#very self-indulgent meta | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

BuzzFeed published a report claiming that Tumblr was utilized as a distribution channel for Russian agents to influence American voting habits during the 2016 presidential election in Feb 2018.

#very self-indulgent meta

starflungwaddledee · 8 months

Note

Do all of the knights have names in your au? And how did you decide on them?

hello there, thank you so much for the message! correct me if I misunderstand, but I think this is about a panel from my galacta knight vs meta knight comic:

where Galacta Knight uses the word Vaýtita. it's not a name, it's a... actually you know what, it's so much more embarrassing! it's a term of endearment/a relationship designator from my unnecessarily complex whole entire sci-fi language i built for them, lmao 💦

here's the note at the beginning of my personal dictionary as a quick crash course:

Ei Vaýtita in particular means "my gravity". it's akin to words like beloved, my heart, or soulmate- an irresistible force in one's own life. it's usually used romantically, but it doesn't have to be. Galacta Knight says it here to be cruel, though i do think he means it quite wholly

when I go in for making languages, especially sci-fi or high-fantasy ones, i like to consider the alien culture that the language is formed in. for these guys, everything was star and space coded; they had no reason to care about "hearts" or "souls". they considered themselves star-like, and so gravity as a term was most important; it's the only thing that can really move them.

praise is about being bright or shiny or having strong gravitational pull; and insults, accordingly, tend to revolve around being dim/lightless or stuck in orbit around someone greater

(translation under the cut because this is already getting long, sorry... i love to talk about this... thank you for asking 😭💝)

phrase // literal translation (from starspeak) // english localisation or meaning

kalimépos // welcome first light // good morning astéskotei // dim star // derogatory but not blindingly so; you could use it pityingly or fondly in a pinch ei épios // me see // wake up ei Vaýtita // my gravity // term of endearment and a relationship designator used within a star-system, usually for equal partners eu desai Ílioz ai ei // you (are not) the Sun of me // this is basically just a rejection from Meta Knight. the Sun serves an important role in star-systems, and he's simply telling Galacta Knight to shove it. he doesn't say it very well, but he refuses to say Ílioz-ei and so turns to a slightly clunky workaround.

#galacta knight #meta knight #my art #starspeak #awtdy au #asks #i do not speak any greek (modern or ancient) or arabic and rely on google translate entirely #originally designed this language entirely for self-indulgent personal use so it's got its flaws and is ever-growing and changing #i formally apologise to any actual speakers to whom this probably looks very stupid as it is truly just words slammed around in the blender #if they mean anything in OTHER languages also i apologise; i try to make sure that they don't translate to anything but it's tricky!#was just obsessed with the idea of utilising existing cosmic designation conventions for their dumb ancient star language #also to the person who referred to this on my main comic as meta knight being ring-popped thank you for my life i loved that #my headcanons and worldbuilding

212 notes · View notes

peacerisendove · 1 year

Text

I wanna feel the wonder of you Let's make a deal, I'll give you some truth It gets me high This time it's never-ending Hold back the fear Your touch so ever-temping I'll keep you near. Miles Kane - The Wonder

If you can't draw your own OCs being their own terrible enemies to lovers selves and blurring the line between the two then what's the point?

[Luka's the one on the left and Grex is on the right.]

Tumblr Art || Twitter

#Truly just some indulgent gay shit of my OCs.#Dove Art #OC #Luka Markov #Grex Scasian #artists on tumblr #art of tumblr #original character #Original Characters #Dove OCs #so much to say but the basics are: Luka's a meta-human and Grex is an alien; and it's like a superhero thing set in space.#-kicks this out at 3am-#will i reblog it? Maybe! Who knows! It was very very self indulgent and feels kinda cringey but who cares

7 notes · View notes

sparklyslug · 2 years

Note

Thoughts on Steve being an Aragorn-type character, and do any of the other ST characters give you the lotr feelings?

I’d love to hear your ST/Lotr thoughts!

WHOA WHAT A GIFT OF AN ANON MESSAGE! Expound upon random LOTR/ST thoughts? Don't threaten me with a good time, sheesh.

(Promo moment: @greenlikethesea and I wrote a fic about Steve and Eddie going to see the Fellowship movie release, and having talks about what character they see themselves as, you can read it here)

STEVE AS ARAGORN: Look at Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, and tell me he isn't the reluctant babysitter of this bunch. But also, he is brave, he is adept as a warrior (LISTEN just because Steve gets his ass handed to him a lot of the time doesn't mean he CAN'T FIGHT, it unfortunately just means other people can fight better, this is not untrue for Aragorn as well), he has a deeply romantic heart and his most personal goals are aligned towards that: he just wants love, kinship, family, even with all these "bigger" dramas and goals happening around him. He inspires loyalty in others, his family background is WOOOOO COMPLICATED but that hasn't left him incapable of extending compassion and love to others. Aragorn is also a certified wifeguy, so jot that down too.

And there's the way that Aragorn is kind of in between two places when it comes to his identity. He is someone who was born with a sort of status, but is very much betwixt and between two worlds. He was raised very aware of his heritage, but can't access it. He was brought up in Rivendell, but he is not an elf. He is part of the Dundedain rangers, but they're a wandering bunch and though they do rally around him at the end of the saga (I get why the movies didn't have the scope to bring in more of the rangers, but DAMN IT WOULD HAVE BEEN COOL TO SEE THEM) he operates alone a lot of the time. Steve similarly across the reach of the series is frequently operating alone, especially in s1 and s2 when he's fully in his own bubble of the plot until he connects with Dustin and then further in s3 with Robin. Steve is kind of of a "normal" popular world, but also increasingly divorced from it. He's an outsider on multiple levels: he's not really a part of the world of status and popularity he once embodied, but he is also not easily accepted by your Robins and your Eddies, who know who he is enough that they can't initially see him as one of them, even though he's not really the guy he used to be either. There's a lot of distrust of Aragorn, especially in Fellowship, and it takes a lot of slow plodding on his part to really work his way into the group.

I also was literally having this message exchange with @andropogonfalons yesterday, and he said something that absolutely has haunted me: that Steve wears the legacy of being the king, of literally being King Steve, with a lot of doubt, a lot of complicated shame and uncertainty. But it's a mantle that he'll pick back up when it's necessary (facing down Billy comes to mind first, there are other examples I'm sure), and I think as the series goes on and the situation calls for it he finds ways of occupying that kind of power of King Steve (the confidence, the leadership, etc) on his own terms, so it becomes less of a burden on him and more something he can apply his own skills to, to shape into being the type of king he wants to be, feels he can be.

JONATHAN AS BOROMIR. what you need to know about me is that I AM A BOROMIR GIRL, OKAY? I fucking love that guy, so never think that anything I say about him is at all with a feeling of disrespect because hooooooooo my emotions. Jonathan, like Boromir, had to grow up too soon. Had to shoulder the burdens of his entire family's expectations and needs, without getting a lot of thanks for it (even from his mom, in early s1 especially, it is heartbreaking). He is clearly Lonnie's "preferred" son, and he fucking hates that, it is no kind of privilege or honor to be so obviously the favorite. In his mind if Lonnie can't be a father to Will, he sure as shit is no kind of father to Jonathan. Likewise, he points out in s1 that Lonnie only ever wants to push his interests onto his sons, without regarding them as people, who they are and what they want or enjoy for themselves. BIG OL DENETHOR VIBES THERE. The way Boromir is so protective of the hobbits, specifically good to them and literally laying down his life for them-- gOSH. Boromir is the ultimate big brother, in his life and for the Fellowship, and that's Jonathan.

EDDIE AS BOROMIR. Okay like I said I have a lot of Boromir thoughts and feelings they can't be contained in one person. I think if there's any one person in the show who cuts himself no slack at all for his one moment of human weakness, it's Eddie. No one can resist the ring, and no one could have helped Chrissy in that moment, but Eddie can't see that. He can't let himself off the hook for that in any way, and his guilt and shame over that one lapse in "strength" defines his further choices and ultimately leads to his death. Ha! Fuck!

EDDIE AS FARAMIR. So while I think maybe Eddie would cast himself as Boromir, I think it would be for all the shameful fuckup reasons, and not giving himself (OR BOROMIR) enough credit for Boromir's essential kindness, his strength, his nobility, his ability to lead in a way that's different than what Aragorn does but is no less powerful and inspiring. And these qualities are all also shared by Faramir. No one expects anything from Faramir. No one looks to him for great deeds or saving the day, they're just like-- there's Faramir, off in the corner, with his books and his learning and shit, he's no warrior, whatever. But Faramir has the capacity for greatness in him, and has in fact been expressing leadership and power the entire time, just not in ways the people around him can see it. Faramir is likewise pretty hard on himself, doesn't really recognize his own qualities either, because he's spent long enough being told that they don't exist. Power has no appeal to Faramir, being one of the few men (few BEINGS, damn) who specifically can resist the ring, and who easily yields up his Stewardship of Gondor so Aragorn can be king with like a, yeah no big man, it's all yours. Power is not a motivator for him, he just wants to do what's right, and look after the people under his command, the people he cares about. He is also someone who would say he has a cynical heart while spouting the most romantic shit imaginable, and if you want to just like, think about his courtship of Eowyn with me and cry, that would be nice.

ELEVEN AS GANDALF. A powerful being whose origins are largely unknown to the people around her, she has otherworldly gifts but really mostly wants to spend her time with her goofy hobbit friends, being a part of their normal lives and holding their safety as being basically on equal importance to the safety of, like, the world. As long as the Shire remains, hope remains. As long as Hawkins remains, hope remains, etc. Gandalf is literally Tolkien's analog to more or less angels, and yet with all that ultimate cosmic power he really wants to spend his time in the Shire mostly using his powers for party tricks and smoking weed. It's not only a preference, I think it's something like a need. When you have all that otherworldly power, when you are so apart from the rest of the people around you, you need that anchoring force of like, the hobbits who just think you're cool and funny and trust you even though you're kind of weird. El's relationship to the Party has again and again anchored her back into her humanity, bringing her back from the edge when she's teetering over a line towards some truly dark places. There's also connectivity in how she loses her powers (the death of Gandalf the Grey) but then comes back even stronger (Gandalf the White).

WILL AS FRODO. It's not just in the haunted big eyes. Frodo gets caught up in a global conflict beyond his understanding and certainly beyond what he's prepared for. Frodo certainly has more of a choice than Will does, at least in that he is presented with one at all at the council of Elrond, but Will makes choices too when it comes to fighting off the Mind Flayer's possession, continuing to help his friends. He pays the price, arguably higher than basically any of them, his role in the events not just a physical burden but an emotional and mental strain that chips away at him. I don't know what s5 is gonna be, obviously, but if it's more Will-centric I can envision (EVEN THOUGH IT MAKES ME V SAD) some variation of the yes, we did save the Shire-- but not for me conclusion for Will. Sometimes the price is too high, and even if you pay it and you win, there isn't always a way to just come back from that and live "normally". Also: haunted big eyes. Also: he is gay.

MIKE AS SAM: I really started this by going "will is frodo but mike is nOT SAM" and the more I thought about it the more I was like, fuck, yeah no that actually really works. The stubborn loyalty, the drive to get shit done while everyone else is kind of standing around going ????what do we do. Mike has an essential core of decency, and if he is the heart of the party then the heart of the party is absolutely Sam. Also, if Will gets his Frodo conclusion to the show, then I can see Mike being the one who is able to settle back into normal life, marry Rosie Cotton and raise a family. Not out of any lack of love or respect for Will and what they've been through (I don't ship it, but I do love the complications of the childhood best friendship that as you grow up gets strained and confused but no less loving) but just because he hasn't suffered in the same ways, and carries different burdens differently.

LUCAS AS MERRY, DUSTIN AS PIPPIN: the comparisons aren't always that deep and like, I feel like the show is genre-savvy enough that it consciously knows this. Four hobbits, four buddies, it just works. The carefree two of the bunch who get swept up into the broader action, without any specific skin in the game other than their desire to help and protect their friends. Merry, the more mature of the two, seeks to grow up a little into the conflict they're thrust into, through his service to Theoden and further heroism particularly (so the Rohirrim are...Hawkins basketball?? Hey maybe. Jason in this case is certainly not Theoden, because I love Theoden and Jason can kick rocks, though they certainly both know their way around a rousing motivational speech, fuck, wait okay maybe in this case Grima is like, the forces of classicism and privilege and prejudice whispering in Jason's ear and warping his worldview? NO STOP HANNAH WALK AWAY). Dustin is presented as comic relief, but he has his own journey of maturation while still staying true to himself (NEVER CHANGE DUSTIN HENDERSON) and also goes about collecting big brother mentor figures and protectors like nobody's business.

NANCY AS LEGOLAS, ROBIN AS GIMLI. Okay admittedly this was started as just a haha! who's left! kind of thing but also THE MORE I THINK ABOUT IT-- Nancy as the heir to a family situation that she's not really comfortable with, is very much OF her family but doesn't really connect with it and honestly from the events of Fellowship on, like, if Legolas even goes back to Mirkwood it's not for long, and he certainly doesn't ever take up his father's throne. The badass sharpshooter with a dry sense of humor and a SHARP sense of what's going on, not that anyone listens to her pronouncements of doom when they REALLY REALLY SHOULD BE. Robin as Gimli is just fucking funny okay, she's got no filter and she'll say what she needs to say but also fuck with her at your peril because she's got a core of iron. And, also, a soft spot for the ladies (three strands of Vickie's hair?? oMG AN HEIRLOOM A TREASURE) and also something something axe as a historic symbol of lesbianism.

VECNA AS SAURON. Okay yes this is a little bit of an easy reach, but I am thinking specifically of Sauron in the fall of Numenor (reaching for that Silmarillion lore now babyyyyy), and Vecna as Henry Creel: the seductive beauty, the easy way of getting others on his side and influencing them, the ability to persuade that despite his obvious and known allyship to the forces of extreme darkness (Sauron to Morgoth, Henry to being a proto serial killer who murdered his mother and sister), he is still able to win the confidence of others enough so that they keep him around, thinking he's controlled but really enabling his acts of future villainy, just with more subtlety. We just get the quickest little bit of how Henry became One, but the fact that he not only went through that training process but also was kept on as an orderly? BREMMER WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?? Clearly the trust wasn't absolute (tasers, yikes) but also clearly this is someone who was otherwise able to interact freely with the kids at Hawkins lab, under serious watch but otherwise able to operate with impunity within those confines, just as Sauron was. Even El tries to appeal to him as though he can be redeemed, which speaks as much about her as it does about him honestly, but despite everything he's done she really seems to believe he's not a monster. Serious Sauron behavior. And then, yeah, easy reach time, when his ultimate villainy is revealed he is robbed of the ability to hide it behind a beautiful exterior and can only be seen as the monster he truly is. If this is the way anyone finds out that Sauron used to be a hottie bo bottie before he was a disembodied eye, I consider it my great honor.

#this was a very fun self indulgent way to spend my morning thank you anon #stranger rings #EYYYYYYY #asks #lotr #stranger things #stranger things meta #mop #fair ithilien verse

20 notes · View notes

muuurder · 2 years

Note

i agree with the anger issues, lack of boundaries, not knowing his own strength, and the entitlement!! i think that he doesnt know how to go about like.. loving someone? there were books and stuff so i think we can assume that some of what he knows is based off of the books hes read/listened to. another common thing ive seen is people assuming hes uneducated but in my head, hes not. his view of reality just might be slightly warped due to the media that he consumed. which could maybe play into his lack of boundaries.

but i think he genuinely is not a bad person. his trauma just plays into everything. then of course you have his parents practically giving greta to him

but im interested in what you have to say about him being autistic. ive never really looked at him from another perspective mentally.

I am now off of work *rubs hands together* so let’s get into this. I’ll leave an undercut so I’m not killing everyone on dashboards with a long post lol. I’m so sorry. Cause this is going to be a hellishly long post. just a quick mention there will be brief mentions of Su*cide as well as specific disorders and the like. Obviously nothing graphic but wanted to give a warning in case.

I agree in the idea that a lot of his knowledge as far as how things work revolves around classic books (pride and prejudice, the great gatsby, etc etc. i personally Headcanon his favorite story is beauty and the beast because he’s a hopeless romantic.) This can cause a bit of an issue as usually the “male” role in old novels tend to be rather problematic as far as how women are viewed and treated. Not to mention his parents for sure are conservative uppity aristocrats but with money so far up their ass they can’t think straight.

