#is he technically a knight per se?

[jazzpertheghost]

Just came to the terrifying conclusion that Lloyd is like a textbook paladin. What do I even do with that information. Like yeah he’s literally a knight raining divine justice on the Overlord and cleansing evil. It’s literally his entire purpose. wtf kid stop it

[iconuk01]

Pouches - Who's to blame (Not entirely serious)

Now, we remember that the king of the super pouches is Cable, and for good reason... Since his intro in 1990 he has tended to be more than slightly... pouch intensive

This isn't even a spoof cover, it's an accurate representation of his costume at the time.

But did he START the trend?

I think not.

Leaving aside Batman from the 1966 series, who had hefty pouches in his belt...

Though still not remotely large enough for some of the stuff he randomly produced from it, even if it DOES fold up... sort of.

But I digress....

I did consider the Silver Age bat villain Cluemaster

But those are specifically "plastic-glass pellets" containing assorted chemical weapons, like explosives, gas, acids and the like, so not sure they count.

It's been suggested that one of the first in the modern era to develop this was Longshot in 1986, when he did indeed have pouches on his belt, because artist Art Adams thought he needed practically-sized pouches to carry things in.

But even then are there MANY pouches? His bandolier was to store his throwing knives for easy access, so weren't pouches per se.

So technically, the first X-Men character to really lay into the pouches side of things isn't Cable, not by a long shot... it's this guy, slightly later in 1986

So Doug Ramsey was leading the field of poucher-y in the X-Verse side of things.

Just look at that vest and belt, LOADED and lined with pouches, and we never even find out what's in them... Though I think it would include pens, pencils, notepaper, some money, spare keys to the Xavier school, first-aid kit, lock picks (because he's always wanted to carry lockpicks), string (Everyone should carry string), breath mints and other things a relatively sensible teenager would want to be sure he was carrying if he had the room in his outfit and wasn't given to cargo shorts!

And yet, there are other contenders, so let's work backwards...

Also from 1986, Batman (again) from "The Dark Knight Returns" where even his BELT looks to be on a course of serious steroids!

And in 1983 we got this stylish new costume retconned into the history of the Golden Age Tarantula in All-Star Squadron who, up until this point, wore a purple and yellow spandex outfit that was, oncufsingly, identical to the Golden Age Sandman's spandex costume outfit.

Notice that he has rings of pouches on both boots, where he keeps things like spare cash in case he needs to hire a taxi and probably some spare ammo for his wirepoon gun.

But I think I've found patient zero as, from 1981's New Teen Titans #3. we have the inventor and technologist par excellence, the man who would be known (Eventually) as Mikron O'Geneus, though he would, perhaps thankfully, becomes better known by his codename:

GIZMO!

Look, even his LOGO has pouches!

In fairness, given his speciality is creating techno-widgets and devices out of other technology, him carrying dozens of gadgets and components makes a lot of sense, to the extent that he even manages to carry MORE weapons than Robin's utility belt (Which is TARDIS like in and of itself)!

So I think we have a winner!

Gizmo started the modern pouch trend!

If anyone can find earlier/other contenders, then please feel free to add them!

[asimplearchivist]

‘ 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.

[nico-drawings]

You know, you start seeing a lot of reels and posts and shorts about a series and so you start to watch it. And you see how a lot of people like one character and it is really common to see this: men relating a lot to a male character that is badass and kicks ass and them looking up to him and wanting to be like him. And 90% of the time that character is a fucking piece of shit.

Well nothing could have preprared me for the gigantic asshole that is Daemon Targaryen. It is honestly impressive how many good things I have seen said about him AND HOW MUCH OF A HORRIBLE PERSON HE IS. OH MY GOD. I have heard so much stuff about how much Daemon is a great warrior and how much he loves his brother Viserys and how much he DOESN'T want the throne. And. No. For fuck's sake no. How can people look up to this absolute garbage of a man. I can make a LONG list of the awful things Daemon has done to people.

Season 1:

Episode 1:

- Sitting on Viserys' throne (not that bad, but it shows how much he respects his brother's title)

- Called his wife both ugly AND a bitch (sexist piece of shit)

- Made fun of the death of Otto's wife (Otto is a bastard that deserves it, but he's still an asshole to make fun of someone's mourning)

- Making Otto's knight trip after asking for Alicent's blessing just to humiliate the Hightowers even more (doing so by making the horse trip, fighting dirty is a dick move)

- Made a toast celebrating the death of Viserys' death, even calling him "Heir for a day" to mock him

Episode 2:

- Stole the egg of Viserys' dead son, basically spitting on his death again

Episode 3:

- Beat the shit out of a messanger because the little brat couldn't accept the fact that he was sucking so much at a war that his big brother had to send him reinforcements (yeah he won before they arrived, doesn't change the fact that it was quite literally a reaction at the level of a tantrum)

Episode 4:

- Called his wife a bitch AGAIN and joked about her being probably infertile due to being harsh and stuff like that

- Bringing his teen niece to a brothel, grooming her and having sex with her (hey, it does not matter if morality is different in Westeros and Rhaenera is technically an adult, THAT'S HIS NIECE THAT IS HALF HIS AGE. THERE'S A POWER INBALANCE HERE. AND NO, BECAUSE OTHER CHARACTERS DO IT, IT DOESN'T MAKE IT BETTER. VISERYS CAN GO DIE IN A DITCH AS WELL FOR HIS RELANTIONSHIP WITH ALICENT FOR ALL I CARE)

- Boosting about fucking his niece to her FATHER and then proposing a marriage with her, acting like she's a prize for his success in battle

Episode 5:

- Killing his wife (of course she wasn't manipulable so she had to die)

- Mocking the cousin of his wife about having her inheritance

- Almost started to make out with Rhaenyra in front of everyone at the banquet before her marriage

Episode 6:

Wow, actually nothing in this one. They even kept him from making the same choice Viserys made with Aemma.

Episode 7:

- Fucking his niece again, he just doesn't learn I see. Oh yeah and he marries her. I'm sure they won't be toxic.

Episode 8:

Wow nothing again. Unbelievable, I am surprised. Did his two wives help him become a decent person? It has been like more than 10 years between the start of episode 6 and the end of episode 8 so it could be.

Episode 9:

Nothing again, but he wasn't in it so.

Episode 10:

- HERE HE COMES BACK WITH THE STEELCHAIR! Calling Alicent a whore and telling Rhaenys what she should have done.

- Ignoring his wife screaming for him, what a great husband (god that birthing scene, why jesus christ)

- Basically commanding Rhaenyra's council of war like it's his, just like the conversation with Otto. This doesn't make him an asshole per se, but it is a great showing of not being able to read the room. If the entire conflict hinges upon the fact that her legitimacy is being discussed you shouldn't really talk like YOU are the boss instead of HER.

- Basically saying that Vyseris and Rhaenyra aren't good leaders in front of EVERYONE. This man is not smart. At ALL.

- Chocking Rhaenyra and saying Vyseris' reign was useless. He is pathetic beyond belief.

Season 2:

Episode1:

- Wow less than 5 minutes into season 2 and he's already kicking. Giving Rhaenis orders, undermining Rhaenyra's authority and basically telling Rhaenis that Luke's death is her fault.

- Treating both Mysaria and Erryk like shit.

- Not trying to be there for Rhaenyra for Luke's death not even for a second, not one word, nothing. I understand, Rhaenyra's pain doesn't help in a war, but the war in question hasn't been going on for not even a MONTH. And with the naval blockade and the loyalty of some of the clans they already struck back. You CAN hug your wife for 5 seconds due to the death of her son, you won't lose the war if you do.

