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jellyfisharesatan · 2 years

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Listen. I know she's dead by the start of season two (I'm assuming, I haven't seen past episode one), I know she's only a minor secondary character, I know she's just a love interest (to another minor character I might add) who doesn't have a huge amount of depth.

But Agnes from season 1 of Umbrella Academy means so fucking much to me.

Here's the thing. Agnes isn't young. She's maybe somewhere between sixty and seventy (I'm guessing, I'm ngl I'm not great at telling people's ages from looking at them lol).

You might call her old. Except the show really challenges that. Is Agnes old? She's so bright and full of life, she's one of the most upbeat and positive characters in the season. She's not unhappy, but she's not satisfied in life. Her story plays out like a romance novel where the 20 yr old Mary Sue protagonist runs away with her boyfriend to live a life on the run and finally finds herself.

She has such a youthful story and character. And it makes you think. Is Agnes old? Again, yes, she's dead by season 2, but hypothetically she has a good bit of time left. She got another 20 years. And she was (presumably) very happy.

Agnes' life didn't end after she turned thirty. Or fourty. Or even fifty. Agnes has the best and most chaotic time of her life at ~60 yrs old.

And the show never brings up the fact that she's an older woman. It's never an issue of contention, she doesn't struggle with it, she's not depressed that she's still making doughnuts and being a waitress at her age.

She's quietly positive that life still has a lot to show her. She's still happy, and fighting to have the life she wants. Agnes is still living.

And fuck I appreciate it so much. She's my favourite Umbrella Academy character. She's an absolute breath of fresh air, and the fact that she's a minor character somehow makes it all the better.

Because Agnes would have been so easy to write as a sad old woman who never had the life she wanted and who is depressed about her age, who was crazy in her youth and then lost her spark, and regains it only for a second before fading from the narrative and dying.

But Agnes isn't any of that. She's her own person, she follows Hazel because she wants to and because she's secure enough in herself to know exactly what she wants, not because she's insecure and desperate. She's so well written and she's not even relevant.

God I love her so much

#the umbrella academy #umbrella acedmy #the hargreeves #hargreeves siblings #agnes umbrella academy #once again i am late af to a fandom but whatever #i mean it i love her so much #she couldve been such an over played stereotype #snd instead shes a character ive never seen represented before #its so reassuring as someone whos terrified of growing old #agnes is still beautiful #agnes is still full of life #agnes still has a story to experience #god #i could rant for hours abt this but anyways

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thesaltwateremu · 8 months

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Agnes art!! Yippee! My wife <33

#i love her so much #she’s my wife #i know I already said this but it’s important #also I lowkey hate the background #but rest assured it was worse before!!#anyways #tma #the magnus archives #agnes montague #agnes tma #tma fanart #the magnus archives fanart #agnes montague fanart #the desolation

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microwaving-tesilid-argente · 7 months

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Honestly i have so much sympathy for Ailette and the way she mischaracterises Tesilid.

like i myself also fixate on certain parts of the story and extrapolate maybe a bit too much - although in my defence i've only read like half the story.

-but the same can kind of be said of Ailette? This Tesilid is having a new, currently-being-written chapter of his life. In fact she kind of has things even worse, because her characterisation of Tesilid is based off OG!Tesilid, but current Tesilid had his life and outlook irreversibly changed when they met aged 10. But they never really interacted enough afterwards for Ailette to realise just how much of an impact she made on him. She hasn't really had a strong reason to rethink her characterisation of him. Not to mention that she first read the book with her middle school reading comprehension, which. Probably coloured her interpretation for the worse, at least a little.

I really wish Ailette would go into more detail about her own experience as a reader, to really see better how she's viewing this world and its people.

Which paragraphs are the ones that she thinks defines Tesilid's character? (Mine is "I'm praying that they'll all fail the test and go home".)

Which are the ones that made her cry? (Mine's "Right... you're on the side of this world.")