I have also seen people acting as if he’s uneducated and incapable of doing basic things. Which is incredibly far off in my opinion. We know for a fact he was home-schooled, I mean we got a glimpse of his routine. I think his knowledge of the outside world is incredibly limited. I do agree with that. He doesn’t know about social media, or computers if we’re honest, or most functions you need to know as an adult to live and survive in the real world. So I imagine if you introduced him to it, it would be an incredible culture shock for him. He’s been locked away for years. He loved his parents but the moment he is given the chance to grow and change he will be absolutely angry. Honestly, that’s a tantrum he needs to have. He needs to break shit in their room in my opinion and he has a right to be angry with them for a plethora of reasons. I’m derailing a bit here- but he’s incredibly smart. There’s a screenshot of Brahms’s room. It’s somewhere I’d have to go scrounging which I don’t want to do right now, but it shows every tiny detail In that room. He has a washbin, a microwave, a fridge, as well as books and tons of sheet music plastered on the wall. I could talk for hours about the common thought he’s nasty and hates baths (which is I think far from the truth.) but that aside; I think he’s a prodigy. He builds mechanisms in his free time (he made the rat traps for the house,) and he’s well versed in the arts (particularly where I think he excels the most.) we can see that much with drawing he seems to have and the sheet music heavily hinting he plays violin. I also have a personal Headcanon he can absolutely read beowulf and both comprehends and can pRONUNCIATE EVERY DAY WORD CORRECTLY. I could never my god. But he’s well read, and incredibly smart. Not to mention, the only thing he has as far as childlike behavior outside of regression is I truly believe he enjoys learning and like a kid he absorbs information and learns quickly.

As far as my take that he’s autistic, it’s got a lot of layers. Particularly I think he has bpd and/or has autism. I personally have BPD so you can take that as it is, it could be me rubbing my grubby little hands all over brahms, but I’ll give the gists of what it is and why i think BPD should also be tagged onto him along with autism and if you’d like me to go further in depth about them let me know.

So BPD is a personality disorder that is characterized by unstable moods, behaviors, and relationships. I always joke and say it’s basically speed running the DSM-5. I know it has a bad rep (you’re either demonized or infantilized by it because it’s a hellish and intense disorder.) Some of the symptoms are irritability, explosive anger, rapid mood swings (we’re talking you feel the world crumbling, wanting to kermit sewerslide and then it shuts off like a switch. You feel nothing and it’s over. and that’s in like a span of 10 minutes? and you’re left numb and disassociating. real riveting shit), risk taking behaviors, impulsivity, a general lack of restraint: I mean I could go on. To get to the point, there is a phenomenon with those who have the disorder where they will form an FP. They don’t pick em, it just kinda happens. But FP stands for favorite person and to put it short, they are the most important person in that person life. You can’t imagine living without em and it’s usually a supportive person (family, friends, therapist, romantic partner, etc etc. so you can see how a nanny would suit this role.) I know for me personally, I get rather territorial with my own FP (we have boundaries trust me, I know it’s incredibly important so you don’t hurt the other person cause it can be hellish.) and it can cause intense outbursts especially when other people begin to socialize or get involved.

Now that I’ve laid the ground level knowledge to understand where I’m coming from, I think that Greta was an FP which explains the obsessive behavior, as well as the way brahms acts regarding malcolm. He’s clearly irritated by him especially since malcolm is out here making moves on her lol. (def doesn’t help that his parents really did pull the “shes yours” card as if that wasn’t a whole ass human being) I also think this is why he steals her shit too (I know theres the whole fucking doll thing which is weird but also this is a grown man whos been isolated for years. Though with as tidy as his room is i don’t think the tissues you see on the bed are from uh.... the purposes everyone thinks. The letter from his parents was there and a photo. Idk bout you all but i sure as hell wouldnt be getting horn knee in front of that shit ESPECIALLY after their deep dive but thats me.) He has impulsive issues and general fucking lack of restraint which is also apart of bpd. Coupled with the bordering obsessive behavior that comes with having an FP it’s hoog. It’s also why I think he reacted the way he did with cole (is that his name? idk the abuser.) Not only was he trying to deal with it in a relatively harmless demeanor by being spooky, but the moment it was clear as hell that 1) his doll that has been a fill in for him was destroyed and 2) greta was in danger; he was PISSED. I’m talking throw caution to the wind. The walls rattled, he busted the mirror (which is fucking painful and dangerous mind you. He’s fucking barefoot. He did not think about that shit. It’s why he killed him too I think. Tunnel rage is pretty common. You don’t think, some people black out. And if you rewatch the scene, the moment he looks at greta (who he was mindful to keep her out of harms way, pushed her but made sure she wasn’t hurt) He realizes she’s scared and you can hear him go ....i know, i know. and when he grabs her, it wasn’t to kidnap her. I think he was hugging her and trying to move her out of the room to cool off at best. In his eyes he’s known her, he’s been there, she cares deeply for him. He thinks that kind of contact and boundary breaching is alright. This is his FP after all and he loves her. Finally theres the whole scene of him bartering with her trying to make her stay after he knocks out malcolm (poor malcolm jesus.) So when I first was going into the movie, I legit thought he had killed every nanny who had come around and I think people also believe that because of how he barters but I don’t think he’s actually killed anyone besides cole (emily cripps I’m convinced was an accident. I know the movie explains he was possessed and started the fire to avoid punishment and smashed her head in but fuck the second movie I don’t believe that shit for a second. I have a whole theory on that but I’m not discussing that right now.) He clearly manipulates or tries to when greta is leaving. He starts with the child voice, clearly ready to regress back into what he deems as the most acceptable version of himself. The child. I mean for christ sake his parents couldn’t view him anymore than an 8 year old and actively ignored it like yikes. So of course he’s going to use that, when it’s clear it’s not working he demands with aggression, and then goes straight into bartering. Using threats particularly. “I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him just like the others!!” I know for me personally, I’ve behaved this way. When you fear abandonment, you’ll do anything to keep people around. People who have untreated bpd can sometimes behave in extremely inappropriate ways and in ways that are harmful. It’s pretty ugly I’m not gonna lie. I know when I was younger and before I knew I have threatened to kermit dye to keep someone around (I’ve grown and I know better now. I was also a fucking child so please don’t come for me.) So I can see brahms desperate attempt to keep her is in line. I also think when he mentions the others he’s referring to a) emily who again I’ll be happy to explain if you or anyone else would like b) his parents because p sure he’s convinced he drove them to kermit dye c) cole or whatever his name is.

As far as him having autism, Honestly It’s literally because when I watched it he had the vibe tm. I can’t explain it but my friends who have autism called it too. I think it attributes to the photos of him as a child, he isn’t smiling and that’s a pretty common thing among kids with autism. Not to mention, he may have had no interest in socializing or doing much of anything that is often required of aristocratic families. I mean his father said he was odd. Always had been. Which I don’t know why that personally for me leaned towards he was autistic but the idea that his parents were ableist and didn’t want to get his ass help and rather be rid of him. It’s not a stretch. Rich families are fucking terrifying and if you don’t fit the look well. Yikes. He just strikes me as someone who likely was autistic and now has it layered with extensive trauma which makes a funky mess. I’m pretty neurodivergent (honestly beginning to think I could be but shhhhhhhhhhhh we don’t talk about it lol) and he reminds me of friends a lot. It’s a little hard to explain. But I can see him just having little to no interest in socializing and is far more interest in music (a potential special interest) or reading and often was paired or forced to be with emily due to family ties (money, arranged marriage, its hard telling.) Not to mention I don’t think he knows his own strength? which isn’t a trait of autism (it’s not a gene that does that and even sometimes it can cause issues with motor functions.) but it reminds me of someone I know who has autism. Again not knowing your strength and being strong doesn’t tie to autism I can’t stress that enough, but like it’s just an odd tie to people I know who also happen to be autistic.

My brain does this fucking meme:

16 notes · View notes

procrastinationau · 1 year

Note

Sal 17, 28, and 44?

17. Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

i mean in canon his outfit is a tank top with slacks and dress shoes, so I guess his fashion sense is an ungodly mix of formalwear and gym clothes lmfao. more seriously I think he likes to dress sharp but he also likes to be comfortable, and he tends to go for things he won't miss too much if they get ripped up (if he, y'know, has to turn into a lizard on short notice). he's also a giant cornball and loves kitschy stuff, bad puns, cheap tourist schlock. see his outfit in the current fic for reference lmfao. i like to think he does this (accumulates kitschy clothing) for every major city they visit,

28. Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

This one is really tough, because like...I don't think Sal sees people as friends or enemies. He has allies and people who want to kill him. I guess Rai's his closest relationship at the moment, but I don't think Sal sees him as his best friend. I don't think Sal feels he has anyone he'd call a best friend, because to him that means someone he can fully confide in and trust with all his secrets, and Salvador Cumo does not trust easily. Chase Young is probably the person he's most open with (he keeps a Lot from Rai) but that's not because Sal trusts him, but more because they more or less see each other as equals, and because Chase has known Sal a long time.

And as for enemies...I mean, like I said, he has people who he's pissed off enough that they want to kill him, but Sal doesn't give these people much thought lmfao. maybe sal's worst enemy is THE MAN. the law. the cops. he doesn't like playing by the rules.

44. Religion?

oh boy okay this is one of those things where it's just super self indulgent and I fully admit it's me projecting on the character, but I headcanon Sal as Jewish. He doesn't really believe in God and doesn't keep kosher, but he tries to observe the major holidays and rituals. One headcanon I've had for a really long time is that every year for Yom Kippur he and Rai travel to Bogota, Colombia (which is where he grew up in my headcanon backstory for him), and he turns Rai loose on the city and goes to visit his family, who are buried in the jewish cemetery there. Rai doesn't know the specifics of why they go there or what Sal does, he just knows it's really important to him for some reason.

Also Sal grew up speaking Ladino in his household and is still fairly fluent in it :)

#meta #i have a WHOLE complicated and VERY self indulgent backstory for sal lmfao #salvador cumo #(ladino is basically the sephardic equivalent of yiddish only instead of deriving from german it's derived from spanish)

4 notes · View notes

lightskept · 2 years

Text

she's brought a casserole.

steaming hot, pyrex dish still warm to the touch and aluminum-foiled top begging to be peeled open. it's a casserole, and joyce accepts it despite her worn features, despite the way her hands tremble and legs feel like they'll crumble beneath her because it's karen's casserole. it's karen, who she'd waited for outside of hawkins high school nearly every day, practically jumping out of her skin with something to share because she listens and she laughs — and when karen smiles, joyce is sure that angels walk among the earth's grounds and landed, somehow, in the passenger seat of her car in hawkins, indiana. karen, who'd let her stay the night when she could no longer pretend that everything with lonnie would be okay, that he was just having a rough day and joyce must've done something to annoy him, that she should've stayed quiet or come home earlier or scrubbed the counters to even more pristine condition.

she brought a casserole — from karen, to joyce, and it's never just a casserole, just a cake, just leftovers from some dinner that ted's insisted on hosting at the wheeler residence. it's brushes of fingertips and lingering gazes while exchanging gifts ; memories of whispers under summer stars and promises that fade but never disappear. it's understanding — shared understanding and bittersweet smiles that never spoil. karen brought a casserole and joyce knows she will stay in the doorway, politely — but she's there, kind and smiling like joyce remembers.

bathing in her smile brings a blue moon, august fireflies and september rains. in karen's sunshine - smile, joyce is calm.

#╰ ——— ✧ 002. ╱ ⌜ meta. ⌟#may i interest you in my self-indulgent thoughtpiece on a very nice rarepair #i love them... i do

6 notes · View notes

variousqueerthings · 9 months

Text

okay I watched good omens s2 yesterday with my partner, and I was genuinely very surprised -- I think if you've grown up through superwholock/merlin/the 100/teen wolf type shows where (with the exception periodically of doctor who) you kind of had to make up the good show that something could have been in your head, that colours a lot of your viewing, and to be honest I thought season 1 of good omens was a fine little piece, honoured the book while modernising it somewhat, it was a nice, fun, low stakes time, with a couple of things I might have wanted a tad different but nothing overall awful.

so I was seeing all this meta and gifsets and discussion, while I was waiting to give s2 a watch with my partner and thought "ah, people have made up the good show in their heads again" not that I assumed s2 was going to be a bad show, but that people were taking extra deep plunges into possibilities, the way fandom does, and that was fine. I knew there was a big ol kiss, I had a sense of some kind of argument at the end, and that it was setting up a s3

I also knew that mainstream reviews were calling it (politely) self-indulgent and dependent on whether or not you enjoy david tennant and michael sheen having a good time for just under 6 hours

all in all, expectations of a somewhat mainstream show without too much to think about, a nice, fun low stakes time, moving on...

(EDIT: AND THEN I WROTE A LOT OF WORDS SO YOU CAN IMAGINE THAT MY REACTION WAS QUITE DIFFERENT)

as it turns out it seems these things that were being written on tumblr were discussing the actual text of the show and not things you could extrapolate if you squinted and tilted your head a little to the left as I'm so used to doing, so in fact there is much to think about!

and my first thought was "this is like when you read early discworld books that ask a question like a joke, only to find that over time the answer to that question becomes very serious (and also can be funny at times of course)." how terry pratchett would pick and pick at tropes and notions and social ideas and go "oh now hold on, this seems strange..." starting way back when he thought it was odd that women warriors always seemed to be dressed in metal bikinis and then realising he hadn't done a good enough job of subverting the trope, simply by depicting it and calling it a bit silly

why do goblins always get treated as the villains? what's with this divine succession of kings business? where are the female dwarfs? who do we treat as disposable?

good omens season one went: "haha what if heaven and hell were intensely incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring of the work they did, and we took an angel and a demon and had them actually care? wouldn't that be... a bit silly?" (and it was)

good omens season two went: "what are the consequences for caring when the people who have power over you are incapable, bureaucratic, corrupt, and uncaring? what are the forces that supersede systems built on fear, ignorance, and violent conformity? can people change and break out of/challenge/break down these structures by caring?"

and this was set up with a neat little sleight of hand (to reference aziraphale's switch-and-bait in the episode with the nazi zombies), because the majority of season 2 does feel a bit indulgent: hey, remember those two wacky angel-and-demon characters? watch some more wacky things they did through the ages, watch them take a sojourn through 1827 Edinburgh and do a magic show during the Blitz, and... stop the death of Job's and Sitis' children (actually maybe that whole segment ought to have been what they call "A Clue")

see them try to figure out a kooky mystery, all the while setting up a cute little same-gender romance on their street. watch as everything points towards a happy ending that's all about the two of them realising what they've been to one another all these thousands and thousands (and thousands and thousands) of years- but hold on. lest we forget - and the show has made this point over and over - there are powerful people who control them, who hurt them, and who plan on hurting others, throughout the whole season, and as it turns out they know what they've been to one another for far far longer, and know how to pull their strings...

season 2 then, has to show us these things, not because they're indulgent (well, maybe occasionally, but the apology dance is still important), but because in order to make the ending a tragedy, we first need to understand, properly, the impact that they have had on each other. we need to understand that Aziraphale relied heavily on Crowley to be his moral compass and leaned on black-and-white thinking in order to deal with things, because if it's all grey then where does he fit and what has it all meant and heaven has to be the good guys, even as Job's and Sitis' children are ordered to be killed, it's all he ever had...

and Crowley was always an anchor, needed to trust that Aziraphale was different, needed to bend to every whim that Aziraphale has, because otherwise what's his worth in all this? After having been already deemed worthless by the heaven that Aziraphale needs to believe in?

and that, simplistically described, is the narrative that we're seeing in s2, and alongside that the ways that the changes they have upon each other are noticed, and monitored, and placed under suspicion, and finally... broken up, not by the clumsy, brute force that's been attempted over and over again, but by a promise to return into a violent, controlling system and to "make it better from within"

and all of this is wrapped up in two queer relationships + a third queered-within-the-text relationship that creates the inverse of how it ends for Aziraphale and Crowley (so far). queer love -- whatever shape that has -- is explicitly the shape of non-conformity within this narrative, including within the symbolism of angel-and-demon love of Gabriel and Beelzebub, which in the context of the systems created is considered queer (and one can argue till the cats come home about casting cis actors, about angel-and-demon notions of gender/romance/sexuality, but the "queerness" comes from building something non-conforming to the systems they exist in), and enforced by the explicitly our-world-definition-of queer romance that Nina and Maggie have going on (which, while less high stakes, still contains the background controlling relationship that Nina initially is in)

all of this to say, that I disagree that s2 meanders, or that plotlines happen for the sake of showcasing Aziraphale and Crowley without purpose, or that characters get sidelined (I'd say it sets up a whole host of interesting characters to further get into actually), or that it's strictly mainstream easy-access narrative that's just an excuse for the main creators and actors to get back together.