- I know some people try to defend him by saying stuff like "Oh he just ordered to kill Aemond". Why would they kill the kid then. I'm not joking, why the kid ESPECIALLY? Do people really think a random rat killer would be smart enough to kill the prince because he, one day, would get on the throne? Why would he even care? Even the guard loyal to Daemon wouldn't care about that. Hell, Haelena would be more straightforward and reasonable for a random person, since she's an adult and she saw them. But no, the MALE child specifically to destroy the bloodline. Come on, Daemon ordered it, "a son for a son", he doesn't care if it's a child. And even if he didn't, and it's a huge if, it just shows how little in control he is. He is not able to do anything right.

Episode 2:

- Throws a tantrum, lashing out to Rhaenyra, insults Vyseris in front of her and basically tells her "You're only on the throne so that I wouldn't, you don't deserve it".

Episode 3:

- Taking an offense in being called "Prince" instead of "King". You are not the king boy, pipe down. The crown isn't yours. Ego piercing the clouds, seriously.

Episode 4:

- I'll give him the benefit of the doubt because he was tripping balls, but seriously? Killing young Rhaenyra? Yeah that's not a good look.

- He told a teen to kill his grandfather, and then said to his face that his family is shit.

- So you DO know that that Psycho of Aemond is basically you but 30 years younger.

Episode 5:

- "Daemon never wanted the crown!" His literal subconscious in the form of his mother (that he was fucking) told him he deserved it more than his brother. What else do you need?

- He scoofs anytime he is remembered that the crown isn't his.

- "The true heir of Viserys" he calls himself, he seems SO loyal to Rhaenyra (that's sarcasm)

Episode 6:

- The allucination with the Viserys conversation due to the "heir for a day" comment made me realize that he never apologized for it. Not once.

Episode 7:

Surprisingly nothing, I mean yeah he killed the Lord of the rivers with Alyn's help, but the man was to going to die anyway so. I don't know if it counts.

Episode 8:

Nothing again, not denying the treason proposal was fishy but at the end he bent the knee so all good.

Now that season 2 has ended and season 3 won't come out for a year or more, the list by episodes is over. I will use this to elaborate my thoughts.

Watching Daemon Targaryen in the series and seeing his reception by the fandom made me realize how the "media literacy is dead" is yes wrong but is also very justifiable as an opinion. Because the Daemon situation is really the last installment of this behaviour, especially from men: Walter White, the guy from American Psycho, hell even Ken from the Barbie movie. How much can these characters been latched onto, been seen as incredible and as a goal, while their entire purpose in the story is to have a giant glowing sign that reads "this is a bad person and this how they fit into our messed up society" or maybe they are part of a story and they are not there to be an omen, but they are very openly written to be bad people. Daemon falls into the second category. He has a very distinct role in the series and that's to be the ambigous guy with a giant ego, always understimating everyone around him, while constantly being punished for such way of thinking and arriving, at the end, at finding purpose in being under someone and serving them. Daemon is constantly dismissive towards other people: he thinks he's beneath everyone and everything. That he can do and say anything he likes. And he gets fucked every single time for it. He thought he could insult Vyseris' child, he got sent away. He thought he could steal his egg, he had soldiers and a dragon at his doorstep to take it back. He thought he could start a war at sea and win easily and he had to use Laenor's tactic to win or use Vyseris' troops, otherwise he would have lost horribly. He thought he could have his way with Rhaenyra, he was banished for it. He thought he could command his second wife, ignore her desires and choose for her, she made her own dragon burn her alive in order to make a choice for herself. He thought he could take revenge for Rhaenyra and hurt the greens, he not only gave an order so shallow that it could have been misinterpreted but Rhaenyra was disgusted by it and it ruined her reputation throught the seven kingdoms. He thought he could make the Blackwoods kill their rivals without a problem, if the young Tally hadn't grew balls the size of Caraxes the entirety of the River people wouldn't have followed him even if the dragon was about to burn them all alive.

THAT is who Daemon is: an incompetent, egomaniac that is constantly needed to be reminded that he ain't shit.

And yet so many people think he's the most badass character in the show. They think he's a loving brother, a great husband, a genius when it comes to war and a great warrior. All of those things, Daemon Targaryen is not.

And if you enjoy him as a character, well I only have one thing to say to you: that's fine. Because Daemon is written BEAUTIFULLY. He is coherent to a fault.

You can see that he loves Vyseris, but he's a psycho that has never respected him so he constantly hurts him because he's a piece of shit.

He doesn't respect Rhaenyra because to him she's always gonna be a child because Daemon is a groomer. She is also not fit to be queen because she's like Vyseris, someone that Daemon never thought to be a good king, and he wasn't entirely wrong. Because, mind you, if Vyseris had a backbone, Daemon would have lost his head. He got too many chances.

Daemon will always envy Rhaenyra because in a way he was always seeking Vyseris' attention, he always wanted to be praised by him, but he always wanted to be praised for being HIMSELF, hence why he never tried to act as Vyseris would have liked. He wanted Vyseris to like Daemon, not the Daemon that acted like Vyseris would have wanted.

Daemon could never be in a good relantionship because he can't respect anyone else outside of himself. His first wife was his equal. In no way that woman would have bent to his will. His second wife was more accomodating, but she had pride in herself and at the end choose for herself. And Rhaenyra? She's supposed to be BENEATH him, he could never accept that.

Daemon can never shut his mouth because to him, being himself is more important than reason. My brother is mad at me for maybe having fucked his daughter? Well I'll double down, I have every right to get her- oh he banished me. The entirery of the conflict revolves around my wife's claim being questioned? Well I want to fight this war in this way, so I'll give orders, go to Harrenal to build an army and win by myself- oh one of her council members has come here to ask me to betray her and lead the war because he doesn't believe she's good enough to lead.

You can almost always predict Daemon before he speaks or acts, that's how well he was written. And it is also very EASY to see how he was written. Seriously, his actions are up there, they have been documented episode by episode, if you still don't see it I don't know what to tell you. Anyone that has seen him throw a fit for not being called King is seriously still trying to say that he didn't want the crown? HIS FIRST SCENE IN THE ENTIRE SERIES WAS HIM ON THE IRON THRONE.

ONLY. And I repeat, ONLY in the last episode Daemon has let go. Only then. Because he finally realized, due to the visions: "Okay I need to get my shit together, this is bigger than me" and it took a vision of quite literally zombies killing a dragon and marching towards the world of the living to make Daemon Targaryen lower his head.

I repeat: this is not a post about Daemon being a shitty character and me saying that his fans are dumb. It is, however, a post about how men have, once again, latched onto a toxic and objectively bad male character in a show and ignored 90% of how he was written in order to have a cool character to kin. It is also about people not being able to. Understand writing because saying "Daemon never wanted the crown" is like saying "Aegon always wanted the crown" and I think we all know he never wanted it.

Also also, this post, about making a list of all the bad things a character has done, can be done about a lot of other characters, I am aware. But no other character in this show has been read as wrongly and has been lifted so high as Daemon has.

[catiecat1320]

Sonadowtober Prompt 14: Prank

Arthur decides to have a little fun… with consequences unforeseen

Technically Arthurlot and not Sonadow but shush. I’m having fun

Read Below 🔽

Being stuffed in a dress wasn’t exactly a goal of Arthur’s. By his most trusted knight, no less!

It wasn’t unpleasant, per se, but it was definitely unexpected. It was his fault it happened, he had to admit. A war of pranks, with him disguised as a new knight of their table while he pretended to be away for foreign affairs.