Which are her favourite silly Tesilid moments that make her so fond of teasing Tesilid? (iliac bones)

Which are the ones that reverberate in her head and which won't leave her alone? (Mine is "Please... show me some of that petty mercy too.")

I feel like the fun part of these kinds of isekai story is that. Whatever reaction you had towards Tesilid, be it "wow what a cute kid" or "i'm going to cry, i need to wrap him in a blanket where the world can't hurt him anymore" or "actually he should just destroy the world tbh i would support him", she's been there first and has been doing for at least 10 years, she's the OG. And she's super intense about it too. Like she can say "I need to save him because the story dictates it" all she wants, but the way she reacts so intensely and immediately to Tesilid in danger really speaks volumes of how much emotional investment she has in this guy. Like idk if she really rotates him in her head as much as I do - that might be a me problem - but if you rotate a character in your head enough times while fixating on certain moments and not others, you probably would end up with a biased interpretation of the character. Especially if you don't have someone else to bounce ideas off. And this gets worse if you're actually living in the character's world, because characters in stories serve certain narrative functions, so all their actions which get included in the narration are inherently biased towards portraying them in a certain way that serves said narrative function. But humans are a lot messier and more dynamic.

i just. shakes her up and down. love the concept of an isekai protagonist and the OG protagonist that they love so much.

anyway this whole post is a testament to how much Omniscient Reader's Viewpoint changed the way I interpret fiction and especially isekai stories. Not me anthromorphozing Ailette as if she's really a person and fellow fan who exists and isn't a character lmaoo, i'm definitely not having a "we're all fragments of kim dokja" moment, no sir. i definitely didn't subconsciously draw connections between ORV's isekai'd MC and myself and S-Class Heroine's isekai'd MC and our commonalities as readers who rotate the same story in their heads very many times, and suddenly make a realisation that's actually more relevant to ORV than the actual story that prompted all this. one whole year after i last read ORV, because ORV's story is So Much and so monumental that i'm still haunted by it and figuring it out and it lowkey never left my mind, even after a whole year. (please read orv.) like there are a lot of otome isekai stories about isekai'd MCs realising that the people in their lives don't line up with the OG characters, but none of these stories ever made me viscerally realise what it was probably like for kim dokja, because none of them had isekai'd MCs be that unironically obsessed with their OG protags, and more importantly none of them made me constantly rotate the OG protagonist in my head the way S-Class Heroine does. Han Sooyoung was right, you get as much out of a story as you put in to reading it and re-reading it and re-interpreting it. By putting so much time into S-Class Heroine I accidentally made some relevations about the other story that I was always trying to figure out at the back of my mind. Holy shit.

#i'm having a fucking moment #the perks of being an s class heroine #a transmigrator's privilege #omniscient reader's viewpoint #orv #you know what ill tag it too this post is as much about orv as it is abt s class heroine #fucking kim dokja #maybe i understand a little better why he is the way he is now #i cant believe this bloody story is still haunting me #the only time i read it was one whole yr ago!!!#anw one way in which ailette differs from kdj is that she has fully assimilated into this world #she loves her grandpa very much and the rest of her family and her best friend bianca #and her friend agnes too #she doesn't have all the trauma associated with the fourth wall and all its themes #good for her #anyway if you wished that orv was pink and had more romance than s class heroine is for you #please read it too

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abelllia · 2 years

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hello. i have a question. why did agnes kiss that guy? the coffee shop guy, i mean. at first it seemed like poetic parting gesture from a creature who’s existence is greater than that of a regular person, so his pain and suffering don’t matter. but then we learn that agnes somewhat cared for him and didn’t want him to get hurt by others.. so why put him through that pain and eventual disfiguration? she knew people can’t touch her, she knew what would happen to him. so why..?

Hmmm to be honest, I don't quite know. I myself have not yet started Season 5 so if there's an answer from there then I don't know it yet. I'll answer with my personal interpretation instead.

It's pretty darn long so if you want to skip, I put a short tl;dr at the end of the thing under the conga line of equation marks. Also spoilers!