the love is the point, and this show takes its time to show the love (and the unequal boundary-setting, and the fact that one of them has an undiscussed tragic backstory, and the desperation to belong again, and the fear instilled by oppressive systems, and and and), so that we understand why those last 15 minutes happen the way that they do

it's sleight of hand, and like all good magic, you don't notice until it's happened

#good omens #go2 #good omens season 2 #neil gaiman #david tennant #michael sheen

1K notes · View notes

imaybe5tupid · 5 days

Text

On the hidden repressed suburban white emo boy darkness in Laios’ heart

LET ME BE CLEAR: i like Laios, this is not a hate post, his flaws and darker parts of who he is round out his character and make him the character I love. Also this isn’t proper meta or analysis just my literal sleepy off the cuff rambling

I think Laios can be very comfortably summed up as someone who feels he was never indulged and the person he is in the series grew over those scars. I really enjoy how much Laios genuinely has a lot of darkness in his heart his emo-boy ness is really underrated. He canonically thought of (and is implied to sometimes still think of) his bullies (and sometimes people in general) like this

Aside being autistic, well into his 20s Laios really inhabits this very imo teenage mindset/outlook thats a combination of outsider and contrarian (the latter secretly). And the Winged Lion sees this immediately for what it is, this idea of being an alienated outsider due to your unique understanding of the world (I don’t mean Laios thinks hes like a nobel prize winner but more that he has a lot of resentment for how the things he’s interested in are not valued in the way he values them) and the percieved dull conformism of others (eg. his father), and how these feelings of his come from a deliberate (as in i feel hes actively trying to make himself think this as a coping mechanism) lack of intellectual and emotional curiosity about people or things that he’s unable to box into this Different category i.e the grass is always greener (of course in addition to his Traumas). For example monsters obviously, but also his fascination with Toshiro’s foreignness, like the island was probably full of strong cool warrior types but they weren’t so distinctly “exotic” (unfortunate but true 😔, many such cases see Japanism and also ironically cause thats how i hc the toudens, the way scandinavia is weirdly idolised by a great deal of the world, or even the way people will see an indie movie set in like small town absolutely anywhere else in the world from where they are and be like waow so cool and different unlike my LAME hometown imagine that meme of the ships thats like their barbaric practices etc.) and an emblem of this cool different world that he could idealise and escape into. Shuro represents a kind of escapist fantasy for Laios, like in addition to just being (to Laios) This Super Nice Guy Who Always Saves Me And Says Yes To Me And Never Gets Mad, he’s also Nothing Like Those Boors from the village/school/ the military. And he probably dgaf about Rin or like Eastern diaspora in Melini and would say offensive things to them running along the lines of what he said to Lycion (“so you only look different on the outside, nothing is different internally , how disappointing”). Like you can compare Kabru’s curiosity towards people which is driven by a genuine passion for humanity, to Laios’ at times objectifying curiosity toward Shuro which is shaped by the pain of the past and immediately see the sickness in the head Laios has lol. Unconsciously, Laios I think can also be a deeply self-centred guy at his core (evidenced by the nature of his curse at the end of the story too haha).

#I like to avoid posting anything but art on here but this idea i dont have an idea rn to portray it succinctly enough that I could do it #in the short time i usually dedicate to my drawings since I dont like spending too long on anything #just enough to convey my feelings is enough for me #but i was really in my laios feelings earlier #laios touden #dungeon meshi #text post

195 notes · View notes

silenceandpatiencepining · 1 month

Text

I am dusting off my little blog here because TTPD has my mind absolutely reeling. I am really wondering if anyone else listened to this and had this feeling that the album confirmed everything that they were thinking was going on with her. I know we talk so much about reading her songs beneath the surface of muses or certain details used to craft a story, but to me, TTPD reads so strongly of her reckoning with her life in the industry. like, it's so much more than the relationships. it's the comp het, it's the religious trauma, it's the being exploited as a child star, it's deep wound of abandonment and neglect when she as a person got split off from her brand and both could not thrive, it's giving everything to this brand and career and fandom and that still never being enough. it's her codependency with the very people that exploit her. it's the fact that she is bigger than she ever imagined and none of it feels how she wanted. it's the simultaneous love and resentment she has towards her family, and relationships, and career, and yes, even her fans.

the rawness of this album, the unrefined feel, the summation poem talking about this as mania, the continuation of the cage imagery and themes of escaping to her mind/fantasy, the coping with criticism, numbing it all with alcohol, the willingness to burn it all down and disgrace her name because none of this is what she wants or at least not how she wants.

I have seen so many criticisms of the album and honestly, I understand where they are coming from, but I also think the things they criticize make the exact point of what this body of work is - something that exists for it's own sake to turn things back on the people that made her into what she is now. art created not to be acclaimed but because it demands to be expressed. it is an exorcism, an expulsion. it is something that erupted from her. and it's so meta because this fandom and the industry are voyeurs in an echo chamber so desperate to see what they want that they miss that this is about them. that is what makes it brilliant to me - it is self-indulgent and metaphorical, and complex, and so direct, but yet still masked just enough that people miss it. her entire life has become performance art. it is a play within a play. and I fear the audience has not caught on.

it feels like she is reclaiming it all. I feel like this could either be a hint at a new beginning or a signal that she has broken and this is the end. this felt like the tell-all memoir written in code that everyone else will finally understand when she really leaves this spotlight. it's the lucky one come to life. she is daydreaming about fucking it all and leaving this life behind so she can finally have some goddamn peace.

I love this album for it as art. it is so expressive. it is so heartbreaking. it's messy and nuanced, and I think it is going way the fuck over most people's heads, especially when you really dig into poetry being the theme and the specific works she references. it's only been a week and I am just starting to really dig in but talk about a fucking iceberg.

#ttpd #tsttpd #tortured poets department

141 notes · View notes

vidavalor · 7 months

Note

Hi! Hope you're having a nice day! So, I love your metas, however, I confess the, idk tecnicalities? logistics? of a twist that they've been together the whole time still puzzle me. What would the narrative purpose of such a reveal be? Why and how would it be put into the story? I guess what I'm saying is I'd really, really like you to be correct but I'm sadly still skeptical that it could actually happen :(

Hi! Thanks for the ask. Hope you're having a nice day yourself. :) I'll give you a cheeky answer and then a real one, if you don't mind. @procrastiel also asked me to talk more about "no nightingales" and it fit into the second half of my answer here so this is kind of a combination ask response to both of you.

This gif below this paragraph here? Yeah, this is *not* the scene from 1.01 that, when decoded from their language, says they're having sex. I am not being sarcastic-- it is *not* this scene. This scene is in that meta (which is being edited, so, soon) because how could it not be, really, but *this scene* is *not* that scene lol and, yet, some people still find the idea of them sleeping together surprising:

Anon, this is, like, the third, joint Crowley & Aziraphale scene in Episode 1.01 and that is consensual, mutually beneficial, kink. One that both has a sense of humor and puts a smile on your face, as Mrs. Sandwich would put it.

Let's thought experiment a bit here. Let's say this is the extent of it. It absolutely is not lol but, for the experiment, let's say it is. Let's say that they've never taken each other to bed, they've never lent each other a hand, so to speak, they've never anything else you're thinking of right now-- nothing. The most significant physical contact they will have ever had pre-2.06 in this thought experiment is holding hands on the bus on the way back from Tadfield which, as we all know, isn't a sexual thing. Anyone can hold hands and it was a long week, but let's say that's it. They would then *still* have a sexual element to their relationship and the show gave you that information in 1.01. What is happening in this scene is a form of sex. It's already in the show that they are having sex. Yeah, they're having more and different sex than this and yeah, there is evidence of it and yeah, meta finished soon, but honestly... there is actually *a lot* of suggestion of Crowley & Aziraphale sleeping together. For now, we'll just talk about this scene here...

Crowley liking to watch is such a thing that it's now a recurring joke on the show. You don't think that "can I watchhhhh" while he follows Aziraphale around the neighborhood in S2 wasn't Crowley self-deprecatingly poking fun at the fact that he's got a bit of a voyeuristic thing happening? "Can I slither over and watch you eat cake?" in Good Omens: Lockdown?... Anon. Girl.

Crowley isn't just scientifically intrigued by Aziraphale eating lunch. He's not just super happy that his pal is having a very delicious meal. He is very, very, very sexually into watching Aziraphale eat...which is to say that he's into watching Aziraphale allow himself to experience pleasure, in the face of the repression of the Heaven mentality... and Aziraphale isn't just indulging this in a one-sided way where, for whatever reason, he lets his best friend of 6,000 years get turned on watching him have lunch but they don't talk about it or something and Aziraphale lets it go because he's got no one else to talk to lol. Aziraphale is equally into this. It's easy to see why and the more the show tells you about Aziraphale, the easier it is.

Aziraphale, into Crowley watching him? Aziraphale, who painted every damn room in his house the color of Crowley's pretty, Va-Va-Voom Yellow eyes? Aziraphale, who has scene after scene after scene after scene of looking irritated and jealous at literally anything else Crowley is ever looking at and calls beautiful? lol That angel is into the undivided attention of the Serpent of Eden, ok?

Crowley made the stars in the sky. He's a creator and an innovator and an engineer and an artist. He's been on Earth since the start and has seen basically everything beautiful humanity has ever made. He drives one of the finest examples of human ingenuity-- his beautiful Bentley. He's seen The Pyramids and watched Da Vinci paint The Mona Lisa and saw first-run Shakespeare performed at The Globe. He has an eye for art and beauty... and he's the original temptress. It was Crowley who tempted Eve into eating the apple and when Eve ate that apple and discovered the pleasures of food, she and Adam created that whole Biblical fruits of knowledge metaphor by getting up to some other forms of pleasure soon after, so, Crowley is basically responsible for free thought and pleasure throughout all of human history since the Garden of Eden... and what drives him out of his mind with want is Aziraphale enjoying himself.

I mean, enjoying his food. Totally just his food. Only his food, Anon. *slight smirk*

Aziraphale is absolutely into that. Crowley likes to watch and Aziraphale likes being watched in that way. Crowley looking at him like he's more beautiful than nebulae and statues of Gabriel is attention that is absolutely welcome by Aziraphale. Two of his favorite things at once-- a luxurious, scrumptious lunch and a turned on Crowley. Aziraphale's ideal day lol. That angel is watching Crowley watch him and loving every minute of it. It's as delicious as his actual lunch. Look at that little glance over at him. C'mon lol.

They do this from time to time. What do you think the results are? What would happen if you kinky-lunched with your best friend and how low are the odds that this is the only sexual thing the two of you have managed to get up to in the 6,000 years you've been on Earth? When one of you is a raging hedonist and the other likes to take beautiful things apart to see how they work?

This scene and its character knowledge is dropped into the middle of the first episode of the show with zero context and 10/10 no notes that was the single most hilarious way this extremely funny show could have ever chosen to do this but this is something the show chose to not only tell us about but to then provide context for in 2.02.

They gave kinky lunch an origin story, Anon lol. They were like also, you should probably know about Bildad at the ox rib special... you see, that hot lunch from 2008 actually started in *2,500 B.C.* when Crowley offered Aziraphale some barbecue and Aziraphale, who had never eaten before, ate an entire ox while Crowley lounged in the corner with a jug of wine and fantasized about being Aziraphale's dinner and before you yell at me, Anon, for sexualizing barbecue when really, sometimes, one just loves a good cookout, I agree with you.

Enjoying food does not have to be a sexual experience. I mean, I've had some pasta that could have given me an orgasm but... what makes ox rib cellar night sexual isn't how much Aziraphale is like omg food is delicious, I eat now, maybe forever, this is amazing. It's how he *looks an aroused Crowley dead in the eye while fully aware of how into watching him Crowley is and then goes back to enjoying his barbecue.*

The next day, he's cracking Crowley up by using the ox ribs in their whole plot to save the kids by having that be what Sitis pulls out of Job's ribs. Gabriel and the angels think sex is rib removal so Crowley and Aziraphale are jointly, from across a room, like the previous night coordinating a kind of pseudo-sex to fool the angels and Aziraphale puts the ox ribs into the pseudo-sex, joking with Crowley about their own sex-that's-not-exactly-traditional-sex-but-was-way-more-sex-than-this from the night before. He winks at Crowley and gives him two thumbs up when he sets up the ox rib bit of it and Bildad was like do not laugh in front of the angels do not laugh in front of the angels...

It was absolutely an intentional joke on Aziraphale's part, poking light fun at their night of figuring out that they have a pair of wildly compatible, mutually arousing kinks that can bring them some fun and showing they have a sense of humor about themselves-- something that is on display a lot, actually.

They're very aware of this and very funny about it and it has been going on since 2,500 B.C., Anon. S2 was just like Bildad at the ox rib special was the first time they had a form of sex, fyi, so yeah, that's why I would not be surprised if S3 has some flashback where they're semi-dressed in Aziraphale's bedroom or something and the implication is that they also have sex that doesn't involve food. The show is also already saying that they do and other scenes already suggest it but we'll save that for the main meta on this topic.

Ok, so my less cheeky, more technical answer :)

To be clear about what I'm saying here so we're on the same page about what S3 could potentially maybe bring... I'm not saying that there's a 25 minute long minisode that's nothing but them getting busy. It would likely be a bit more subtle than that. I say that and then also they did drop food kink into 1.01 and had that hilarious Newt & Anathema scene in S1 so who knows lol but basically, I think there's a flashback in S3 somewhere that is a little more direct about the fact that they've been sleeping together and for a long time. It doesn't need to be anything wild. It doesn't even need to be anything but suggestive of it. A friend of mine thinks it's my The Blitz, Part 3 theory but that they're in bed when Greta gets into the bookshop. All I know is that it's suspicious to me that the only room in the bookshop they haven't really shown us so far is Aziraphale's bedroom. Probably because there's at least some subtle evidence of Crowley in it and they're dragging that out a bit. The one thing I do think though for sure is that we get the vavoom-y first kiss and it being a bonkers amount of time ago, to re-contextualize basically all of their scenes that come after it, which will wind up being most scenes. I don't presume to be correct about details about stuff we haven't seen as I would not dream that I could predict the how, just maybe that I've got the overall vibes right at this point. I won't place any bets about how they'd work in a more direct implication of sex. I might on The Vavoom, though. I've got a solid feeling about that.

For the record, I wouldn't really consider them in bed a twist (as you might have gotten from the tone of this meta lol) but I can see how some people would. If your skepticism is coming at all, even in part, from a place of something like this just not frequently done on tv, I'd say, well, you might have also thought they weren't going to kiss, either, and *gestures in the general direction of Every and doesn't gif it because we've all been through enough* lol. The show is very, very queer-friendly and has a showrunner and actors who seem game enough so none of that is really an impediment to this.

Good Omens is telling its story out of chronological order, for the most part, for what amount to two main reasons: because it lends additional meaning to its themes and because it's fun as hell. The narrative purpose of adding additional context to Crowley & Aziraphale's relationship is to add to your understanding of it because your understanding of it is one of the main ways the show is conveying a lot of its themes. They are the story so adding context to the story to drive meaning is never is not without narrative purpose. By telling the story out of sequence, you wind up engaging your audience to focus more on what you're saying in every scene because you've taught them to look for the layers you're building.

Good Omens told you "no nightingales"-- had Crowley use nightingales and confirm that it's a word in his and Aziraphale's language-- in the same scene in which they showed you them kissing for the first time (and, for them, the worst time lol) to help bury the lede that this other scene earlier in the season is actually telling you about their first kiss. (By setting this up, they now have to show you it, suggesting it's in S3.) The other scene is obviously Crowley taking advantage of the fact that Aziraphale just asked him to play Cupid (and called Crowley romantic in doing so, btw-- "I don't think she [Maggie] knows how to conduct a courtship" implying that Aziraphale feels that Crowley does and that's why Aziraphale has run to his very romantic partner for help). Aziraphale is asking him to help the shop lesbians fall in love and Crowley uses the moment to demonstrate that romantic side by describing back to Aziraphale their first kiss as, to him, the epitome of romance:

Good Omens intentionally shows you stuff and then gives you more context that helps you understand it later. It spent two seasons getting you to know more about nightingales than Sir David Attenborough for the express purpose of eventually answering your question in 2.06. The question: do all these references to these romantic birds really mean that Crowley & Aziraphale are aware of them and the nightingales mean something to them or are the nightingales just a metaphor for them?

And even if a part of you was still going awfully interesting choice of metaphor since this is all romantic as all hell the whole time, you're still not sure until 2.06 if it's symbolism and metaphor and if the show is ever going to weave it totally into Crowley & Aziraphale directly, even if a few clues seem to suggest that they have been doing so all along. Like that "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" is playing on the piano at The Ritz in S1 (implying one of them either asked or magically influenced the pianist to play it, implying that it's their song/a song with meaning to them/their parallel to Ineffable Bureaucracy's "Everyday", as we'd say after S2.) Most significantly, that Aziraphale in 1967 seems to be referencing it in a coded way when he tells Crowley that maybe, one day, in the future, they could dine at the Ritz, in a scene that's almost impossible to read as anything but a discussion about their relationship.