Its beginning sat in a joke.

“Gawain,” Arthur— well disguised with a pinch of magic as Sir Dinadan— chirped at the dinner table. “Your eating habits are despicable.”

Everyone goes silent. The Knight of the Sun stared at him, an entire bunch of grapes in his hand. He had the audacity to look surprised. Perhaps his manners were only for show when the king was present. “They are not.”

“Sure,” Arthur shoots, thoroughly amused by his knights’ habits when he was supposedly not around. It wouldn’t hurt to poke fun at them. “For a wolf. Were you perhaps raised by them?”

“Watch your place.” Lancelot! He’d know that voice anywhere. Coming to Gawain’s defense was something of a surprise; the two were well known rivals. Perhaps their bond went deeper than that. “Just because His Majesty isn’t present does not mean you can be brash.”

Arthur hides a smirk at the mention of the king. If only they knew… but this anonymity was too fun to give up so soon. “Gawain can speak for himself.” The echidna glares at him, but doesn’t say a word. “See! He agrees.” 

Lancelot stands, slamming his hands on the table. “You’ve got a big mouth for a small guy.” But before he can do anything, Gawain gives him a wave of dismissal.

“Stand down, Lancelot. I don’t need you to defend me.”

And that was that. Or so Arthur thought.

Lancelot fumed at the audacity of this new knight. To insult his comrade! He needed to be taught a lesson. 

But how to do such when Gawain refused his help, and brushed it off as if it were alright? He usually held his honor at the highest regard, but perhaps this knave has damaged his ego.

He mulls over his options for a long time, unable to let it go. A brilliant idea suddenly nests itself in his mind when he sees Sir Dinadan’s name on the participants list in the next day’s jousting event.

It was just a fun show, a series of challenges aimed to connect the people. The king himself had proposed it; it was a pity that he wasn’t there to witness its happenings. Lancelot himself would be participating in a swordsmanship contest later, but…

He smiles to himself as he signs up for jousting under a false name. In all hopes, revenge would be swift.

Arthur pulls up his visor, smiling as the folks cheer for his victory. He hasn’t had this much fun in years. Perhaps when he’s seated on the throne again, he’d request his knights joust with him.

After a short break, he’s up against his newest opponent. They’re… anything but expected. Wearing a dress and a few pieces of armor, there’s a lady on the opposite charge.

He has to admit, she’s as beautiful as she’s daring. 

His opponent’s face is covered by a simple visor, leaving him unable to identify her. Arthur knows many people, but he’s never seen her before… She mounts her horse with practiced swiftness, despite the unconventional dress. Amazing. Not even the ladies of the Round Table wore dresses in combat…

The announcer’s voice casts over the crowd and immediately, the jousters spur their horses into a charge.

Perhaps Arthur had underestimated this lady. Perhaps it was the usual chivalry weakening his fight. He doesn’t know, but as his opponent’s lance crashes into his chest at full force, he’s really, really glad he has armor on.

That hurt.

A lot.

Even more when she takes the chance to knock his own weapon out of his hands, then comes around for round two. He’s torn off his horse in an instant.

Black flashes in his vision for all of a second, ringing filling his ears along with the roar of the spectators. He finds it hard to breathe all of a sudden. 

Arthur’s vision clears to see his opponent standing over him, staring ruby eyes somehow familiar. But he doesn’t have a chance to ponder over it before he’s whisked off the list field, his consciousness slipping.

The last thing he remembers thinking is how impressive of a feat that was.

Lancelot stood by the bed in which Dinadan rested. Perhaps he’d used a little too much force in unhorsing him. The rookie had been unconscious for quite a bit now, and Lancelot couldn’t help but worry for him despite his grievance against his fellow knights.

The worry was unfounded, however. The medic had declared him a heavy sleeper, nothing more.

He could move on to part two of his plan. Was it a bit much? Maybe. But defeat was something suffered by many, and Lancelot couldn’t help but be petty enough to wish for more. Gawain had suffered embarrassment, it was only fair for Dinadan to do the same.

It was with that logic that he took Dinadan into the dining hall, rightfully in a princess carry with the dress he’d put the knight in. Everyone looked up the instant the door opened— for they were late; after all, a dress was a finicky thing to wear for someone inexperienced, even more so when that someone is unconscious.

Gawain was the first to speak. Rather, try to speak. It was a bit of a challenge when he was struggling to breathe from suppressed laughter at the same time. “I-Is that…?”

“Sir Dinadan,” Lancelot affirmed, deadpan. “Or perhaps he’d be Lady Dinadan now?”

That did it. The table erupted with laughter, and though some tried to hold it in and be respectful to their unconscious comrade, they lost to the crowd. Laughter was contagious, and it was only supplemented by the rarity of seeing Lancelot attempt a joke of any kind. It was truly perfect.

The knights took to posing with Dinadan, who was soon awoken by the rabble. 

“...what?”

“He awakens!” Gawain lifts him above his head as if celebrating a victor. Cheers rang all around, leaving Dinadan looking around in bewilderment as he’s passed around, before landing in Lancelot’s arms and seeing him smirk.

He opens his mouth, but before he could say a word, the door swings open to reveal the royal wizard, likely come to investigate the noise, who quickly takes on as surprised of an expression as Dinadan wore as her eyes lock on the gowned figure. “Your Majesty!”

Everyone freezes instantly, eyes wide with shock… with the exception of Dinadan, who pouts.

“Must you ruin my charade so soon, Merlina?”

Her brows furrowed in confusion as she dips into a small curtsey. “I figured you were in trouble, sire.”

All of the knights tense as the truth sets, frantic thoughts practically bouncing off one another. They’d just been making fun of the king. But no other is more afraid than Lancelot, who uses all the willpower he has to set Dinad— Arthur on the ground gently before dropping to his knees.

“Sincerest apologies, Your Majesty,” he blurts immediately, words spilling out like a waterfall before he could think about their effect. “I… I take full blame and punishment for our actions against you, I provoked such out of spite and should not have done it. Regardless if they were you or a fellow knight or anyone at all. I… don’t know what I was thinking. I-I’m so sorry, sire.” He touches his head to the floor while the rest of the knights shuffle amongst themselves and bow theirs in shame.

“Lancelot…”

He flinches at his name, preparing for what came next. But Arthur just lays a hand on his head, dress splaying on the floor with his crouch. Lancelot resists the urge to look at him.

But that was the wrong choice. “Get up.”

He rises, slowly, careful not to take his gaze off the ground. But Arthur puts a hand to his chin and forces him to look at his face. Whatever magic that disguised the king has either worn off or been removed by Merlina, leaving him struggling to meet emerald eyes. “You’re not in trouble. No one is.”

There’s not a hint of malice in his voice, yet Lancelot bites his lip to keep from protesting. To parade the king around like a fool was worthy of death, it… it wasn’t just, to let him off.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Arthur says, interrupting his thoughts. “But this was a harmless joke. There’s nothing wrong with that. I see no need to punish you, nor anyone else involved. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lancelot replies, because what else could he say to that? His king was so kind…

“If it makes you all feel any better, I find this terribly amusing,” Arthur smiles, twirling around. As everyone resumes their activities, he takes the time to tell all the knights what he noticed while undercover, coaxing quite a few laughs out of the table.

At the end of the night, the king pulls Lancelot aside, an innocent request to help him remove the dress. It’s a tedious process. 

As Arthur stands in his bed clothes, he holds up the gown in the lamp light with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I have to say, Lancelot, you wear this better than I. If you weren’t my knight, I’d consider making you my queen.”