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I think it was an act of impulse and rebellion. A moment carried by emotions. From what we know of Agnes's story based on secondhand accounts, she was seen and praised as the chosen one. Weighed down by the title of messiah from the moment of her birth to the hour of her death. The one who shall carry the Desolation through and bring about the Scorched Earth. And...that's it. We don't know much of her personality beyond that, since to the people around her (The Cult) a messiah was simply what she was. Arthur Nolan reflects on this in MAG 145 when asked about what Agnes was like. Arthur Nolan, one of the cult members who practically raised Agnes *didn't know what she was like*. All her life, Agnes Montague was merely an idol for her people. A leader to follow until their destined day. She was following a path laid out to her before her time. She wasn't a person. Not to them. She was something greater than herself.

Enter Coffee Boy Jack Barnabas, a nobody who knows nothing about Eldritch gods and destiny or fate. A guy who looked at a woman who can boil coffee with her hands and went "Yeah, I want to date her.", even when warned that she was dangerous. A guy that just saw her as someone. Someone that he wants to get to know better and form a personal, non-eldritch, connection with.

And that's exactly what they did. They went on dates together and got to know each other. They talked, walked at the park, went to the movies, and just generally acted like a couple of young people hanging out. Agnes "Ms. Aloof and Above-it-All" Montague was just hanging out with this rando from the coffee shop. We even get a bit of information here of what she thinks of her grand destiny and from the looks of it, she didn't like it. In the statement, Jack recalled Agnes doing behaviour that would normally be considered bizarre and just...laughed fondly. Jack truly and genuinely liked *her*. And it seemed she liked him back.

Then, of course, the tree fell during the middle of their date and Agnes had to die. Jack helped Agnes walk back to her flat where the rest of the cult were. Once more, Agnes is the Desolation's messiah, here to have one last goodbye with her followers before she returns to the cosmic entity she is, was, and will be eternally bound to. Then as she bids farewell to Barnabas, he looks to her and asks her, against all logic, if he could kiss her.

On her deathbed, as one final "fuck it", Agnes Montague did not what Agnes, the messiah, was supposed to do, but what Agnes, the person, wanted. She kissed him back.

And yeah I guess she didn't think it through and burned his whole face off which was...not great? But it was a decision that was all Agnes. It was not something she needed to do, not something asked by the cult, not something asked by Gertrude, but something she *chose*. Choice is a pretty big theme in TMA though I don't know the conclusion yet because *waves at not having listened to S5 yet.* Agnes chosing to kiss Jack is a really big thing for her and I think is one of the only things she was truly able to choose for herself. The theme of choice is added on to at the end of the episode as well with Barnabas. He mentions that though the facial burns did a huge number on him and his life, he says he's not sure if he would have done anything differently if given the chance, the choice, to. He says that he's like a moth, drawn to the flame.

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Tl;dr: I think Agnes did it as one final middle finger to the universe, the concept of destiny, and being a gifted kid. She did it because she wanted to and that's that.

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cream-and-tea · 1 year

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[ID in alt]

she sees dead ppl

TAGLIST (ask to be +/-). @vellichor-virgo @nicola-writes @doctormoss @gerbermatter @cactusprincewrites @houndmouthed @muddshadow @aeipathys @just-wublrful @midnights-melodiverse @corkywantstowrite @paradisiacalshroud @andromedatalksaboutstuff @kingsinking

#me drawing agnes: showstopping incredible perfect stunning never the same–#that’s my baby ok i love her sm #had a lot of fun with the super warm colours on this one. trying to myself within a pallet was nice #anyways that’s my girl she’s off to experience the horrors #wip: ghost story #creme does an art #agnes

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tired-beholding-bitch · 2 years

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fire exists the first in light

guess who’s in love with agnes montague and decided to make it everyone’s problem ❤️ it is me, yes ❤️

honestly this is just self-indulgent fluff because she deserved to have soft and kind and gentle things and she never go to, and jack had such a sweet and bright love for her. idk it just makes my heart clench to think about them.

enjoy! here you can find the fic on ao3 if you prefer ✨

ASHES denote that fire was;

Respect the grayest pile

For the departed creature’s sake

That hovered there awhile.