Cut to 2.06 when Crowley busts this out:

The show is now like remember when we taught you that nightingales are symbolic of romance? Well, we had to so that you'd understand that here is nightingales being used by Crowley as the shorthand word in their language for their romance. We taught you that dining at the Ritz is the act of trying to live live a little more openly with that romance, as well as meaning to literally dine at the Ritz, and that it's a reference to the lyric in "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square." Here's Crowley talking about it. Here's him using the word nightingales in a coded way and Aziraphale understanding him. Here's confirmation of this word existing between them as the word they use when talking about this romance of theirs long before this scene in 2.06 takes place. Here's confirmation that they are in a romantic relationship with one another. Crowley using "nightingales" and Aziraphale understanding him means that it means their romantic relationship in their language... which means they have a word for their romantic relationship in their language... which is to say that they have a romantic relationship.

People do have romantic relationships without having kissed one another before or without having sex but do beings who kinky lunch? Probably not. No nightingales recontextualizes the kiss in its same scene for us the way that Crowley lifting the magic for a moment as he walked away in Job's courtyard recontextualized what had happened earlier in that scene for Aziraphale. When Crowley got Aziraphale to see the crows were the key, Aziraphale understood what had just happened in the scene. When, in 2.06, Crowley says no nightingales, it's for us, this time. Not Aziraphale. He already knows how to speak their language. Even if it's the first time *you've* seen them kiss, no nightingales exists to show you that it's not the first time they ever have.

You don't have a word in a secret language unless you need it. You don't talk about a romantic relationship with one another that you don't have. Crowley pointing to Heaven the way he did when he had Muriel arrest him and saying no nightingales is Crowley saying their romantic relationship, at that moment, felt incompatible with Aziraphale going to Heaven. Heaven means no nightingales-- no romance. He doesn't know how they can continue *the romantic relationship that they already have* if Aziraphale is leaving.

2.06 is not their first kiss; it is probably the worst kiss they've ever had and they've had thousands. It was desperation in the failure of surface communication and double speak alike both seeming to fail them in the moment. Aziraphale touches his mouth with a shaking hand after Crowley leaves and thinks about how he wants him to come back and do it again because imagine loving your soulmate for six millennia and it's going to end with that kiss. This is not a show that's going to permanently break your heart here. Everyone basically already knows how it ends and it's sweet. It's called Good Omens. You really think a show like this is going to make these two adorable supernatural dorks that are its protagonists have had a depressing first kiss? Especially when they're already hinting at how they're going to reveal in S3 that it was really the complete opposite of one? And that it was a really, really long time ago...

If you look back on the nightingales references prior to this, right, you realize that this word has existed in their vocabulary for a long time. "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" was playing on the piano at the end of S1 so nightingales was already in their vocabulary then. They were already involved romantically in S1. The scene as they agree to go to lunch ahead of the end of S1 has Aziraphale saying that they should go to The Ritz and when we get in there and see them at lunch, we realize we've already been here with them in the first episode and that the show chose to only tell us in the season 1 finale. They tell you things and then add in context to give them additional layers of meaning later.

They dined at The Ritz in 2008 for the first time in 1.01, doing what Aziraphale had suggested in 1.03, so there are nightingales in the beginning, middle and end of S1 pretty directly. Aziraphale having suggested this in 1967 means that nightingales already meant romance to them then. It's *why* Aziraphale uses dining at the Ritz to describe having that more open romance as something he would like-- literally and metaphorically. It comes from the song, which was first performed in 1940. It suggests that the references to this song for them probably tie to The Blitz in 1941, which we almost certainly have a Part 3 to coming in S3. It would be a safe bet "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" is in it somewhere. Whatever happens then will also wind up re-contextualizing the "no nightingales" moment and adding additional meaning to it that we don't yet know but we know enough already to understand that nightingales = romance.

But when Crowley says no nightingales in 2.06, he frames it by asking Aziraphale to stop and listen, in a reference to the formation of their secret language in the Job courtyard. In a reference to those other birds-- crows-- that hid the goats and formed the basis of Crowley's name. Nightingales and dining at the Ritz might have existed for them since WW2 as words but there were other words that pre-date it and by framing the nightingales comment in such a way as to also reference Job, it's a reminder of how their romance isn't new. It's thousands of years old. The crows were nightingales, long before they ever admitted it, let alone got a song.

World's hottest, most romantic buddy comedy, I tell ya...

#ineffable husbands #good omens meta #good omens #good omens 2 #aziracrow

173 notes · View notes

asimplearchivist · 10 months

Text

‘ 𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓵 𝓶𝔂 𝓿𝓸𝓲𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓷𝓮 . ’

𝐂𝐇. 𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ steven, unbeknownst to him, meets the love of his life at one of its lowest points. pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader word count ☾ 15.7k a/n ☽ [gif credit] ⤏ aka my personal love letter to one steven grant (and myself, because I want to be loved like I love just once).⤏ i am going to be completely honest on this one, guys: this is a borderline self-insert fic that is 100% self-indulgent on my part bc i have felt like shit the last two months and want to treat myself. ⤏ i kept it as a reader-insert because a) some people (including myself) enjoy experiencing different ‘pov’s of reader-inserts, per se; b) it’s easier to be kinder to and romanticize myself when it’s ‘not me’; and c) i feel that it’s still vague/inclusive enough to be counted as a general reader-insert versus labeling it strictly as a self-insert/original character. i really only describe personality traits and the reader being petite, really (bc nothing comforts my 5’0” ass more than knowing i would actually be able to kiss the boys without craning my neck all the way back tbh). i use a few southern colloquialisms, too, just fyi. :) ⤏ typical moon knight fanfic disclaimer: I don’t claim to know very much about did beyond what I’ve gleaned from both the show, the various meta posts I’ve read on tumblr, and from other fanfics themselves, so please forgive and correct me on any glaring discrepancies/issues I may have presented here (or link me any posts that discuss more accurate representations of did, perhaps—that’d be greatly appreciated). some of the terminology/technicalities escape me. I tried my best to get their voices and characterizations just right, and I sincerely hope I succeeded bc they’re very special to me. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ ☥ ⤏ NEXT CHAPTER ☽

The first time Steven met you, it was strictly by happenstance.

He had always considered himself a man with many friends. Although his routine was relatively simple compared to other Londoners who thrived in social settings and spent all of their free time anywhere but home to mingle and chase tail, he had familiar faces he saw frequently. He committed their names to memory when they’d give them off-handedly, he made a point to speak to them in passing even if he or they were otherwise occupied, and he kept a mental list composed of all the details he was able to glean strictly from observation when they didn’t readily volunteer the information.

Perhaps it was a little silly. All lot of them had trouble remembering him, sure, but he couldn’t hold it against them—tons of people had trouble keeping track of faces and people. Sure, JB never quite got his name right even after Steven had worked at the museum for a couple of months by now, but he was a busy man monitoring the security cameras all day long and stayed distracted (with his infatuation with otters, no less—as endearing of a trait as any for someone with a secret soft side). Donna stayed in a tizzy, always worked up over something beyond her control (Steven couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be dealing with the higher-ups trying to meet goals and attempting to exceed them). He didn’t really dislike them for it, even if it had grown rather grating as of late. (Even if it would only take them both a moment to look at his conveniently given and placed nametag.)

Crowley didn’t talk much, all part of the gig, so Steven didn’t hold their one-sided conversations against him, either. The gentleman with the broom cart (whose name Steven never had managed to catch, as gruff as he was) seemed only to ever respond with grunts. The security guards, the tour guides, the usual suspects on the morning and night bus rides…Steven interacted with them all, and they had enough good graces to acknowledge it most of the time.

Over time, however, as his dreams (or perhaps more aptly named nightmares) grew more vivid and more bizarre, as he seemed to lose track of time more and more (how exactly does one manage to miss an entire weekend when one isn’t a blackout drunk?), and as Steven’s anxiety led him into taking more and more precautions to make sure his self-diagnosed sleepwalking disorder didn’t strand him on the other side of London (again), it became more readily apparent that those people with whom he took such care to converse did not seem particularly inclined to return the favor. Sure, he’d accidentally nodded off a few times leaning on the other passengers in the morning bus, ran a little late at times getting to the museum (much to Donna’s ever-increasing ire), and maybe got a little carried away with his nattering when he got invested in something he was excited to share information about, but…would it really kill someone just to respond long enough to reassure him that he wasn’t virtually invisible?

It was one such morning after he overslept, convinced he was late, and worked himself into a right and proper state trying to get to the museum on time that he realized that it was, in fact, Sunday, not Saturday. Much to his bewilderment but proven by his phone, the museum stood barren and closed, doors locked and lights off. He stood at the entrance staring at his dumbfounded expression in the glass for a good five minutes, thoughts racing as he tried to recall anything about the previous day. There was no way he slept an entire day, right? He hadn’t been staying up too late trying to manage his disorder, even if he had been running a little tired lately.

His distress was punctuated by a fat, chilly droplet landing right on his nose. The early spring weather was unseasonably cold this year, leading to an abnormally wet season (as if rain could ever be abnormal in London, but the meteorologists remained convinced), and within seconds of Steven turning and trotting down the steps the skies parted and released their torrential downpour as if just to spite him specifically. Everyone else in the immediate vicinity, if they weren’t holed up in their cars or the myriad establishments bordering the museum district, already had their umbrellas up to shield themselves from the frigid onslaught, ambling along and circumnavigating the puddles lingering from the storm the night before..

Steven shrank into his coat, tugging the collar up and over his head as best he could as he crossed the street and aimed for the first building he saw with its neon, ivory OPEN sign glowing against the gloom—on the corner directly across from the museum entrance. The door was heavy, the handle cold enough he was surprised his palm didn’t stick to it, but he managed to pry it open and tumble inside.

A few people glanced up from their tables to give him a range of skeptical to humored looks before going about their business. Steven hedged to the side of the door in case someone else came in, dripping onto the old hardwood with no small amount of regret.

It was a coffee shop. Comfortingly warm against his numb face, he basked in the scents of espresso and sweets permeating the place. His attention was caught by the bookshelves on the wall to his right, and he was entranced—all until a barista slipped out from the kitchen and addressed him with a croon. “Oh, goodness, look like the weather caught you!”

Steven almost accidentally ignored you thinking that you were talking to someone else (for so rarely did someone speak to him in a tone that wasn’t irritated or dismissive). After his cursory glance in your direction, he did a double-take, realizing you were looking right at him.

“Yeah, I—looked at the forecast wrong, methinks!” he responded sheepishly (and he had—he’d been expecting Saturday’s overcast mist, not Sunday’s shower). “I’m makin’ a right mess, aren’t I? I should probably go before I warp the stain—”

“No! No, just wait a second.” You raised a placating palm before dipping below sight behind the counter. You emerged and rounded the corner next to the display case holding a towel, walking right up to him and offering it to him with a sympathetic smile. “I can’t count the number of times I thought I could beat Mother Nature,” you joked. “It sucks that it’s been so cold on top of it. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten sick.”

Steven accepted it graciously, muttering his earnest thanks as he went about mopping up his sopping curls. Once he’d wiped all the rain he could off of him, he handed it back to you. “Hope I don’t get one, neither,” he responded. “It just wouldn’t do to catch cold in the middle of all this, would it? No.”

You chuckled a bit, eyes glittering with mirth. “Maybe it’ll help if I get you something hot to drink?”

Steven glanced at the menu hanging on the wall behind the counter, eyes rounding a little at the prices. He’d overspent on books again after payday, so he was having to be a bit more frugal this week than usual. “Oh, no, don’t go to the trouble, I’ll just call a cab and get a ride home before it gets too bad.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” you assured him, wringing the towel between your hands. You hesitated only a heartbeat before you leaned in a little closer, smile turning a bit bashful. “I’ll make it on the house, how’s that sound?”

Steven normally considered himself one to give where charity was concerned, but he had to admit that the sound of something warm on his urgently empty stomach was divine at the moment. He cleared his throat, glancing towards the other customers still wrapped up in their own little worlds. “No, I couldn’t—wouldn’t want anyone jealous that they’re not gettin’ the special treatment, you know.”

“It can be our little secret,” you offered quietly, winking conspiratorially at him.

He blinked, heat creeping up into his face. “Oh, well. If you insist, then…just this once?”

“All right.” Your smile lit up your entire face, and you headed back behind the counter to deposit the towel in an unseen hamper.

Steven followed, training his eyes on the menu—the standard fare was reasonable, with alternative options for dietary restrictions. A lot of the custom concoctions did seem lovely, and he was a tad surprised to discover that they served breakfast and lunch, also—with vegan options, most notably. “Wow, I never even knew this place existed. I must’ve been walkin’ right by it this whole time.”

“Do you work at the museum?” you inquired, folding your arms over the counter and propping your chin up in your palm.

“I do, actually,” he beamed, though it was dashed a tad with his next confession. “I want to be a tour guide one day—you know, I’ve been studyin’ up for it and all—but they’ve got me in the gift shop. For now! They said they’d move me up with a new position becomes available.” They said that they would consider him for the role, but Steven clung to his hope that they’d soon realize how bloody good he’d be at it, as hard as he’d been working for it for so long.

“You always have to start somewhere,” you replied warmly. You gestured to the shop around you. “This is just to hold me over ‘til I’m finished up.”

“Are you a transfer student?” Steven asked.

Your brow rose slightly, but your smile didn’t waver. “How observant. Most people ask me how I got lost on this side of the pond.”

“It isn’t often I see Americans anywhere but in the more touristy spots,” he agreed, “but the university is quite prestigious. You must be very academically successful if you landed a transfer scholarship like that.”

“It took a lot of work,” you admitted, “but it’s been worth it. I never thought I’d do anything like this, and I would’ve laughed at you a couple of years ago if you’d told me I’d move this far away from home. I’ve never really been the traveling type, but I’m so grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to do so.”

“What are you studyin’?” Steven inquired. An English major, perhaps—you struck him as the literary type with your articulation, despite your soft, southern drawl.

“Oh.” Your face darkened and you fiddled with the hem of your sweatshirt—dark gray, warm flannel, with a silver astronomical design embroidered into the front. “Well. I went to a university back home and got a degree in writing—” Nailed it! “—but I was notified at graduation that I qualified for this so I thought why not? It’s a bit self-indulgent, really, as I’ve always been a history nut, but I’m, um…” You reached up and scratched the nape of your neck, glancing away as though embarrassed. “...focusing on Egyptology?”

Steven’s brows shot halfway up his forehead. “No kiddin’!”

“Nope,” you confessed, a bit sheepish. “I picked up a book with pictures of King Tutankhamun’s treasures when I was three and I’ve been in love with it since. Maybe it’s a little niche, but it makes me happy—I’m taking other history classes, too, so I’ll end up with an Ancient History major with a minor in Egyptology—that’s just my main focus since I always wanted to be an Egyptologist when I was little. I don’t know that I could ever stand the heat, though, so I’m happy with writing in the comfort of my own home.”

“No, that’s great!” he raved, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m a bit of a history buff meself! The museum has a huge Egyptology exhibit coming up next month, so I’ve been brushin’ up on it all. You know, in case I get to audition.”

“Oh, yeah?” you tried, emerging from your shell just a bit. “Do you have a favorite period?”

“New Kingdom, definitely,” he said immediately. His heart was thrumming, and he was trying (in vain) to contain at least the majority of his enthusiasm. “There’s just so much material to go through. All the texts recovered from Deir el-Medina fascinate me to no end!”

“Yeah, Paneb was a right bastard,” you joked. “He had the whole town stirred up all the time. But we’re not going to talk about Ea-Nasir.”

“Oh, yeah—imagine keepin’ all your hate mail for posterity,” he returned, strumming his fingers against the inside of his sleeves. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m an Old Kingdom gal,” you said with a chuckle. “Pepi II’s letter about the pygmy won me over. Not to mention all the drama with Teti’s assassination. The workmen’s village at Giza? Oh, how could I pick one thing?”

Finally! Finally, it felt like Steven was talking to someone that spoke his language!

“It’s really hard to, isn’t it?” His stomach was starting to grumble. He cleared his throat, tamping down his anticipation just enough to concentrate on the matter at hand. He glanced up at the menu again, a little remiss with some of the unfamiliar choices—most of those displayed were coffee, but he’d been trying to curb himself off of it in favor of cutting out caffeine altogether for a better sleep schedule. “I, um…sorry, got a little sidetracked there. What would you recommend that’s decaf?”