That comment leaves Lancelot awake that night.

[projectgaiaray]

okay I've been thinking about it some more and here are some things i like more about digimon than pokemon:

gender. digimon do not have genders. english speaking fans do he/him or she/her them a lot and i think the subs and dubs for the various anime series do but canonically speaking none of them are Girls Or Boys

for this reason it's also possible for a very masculine looking digimon to evolve into a very feminine looking one and vice versa. because these concepts mean nothing to them. and that's badass forever to me

evolution. technically speaking any digimon can evolve into any other digimon so long as it's one of the level above them. this makes fanmade evo lines possible. so if you have a favorite of every level you can very much just imagine a digimon who evolves into all of those

digimon also devolve. so evolving isn't permanent

character. so the thing about digimon in comparison to pokemon is that digimon tend to be more like people than pets. there are some exceptions to this but ultimately a digimon partner is your beast friend who would die for you not your dog. so most digimon can also talk. this means that in the anime series especially when they want to add a digimon they also have to write a character and that can be really fun. there are digimon i likely wouldn't think much about otherwise that i love to death just because one version of them is a great character. looks directly at impmon

this also means that if you're like me and insane. the digimon are often more relatable than the humans are because they have the opportunity to be

anime. pokemon as an anime isn't bad per-se except for when it is. but not a lot happens in it that isn't standard shenanigans and basic children's anime stuff. digimon is also for kids so it's not like high art or anything but its anime tend to have an enormous deal more to say for themselves than pokemon's anime does. like if you watch especially either adventure or tamers you'll get a lot more out of it. a lot of times it's sort of "what if whatever edgy pokemon fanfic you wrote as a tween actually happened". and i like that

death. the digimon can die sometimes instead of just being functionally immortal but fainting. this is because they're originally based on tamagotchi. i think that's pretty cool

cards. i like how digimon cards look more than pokemon cards sometimes. some of those illustrations are absolutely batshit

designs. this is obvious but i just generally think digimon look better than pokemon do. yes digimon tend to look much busier than pokemon but post like gen3 pokemon have just been getting more and more awkward to look at whereas digimon has remained fairly consistent. i also like that a lot of digimon are just Guys. i know a lot of pokemon fans absolutely despise it when a pokemon is so much as bipedal but digimon often evolve into just full on guys. sometimes hardly distinguishable from humans. and they look kickass nearly every single time. the royal knights who are my favorite ever are basically just knight or animal themed gundam most of the time and yes they are enormous and yes it is exactly as cool as you think it is

worldbuilding. to put it simply i like digimon's world more than pokemon's world. pokemon takes place in a version of more or less our world where all of the animals are these things called pokemon which is cool. but digimon exist in an entirely parallel world to ours called the digital world with its own rules and appearance and mythology and culture and ecosystem and whatnot. generally the two worlds aren't supposed to overlap either so it's fun to imagine. but the digital world is also. digital. so sometimes its manmade too. and that's cool also

jogress. you don't have to make fanmade mashups here sometimes the digimon just fuse

and that's all i can think of smiles

[writerbuddha]

After reading metas, how can you marry someone after they massacre people? And this isn't about having compassion or believing their capable of goodness, I think that's great, but to marry them and technically, cover it up? Maybe I'm talking to the wrong person about this, since you ship anidala, but still it just confuses me so much.

Hello! :) (Sorry, I don't know if you're the same anon, lol)

I would describe myself as someone who greatly appreciates the love story of Lucas second trilogy, as a tale of a doomed relationship of star-crossed lovers, so maybe "ships anidala" is accurate. But to be honest, I differentiate between loving the narrative that George Lucas was telling, and being emotionally invested in their fictional relationship per se. So maybe it's not that accurate.

Regarding your question, I believe this is a very sensitive topic. I think there are two things to consider:

Scale-of-justice view vs. Continuum view

I think it ultimately has to do with one's view on humans. In George Lucas' Star Wars, whether we're good or bad is nothing more and nothing less than whether we're able to control our fear, anger, hate and aggression or we're being controlled by it. If you have this view, you can't really take out one thing from a person's life and say, this and that is what should define them as good person or bad person. When your dark side is in control, you're under the sway of your fear, anger, hate and aggression, greed, so you act in an evil way, you do evil things, under the influence of negative emotions and motivations and so on. That evil behavior arises as a result of certain causes and conditions. A Jedi Knight is someone who controls their dark side through patience and training and going as far to their light side - compassion, love, kindness, charity and hope - as possible, they're dedicating their whole life to achieve this and to radiate onto others. But this is a very hard task and you have to be very diligent about it, you have to work hard and you have to be very disciplined, because your dark side is always there and if you let your guard down, it will erupt. You must be mindful, compassionate, committed and serious.

Being on the light side and in control of the dark side - that's Anakin Skywalker. Being under the sway of the dark side and being on the dark side - that's Darth Vader. What I am trying to say here is that you should try to view him and all others as a continuum and judge them by their current state and not like weighing their actions on a scale and trying to get a verdict based on that. That's one of the core lessons of Lucas' Star Wars. For example, Anakin saved Naboo in Episode I, and in Episode IV, he destroyed Alderaan. I doubt that anyone who watch this, says, well, one planet saved, one planet destroyed, therefore, he is back to square one, whereas scale-of-justice logic requires exactly that conclusion. The scale-of-justice logic cannot make sense of the redemption of Darth Vader, thus, there are many who left bewildered by the fact that he ended up being a manifestation of the Force like Yoda and Obi-Wan, whereas it's actually the conclusion of the view that sees him as a continuum. In Episode III, he was no longer the good man named Anakin and in Episode VI, he was that person once again, and no longer Vader. In the same way, in Episode II, Anakin fell under the sway of his dark side, and he massacred the Tuskens. You can say that he become Darth Vader for that time. Then, he was once again Anakin, and he was tormented by guilt and shame, saying, "I'm a Jedi! I know I am better than this." According to scale-of-justice logic, butchering the Sand People goes into Anakin's permanent record and he must do something very good to balance it, so he can be considered a good person once again, but this is, once again, the flaw of that logic.

Padmé views Anakin this way. She is not marrying the Anakin who is under the sway of his dark side, but the Anakin who is in control of it and who is on his light side. In Episode III, she begs him to turn back into that person. As it's explicitly stated in Episode VI, Anakin is this person's "true self", obscured by his unchecked dark side. He carries Vader as a potential in himself, and Vader carries him as a potential as well. This is why he can to turn into Vader, and back into Anakin.

Sand People: demonized natives or beasts?

As for Sand People, sometimes I wonder how they were meant to be viewed in George Lucas' canon. It's very clear that Anakin butchering the younglings in Episode III and wiping out the entire Tusken village in Episode II are meant to be seen as two very, very different things: Padmé immediately tells Anakin that she cannot stay with him, and she can't do that "Because of what you've done. What you plan to do." Lucas himself said that Padmé would certainly won't be able to live with him after this, although she would still love him. And even though she is well aware of the fact that Anakin massacred Tusken women and children, when Obi-Wan reveals that Anakin killed the younglings in the Jedi Temple, she reacts with saying, "Not Anakin. He couldn't." I saw many who found this ridiculous but it's quite clear that Lucas wants us to separate the two incidents, even though he says that Anakin killing the Tuskens is "completely inappropriate."