Fire exists the first in light,

And then consolidates,—

Only the chemist can disclose

Into what carbonates.

— Emily Dickinson

Agnes forgot her scarf.

Jack confirms that’s still the case by stealing another sideways glance at her, as if anything would have changed in the last minute or so.

He’s usually better at not staring at her quite so plainly. Usually, though, he isn’t as distracted.

Her throat is pale and delicate, her skin smooth like cream.

Jack wants to run his index finger down the long, perfect column of it, and press down gently in the hollow between her clavicles.

Instead, he curls his hand into a fist at his side, tendons tensing and relaxing as he tears his eyes away.

It doesn’t last, really. She’s hard to look away from, the way she stands tall, her shoulders drawn back and her chin tilted up, trusting her feet to find their place on the earth even on the irregular terrain of the park.

She approaches most things like that – unwaveringly certain of the end result, never pausing for questions – and sometimes he wonders what that makes of him, when he hardly knows where he’ll be next week. If she’ll look at him one day and decide, as one would decide whether to wear a white or black shirt, to simply never show up on his doorstep again.

It’d hardly be surprising, but he doesn’t like dwelling on it.

There’s no point to it – either she’ll stay or she won’t, but she is here right now, and that’s enough.

He sighs, glancing up at the sky. It looks like rain, but then, every day looks like rain in November. When he risks another look at Agnes, estimating enough time has passed as not to make it weird, she’s already looking back.

Her expression is wide open, thoughtful. His heart twinges sweetly at the sight of her lips, curled into a subdued version of her lopsided smile.

Jack isn’t a poet.

If he was, he’d be able to find better words to describe the way her hair burns against the slate-grey winter sky, dead branches threaded through it like dark, engorged veins. The subtle warmth of her body next to his, growing stronger every time their shoulders brush in passing. The white mist of her breath, thick and opaque like smoke.

He wants to hold her hand.

The next time their arms touch, he can feel the heat radiating from the back of her hands, curling around his wrist like a warning.

He doesn’t reach out. Instead, he swallows, and speaks before he can talk himself out of it.

«Do you want my scarf?» he says. It still comes out tentative, somewhat. He’s nervous around her. At this point, perhaps he’ll never stop, and he’s alright with the idea. It feels right, that there would be a price to pay to see her eyes widening, all amber and muted gold, as she hums in pleased surprise.

Her hand goes to her throat, long fingers wrapping around the naked skin, fingertips tapping an absent-minded rhythm. She nods.

The scarf is stifling around his neck, wound too tightly in his haste to leave the house. He unravels the knot quite gladly at her assent, holding out the bundle of fabric for her to take. It’s easy to imagine stepping in front of her, carefully tucking the ends into her coat. Her fingers twist in the soft cotton, tugging it closer, and he lets go of the thought.

She doesn’t tie it at all, letting it hang loose and swing slightly back and forth as she walks. The black cloth is a stark contrast to the paleness of her – it makes her face look sharper, carved roughly out of bone-white driftwood.

He wonders what she’d look like clad in vibrant greens and the dark yellow of autumn leaves, in robin egg blue and lavender purple. He hopes to be still here in the spring, if only to see a sundress flutter in the breeze around her knees, and feels adrift.

They walk in silence.

It lingers, stretching in the yawning distance between their fingers, scant and yet impossible to breach. It’s familiar.

Agnes doesn’t talk often.

In fact, it’d be maybe more accurate to say she doesn’t talk almost at all, except to offer tidbits of information in response to some rambling anecdote or other about his family or his friends or his job. He had quickly run out of stories, his life exhausting itself into her steady breathing and the cracking of twigs under her weight, and now they spend most of their time together just walking in the rapidly darkening light.

He holds what little she volunteered close to his chest, even if it paints a rather strange picture.