“Oh, I love chai,” you told him. “Most of the teas we carry are decaf, though we do have decaf coffee, too. We’ve got all the usuals like chamomile, mint, Earl Grey…” You tilted your head slightly. “I’ve been avoiding caffeine since I was a teenager—it makes me antsy.”

“How do you normally take your chai?” he queried, curious.

“As an iced latte,” you said. “Cold foam, cinnamon, whole milk. I like it warm, too, especially this time of year, but there’s something about it iced that I can’t seem to part from—maybe that’s the southern upbringing in me.” You gestured to the equipment behind you. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yeah, sure! But with oat milk, please?”

“You’ve got it, darlin’,” you beamed, and set to work immediately. “I usually drink a small since it’s a bit sweet, that okay?”

“Certainly.”

Never would Steven have thought that he’d find such a deeply kindred soul a stone’s throw away from his workplace he’d never even noticed before today. He had to confess that he was charmed by you almost instantly. It had been a while since he’d met someone so engaging and open—not to mention generous and drop-dead gorgeous to boot! Ironic, really, that the foreigner was treating him more kindly than his native kinsmen. What did the Americans say about southern hospitality?

“Thank you so much,” he said when you returned with the cup and set it in front of him. “It looks great!”

“Go ahead and try it,” you suggested, “and if you don’t like it, I’ll replace it for you with something else.”

Steven had absolutely no intention of telling you to your face that he disliked your favorite beverage, even if he did decide it wasn’t to his taste—much less make you go out of your way to make him another free drink. But as he sipped the heady, sweet mixture the spices melted over his tongue. Despite being served cold, the flavors warmed his mouth and settled cozily into his belly.

“Oh,” he suspired, licking the foam from his lips, “that’s lovely. You’ve won a convert.”

Your smile was nearly blinding with delight. “I’m glad! It’s not for everyone, certainly, but those who do like it always seem to love it. No in between, I guess.”

Steven resisted the urge to suck the entire thing down, folding it between his hands instead as he committed more details of your appearance to memory. Your black apron was a bit big for your frame, dwarfing you a bit, but your sweatshirt did, too—your jeans were well-fitted but not snug. You were wearing very little makeup, just a touch around the eyes, but it emphasized your lashes like a fawn’s. While comfortable, if a bit plain, your ensemble made you seem like the epitome of homey.

“How long have you lived in London?” he asked after another delightful sip.

“Since the start of spring semester,” you said. “It was a big adjustment to show up at the tail end of winter, but I think I’ve gotten the hang of it now for the most part. I still get lost occasionally, but that’s why Google Maps was invented. I’d be up a creek without a paddle without it.” You leaned against the counter again, bracing yourself on the stained surface and gazing up at him as if there existed no other person in the world. “I live right next to the campus, but I work here to get away even though my scholarships carry most of my bills and fees. Ironic, though, ‘cause I don’t exactly consider myself a socialite.”

“You’ve fooled me,” he said with a chuckle. “Bit odd bein’ an ambivert, yeah?”

“I really only talk a lot when I get excited or when I’m with people I’m comfortable being around,” you confessed shyly. “I’ve been told I talk too much about stuff nobody really cares about, so I try not to bother anyone.”

“Now who on earth would have gone and told you that?” he pressed, heart aching all the while. How many times had he been told the very same thing, sometimes with less polite wording?

“Oh, not exactly like that,” you rectified in a hurry, “it’s just…you can tell, you know? When someone isn’t really paying attention to anything you’re saying. I usually get interrupted anyway, so sometimes I find it easier just to keep quiet.” Your skin darkened again, and cleared your throat as you dipped your face to conceal it with a hand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I went into all that. See? Rambling too much—words got away from me.”

It was like looking into a mirror—so much so that Steven almost felt a bit of deja-vu.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he said softly. “I understand completely—really, I do. Better than you might think.”

You raised your gaze back up to him, and he understood at once why the philosophers and poets both waxed so romantic on the concept of windows to the soul. He could see your tenderness, your diffidence, your sincerity all there in your jewel-like eyes.

“People talkin’ over you all the time,” he continued with a low murmur, looking down at the cup when the intensity of your stare grew too much—just like looking directly into the sun, “actin’ like you’re invisible or somethin’. Gets frustratin’, yeah? Couldn’t even bother to act like you’re there, could they? No. Seems like too much to ask.”

“Yeah,” you said somberly, but when Steven dared a glance up at you, your expression was one of complete understanding. Never before had he felt so seen. “It doesn’t help when you’re really not a people person to begin with.”

And now that Steven considered it more deeply, he realized that you were right—why did he prefer to stay home rather than go out? Keeping company with a goldfish certainly wasn’t an extrovert’s definition of a good time. Hell, the only reason he really went out of his way to engage with those on the fringes of his daily routine was because he felt it was rude not to because of constant exposure, not because he was itching to have the conversations themselves. He worried constantly that he’d overshare or annoy people, when most wouldn’t even think of it.

He let out a soft laugh, pressing a palm across his forehead.

You quirked a brow, your expression perking up just a bit at the sound. “What?”

“I just realized I’m not really a people person, either,” he said, shaking his head. “Thought all this time everyone else was just awkward at social interaction.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, and there was that ephemeral sparkle of mirth back in your eyes. “Well. Better late than never, right?”

“Right.” He paused, then set the drink on the counter to fish around in his pocket for his wallet. “Here, since you’ve been an absolute angel—”

“Oh, no, please,” you said, waving your palms at him in an attempt to dissuade him, “it was my pleasure. Finding someone else as big of a nerd about Ancient Egypt was tip enough, thank you. You’ve made my whole day.”

And even though his morning thus far had been an utter disaster, Steven believed that you had made his entire day, too.

“Well, all right.” He pointed a finger at you with a wry, toothy grin. “But next time you won’t be able to talk me out of it.”

“Next time?” you echoed, and the unadulterated hope in your eyes made his heart clench.

“Yeah,” he said, “where else will I be able to order the ambrosia of the gods? And nerd out about ancient civilizations? Not all baristas carry a double-edged sword like you do.”

You bit your lip, rolled the hem of your sleeve between your fingertips, and looked down and away. “Oh, stop it. It’s really just a hobby.” You gave him another cheeky smile. “But, if it would make a difference to you, since you seem the type…” You leaned in across the counter, and Steven found himself copying the action as though you had magnetized him. “...there’s a bookstore upstairs, too.”

Oh, bloody Nora, as if you weren’t already perfect enough.

It wasn’t until Steven returned home, soaked to the bone and shivering from the cold that seeped into his bones after running from the cab into the apartment building, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask you for your name. And he was normally so reliable about it, too! He kicked himself for it the rest of the day. He hadn’t even looked to see if you’d been wearing a name tag (pretty sure you weren’t, because he would have noticed it, surely), but he had been so disarmed by you in general that every other thought had flown from his brain.

After that, with the scribbled ingredients on the cup immortalized forever via a picture saved on his phone, he developed a fast habit of stopping by there at least three times a week. He had to rearrange his budget just a tad to ensure it did not turn into blatant overspending, but all the teas were excellent and the food was even better. Oftentimes he’d grab at least one meal from there one the days he did decide to go, which varied depending on how terribly he’d slept the night before. Most of the time he opted for lunch since he was afforded only a half-hour break and it was the closest spot to the museum. (The vending machines didn’t have much in the way of variety, vegan options notwithstanding.)

He learned your name the next time he saw you, which had taken a couple of separate attempts—evidently you’d been filling in for someone else for extra hours that dreary morning, as you usually came in for the closing shift during the week due to your morning classes, and typically were station in the bookstore upstairs, at that. You’d confessed that a lot of the part-timers were still inexperienced, and the staff oscillated so much that you had to juggle multiple positions throughout the week in order for the business to keep up efficiency.

Steven decided, at some indeterminate point a couple of weeks later, that you must be sunshine incarnate. Even if there was barely any daylight seeping through the brumous mantle looming over the sleepy city, you lit up the place with your warm smile, easy laughter, and gentle soul. He could spend countless hours talking to you, although he was usually only limited to the time allotted between him ordering and someone else coming in to do the same. After he got off work late after inventory (again), on the rare occasion that he’d missed lunch and needed supper, you gave him some of the free handouts the employees were allowed to take home and let him sit and talk while you locked the place up.

It was just so easy. Where he’d struggled to even introduce himself properly without making himself out to be a bumbling fool with everyone else with whom he’d interacted, fighting against an invisible current of perceived disapproval and rejection, engaging with you was as natural as breathing. You shared so many adjacent passions with him, the both of you had never once run out of topics to peruse. When either you or he would bring up something with which the other was unfamiliar, all ears would be given in total enrapturement. You got him. You understood him. It was such a relief to have finally found someone with whom he felt comfortable enough to natter on about the Edwin Smith papyrus for a solid thirty minutes without ever losing interest. Neither still had he stopped to imagine what it would be like to be so caught up in what someone else had to say, because you sure knew a hell of a lot about mythology, too—listening to your humored yet romanticized renditions of the tales delighted him to no end.

Your book recommendations were always impeccable, likewise—although you did primarily focus on fiction unless conducting research for your own books, your taste in storytelling relied upon well-developed, detailed, and impactful characters that carried the plot rather than the other way around. (You seemed to genuinely enjoy all of his recommendations, too, despite your general avoidance of nonfiction other than history, much to his relief.) You had a soft spot for romance, whether it was found in modern, historical fiction, fantasy, or sci-fi settings, and Steven took careful note of your mentioned favorite stories, scenes, and characters when he read them himself. You’d both even started annotating and trading books to exchange reviews, and your infectious adoration of certain authors and series decidedly did not help his book collecting problem—although you confessed that you shared the same issue (only to your bank account, though). The used section of the bookstore upstairs was his dream, really—he never thought he’d manage it, naively, but he was actually starting to run out of bookshelves in his flat.

You were fiercely intelligent, hilariously witty, and unbelievably kind—a breath of fresh air where London normally left him suffocated. You were the one ray of sunlight that could pierce the gloom that would encroach on the fringes of his mood no matter how badly he felt. Visiting you was the one routine that kept him grounded, even when he only seemed to lose track of more and more time as he went along—it kept him sane, seeing the way your whole face would light up like a supernova whenever he’d slip through the door. It made him feel normal.

So when a full month had flown by since your first meeting (a happenstance for which Steven would be eternally grateful), he found himself relying on your anchoring presence more and more. The occasions that he was waking up from sleepwalking in completely random places around London were increasing at a worrying rate. No matter how many additional precautions he added to his flat in feeble attempts to keep track of and prevent the episodes (each one perhaps sillier than the last), he never could seem to determine any rhyme or reason for them. His dreams (and sometimes they edged into the territory of nightmares) were growing more frighteningly vivid and visceral by the night, even if he was following every technique suggested by Google to help mitigate his condition.

The evidence was stacking up more rapidly against everything that he’d thought he knew than Steven could neither comprehend nor keep up with—despite thinking that nothing about him could ever be anything but ordinary, a small part of him was truly starting to wonder whether he’d somehow dodged a psychiatric diagnosis all of his life. He felt like he was going mad, watching the lines between what he’d thought were conjurations of his sleep-deprived mind and what he’d been convinced was reality inexplicably blurring beyond any conceivable recognition. ( Was he mad? Had he always been mad?)

Dreaming that he had woken up in the Alps with a frankly ludicrous series of events following shortly thereafter was one thing—the angry booming voice in his head notwithstanding. Discovering that Gus had been mysteriously replaced overnight was another (because there was no way he had regrown a fin—he’d double-checked every pet site reputable enough). Finding out that he had lost track of an entire weekend, accidentally standing up a date he didn’t even recall initiating in the process, almost pushed him over the edge—it had certainly dragged him to it, nevertheless.

Then the secret compartment in his flat, the burner phone and mysterious key, the countless missed calls from a stranger named Layla, who had sounded so deathly worried about whoever in the bloody hell Marc was…Steven didn’t even want to think about the second new voice in his, grave and severe and sounding a little too much like his own to be of any significant comfort, or the mummified apparition of a plague doctor, or Lovecraftian eldritch horror, or previously undocumented cryptid that suddenly decided to start haunting him, for that matter.

But Harrow was real. His odd little cane with the creepy, glowy eyes was real. The magic scales tattoo on his arm that moved without him flexing his arm and changed colors on its own was real. His followers were very, very real. That jackal, with the frothing, rabid, snapping teeth and the milky, glassy eyes and the malnourished, gangly limbs and the wicked, scrabbling claws and the deathly, musty stench was, somehow, terrifyingly real, despite having been invisible to the security cameras.

The security cameras that had captured Steven’s own grim scowl, resolute brow, and defiant, dark eyes—but it wasn't Steven, because he didn’t look like that, even though he shared the same face with the stranger on the footage.

Marc. His name was Marc.

Why is he stuck in my bloody head?

Marc’s property damage, somehow having managed to kill the ghastly creature, if the lack of physical remains and other evidence indicated, and save his life ( ...their lives?) in the process—and at the very least, Marc had kept his word on that front—ultimately cost Steven his job. Several thousand pounds’ worth of property damage, in fact, which somehow Steven was going to have to be able to afford paying off (in increments, at least) to avoid legal prosecution—while also being suddenly and unexpectedly unemployed.

Bloody hell. The not-so-patient request to turn in his bloody nametag had somehow stung more than the pamphlet handed to him boasting the most excellent psychiatric care in the city.

(...He was mad, wasn’t he…? How had he not known? How had he missed all the signs?)

Left remiss with very few ears into which to confide, he spoke in Crowley, always the listening sort. He expelled his tizzied thoughts until he was able to regather them into some vague semblance of order, and decided his next course of action: to chase the one lead he had to hopefully deduce whoever Marc was. It seemed simple enough, although daunting. A simple image search would take him to the location associated with the logo attached to the keychain, perhaps the only source of answers to all the questions brimming in his harried head.

He wanted to know. (But should he?) He had to know. (...Did he really?)

Reeling with inconsolable stress, insurmountable anxiety, precarious emotions, and now the tumultuous internal debate of whether to delve into the affairs which Marc had warned him very explicitly not to, Steven turned to the only other person whose word he valued and trusted above all others in his immediate vicinity (save, perhaps, his mum).

It was mid-afternoon by the time he crept into the coffee shop, and fortunately it was vacant as a couple of university students breezed past him with paper sacks laden with books tucked into their arms and laughing raucously as they headed back out into the sunny spring day. Another barista was slumped behind the counter scrolling on her phone, so Steven knew you were stationed upstairs instead.

He picked his way gingerly up the winding wooden staircase, wincing every time his weight caused a plank to creak in protest. He avoided looking at the narrow windows for fear of seeing any more reflected shapes in them that he couldn’t control, eyes trained resolutely on his feet as he focused on regulating his harsh breathing in an attempt to manage his racing heart.

It was in this way that he ran right into you upon stepping into the bookstore proper. You carried a stack of new prints taller than your head and nearly dropped them all upon impact. Steven’s arms latched out to steady them and you, apologies already spilling from his lips before he could even think of a comprehensible reaction. “Oh, bullocks, sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I should’ve been watchin’ where I was going— bloody hell, where’s my mind?”

“Steven,” you laughed breathlessly, recognizing his subdued voice and fluttering hands without even seeing him, “it’s okay! No harm done, see? Not a one dropped.” You lugged them over to the display table and set them down on the vacant surface with a soft grunt, swiping your sleeve over your shining forehead. “Whew! Updating all the new publications is a pain. My back’s killing me. I’ll definitely regret all this tomorrow.” You turned back to him, all sunshine and smiles with your terracotta sweater and the gold hoop earrings (clip-ons, he knew, because you’d never had them pierced) dangling amongst the loosened locks framing your face. “It seems a little early for your lunch break, Steven. Are you off today or have I just managed to lose track of time again?”

Your innocuous, innocently humored phrasing should not have sent him spiraling again, but…after the last week of hell that he’d endured, who in their right mind (because he surely wasn’t in his) could blame him for the already tenuous grip on reality he’d been clinging to with only whitened knuckles and sheer force of will?

Your expression fell instantly as tears welled more quickly in his eyes than he could reign them back in, slipping over his cheeks.

“Sorry! I’m so sorry,” he blurted, face burning as he reached up to swipe away the undeniable evidence of his breakdown—in front of you, of all people, Christ alive, he really was losing it—with the edge of his sleeve…to no avail. More tears followed immediately thereafter, blurring his vision, dripping from his chin as he ducked his head and buried his face behind his covered hands. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what’s come over me, I—”

There was a split second of silence on your end, though he scarcely noticed it but for his pulse raging in his ears and the deafening roar of his thoughts deafening him to any other sound. He barely registered your urgent call over your shoulder further into the bookstore, muffled by the harsh rasp of air dragging in and out of his lungs faster than he could dictate. He was shaking all over, adrenaline coursing through him a kilometer a minute, and his knees were on the verge of giving out from beneath him.