We can argue about whether or not it is a good thing, but if we watch the movies and the tv show, we have no real reason to believe that when they were described as creatures who are walking like men but they're actually mindless and vicious and animal-like monsters, it wasn't accurate. In fact, Lucas explicitly stated that he wanted the Tuskens to be introduced as such: deadly, treacherous, disliked, not completely human, as he said. This is not to say that they are not composed of light and dark, like all living things, but they're meant to be seen as a race of bloodthirsty and animal-like, primitive marauder creatures. They're the baboons in Disney's Tarzan.

So, in George Lucas' narrative, what Anakin did was certainly bad, but the emphasis is always on Anakin took lives out of hate, anger and aggression branching from his rage over not being able to have his mother in his life, descending into blind vengeance. A Jedi Knight must not take revenge, no matter what, and must be able to be in control of his dark side. That's the point.

The portrayal of the Tusken Raider as more human, even noble, with complex spirituality and traditions is (and again, we can argue about whether or not it's a good thing, but that's another conversation) coming from Book of Boba Fett and the Mandalorian, and it can be traced back to some Legends works. Viewing Attack of the Clones with this in mind, Anakin massacring the Sand People village is basically the genocide of a tribe of natives and Padmé's reaction to it is deeply concerning and it seems she either ignores it or simply just doesn't care. But in Lucas' narrative, the Tusken raiders, like I wrote it above, are closer to stereotypical baboons. Their death is not acknowledged as something that has the same wight as the death of the younglings. Or the Ewoks, who were prepared to cook Luke and Han. Even more importantly, if you watch the Clone Wars episode Trespass, on the surface, the Talz are very similar to the Tuskens, yet, they're worlds apart, and the story makes sure that their equality is clearly emphasized. If the Tuskens would meant to be seen similarly, there would've been an episode introducing them in a similar way.

The Tuskens are nightmarish nomadic maunderer creatures roaming a desert planet, intelligent and able to create culture, but driven by basic instincts, inspired by horror stories about desert dwelling, nightmarish nomadic maunderer tribes that were based on stereotypical depiction of the Bedouin, who historically raided trade caravans, villages at the margins of settled areas and threatened cities. So, Padmé's reaction to Anakin's confession and she marrying him anyway should be interpreted with this in mind.

Like I said, we can argue about whether or not it's a good thing, but that's another discussion - to be able to have that discussion, I think, it's crucial to clarify, what is the story that was told, how the characters, the creatures, the philosophies etc. were meant to be viewed, because then we can have a clear picture.

[sepublic]

            The more I think about the Nizziverse’s lore for the Autobots and Decepticons and the reasons for the Great War, and the circumstances behind it… The more it makes sense to me for Swindle to be an Autobot, actually. Not a NICE Autobot, not exactly, but…

         He isn’t zealous like a lot of Decepticons, nor is he overly-devoted to Cybertron, as he’s far too economic to ignore how costly and inefficient the planet has become. Swindle doesn’t have any prejudice towards organic races and would much rather cooperate with (and admittedly, exploit) them than enslave and wipe out. He isn’t concerned about maintaining the Cybertronian ‘tradition’ of conquest, and the Decepticons are more rigid than the Autobots, whose military structure would give Swindle more freedom to do his own thing on the side.

         Plus, the Autobots would encourage interaction with organics, as it drives the basis to recognize and appreciate them as peers, rather than distant aliens! Swindle is a relatively free thinker and willing to question certain things, and adaptable; He sees the potential in working with organic races and can appreciate their cultural nuances, and he prefers to negotiate and bargain than fight.

         Honestly, everything points towards Swindle being an Autobot of amoral, pragmatic motives; Not a GOOD guy per se, just realistic. The only reason he’s a Decepticon is Doylist; He’s a Combaticon who forms Bruticus, so he has to be Decepticon! And Bruticus might be his main and only reason in-universe as well… Perhaps Swindle recognizes the economic value of Bruticus as outweighing what he could otherwise get under Autobot allegiance.

       �� Not to mention, Swindle is a character who would gladly play both sides and sell to the Autobots too, not really holding a grudge. So I guess in some ways, he IS an Autobot, even if he goes by the Decepticon insignia. It’s a bit weird. It’s possible he just wants to maintain connections with his fellow Combaticons, who are much more devout in Decepticon ideology.

         All that said, Swindle was definitely one of the first to accept the post-war pardons after Dark of the Moon, settling for simple black market arms dealer and con man, and splitting off from his fellow Combaticons. I actually want him to replace Daytrader in The Last Knight; I know that Daytrader is a unique design so I SHOULD feel obligated to include him as he is, unlike characters such as Berserker or “Onslaught”.

         But tbh I just like Swindle a lot more and don’t enjoy Daytrader enough, plus! There’s something deeply humorous about technically-Autobot Swindle. The actual Autobots’ antagonism towards him would make a lot more sense and be funnier, because the audience HAS participated and known him firsthand as an enemy, and yet here is Swindle strolling in like the events of 2007 and Dark of the Moon never happened. Hmm. Maybe I can include Daytrader anyway, as Swindle’s partner and muscle, carrying large bits of merchandise that can’t fit through Swindle’s compartment?

        His mercantile instincts can tell that there’s something neat about Cade’s weird little ‘talisman’, so he tries haggling for it but eventually gives up. Swindle is eventually kicking himself when it turns out the talisman is in fact the legendary Star Saber of Prima, one of the thirteen Primes! Whoops. Among his many wares, there’s a new, totally legit voice box for Bumblebee, as well as Starscream’s head… Shhh, ignore the fact that Starscream’s head was reduced to pieces with him. It’s the real thing, he swears, and don’t look behind Swindle’s back for his fingers!

[crackinglamb]

I'm late for Dragon Age Day (I'm sick, so I haven't been around), but in honor of it, here's some shameless self-promotion of the OC's of What a Wicked Game to Play.

Imogen McLean

Without her, there would be no fic. MGIT, lover and agent of Fen'Harel, reluctant badass. A physicist from Earth, transported via an experimental accident and in full possession of all the spoilers from the games, Imogen knows what she needs to do, but is Extremely Tired of doing it. She hates being a killer. She is disdainful of the Chantry as a cult and singular influence of the current political landscape. She does NOT like Orlesians. Armed with her foreknowledge, her smartphone and her determination to get a better ending, she's chugging along breaking canon all over the place and saving as many people as she can. Yes, including that damned Dread Wolf.

Eliana Hawke

The years have not been kind to the Champion of Kirkwall. She enters WG as a bitter, exhausted, terrified woman who is still grieving over Anders and everything that happened in Kirkwall. She copes with functional alcoholism. Imogen can relate. Their friendship helps smooth her edges, gets both of them in a healthier headspace and gives her the impetus she needs to finally go after what she always wanted: Varric.

Terisin Mahariel

The Hero of Ferelden didn't want to be here. He had his own agenda he was working on that was abruptly waylaid by a higher power. His secrets have secrets, and what he's going to do about them is still unknown. Still, he got to reunite with his son Kieran and repair his relationship with Morrigan after years of estrangement. He is a stoic, intense survivor of all Thedas has thrown at him. He would like some peace and quiet, thanks very much.

(He also became something of a thirst trap for my readers. Smol and mighty, he is my offering to the buff elf agenda.)

Dogmeat (Aju'ithanun)

A wolf inhabited by a spirit of Determination, now evolved into Hope. Aju'ithanun means to act with purpose, resolution and/or determination (crafted by me using Project Elvhen, yes I'm aware of the Problems). In day to day, he answers to Dogmeat, since in Cole's words: "To you it means devotion, trust and companionship. Franchise doesn't matter". He was a 'gift' from Wisdom, so that Imogen would have more help than just Pride at her side. He's very doggy, but he's also a stalwart companion and gives Imogen strength she didn't know she had. A Thedosian emotional support animal, if you will.

