see it now. The patterns in the dusty brown, the oranges that circle white to make massive, partly hidden eyespots. The thick, dark veins supporting the overall structure, and she can’t help herself from blurting out, “Can you fly with those?” 

The man shudders, that smile hung unmoving on his face as he brings a hand to his mouth and coughs against the static. 

“Not well,” he answers into his hand, his too-dark eyes sparkling. He lets his hand drop back into the too-layered folds of his wings and shuffles a little closer; his wingtips drag across the floor, like a blanket wrapped around a child too small for it, and she can see now where his long, untied hair turns into something shorter. A ruff of fur at the back of his neck, across the back of his shoulders.

(Can see the moths wriggling down into the fur, settling there, an army of tiny, coal-black eyes staring out at her, glinting green when her torch light catches them.) 

And then he stands still, that faint smile on his face, his dark eyes half-lidded in an expression she cannot place, and waits as that soft, soft distant song hums in the room. 

Sasha exhales. This is more than she dared hope for. He’s talking. He’s non-aggressive.

“I,” she begins, wetting her tongue before plunging back into her words. “I was wondering if I could ask you some questions. About the ‘Filth.’ About you.”

He watches, and she feels emboldened. 

(Her phone begins to ring as she steps closer to him, and she ignores it. It’s Elias. She knows.)

“We don’t have answers. And if you could tell me, tell us what you know? About… about what’s happening.” 

Her phone stops ringing. It starts again. The man smiles wider and reaches out. Sasha can see that his hands are… strange. Plated like chitin, and the desire to grab his hand and investigate each delicately plated joint wars deeply with the uneasy reminder that there are probably moths crawling beneath, of statements that were far, far more explicit about what ‘Filth’ did to a person than this man showed. 

His hand waves in front of her face for a moment and she starts, coming back to herself, as her phone angrily rings again. 

“Your phone?” the man asks, and Sasha doesn’t hesitate for a moment to shut the thing off. 

(Elias. All three calls. If he doesn’t want her here, then she’s not leaving.) 

“Well Archivist,” and she knows she is not missing the strange bitterness that clings to that word this time, knows there is something she is missing about him, “If you have that many questions, we should probably get a little more comfortable. I have a feeling that once I let you start, you’ll keep me well after dusk.” 

And isn’t it bizarre? As he brushes past Sasha - both carefully and clearly telegraphing his movements so she only feels the barest touch of his wings as he heads back out into the hallway - she realizes she doesn’t feel afraid of this one. A little disgusted if she thinks about him too hard, yes, but there’s been no threat. No… no menace, no winding, evasive non-answers, just. Incredibly human remarks. It almost circles right back around from comforting to even worse than something as alien as the thing with the door. Michael. 

But as the rustling moves away from her down the hallway, she can’t help but flash her torch around the bedroom. One last bit of nosiness. 

An old, worn bed, rather like the couch. Shelves with books so moth-eaten they’ve gone to pieces. An open closet, filled with over-large sweaters and… She blinks. And oddly proper button ups, slacks. 

And then… and then she turns her torch in one last semi-circle and catches upon a strange shine beneath the lumpy pillows. 

Like polaroids. 

The itch that there’s something she should know only grows when she spots them; growing from a thing at the edge of her thoughts to an all consuming need that drives her in fast steps across the dusty rug before she even catches herself. She fishes the pictures out with deft fingers and - and she thinks her heart stops in her chest. 

She knows the people in the picture. 

That long, dark hair shot with grey is distinctive - even set on a much more vibrant, lively face, and above a painfully crisp button up. He’s wearing glasses in the picture, and. A name tag. 

She can’t read the name, but she’d recognize that emblem anywhere. Not that she needs to. 

Because beside the stuffy librarian like man, his eyes green instead of black, stands… Tim. Tim, his shirt as loud as ever, his smile boisterous, and an arm slung affectionately around the man who couldn’t possibly be any more his opposite. And the same horrible name tag pinned to a pineapple-strewn lapel. 

The man worked at the Magnus Institute. 

He worked with Tim. 

She knows his name now. 

Jonathan Sims.