The warmth of your fingers curling gently—always so gentle, you were—around his wrists provided just enough of a distraction to open his eyes again, almost afraid of what he might see. But as you tugged his hands away from his dampened face, standing so close that your clothes were brushing against his and your breath fanned over his face, your eyes drew him in and dragged his thundering thoughts to a murky but much more manageable muddle.

Your brow was wrinkled with worry, mouth set in one of the few frowns he’d ever seen on your otherwise sunny disposition (even when harassed to no end by customers of the ruder variety, although your customer service smile was, decidedly, much colder and not nearly as welcoming). Your eyes were brimming with questions, but you uttered none of them, only, “Come on, there’s a quiet corner in the back.”

Steven allowed you to lead him by the hand like a child through the winding, ceiling-length bookcases into a musty reading niche set up with a lounge chair and ottoman next to a window spilling golden light onto the floor and highlighting every mote of dust that floated through its brilliant stream. You guided him to sink into the chair with a light hand on his shoulder, adjusting the ottoman back to give you enough room to sit directly in front of him. Your knees pressed into his, and when he shakily extended his trembling, open palms with a desperate snivel most people would have found repelling, you only laced your fingers with his and squeezed his hands tight enough to let him know that he could do the same.

“What’s wrong, Steven?” you murmured, beseeching him with your fractaled irises—the sunlight was illuminating every last shade and striation of color in them, more brilliant a palette than the shade ever granted justice. It gilded the edges of your features and the sweep of your fawn-like lashes in gold leaf. “Did something happen?”

Boy, didn’t everything happen—all during one weekend, no less?

The broken, wet laugh that leapt from his lips didn’t startle you, but it did make him jump. He lowered his gaze to focus on your hands clasped firmly in his, studying the creases in your palms, the whorls and arches of your fingerprints on your fingertips, and the light, faded smattering of scars in between—all to avoid the magnetic intensity of your gaze. “What hasn’t happened?” he croaked, throat burning with the effort it took to speak without loosing the gut-wrenching sob clawing ferociously at the pit of his belly. “I can’t sleep, I ruined my date, I lost my goldfish, I managed to get fired from the most pathetic excuse of a job anyone could get for something I didn’t even do, and I think I’m quite literally going mad.” He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, feeling more tears slip out and trickle down his flushed cheeks. “Nothin’ seems real anymore. I can’t keep track of time. I’m seein’ things that would make an asylum patient have nightmares, but then it’s all comin’ back and tryin’ to eat me, and—” He clamped his mouth shut with a whimper, dropping his chin to his sternum to shut out the intrusive thoughts digging into the back of his mind. He unconsciously ripped his hands free from yours and knotted his fingers in his curls just to feel the ache. “—oh, God, I can’t—it’s too much, I—”

“ Steven, ” you said softly, hands threading through his arms to cradle his face and to thumb away his tears as you leaned in and nestled your forehead against his hairline, lips brushing his brow as you continued to murmur in a low, soothing tone that pierced through the noise like Apollo’s arrow, “it’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you—nothing’s coming after you in here, okay? Just our quiet, little safe place. I want you to breathe with me, okay? Just a little, I know it’s hard to concentrate, but just try for me, okay? You can breathe between if you need to. Want to try? Okay. In…one, two, three, four…out…one, two, three, four. And again. That’s it. You’re doing so good, darlin’, just focus on me. Feel my hands? And my knees? The chair, your feet on the ground, my forehead. Smell the books, the candle, your cologne, my perfume? Hear the traffic outside, the music in the other room, my voice? Okay. Good. Look at me, Steven. Please?”

He raised his head, trembling still but not nearly as close to convulsions as he’d been mere minutes prior, and you interlocked your fingers with his once more to hold them between you as you drew back just enough to peer unflinching into his eyes.

“Good. There you are, darlin’.” Your gentle smile was as precious as molten gold. “You see the books, too?”

He nodded once, unable to tear his eyes away from you. Had you always looked so divine or was he still experiencing delusions?

…No. No, he couldn’t be, because there was nothing about you that wasn’t so blissfully, sincerely, relievingly real. You were just that ethereal. How had he never noticed it before?

“Okay.” You squeezed his fingers lightly. “Can you tell me one thing that you can taste?”

“My…my tea, from this morning. Ran out of oat milk so I had to drink it straight.”

“There we go.” Your expression tightened just slightly at the edges, scanning his own carefully. “Better? Just a little?”

“A bit, yeah.” He sniffled again, swallowing roughly and finally managing to look away. “Sorry about that. You know. For…breakin’ apart in the middle of your shop like that. You…you didn’t have to stop what you were doin’ just to give me a pep talk.”

Your brow furrowed. “Steven, you were having a panic attack. I wasn’t about to go back to sorting the BookTok smut table while you looked on the verge of collapse.” You shook your head slightly, as if in disbelief. “You wouldn’t have come to me for no reason, so I can take ten minutes to help you calm down. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken all morning and I haven’t had enough time to stop. I’ll be fine.” You squeezed his hands again. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I’d fix it if I could.”

Oh, how he wished that you could. He’d let you do anything you wanted if he could just feel normal again.

“Do you want to talk more about it?” you tried gently, tilting your face down to gaze up at him through those utterly enchanting lashes. “It’s okay if you don’t. I just want you to know that I’m here for you, for whatever you need, whether it’s to listen or just to sit with you.”

He swallowed, nodding jerkily. “Yeah, it’s—just complicated, yeah? A lot to take in. I really don’t mean to be a bother, I just needed—”

“Steven Grant, you are not a bother to me.” You single-handedly stole the breath you’d helped him regain not minutes prior. “You can tell me anything, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

“I…okay.” He drew in a deep, shaky breath, held it, and released it in a hiss from between his chattering teeth. “I’m…investigatin’ somethin’. It might be dangerous, I don’t know. But I’ve got too many questions to avoid it anymore and I…I’m scared. Terrified, really. Everything seems like it’s fallin’ apart and I’m losing grips on it the tighter I try to hold on.” He blinked away another fresh onslaught of tears filming over his eyes with no small amount of frustration. “I feel like it’s my only option, to move forward, you know? I just…wanted to make sure I’m not hallucinatin’ everything around me first.” And that was the reason he’d come here, wasn’t it? Because you never failed to make him feel safe and secure and human, no matter the storm.

You studied him for a long moment, considering. But instead of accusing him of being a loon, you only tipped your chin to seek out his gaze once more—and he, like a moth to flame, was inexorably drawn to it. “Do you want me to go with you?”

The offer took him by surprise, but he knew immediately that it shouldn’t have. You had a protective streak a mile wide—he’d observed it in your fierce defense of your coworkers against irate and lecherous customers alike, as well as the thinly contained fury you’d only had enough strength to withhold in all but your tone when he’d finally vented to you about Donna for the first time. As much as he’d like to see you rip out her cheaply applied extensions one by one until she cried, he had made you promise never to start a fight with her. That you would offer first to accompany him to a destination he’d unthinkingly labeled ‘dangerous’ before anything else, regardless of currently sitting in your workplace that demanded more of you than it ever should any single person, reassured him—but he couldn’t ask you to get involved. He wouldn’t, because it was dangerous—whatever was going on inside his head (and outside of it) was something he was increasingly suspecting was beyond the scope of his present comprehension. The last thing Steven wanted was to get you hurt, too, just by proximity.

“No,” he said firmly, and your brows rose slightly. “No, I don’t—thanks for the offer, I really appreciate it, but you shouldn’t…I don’t want you at risk.”

“I don’t want you at risk, either,” you pointed out softly.

“I…” Well, shit. “...I know. But I’ll be okay. I think. I know! I’m just going to take it real careful and just see, yeah? It’ll…it’ll turn out all right. Right? Yeah.”

Your grip tightened, and your gaze turned sharper than he’d ever seen it, even at your most agitated. Deadly serious, with no room for avoidance—as if he’d ever want to avoid you. “Steven.”

He stiffened. “Y-yeah?”

“If anything happens,” you told him slowly, “I want you to call me, okay?” He opened his mouth to respond, but you interrupted him for the first time in the two months he’d known you. “I mean it. I’m not going to push my way into your business, but if you ever feel like you need help, do not hesitate to tell me. Okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he suspired. Why was his mouth dry all of a sudden? When had he started sweating? Was his blush as obvious as it felt?

You regarded him for another moment, scrutinizing his expression—perhaps for any traces of falsehood—before nodding and releasing his hands. You reached into your pocket and drew out your phone. “What’s your number?”

Steven recited it to you nervously, fiddling with the hems of his sleeves. You typed it in, saved it, then sent him a message that buzzed in his back pocket. (He never thought that he’d get your number in a context quite like this .)

The lapse of silence continued, stifling in its weight, until your expression softened once more into something far less grave. “...Do you trust me, Steven?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Of course,” he breathed.

Your eyes were so damned deep, he’d drown in them willingly. “All right. Just know…whatever you need, okay? I’m just a phone call away.” You swallowed, then glanced away for the first time since he’d walked into you. “I don’t like seeing you scared. It scares me. ”

He was about to apologize on reflex, but the words died on his tongue. He noticed that you, too, had started to fidget with your fingers, rolling a wrinkle in your jeans. He reached out and laid his hand over yours, drawing your attention back to him. “Where’d you learn that trick? You know, the one about the five senses?”

“I had really bad anxiety when I was a teenager. Had an acute spell for about six months straight that made me hate sleeping because the thought of waking back up to deal with it all over again the next day kept me up all night. I lost a lot of weight because my stomach stayed upset and I didn’t have an appetite at all—it took a long time to go back to eating normal afterwards because my stomach had shrunk.” You looked so vulnerable, uncomfortable with baring yourself just a little bit more to his sympathetic gaze, but doing it anyway—all for his undeserving benefit. He squeezed your hand, this time. “I did a lot of research at the time to find ways to mitigate it. Figuring out the biological basis of it helped me to rationalize my triggers and responses so I could understand how to manage it better. It’s fight, flight, or freeze at its most dire state—so once I learned that, I was able to talk myself down by convincing myself I was safe.” You traced the roughness of his palm, and a flicker of something passed over your face before he could register it. “That trick isolates stimuli so you can focus.”

“That…that makes sense. I’ll have to remember that one.” He cleared his throat quietly. He hadn’t known—you hadn’t told him any of that before, never had indicated that you’d had such a rough time of your anxiety that you so often made light of in passing. “I’m so sorry you went through that. It sounds horrible.”

“It was. But it taught me to be more aware of how my mind and body work, if nothing else. And despite all the hardships, I never looked for a way out, just…a way through. And I did get through it.” You sat up a little straighter, cleared your throat, and glanced through the bookshelves before you returned your attention to him. “Are you sure you don’t need me to…?”

“I’m not going to ask you to play hookey for me,” he told you, smiling and using what was hopefully a playful tone. It seemed to work, because the tension in your shoulders eased a bit. “I will let you know if I need you.”

“Promise?” you prompted, extending the pinky of your free hand.

“Pinky promise,” he assured, linking his with yours and marveling at how petite you really were, dwarfed by the breadth of him. He’d never really noticed that, before, either. (How had he not?) “I’ll let you know what I find out, yeah? Once I get it all straight in my noggin’.”

You nodded as you both stood and started to weave your way through the labyrinth back to the main area of the bookstore. “I’m holding you to that, Steven Grant. If I don’t hear from you I’ll be putting out a search warrant.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” he fibbed—just a little, because he hated seeing you worry like this. He’d evidently never really given you good reason to worry about him before, and he felt immeasurably guilty despite the comfort you’d brought him. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” You flashed him a small smile, less enthusiastic than usual. “Now that you’re not working, we could actually eat together since my lunch break’s always later.”

Tentative, as though you didn’t want to send him over the edge again. He appreciated it more than you’d ever know.

“I’ll be here. Just give me about a fifteen minute heads-up so I can make it on time?”

“Will do.” As he approached the exit, you reached out and brushed your fingertips along the blade of his hand, arresting him on the spot. “Steven. Please be careful.” You glanced over at the other clerk with his back turned towards the pair of you, organizing the table you’d abandoned in favor of bringing Steven down from the brink. “I care a lot about you,” you confessed softly. “I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.”

Steven sucked in a sharp, shaky breath, folding his hands over his stomach on reflex. His body sagged and his heart puddled into the pit of his belly. “I care a lot about you, too, love. But you don’t have to worry about me gettin’ hurt—just think about the other guy! I’ll just give them the ol’ Grant one-two!” He shadow boxed to punctuate, and your quiet chuckle soothed his fluttering nerves. He stilled, then, and dropped his arms to his sides awkwardly. “...And thank you. Really. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t…you know. Likely would’ve gone right bonkers, yeah?”

“You’re always welcome, Steven.” You hesitated, fists tightening, before you reached out to grasp his arm lightly, only enough for balance, and Steven’s rattled mind struggled to keep up with your hurried motion and didn’t catch up until after the fact—you leaned into him, all sweet perfume and warm softness, to press a chaste kiss to the dried, tacky tear tracks that would surely leave salt on your lips. You were back down flat on your feet and a full pace away from him by the time his mouth dropped open, and your embarrassment was glaringly obvious. “Take care. For me?”

“Of course, love,” he said softly, watching perplexedly as you nodded, mouth thinning, before you darted around behind a bookcase and out of sight.

Oh. You were shy.

Steven pressed his fingertips to his tingling cheek all the way down the stairs, stumbling a couple of times before he convinced himself to get a grip before he did break his promise and accidentally kill himself not two minutes after the fact. He floated through the coffee shop back onto the street, sinking his back against the wall, and closed his eyes to reclaim his breath.

The first genuine smile of unfettered delight he’d had in what felt like eons wormed onto his face, and Steven let out a dreamy sigh. He shifted, caught a whiff of your perfume, and realized that some of it still lingered on his coat collar. He resisted the sudden urge to bury his nose and to revel in it, clearing his throat and fishing his phone out of his pocket instead to start off his investigation by determining which storage company Marc’s key belonged to.

Your text waited for him, poised under his thumb. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Steven. Laters, gators! :)’

His cheeks ached with the widest smile he’d had in his life.

When the plane from Cairo landed at its destination in London’s biggest airport close at nine-thirty, well past dark, approximately two weeks later, Steven finds that he has never felt so tired in his (admittedly limited waking) life—even during the time of depriving himself of sleep in an effort to control his supposed ‘sleeping’ disorder. He’d…dozed, he supposed was the only way he could describe it, while Marc had fronted during the flight. Leaving Layla in Cairo had been hard on him (both of them, really), so Marc had needed some quiet time to himself.

Steven couldn’t quite find it in himself to blame him in the slightest.

Marc and Layla had finally squared things away after Khonshu had finally released them—both Harrow and…their relationship. While Layla finally understood Marc’s motivations for all his blunders (and him personally, more clearly than she ever had in their married life, sad as it was to say), they both agreed that it would be for the best to go ahead and part ways. Too much damage had been done, the foundations of their relationship fractured by all the secrets and half-truths Marc had kept, and he had shattered her trust with his noncommunication.

She did make it explicitly clear that the entire ordeal in no way stopped her from caring about him (and now Steven, she made sure to add), however—Marc’s relief had been palpable, even while Steven had kept quiet and to himself listening to them discuss everything in the dingy motel room they’d shared the previous night before he’d departed. They mutually agreed to keep in touch, because while Marc had freed himself (and therefore Steven) of Khonshu’s servitude, Layla was still working with Tawaret as her Red Scarab. Hurt though he was (with mostly himself to blame, he’d admitted), Marc was protective more than anything—and though Tawaret had wormed her way past his initial suspicions with her sincere desire and success in helping them crawl their way out of the Duat, historically he didn’t exactly have a healthy relationship with Ancient Egyptian deities.

He hadn’t spoken much to Steven since then, but Steven was okay with that. Marc was a man of few words, he’d learned, and Steven suspected that it was best to give him space—regardless of when (or if) he ever decided to talk about it. Steven would be there for him either way (figuratively and literally). He’d need to make sure to remind him of that fact when they were both a bit better rested and recovered from the world-ending battle that they had managed to win by the skin of their teeth.