Honorable mentions:

Guardsman Meuric - a Fereldan born commoner who joined the Inquisition in Redcliffe. Serves as Imogen's door guard and often has the best gossip. He was supposed to be a one-off kind of character, but he's grown on me, and ended up having several appearances, including one during WEWH.

Amund Sky-Watcher - yeah, I know, he's a canon character. But I took what little we see of him in-game and expanded it exponentially. He has become a mentor and support to Imogen, and a love interest to Cassandra. He gave me a reason to bring Avvar lore into the fic early and was half the reason Imogen went to the Frostback Basin when she did.

Inassan of Clan Soran - a member of Hawen's clan. She went with Taven to the Emerald Knight's Tomb. Technically she's a canon character too (she's the one who tells you to keep your distance, or better yet, leave). She is a prickly woman, justifiably distrustful of shemlen, but a proud, adept warrior who is ultimately impressed with Imogen and her open-mindedness. They aren't friends, per se, but they are certainly not enemies. In writing her, I also gave the clan a name since one isn't mentioned in-game. Inassan uses a longbow in the fic, and gave me the headcannon that each clan has a specialty. Since the Dalish clans take their names from the Emeralds Knights, and Soran was an archer, it seemed fitting.

Malika 'Licker' Cadash - Varric's niece and heir. And daughter of Vera Cadash, who had been sent to the Conclave and died there. Mostly she serves as a bit of reality driving for Imogen, who makes the connection that if she had not interrupted Corypheus' ritual, someone else would have become Herald of Andraste. Making Malika Bartrand's illegitimate daughter, and thus Varric's only remaining blood relative, was just too fun to pass up. She shows up from time to time. Imogen does eventually get the story on the origin of 'Licker'.

Wisdom - anyone who's read the fic knows how much canon got yeeted here. She is equal parts maternal figure, mentor, friend and meddling in-law. Solas may be her closest friend, but Imogen is her beloved da'len, in all connotations of the word. Nothing more really needs to be said, I think.

[mightdeletelater]

the t word ... it's coming sooner than we think

*this was originally posted on my substack, which you can view here

We're heading towards naming the first trillionaire. In the pursuit of a fair democracy, the escalating influence wielded by the ultra-wealthy poses a disaster we probably cannot tolerate.

Most business reports predict the imminent emergence of the world's first trillionaire within the next decade. This isn't surprising, per se. We know that quite a few of the current wealthiest individuals on the planet have doubled their fortunes since 2020.

But I can't even wrap my head around a trillion.

Twelve zeros. 

1, 000, 000, 000, 000

The implications of minting the first and how it differs from the wealth held by past oligarchs raise questions about societal consequences.

I remember the first time I went to the Rockefeller Centre in New York and just being so shocked at the absolute size of it. I spent the next few weeks obsessively reading about the family, specifically John D. Rockefeller and how he cumulated his wealth. He is honestly a great starting point in understanding the evolution of extreme wealth. As the world's first billionaire, he capitalised on the burgeoning demand for gasoline, establishing a monopoly in the oil industry.

But billionaires today are more characterised by wealth derived from knowledge, ideas, and speculative ventures. And their earnings are categorised as "unearned" by tax agencies, denoting income derived from investments. Unlike us ordinary people who pay double-digit tax rates on income and asset profits (if we're so lucky to have any), billionaires can borrow against their growing investments without incurring taxes, enabling them to pay lower tax rates than the average person. 

Present-day moguls revel in their nearly divine authority over the politicians they finance, the platforms they possess, and the industries they have essentially monopolised. We know that rich people are not getting smarter. Policy failures are giving them a helping hand. There is no system to stop individual wealth from becoming something like that guy in the movies who gets first place at the local fair's eating competition – wolfing down massive portions of the economic pie. The arrival of a trillionaire is concerning when you think about the ongoing struggle for economic balance and a robust democracy.

Current billionaires influence various spheres, owning media outlets that shape public opinion and contributing to political campaigns that align with their interests. Quite a few of them have held or sought political office, often supporting conservative positions that protect their wealth. Classic example: Elon Musk on TwiXer arguing that housing is too expensive because of immigration.

The loopholes in our inheritance tax system are so extensive that billion-dollar fortunes can seamlessly transfer across generations, evading taxation altogether. Take the Nike founder, Phil Knight, who successfully moved over $6 billion into a trust for his descendants without incurring estate or gift tax. Or Bernard Arnault, the richest person on Earth. Arnault owns LVMH, the luxury goods company, through holding companies under his control. In 2023, dividends totalling approximately $3 billion were disbursed to the Frenchman's holdings by LVMH. These dividends are subject to minimal taxation since corporate entities technically receive them. So Arnault can effectively utilise these funds as if they were directly deposited into his personal bank account, provided he channels them through other incorporated entities, be it for his two children or acquiring additional companies.

We are regressing amid the global challenges of wars, plagues, and economic crises. And it is so evidenced by the imminent rise of the trillionaire.

So, now that we know they are coming sooner rather than later, the question becomes how do we ward them off? Our governments need a 'radical' approach. Radical is, of course, in quotation marks because I don't actually think legally capping the maximum amount of wealth an individual can possess is really that extreme. But, you know, others would disagree. 

Establishing a tax system that maintains wealth distribution within sensible bounds is entirely feasible. Effective taxation of accumulated wealth, actual income (including unrealised profits), and intergenerational wealth transfers could achieve this. A worldwide initiative urging countries to enact a global 2% tax on billionaires' surplus wealth is being led by economists. 

The aspirations of ordinary individuals worldwide are often sidelined to fund the ambitions of figures like Bezos, Musk, Knight, and Arnault. From space exploration, Martian settlements, and underwater civilisations to Western-style ghost towns, floating cities, and the Metaverse, these are all hobbies pursued solely by oligarchs. They resemble perpetual thirteen-year-old science fiction enthusiasts who never grasped the disparity between utopian ideals and dystopian realities.

Bezos himself admitted it himself. After his inaugural space voyage, he thanked Amazon's employees and customers for footing the bill.

This revelation was remarkable: to imply that people labouring for 12+ hours a day, migrant workers being forced to work under unlawful conditions and delivery drivers urinating in water bottles are all a fair price to pay for Bezos to get to play with his toy rocket. Such is the essence of oligarchy; their jet fuel costs the simple price of everyone else's blood, sweat and tears.

The impending emergence of a trillionaire class will relentlessly extract from the masses, and as we edge closer to unparalleled wealth accumulation, addressing economic inequality necessitates encompassing tax reforms, fortified democratic institutions, and global initiatives for redistributing resources. How can these steps not be imperative for nurturing a fairer, more sustainable future?

[kaissauce]

For your ask game!