Something about a large family, and religion, and years she spent away, tangled in something bigger than he can understand. She doesn’t mind the cold. She doesn’t like spiders.

The time she told him about the spiders was the only one in which she’d let something like anger slip in her voice – it had seethed, crackling and powerful, and the air around them had grown hazy with the smell of smoke and burning dust.

He’d never talked about it again. He tries not to think too hard about any of it.

It’s kind of hard to do, though, when the only other occasions Agnes initiates conversation involve the kind of question that makes him freeze on the spot, anxiety writhing in his chest like it wants to scoop something out of it.

«Do I scare you?» she asks, today. She’s smiling as she speaks – the sort of there, sort of not smile that makes his heart contract and expand too violently, recoiling against his ribcage like a faulty gun –, her head just barely turned towards him. Her voice doesn’t raise at the end, and it comes out not sounding like a question at all.

She doesn't wait for an answer, either.

Her expression doesn't change, but he can still tell – with the absolute certainty of dreams, that lingering conviction – that she's sad when she wasn't before. Something in her choice, her gaze meaningful and heavy.

«It's okay if I do. I'm supposed to.» she says, and he can't gauge the emotion in her tone but it clings to the words like blood, her expression unreadable. Final.

Jack hates it with furious, single-minded intensity.

Then the streetlamp next to them blinks to life, casting its warm glow against the encroaching darkness of the evening, and suddenly she's awash with light.

It takes his breath away.

Agnes has always been beautiful. Now she's lit from within, almost, and he has the insane thought that if he touched her he'd burn.

He still wants.

Her eyes flicker like a summer bonfire, dark specks of terracotta dancing in her irises. This close he can make out the golden freckles dotting her nose – the red, suffused glow of her cheeks, the rose-tint of her lips he wants to kiss brighter. He might die if he did, he thinks, his wildly beating heart bursting out of his chest at last, but she's real and warm and breathing, and she might well be the only real and warm and breathing thing left in the world, in the island of light the streetlamp paints around them, his breath freezing in the glacial November air before he can fully exhale.

It leaves him unbalanced, teetering on the edge of something he isn't quite ready to face.

He falls.

«Can I hold your hand?» he asks, and it echoes too loud in the quiet between them. Presumptuous, maybe.

Heart rabbiting in his temples, climbing up his throat to pulse in his palate as he waits to see if he finally pushed his luck too far, he waits. Stops two steps behind her, leaving her space.

Agnes doesn't leave.

Instead, she stops, two steps in front. She rummages for a second in the deep pocket of her big black coat, making a small sound in her throat when she finds what she was looking for.

She slips the leather gloves on one at a time, primly, tugging them under the cuff of her sleeves until no skin is left exposed. They're maybe a little small for her – he watches her flex her fingers inside them, stretching them out, like

It's endearing. Even more so when she thrusts her arm behind her, fingers wiggling a little. He can't tell if she's trying to encourage him or just still getting used to the feeling of leather.

Jack takes her hand anyway, and ignores the way his own shakes as he does.

It feels momentous, when she tightens her grip, squeezing gently.

Warmth seeps through where their palms touch, flushed together, sensation coming back tingling and prickly to his cold skin.

«No one had ever held my hand before.» Agnes says, and her smile is more there than it isn't, her mouth soft and open with it. She doesn't sound sad anymore.

«I won't let go until you ask me to.» he says.

It isn't until the words are out he finds they sound as sure as hers ever did.

#tbh i should just go around wearing a 'ask me about agnes montague' shirt because i could talk about her for hours #and have before #(yes it was to saint) (yes that nickname is more and more literal)#(care u if you're reading this)#not to mention there's a joke to be made thereabout the string of fate #if that spider in his flat that she burns to dust had anything to do with it at least #but ANYWAYS #im also writing other things i promise this just happened to get done #unlike my several other wips #and i thought i might as well share it after sitting on it for a couple days #much love i hope y'all enjoy <3 #tma #tma fic #agnes montague #jack barnabas #tired writes

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