Steven hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing Layla very long—and while perhaps some of his initial attraction to her could have been attributed to him inheriting at least some of Marc’s own memories, feelings, and familiarity via sharing the body, Steven was grateful that they could remain friends, at least—it spoke lengths of how close she and Marc truly had been, for her to still be willing to stay in contact despite everything that had happened. She’d made sure to send them both off with a tight, rocking hug for each of them, pressing a tender kiss to either cheek as they had seamlessly traded places per her request without so much as a shudder.

“Take care of him, okay, Steven? And you stay safe, too,” she’d murmured into his ear, her mirth belied by her melancholy. She’d paused, then reached up to adjust the lapels of Marc’s jacket lying crooked across his clavicle. “I trust you to do what I couldn’t.”

“I’ll certainly try my best,” he’d returned with a timid smile as she’d drawn away with sparkling eyes not only from fondness. He’d tried to ignore the stinging in his as he’d cleared his throat of the quiver that had threatened to creep into the back of his throat. “He’s a bit of a git when it comes to lookin’ after himself, yeah? But I’m kind of stuck with him, so…good to try to make the best of it, you know.”

“Thank you.” She’d seemed earnest in her gratitude, then, easing back another half-step. “For helping us. I owe you more than I fear I could ever fully repay.”

“You don’t owe me a thing,” he’d returned easily. He liked Layla—perhaps, in another life, he could have loved her, too, if things had turned out different, or if Marc had given him the opportunity. Marc’s envious accusations at the dig sight hadn’t hit quite so close to home as to ever confirm such feelings in himself—she was still virtually a stranger, in spite of him fearing for her life and trusting her with his without hesitation—so while he ached to see things between her and Marc end like they had, all he could focus on was that he was thankful they’d had the opportunity to meet. “You take care of yourself, too, all right? Don’t get into too much trouble kickin’ tail and takin’ names.”

She’d let out a wet laugh at that, not-so-subtly swiping at her eyes. “I will, Steven,” she’d said, and then Marc had taken over.

Until now, anyway.

Steven understood completely why Marc needed some time to himself after all that—perhaps better than anyone. It was why he was extremely grateful that, once all the process of checking out and fetching luggage was done, Marc receded in silence to the back of their shared headspace and left Steven standing at the front entrance of the airport with a flagged cab waiting expectantly for him on the drive below.

He hefted Marc’s duffel a little higher on his shoulder, curling his hands around the strap, and descended the steps quickly. He settled into the back seat, wrinkling his nose a bit at the faint but pungent scents of sweat, alcohol, and puke lingering there.

“Where to, mate?” asked the cab driver, sounding as bored as Steven would admittedly be if he had to drive people dead on their feet home in such dreary weather as this—it had stopped raining, thankfully, but mist still hung in the air and puddles littered the ground, causing any nearby lights to glisten and glitter off the wet surfaces.

Steven hesitated.

He…hadn’t really thought this far ahead, admittedly. He realized with a start that he hadn’t been home since Harrow’s cop friends…lackies… whatever had snatched him under the guise of a real investigation and arrest. It was probably a mess after they had ransacked it. It would be a miracle if not-Gus was still alive. He’d be lucky if none of his nosy neighbors had broken in to pilfer his things.

Steven fiddled with the strap pensively, evidently taking too long for the cabbie’s thinning patience. “Hear me, mate? Where do you need to go?”

It was almost instinct, the way that the coffee shop’s address spilled from his lips with some embarrassment—embedded into his memory since he’d ordered rides there on his days off. The cabbie flicked on the meter and took off once he’d entered it into his phone, and Steven tried to suppress his flustered response at agitating the man because what harm had he caused by waiting a moment longer than what was considered punchy? Nothing. It wasn’t Steven’s fault that the man was irritable. (What cabbie worth his salt relied on Google Maps, anyway? But then again, what cabbie worth his salt couldn’t be bothered to order a deep enough clean after toting about what must have been the cataclysmic aftermath of one hell of a stag party?)

Seeing and doing everything he had in Egypt had given Steven a slightly different outlook both about people in general as well as himself. People were, mostly, harmless—unless they were trying to resurrect and put into power an entombed goddess of destruction, anyway—so what difference did it make that Steven existed in the same place and time as them? It didn’t give them the excuse to be rude or dismissive or critical. Plus…while they’d given up that fancy healing armor (and that rather snazzy suit, unfortunately), Steven could still defend himself if need be. He had access to Marc’s muscle memory now that no more barriers stood between their psyches—he’d held his own against Arthur bleedin’ Harrow quite well, if he did say so himself, thank you very much. He’d still have to get used to the motions, sure, but…never before had he felt more capable and assured in his own abilities. He had Marc to thank for that.

Even still, as he steadied his breathing and calmed his heart, Steven frowned and directed his gaze out of the window to focus on the streets rolling by outside. The coffee shop didn’t close until ten, and you usually didn’t make it out while locking up until ten-fifteen. But because Marc had left Steven’s phone in London (in his storage locker while getting supplies, Steven suspected), Steven had been unable to contact you at all. Given the domino's effects following him leaving the coffee shop in pursuit of Marc’s unit, he hadn’t had time enough to memorize your number (and believe him, under any other circumstances, he would have done so as soon as he would have had the chance). He’d promised you lunch the next day, as well as to check in to let you know he was all right, but by the time Steven had woken back up post-jackal boxing extravaganza, he’d had to deal with Marc’s…less than ideal interrogation techniques.

Things only had…devolved from there. Steven really and truly didn’t care to give any of it much more thought—not until later, when he could see clearly without his eyelids drifting shut.

Steven wrung the hem of the jacket’s sleeves between his fingers, worrying the inside of his cheek while he did so. Even throughout…all of that…Steven had found his thoughts straying inevitably—gravitized, perhaps—back to you, over and over, no matter how hard he’d tried to concentrate on…well, you know, saving the world. Even when he’d been distracted, and terrified, and fighting for his life, he’d recalled snippets of memory so visceral he’d glanced over his shoulder more than once to make sure he was just imagining things.

Your features drenched in sunlight like a goddess in your own right. Your eyes glittering as you tittered in genuine mirth at once his silly little jokes he cringed over every time he departed from your reassuring company. Your smile warming him inside as much as your meticulously brewed teas did going down. Your lilted, soothing drawl, the shape your mouth formed as you’d snowball into a lecture on how ridiculous all the internet conspiracies about aliens building the pyramids because the Egyptians were too primitive to accomplish such feats but the Romans were esteemed geniuses of their time with all their architectural novelties, the unfettered passion that brought such vivacity to your normally demure, soft-spoken demeanor.

He had missed you. Terribly so. More than he would’ve expected, but he was unsurprised.

You’d no doubt have loved to have seen Egypt with your own eyes—you’d confessed your daydreams about it to Steven on a couple of different occasions, had told him how long you’d wanted to take a vacation there to visit all the sights and witness them for yourself. You’d shared, mortified and only after some gentle prodding on his part, that you’d even constructed an itinerary, once, complete with hypothetical flight times, prices, and locations, hotel reservations and rates, eateries recommended by locals, starting from the delta and traversing all the way up to Abu Simbel, as well as every notable tomb, temple, and archaeological site or tourist spot in between. “Maybe one day,” you’d said, so wistfully yet despondently that he’d wanted for nothing more in that moment than to sweep you up and take you there himself.

At the time, he had pictured your reactions to Cairo, Giza, and Alexander the Great’s no-longer-lost tomb with perfect clarity—your excitement would have known no bounds. You would have stopped to inspect and decipher each artifact and inscription if you’d had time enough to do so, ecstatic at the chance to lay your hands on such marvels (respectfully, of that Steven had no doubts). Steven would never have wanted you involved in such close and constant proximity to danger, but he’d still imagined it for his own sanity. You’d been his lifeline, in a way—even with his fleeting, misplaced infatuation with Layla—the thought of not making it back to London, back to you, was what had kept him going at the most harrowing of points.

As partial as you were to the mythology, you’d have been beside yourself to discover that the deities so long thought fabled—for better or for worse—were as real as anything else in this odd little home humanity called Earth. He’d sooner throw himself back into the ravenous sands of the Duat than have you anywhere near that bloodthirsty pigeon, but then again Tawaret had been an angel by comparison, so…maybe you interacting with her wouldn’t have been too bad.

You were his first recurring thought whenever he’d wake (whether he had emerged to the front or from slumber), and you’d been his last thought when Harrow had shot Marc—panicked, screaming, terrified knowing he’d failed to keep his word. When Khonshu had forced the breath back into their lungs, Steven had nevermore felt such relief at proving himself wrong.

He’d convinced Marc to loan him a little spending money, after all was said and done, and had visited a secluded marketplace to browse the vendors’ wares. He’d found a little statuette of Djehuty hand-carved from lapis lazuli, about as long and as wide as his index finger, and while the merchant’s asking price had been outrageous (and because Steven had no talent for haggling, try as he might), Marc hadn’t scolded him too badly for shelling out the questionable stack of bills. It wouldn’t go far in the way of a peace offering, perhaps, but he could use it as some sort of proof if things didn’t go over well.

You weren’t naturally a skeptical person, though, he reminded himself. You had taken him at his word during his mental breakdown without even batting an eye. You valued honesty and communication above all else, prided yourself on your integrity, and Steven knew that you would at least hear him out and consider his (rather implausible) story before you rejected it.

Maybe he could still salvage this. Maybe he wouldn’t have to give Marc one more reason to blame himself for something he’d claim that he ruined. You were a reasonable woman, driven by logic and intuition rather than emotion and feelings. Steven had always admired you for that, for your tendency to avoid taking sides, to play devil’s advocate, to balance and weigh all options, thoughts, facts, and opinions before daring to formulate your own.

A keen little set of scales you were, weren’t you? Yeah. If only you’d have been there, somehow, to help sort out his and Marc’s mess—it likely would have gone a lot smoother and faster. (Maybe they would have actually managed to balance before it had almost been too late.)

“Most everything down this way is closed for the night—you sure you want me to let you off here? Or would you rather me take you someplace else?” groused the cabbie as he eased to a stop on the street corner (because of course—why would any cabbie worth his salt take a man to his requested destination only to offer a longer drive if but to rack up a higher meter?)

Despite Steven’s increasing indignation (he was firmly placing the blame on his and Marc’s shared jet lag because he was just so tired and he would never normally get so irate by a man doing his job, no matter how lazily), he hesitated. Only the security lights were visible through the sheer blinds drawn over the windows to conceal the interior, and he couldn’t make out your shape at the till or anywhere else, for that matter.

Perhaps it had been wishful thinking to hope you’d still be there, or even on the shift for tonight at all. You’d probably worried yourself to death fretting about his sudden silence—no, scratch that, you definitely had fretted. Was he going to have to call the nearest police station to have them take down a missing persons report? Had you even filed one like you’d threatened to? Or had he inadvertently hurt you by what could in any other conceivable circumstance be taken as ghosting to the point that you no longer cared for his well-being?

The thought made his heart clench. It ached more than he might have been readily willing to admit. Oh, he had gone and messed things up royally, hadn’t he? The one person who’d actually treated him like a person (outside of Marc and Layla, of course) could very well hate his guts now. It sickened him, almost made him want to lock himself away in his flat and curl up under his duvet and hide for the rest of eternity.

But he couldn’t. Not on the off-chance you had recalled his concerns, had believed his worries, and still thought him innocent in the matter. Not if you were still waiting for him.

“What’ll it be, mate?” drolled the cabbie, muffled by a gargantuan yawn he didn’t bother to stifle. “I’d rather not sit here all night, you know.”

“N-no—I’ll stop here, thanks.” Steven patted through Marc’s pockets until he found his wallet, then rifled through the neatly organized mixture of bills until he found English currency as opposed to Egyptian—with enough for a decent tip, because Steven always tried not to be a knob. “You seem like you’re workin’ on fumes, mate, you ought to go home and get some sleep.”

“Sleeping’s for the dead,” he deadpanned, and Steven let out a breathless little chuckle as he shuffled out of the cab onto the curb and watched it round the corner and out of sight.

If only he knew.

The air was warmer than before Steven had been carted off to another continent, a bit muggy as the humidity settled like cobwebs in his lungs. He grimaced and unzipped the jacket, edging closer to the windows to squint inside properly.

Still no signs of life. Steven rested his fingertips on the dribbled glass, dropping his head. Marc still had the storage key in the bag, somewhere—he supposed that he could try going and getting his phone, but that would run the risk of the business not being open at all hours and require that much more time to charge the blasted thing back from the brink. Perhaps he’d be better off to wait until the next morning to try to sort his life back out—he wouldn’t be able to stand staying on his feet for much longer.

“ ...Steven? ”

He stiffened, straightened in an instant, and turned to see you standing at the corner, keys still dangling from your fingers after locking up and coming around the back. An impulsive glance at Marc’s watch told him that you’d finished up early—it was ten on the dot. Your expression, bleached by the cold ivory streetlamp looming over your head, was slack in disbelief.

Steven—despite having rehearsed over the last two weeks what he could possibly say to explain himself, to apologize for his abrupt absence and radio silence, to entreat you to at least hear him plead his case, to beg for your forgiveness and to seek it by any means necessary just so he could talk to you again—fell terribly short of his expectations as the moment came…and went.

His greatest shortcoming, that: his seemingly endless supply of words failing him when he needed them most dire.

“...Hiya,” he said meekly, raising his hand in a shameful little wave—then groaned internally and resisted the overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands and pull at his hair in frustration.

Real chuffed she’ll be with a response like that, ol’ chap. Bollocks. I’m an utter pillock, aren’t I?

“S-sorry,” he floundered, face burning as you continued to stare at him with rounded eyes and a gaping mouth. You looked caught between fight or flight but trapped in freeze mode, every muscle in your body rigid as though the sight of him reviled you. His heart twisted, but he couldn’t find it in himself to blame you. He’d be right pissed at himself, too. “It’s…been a bit much, the time I’ve had. I’m proper exhausted after that trip. Not that, uh…not that it’s any excuse, yeah? I’m just having a bit of a hard time not fallin’ asleep on my fee— oof! ”

You’d moved before he could even track the motion. Had he looked away or dropped his head and closed his eyes out of humiliation? Had he almost blacked out again even though Marc made no sign of himself known? Or was he just that tired and you were that fast on your feet? (Of course you were nimble, juggling books and drinks all day long at a breakneck pace. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?)

He supposed it didn’t matter in the end, really, because your arms were coiled around his neck to drag him down closer to your height, your face was buried into his (no doubt grimy) neck, and your hands were trembling as they gripped his nape and threaded into his matted, oily curls as though your life depended upon it. Your breaths were muffled and warm against his throat, as were the tears that smeared against his thundering pulse, and it took Steven an embarrassingly long time to come to his senses and return your vice-like embrace with his own shaking arms.

“You scared the shit out of me, Steven,” you sniffled into his collar like a secret, voice tight and hushed with the ferocity of your feeling. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Steven swallowed roughly, throat tightening and eyes filming over with the familiar hot sting he’d been doing his damnedest to hold down until he’d returned to the safety of his home—but he supposed that he already had, so what was the point in resisting anymore?

“I thought I’d lost me, too, love,” he whispered raggedly, his tenuous resolve crumbling like sandstone as he buried his face in your hair and crushed you against his chest as tightly as your clothes allowed. His tears finally slipped free of his eyes as he squeezed them closed in an effort to shut out the world around him. He could feel your heart hammering against his chest even through all his layers, your earthy perfume saturating his lungs, your inherent warmth seeping into him so like the sunshine you epitomized in his mind. You didn’t give any inclination of letting him go anytime soon, and he had no such intention, either. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you murmured, voice cracking with the strain of keeping yourself in check, pulling your head back just enough to peer up at him with a warbling smile. The hand on his neck slipped around to cup his cheek in your palm, thumbing away the wet streaks trailing towards his chin. Your eyes darted over his features, scrutinizing, as though you were committing the sight to memory—as though assuring yourself that he was really real, really there, really corporeal and not an apparition. “God, darlin’, don’t be sorry, I’m just—I’m just glad you’re okay. Are you safe? Are you hurt? Are you still in danger?” You mirrored your own touch with your free hand, cradling his head as though you held the entire world between your fingers, stroking the corners of his mouth in reverent reassurance. “Where have you been? I tried looking, asking around the museum, but nobody knew where you’d disappeared, and I—I thought—” You let out a sob from between gritted teeth, quivering despite his desperate grip on your upper and lower back. “—I feared the worst, after what you said the last time I saw you, and I tried talking to the police, but they thought I was crazy, and…I’ve nearly worried myself to death wondering where you’d gone.”

Nailed it. Unfortunately. Steven let out a watery laugh, biting his lip briefly before tugging you back under his chin so you wouldn’t see the conflicted emotions fighting for prominence on the limited canvas space of his face. “Oh, love, I’ve been to hell and back,” he joked quietly (one you wouldn’t get, not yet, and one he didn’t particularly care to explain), rocking you from side to side and anchoring himself with the weight of your body against his. “But I never stopped thinking about—about coming back. To you. Not once.”