For Kirby:

2. Favorite canon thing about this character?

22. If you're a fic reader, what's something you like in fics when it comes to ths character? Something you don't like?

For Marx:

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

(thanka you for the ask)

lets seee

2. His impulsivity. dude knows what he wants to do and does it. damn i didnt have a good dream last night? gotta piece the star rod together no questions asked you cannot stop me

22. i dont actually read kirby fics much, at least at the moment, cus i can’t find ones that appeal to me. that said i don’t like it when people have kirby say “poyo” when it’s not even an anime fic.

the official novels are technically licensed fanfics so i’ll take those into account for this question, i like how they give kirby actual character (i know the bar is low) but like. i especially like how kirby gets annoyed when meta knight tries fighting him because mk is so obsessed with getting stronger. like yeah! let him get mad.

in general any fics that write kirby as a person who has flaws like any other person instead of “cinnamon roll who could do no wrong” (eugh) get a thumbs up

6. i too go ballistic when im hungry. and would do shit for the sake of food

7. mmmmm though i don’t like marxolor per se, i do like it when people give those two history with each other. like i am team “magolor found marx in space after his fight with kirby”

[otnesse]

Well, technically, the bit about Leia remembering Padme was more stated by Lucas in an interview rather than the EU per-se, but appreciate the sentiment of promoting the EU (especially when even Lucas has been rather arbitrary for lack of a better term of how it's handled). And I have my complaints about midichlorians as a concept (not that it robs the Force of any mysticism, but more that it just came across as something of a rather idiotic power source that can easily be taken away with an anti-biotic. Plus, if bacterium were responsible for the Force, why is it that Palpatine NEVER seemed to voice any interest in, I don't know, injecting midichlorians into random people and turning them into artificial Force users, sort of like the Magitek knights in Final Fantasy VI or the Super Serum in the Captain America comics), but I neither blame nor credit the EU for it. And while Qui-Gon was definitely one of the best characters in Star Wars (not to mention the EU definitely did a good thing on elaborating on that bit), he still was a needless walking retcon ultimately.

But overall I agree, the EU definitely needs a LOT more respect, Legends EU I should add. It gets disrespected a lot of times not just by so-called fans and Disney, but even by George Lucas (and it's even worse with him since a few times he was directly responsible for those EU stories, yet like Kojima's treatment of Portable Ops wastes no time in semi-disowning them just because he never personally wrote the stories, regardless of whether he signed off on or in the case of Dark Empire even gave direct story ideas to the writers).

“i hated the prequels! the dialogue was so cheesy” watch the clone wars

“and there are SO many plot holes in the prequels” watch the clone wars

“anakin was the worst! bad lines, bad acting, whiny, annoying af!!” watch the clone wars

“and like Padme’s scenes were like all cut out! I’m so mad the prequels don’t go over the women more!” watch the clone wars

“we barely went over both the clone and war part of the clone wars” watch the clone wars

“i want more darth maul, count dooku, and general grievous! they seem so cool but died too shortly!” watch the clone wars

“why are they all human? its a galaxy, why not focus more on other species?” watch the clone wars

“overall the prequels were just executed so poorly” watch the clone wars

watch the clone wars honestly you gotta trust me

[husband-steve-cortez]

Like at a glance they seem like they'd be rogues, and some infiltrator characters are certainly typecast that way (Kasumi), but then others (Garrus) aren't, and on that sliding scale Eric is a bit more of a Garrus than a Kasumi. Currently at least I go back and forth.

He's an assassin to me but not a rogue per se. Add on that mass effect Andromeda gives you much more freedom with weapon choices and abilities, and the fact that I mostly have tech on Eric to buff his damage and debuff enemy damage rather than using any of the damaging elemental powers (tactical cloak, turbocharge, either invasion or cryo beam) and...yeah. He's closer to being a soldier than a typical infiltrator, and despite still thinking he'd use his brains and a bunch of tools to his advantage, in some ways he's more like a knight to me than a proper scoundrel. Something along the lines of how Sebastian is typecast as technically a rogue shadow but he's like. Of royalty and a chantry guy.

[fishoutofcamelot]

I find it interesting that, technically speaking, Arthur does qualify as a minor antagonist.

Let me be clear, this isn't a conversation about whether or not he's a villain, just an antagonist. Specifically an archetype knowns as the "Hero Antagonist". We aren't here to talk about whether or not his actions were justified, or what his intentions were, or whether or not he was a good person. That's irrelevant to the current discussion. Right now we're talking about the narrative function of Arthur as a character.

See, a villain is someone who does things that are 'evil' or 'bad' within the context of the story. For instance, Uther would count as a villain.

An antagonist, on the other hand, is a force of opposition and source of conflict, whose motives put them at odds with the main character. They don't necessarily do bad things, per se, just things that cause conflict for the protagonist. Yes, these two roles almost always overlap, and the antagonist is more often than not a villain as well (and vice versa), but it's important to note the differences between these two terms.

Arthur, despite being a protagonist, is an antagonist as well, albeit a minor one. He is a force of opposition in Merlin's goals and is a source of conflict for Merlin, and his and Merlin's intentions are directly at odds.

Sure, Arthur and Merlin both want the same thing - to bring peace and prosperity to Camelot and Albion as a whole. But how they want this to happen diverges critically in two interesting ways:

Merlin thinks magic is the key to Camelot's wellbeing, and that the only way Camelot can truly have peace is by liberating an oppressed minority that Merlin happens to be a part of. Arthur, despite the waxing and waning of his prejudice throughout the series, does fundamentally believe that the continuation of this oppression is key to Camelot's peace. He champions for equality and justice, but when it comes to the core conflict of the series - the oppression of magic - he generally upholds the status quo and doesn't live long enough to do otherwise.

Now, this second point is a bit more debatable. But Merlin believes that Arthur staying alive is key to Camelot's success and the freedom of magic. He does grow to like Arthur and eventually sees him as a friend, but Merlin's primary motive from first to last episode is to see magic freed and destiny fulfilled through Arthur. On the other hand, Arthur puts himself in harm's way all the damn time. Notable moments include his attempted sacrifice in "The Darkest Hour" and his battle against Annis's champion in "His Father's Son". Arthur's episodic goals directly oppose Merlin's so many times.

The plot hinges on Arthur's status as a partial antagonist, and whether or not he can become a full protagonist by the end of the series. He starts out as a laughably textbook example of a schoolyard bully, and gradually evolving into something more nuanced as the series goes on. Never a full protagonist, but never a full antagonist either.

On an episodic level, Arthur is a protagonist. Defeat the monster, save the princess, fight the evil sorcerer - Arthur and Merlin share goals and motives when it comes to smaller plots and subplots, collaborating episode by episode. And the vast majority of overaching subplots do have them both working towards the same thing and in the same way - knighting commoners, social reform, helping Gwen and Arthur get together, fighting Morgana, etc. BUT! The core narrative of the series is about the persecution and liberation of magic.

Now, that's not to say Arthur is a full antagonist the whole time. Like I mentioned above, his opposition to Merlin's goals and the goals of the series waxes and wanes quite a bit. Notable instances are his doubts about magic in "Sins of the Father" and "The Disir", helping Mordred in "The Beginning of the End", his unfulfilled promise to Dragoon in "The Wicked Day", and his vow to the druid ghost in "A Herald of a New Age". The series is about Arthur's journey from antagonist to protagonist, and the conflict between two opposing ideologies in relation to the wellbeing of Camelot. It would be pretty bad writing if he stayed firmly against magic the whole time without any variation. But overall, in terms of magical equality, he never becomes an outright supporter and is never fully on Merlin's side until the very end. And given his position of authority over Merlin and Camelot as a whole, Arthur's ideological opposition translates into him becoming an antagonist.

I think it's important to acknowledge Arthur's partial antagonist status because it gives him more agency in his own story. A lot of times people go 'well if Merlin had done xyz then maybe Arthur would have done abc'. You know, the age-old argument that if Merlin had revealed his magic then Arthur would have lifted the ban.

I'm not here to debate whether or not that's true, but I do think this argument unfairly reduces Arthur to being a plot device and eliminates all depth from his character, not to mention that it destroys all the nuance in his and Merlin's relationship.

Arthur is a character with goals, motives, and beliefs of his own that, while they often coincide with Merlin's, are ideologically and fundamentally distinct. Arthur as an individual is taking steps to see the fruition of his goals just as much as Merlin is, and that frequently puts them in narrative opposition. They are friends and have a very close bond, but they both have goals that put them at odds. Two sides of the same coin.

So like? If you really like Arthur then for the love of all things good and holy please stop erasing all his personhood by woobifying him and putting Merlin in charge of his character development. You're not defending him, you're turning him into a plot device.

[tonyglowheart]

same anon about the chinese terms; i keep thinking clan = extended family. wwx is adopted right? cause i keep thinking that by how fandom does it and the clan term says that's right to my brain

Nooooo think of this more like a feudal system (I don't know historical fuedal systems well enough dont quote me) or like... idk, Game of Thrones, everyone knows game of thrones now right? I don’t know Game of Thrones either, just imagine a... game of thrones-esque setting

So you have the Clan, right, and the main family of the clan? the uhh what are they, the starks, the lannisters, the whoever else. You have the main family at the center of that. But then you also have all sorts of servants and soldiers and retainers and whatever. In a feudal system you have knights and stuff. They all technically “belong with” the clan/are under the banner of the main family, but are not literally members of the family, are not adopted into the main family tree, etc. A royal companion of a royal heir in real life history, for example, could even be raised alongside the heir, attend the same classes, participate in the same activities, and they could be close as brothers. But the royal companion does not become the literal adopted sibling of the royal heir. It’s like how you might be friends with your boss, and they might consider you like family, but while the boss-employee relationship exists they’re still your boss, and there’s still that power dynamic & positional difference there.

“Traditionally,” or like, in what can be considered established xianxia/wuxia canon, you have cultivation sects that are more like apprenticeship or... guilds I guess? I only know vaguely about historical guilds, so I’m more borrowing their idea than quoting them exactly. You have masters and you have apprentices, and journeymen, etc, and apprentices can hone their still and “go up in rank” so to speak, work their way up to being a full master in the guild. It’s an organizational grouping that creates close bonds but is not necessarily a family in the nuclear family sense or like the family tree or clan sense. But MDZS cultivation families are structured much more like nobility/gentry, even if they came from humble origins, where you have the whole... core family + also the accompanying people who are under the family’s banner and thus “part of the Clan” as far as considering the clan as like, a political organization also goes. But not literal adoption into the family. 

Within wuxia/xianxia, sect-mates are actually considered more marriagable prospects than outsiders, and a lot of the romances in the dramas might be about a shixiong and a shimei or whatever. (If you think about them as a professional collective that does have close personal bonds, like a guild might, then it makes sense; you spend a lot of time around these people so you know them well already, plus if your sect has proprietary techniques you would keep that inside the sect. it’d be like if you had a childhood sweetheart, like in PotC with Will Turner and Elizabeth Swan). 

“Wei Wuxian is adopted” is the absolute Anglophone myth of the century and the bane of my existence lmao, because he’s NOT. People use it to discourse about all sorts of things and justify all sort of other things, but his standing in relation to the Jiang family is much more nuanced and complicated than “he’s adopted.” He’s a cultivator, so he’s not just a normal servant, and he’s also the head disciple, plus he can be considered, at the very least, a sort of “royal companion” to Jiang Cheng and Jiang Yanli even, so he does have an advanced place compared to your average Yunmeng Jiang disciple. But, like how in PotC Will was raised alongside Elizabeth, that doesn’t make them automatically adopted. Even Jiang Yanli declaring Wei Wuxian her did doesn’t mean that he is, or that he is to her, per se. Before anyone throws rocks at me - I’m not saying she doesn’t consider him like a brother, or that they’re not close. But that assertion had a very specific purpose. As mentioned, your sect-mates are actually considered to be very marriagable prospects, and Madam Jin was suggesting it would be improper for Jiang Yanli to be alone with Wei Wuxian, who is considered a potential prospect for her. Jiang Yanli’s assertion that Wei Wuxian is her didi stops the reasoning behind the suggestions of impropriety in its tracks. But that doesn’t mean she considers him literally adopted into her whole family tree, it’s not getting into that territory, it’s an interpersonal declaration between her and WWX. It also doesn’t then automatically mean that JC should see WWX as a brother in a literal adopted sense either, which I’ve seen some people argue lmao.

Plus, if Wei Wuxian were adopted, his name most likely should have changed and he should have the Jiang name; if MXTX had decided that WWX were actually adopted but kept his own name, then MXTX should have made a note about it, like she did with Madam Yu. It’s the kind of thing that’s like, you would expect it to be remarked on at least, like it should be lampshaded if nothing else.

So, yes a clan kind of would be an extended family usually, but I thiiink even in historical terms, the like retainers or generational servants would be considered as “belonging to” the Clan, since a Clan is also kind of a political organization as well socially speaking, especially if we’re talking about nobility or landed gentry, but not literally part of the family tree - main or otherwise.

Add to that, that in MDZS, MXTX plays around with clan & the idea of a cultivation collective/organization, so a clan functions both as a clan (family), clan (political), and clan (cultivation organization organized around the schools of cultivation established the founding families).

Maybe a good example? Think of Gusu Lan. They make very clear the distinction of “inner disciple” and “outer disciple.” They all belong to Gusu Lan, but “inner disciples” - i.e. members of the family tree who can trace their ancestry to Lan An, are differentiated from outer disciples, who are part of the clan, but that doesn’t make them adopted into the family tree. Lan Sizhui, who IS adopted into the family line/tree/lineage, has both the Lan name and the cloud-scroll forehead ribbon.

Wei Wuxian being adopted actually would have made things even more complicated for YMJ imo lmao, and I think YMJ/JC would have had to do more extreme stuff to buy back into being deemed “proper” or pious by society or by like, Confucian(?) standards after WWX went rogue, and also he’d have more social obligation to eradicate WWX and his work in order to like regain honor for the family & sect. If he’d been adopted, then YMJ would have been much more closely tied to WWX, and like WWX “defecting” already is still seen as partly YMJ’s responsibility/fault, either for like... idk not bringing him up right, or for cultivating a snake in their midst, and so it’d be their responsibility to “clean up their mess” so to speak. If WWX had been adopted, he might well have carried YMJ down with him too when he chose to defect, much like how the main branch of Qishan Wen carried the whole extended clan down with them. 

[philosophicalparadox]

I mean, yes but no. Certainly, slapping one's liege could be construed as a fairly rigorous insult, especially coming out of nowhere like that. And while it certainly would be befitting for a particularly loyal knight to go out of his way to be petty about that insult, rules of decorum actually would prevent them from doing too much about it.

But then those rules mostly only applied to other knights and nobility; Rickert is a commoner here, so technically yes, Locus would be within his rights to see him punished for offending his liege. Not murdered, per se, but usual punishments for that were often meant to humiliate and inflict pain; flogging and/or stockade, or both, plus a handsome fee for "compensation". (Is it any wonder knights were often seen as bullies?)

Still, he definitely overreacted lol. Maybe when he was human it might have gone down differently, but apostles all seem to have exaggerated examples of their own worst traits; for Locus that means being a jelous petty bitch lol

I just reread the part where Rickert talks to Neogriffith and it's really amusing that Locus is so pissed at Rickert afterward that he squeezes stone hard enough to make it crumble and may or may not have sent an assassin after him. Like it's fine Locus your master is a big boy and a physical god I think he can handle it

lmao yeah like chill out locus he's a small child

i mean maybe there's a good knight explaination like rickert horribly violated the rules of the court and he's honour bound to avenge griffith or something but like, any way you slice it locus just comes across as a little too invested here lol