Your arms slipped under his to squeeze him tight, slowly but surely soaking his shirt with your relief. Steven was uncertain how long the pair of you stood like that, getting progressively more damp from the mist and more chilled from the cooling breeze, and finally he withdrew enough to tenderly pat your cheeks dry with the hem of his sleeve. You laughed a little at that, a frail but joyous little sound, and Steven could hardly contain himself—but you beat him to it.

“You look exhausted, darlin’,” you said softly, face pinching a little as you took in his drawn features. He was sure Marc had sat up through the whole flight, as antsy as he was—the body hadn’t gotten sufficient enough rest in so long Steven was surprised neither of them had yet to collapse. The deep purple semicircles marring the heavy undersides of his eyes were sure to be sights to behold. You traced his brow, temple, and cheekbone with a featherlight touch of your fingertips. “You said you just got back?”

“Yeah,” he responded, eyes fluttering shut at your gentleness with a long sigh. “I wanted…I needed to see you. To let you know I made it back, and that I didn’t mean to shut you out, and…to tell you what happened.”

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” you pressed carefully. “You’ve obviously been stressed about it. You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable talking about.”

“I want you to know. It’s…it’s important. To me.” He cracked his eye back open, taking in the minutiae of your features, too—you seemed just as bad off as he was. “But I don’t want to be a bother.”

You gave him a sharp look, and your last reaction to a similar statement he’d made rang clear in the back of his mind without you even having to echo your response.

“You just seem tired, too, is all,” he said. “Didn’t want to keep you up any later.”

“I’ll stay up all night if you asked me to,” you told him firmly. “Whatever you need. I meant what I said.”

‘I’m here for you.’

“I…could I ask one teensy favor?” he started, hating how small his voice sounded. “Just this once?”

You quirked an inquisitive brow.

“I…don’t really want to sleep by myself tonight,” he admitted sheepishly. “My place got broken into and…I’m not sure what it’ll look like when I go back there. I…I don’t want to be alone. Could I…?”

“Of course,” you said immediately, already reaching down and grasping his wrist. “You look like you could use a good meal, too—I’ve got some leftover minestrone that I could heat up for you. It doesn’t have any animal products in it.”

Oh, he could kiss you.

“I don’t mean to impose,” he prefaced, “but…that honestly sounds heavenly.”

“You’re not imposing. Come on. The bus will be making its stop soon—don’t want to miss it in case the rain starts up again.”

Steven allowed you to lead him along the street, perfectly content to allow you to guide him. The longer he went, the more difficult it was to stay focused. The late bus, one he’d usually been forced to catch when Donna had thrust him into inventory duty, was virtually empty save a couple of other night workers having finished up their shifts. You settled Steven near the back, setting him against the window and perching yourself in the aisle seat with a watchful eye directed towards the other passengers.

Steven found himself nodding off, forehead pressed heavily into the window, when your fingers tugged his wrist lightly. “Hey. Here, lean on me—I don’t want you to get a crick in your neck.”

Hardly conscious of it, Steven allowed you to direct with a cupped hand his temple to rest on your shoulder, sinking listlessly into your side. The press of your warm palm on his cheek remained as you murmured something he didn’t quite catch, too drowsy to recall anything afterwards besides the sweet scent of chai on your breath.

You roused him at the correct stop, and he managed to keep his wits about himself long enough to take in the new, unfamiliar surroundings. The university campus loomed on the other side of the highway, impressive in its splendor, and your flat was located in a nice but affordable gated complex that he suspected you’d chosen for convenience and security rather than luxury. Multiple other residences lined this side of the road, likely housing the majority of students.

“I’m on the top floor, but luckily they have elevators,” you murmured to him as you used your key card to buzz through the gate and unlock the side door to the main corridor. You led him through the place, let him lean against you while the mechanisms’ hum lulled him, and the first thing you did upon letting him into your apartment was have him sit on the loveseat. “Give me your feet.”

“Oh, don’t—you don’t have to do that,” he protested, even as you kneeled on the carpet and pulled one dusty boot up onto your knee to untie the laces. “Please, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m doing,” you responded mildly. “Steven, you’re a blink too long away from going comatose—just let me take care of you, okay?” Your lips thinned for a moment, conflicted, before you dropped your gaze to your fingerwork before tugging the heavy shoe free and setting it to the side and reaching for his other foot. “I missed you. Let me do this, please.”

He had precious little will to argue, lesser so to refuse any sort of doting you might decide to bestow upon him. Steven Grant was many things, and a weak man was one of them. “I…all right,” he said softly.

“Good boy.” You patted the side of his leg with a wry little smirk that did funny things to his blood pressure, removing the other shoe, and leaving it with its twin. You stood, knees cracking, and made a placating gesture. “Wait here, I’ll be back in five.”

“All right,” he repeated sleepily because he couldn’t help it—his eyes were already falling shut again. He became dimly aware of an added weight draped over him, but it wasn’t until you came back and sank into the cushion next to him that he jerked back awake and realized you’d pulled the heavy knit blanket off the back of the couch over him.

“Here,” you said, pressing a large mug into his hands. “I know microwaved leftovers aren't as good, but I’ll be lucky to get you to down anything before you pass out on me. Again.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, drawing up a spoonful and blowing the steam off it. It smelled divine, and his stomach pinched and growled as though it, too, had wrenched itself awake.

“Stop apologizing,” you said, eyes twinkling. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Only kind of?” he tried, slipping the spoon into his mouth. A salty medley of flavors bloomed over his tongue and Steven was convinced he’d been sent to Aaru after all. “Oh…you never told me you were a king’s cook,” he mumbled.

“I am a bit proud of my cooking,” you chuckled. “I had…tweaked that recipe, to see if you’d like it, actually. I just so happened to have made it last night.” You glanced off to the side, briefly, towards the floor-to-ceiling window that lined the far wall and displayed the heart of London in all its twinkling glory. “Good timing, I guess.”

Steven ate as much as his waning patience could stand before propping the mug between his knees and tentatively resting a hand on yours draped over your thigh. You looked back to him immediately, the only light in the room spilling off to the side from the kitchen and casting all but the curve of your face in shadow. “There’s too much to explain in one night,” he began with a sigh, “and, honestly, it’ll probably take me a bit to work up to some of the…worse stuff. But I did want to tell you what I figured out about my sleeping disorder.”

“All right.” You shifted and contorted to face him completely, folding your legs crossed under you and lacing your fingers with his. “Did you get an official diagnosis, or…?”

He tried to ignore that in favor of staying undistracted. (It didn’t work very well, and he squeezed your hand back.) “Well. Sort of.” He recalled the certainty with which had (sparingly) detailed their ‘insanity’, the clarity with which the Duat had conformed to Marc’s self-perception as an institutionalized patient in an asylum. “It’s not a sleeping disorder.”

“Okay,” you responded encouragingly, expression neutral.

“I have…well. We have…” He sighed, ducked his head, and scratched at his hairline. “...Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder?”

“I took a psychology class back home, yeah.” You frowned slightly. “What, like…Multiple Personality Disorder?”

“Yes.” Steven’s eyes were drawn to your hand, and he turned it over to inspect the lines of your palm with his blunt, callused fingertips (no longer a mystery why they stayed in such rough shape, he mused). “I’m, uh…well…it’s harder to…to say out loud, I guess.” He faltered, then, eyes flashing up to beseech your understanding. “I want you to know that we’ve worked things out as much as we could, so it’s a lot better than it was, but we’ve still got a ways to go, I think. Just—just know that we’re sound of mind, and neither of us would ever, ever hurt you.”

“Steven,” you said gently, realization slowly dawning in your softening gaze, “I never once had doubts about that.”

“I…good. That’s good.” He swallowed. He’d seen the stereotypes in popular media just like everyone else ever had, and while Marc had indeed hurt people, his remorse told Steven just how little he’d enjoyed it (that being none). “Okay. So…there’s this little American man that…lives inside my head, I guess. Marc Spector. Bit of a twit when you first meet him, but he’s not a half-bad bloke once you get to know him.”

Steven paused, waiting for a biting remark from the nearest reflective surface—but your offlined television remained passive. He let out a breath of relief.

Your expectant, patient silence spurred him on. “That’s what I thought, anyway—that he lived inside my head, that is. Just started poppin’ up out of nowhere, tryin’ to scare me off of figurin’ everythin’ out. Didn’t realize ‘til later that he was just tryin’ to protect me and being a real sorry arse about it.” Steven pressed the flat of his thumb into the crease of your palm, feeling your steady, calmed pulse thudding against his skin. “Turns out…I’m the one living inside his head.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, but you didn’t interrupt him.

“He had a rough childhood,” Steven continued, voice carrying over into a rush, “lost his li’l brother. His mum blamed him for it…did some things she shouldn’t have. Marc…developed an alter based on a fictional character from his favorite movie.” He let out a shaky sigh, dropping his chin to his sternum. “Doctor Steven Grant, debonair, world-traveled archaeologist extraordinaire.” He cleared his throat, voice lowering. “I think I may have fallen a bit short of his expectations.”

He had only learned the terminology in the snippets of time Marc let him front while he and Layla were still organizing things in Cairo, looking up articles to learn more about their shared mindscape.

“I…remember our childhood,” he said, much more quietly, “but not any of the bad parts. He let me keep all the good memories. I never remembered Mum except on the good days. Learning all this…was really hard. I never thought…I knew I had gaps in my memory, but I didn’t think…I never figured it out until the wall between us got broken down.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “When…when Mum died. I didn’t know. Marc couldn’t control it anymore, and…things happened. He moved to London, got me all set up with the flat and the job at the museum, and he was finishing things up so he could…I don’t know, fall to the wayside and not come out anymore? I’m not really sure how that works…if it would even work, like that.”

He didn’t dare look up at your expression. You’d fallen completely still and eerily quiet.

“So…yeah.” He was whispering by now. “I guess that makes me the fake identity.”

“Steven Grant,” you interjected, voice low and calm, “there is nothing about you that’s fake. I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that again.”

He gulped, peeking up at your resolute expression. “Yes, ma’am,” he croaked.

“You’re the most vibrant, thoughtful, selfless person I’ve ever met,” you said, gripping his hand so tightly he felt your pulse in each of your fingertips—he wouldn’t be surprised if your prints melded with his. “You have filled my life with more joy than I’ve felt in years. I give thanks almost every day that I had the privilege to have met you at a time when I needed you most.” You leaned in closer, eyes sparkling like the stars faintly visible on the horizon beyond your balcony. “For whatever reason that Marc Spector may have created you, he did a damn good job of it. You embody every positive trait anyone could ever hope to have. You are undoubtedly one of the best men I’ve proudly called my friend. And whatever you went through, with him or without, I have no doubt in my mind that you are integral to him, a part of him he idealizes. Even if you’re an alter, not the original owner of this body,” with this, you tapped his shoulder with your free hand, “you are just as important and just as precious to me for it.”

Steven thought he had cried enough, but his eyes betrayed him yet again. Only a couple of tears slipped free before you were smearing them away, steadfast in your presence, knees pressed into the outside of his thigh. He sank into your touch, shutting his eyes in relief.

“You can tell me as much or as little about the rest of it as you want,” you murmured. “And I apologize in advance for anything that I may accidentally say or do out of ignorance—but I promise you, Steven Grant, I will stay by your side as long as you’ll have me. No matter what.”

“Even though I’ve turned out a little crazier than you may have expected?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood with such a feeble attempt at a joke—but the words came out a little bleaker than he had intended.

“You’re not crazy,” you stated, “you’re a survivor. Both of you. And I am so very grateful that you survived.”

Steven did not remember falling asleep after that. He did not remember you taking the mug back to the kitchen and turning the lights out. He did not remember you leveraging him longwise across your loveseat, a couple feet two short for him had he not already been curled up, piling multiple blankets over his lanky form and carefully slipping a pillow from your bed under his head. He did not remember you tenderly combing his unkempt curls off his forehead, gazing at him with love brimming in your eyes, and laying a lingering kiss between his brows.

He did, however, remember in perfect detail the sight of you slumped over in your recliner, facing him, wreathed in the most beautiful golden sunrise he’d ever seen in his life.

#fisara's codices #fanfiction #moon knight #steven grant #reader insert #steven grant/reader #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight fanfiction #steven grant fluff #steven grant fanfiction

235 notes · View notes

anarglitch · 7 months

Text

Scott pilgrim takes off inhabits the same artistic space as the matrix 4, or even the final fantasy 7 remake. I mean this as a good thing. It has the distinct touch of an artist that made something that defined a generation revisiting the art that outgrew them a thousandfold with more maturity and different interests.

These interests usually skew meta, they're about what drives someone to revisit something made by a past version of oneself, about the experience of suddenly gaining more influence than anyone could reconcile, where criticisms of your work (which you also, no doubt, have many) become synonymous with criticisms of your culture. If you've been here a while, you probably know (and are tired of) what I'm talking about, manic pixie dream girls and aloof average male protagonists, toxic nostalgia, pick your theme and it's a video essay title.

Imagine having every read of your 2004 funny video game-coded coming of age comic reverberate infinitely toward every direction, people saying your main character taught a whole generation of men to be self-absorbed while the exact opposite type of people rant about how your secondary lead "ruined a whole generation of women" because of hair-dye or whatever. Imagine Edgar Wright makes a movie adaptation of your cute little comic that somehow launches the careers of half of the current celebrity pantheon simultaneously. How would that change you?

Well, for one, it makes you less relatable. The truth of an aloof nerdy guy dating in his early 20s is a lot more universal than the truth of an artist in his 40s forever defined by the event horizon of a thing he wrote half his life ago. The matrix 4 couldn't stop talking about how it feels to have created the matrix. The final fantasy 7 remake can't help but to constantly examine what it means to remake final fantasy 7. It's easy to see why someone would hate that indulgent meta trend, I'll probably never write a generation-defining story, why would I care about the first world problems of someone who did? It can feel distant, and at its worst it can feel insulting. Like it's pointing the finger at the fans, whispering 'you did this to me'. I get that.

I get that, but I love it.

It's the fundamental difference between wanting something that is like something you liked, and wanting someone that is from the same creator of something you liked. The difference between feeding the mona lisa into an AI and finding a new authentic da Vinci. You can't make something entirely new if you religiously stick to using the parts of something that's already there. The human behind the work will always have influences you didn't realize, thought patterns and aesthetic preferences that weren't entirely clear in their previous work, no matter how much you deconstruct it. More importantly, the human will also change, and this organic self-continuity will reflect on the art. I don't want the creator of something to hold their own creation with the same zeal as its fans, because someone who did that simply wouldn't have been capable of creating the original piece in the first place.

I don't want a product, I want art.

Scott pilgrim, the original, indulges the most earnest impulse we have-- that of self-mythologizing, of creating a narrative off of our own lives. To depict the mundane as fantastic, interpersonal relationships as adventures. It resonated with so many people because it was earnest, and it was also picked apart to hell and back because it was earnest. Its flaws were on display, and not just the ones it intended to show. But in my opinion, the opposite impulse, that of washing off everything that could be criticized and presenting the cleanest possible image of yourself through your art, is just... bad. it makes for bad art, or it just freezes you. The very first hurdle of creating anything is getting over that, then maybe the spotlight will fall on you. If it does, you'll get everything you ever wanted, but everyone gets to see through you.

So, how do you revisit something like that? You have two options. Either you take all the pieces and try to reassemble them exactly how everyone remembers it, signing your name as a formality, looking at a mirror in which you no longer see yourself, or you talk to it. You dialogue with your own work, with who you used to be. You travel in time and talk to yourself. You question them, acknowledge them but also teach them a thing or two. You don't respect the product, you respect the feeling. You find the same earnestness that made you put pen to paper for the first time, and you point it towards your new loves and fears. Maybe you make it less about the main guy, take the chance to develop your secondary characters, maybe you give the girl more agency. Maybe you summon the future and refuse its answers. Maybe you fight yourself.

That's the harder choice. It submits your new self to the scrutinizing eyes of a whole new generation, it risks alienating the people who identified with your previous piece. It's riskier, probably less profitable, and by any pragmatic lens probably a bad idea. But it's the only way you can make art. It's truth, the truth that got you there in the first place.

It's how you get it together.

#scott pilgrim #scott pilgrim takes off #review #bryan lee o'malley

141 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

scarlet-knight21

Dearly Beloved

scarlet-knight21

Dearly Beloved

rambagos

Your Loyal Bowser Blog

voletoputuh

Untitled

voletoputuh

Untitled