#frenchie is hilarious

[suckmyballshoney]

Time to drop your best memes

[yellowocaballero]

Moon Knight: Marc & Steven Meet Jake; Realize Youngest Siblings Are The Worst

“I’m insane,” Marc whispered. “I’m insane.”

The cabbie jerked the wheel again, sending them on another sharp right turn that pushed Marc against the window and sent Steven colliding with Marc. He tilted the rearview mirror, giving the passengers a better view of his craggy face, and his mouth split into a sharp grin. It was manic and dangerous, caught in something left of ecstacy.

“Welcome to the madhouse, tesorito.”

Oh god.

Got distracted writing something else in the best life MCU series and wrote this out. Not super necessary to be familiar with the series, but the final scene may not make a lot of sense otherwise. I like this one a lot, mostly because it gives a ton of context for a lot of other shit that happens later on in the series.

As an A/N (or background): most of the classic "Marc&Steven meet Jake" stories I go through have the process be relatively painless, which a) is lacking in sweet juicy drama, and b) I never really grooved with. A lot of my stuff with Marc & Jake's relationship is kinda about the experience of living with a very highly stigmatized mental illness. Having a "crazy crazy" illness is really different from only depression/anxiety, and there is a certain entire process to accepting it. 'Good Luck Jake' was largely about that. It has to be difficult to discover that your incredibly stigmatized mental illness has secretly been twice as bad and three times as 'evil' as you thought it was. And that you're cockney now.

Beat out in a few hours. Very short 10k thing under the cut.

Marc forced himself awake. 

A white glove stained with red dug into fine sand, making the heel of his hand slip and skitter. Every inch of his body hurt. When he pressed a hand to his stomach he felt the tell-tale throb of a mortal wound healed only seconds ago. He lay on a shadow of blood staining the sand dark and sticky. 

The body was intact, if painful. Marc forced himself upright, hand brushing an abandoned knife by his left hand. He stood up, head woozy from the blood loss, and surveyed the desert. 

A crowd of corpses circled him. The ones close to him had throwing knives sticking jaggedly from their throats; the ones closer were gutted. The man closest to Marc was lying on his side, intestines already splitting from the heat.

He tried to count the corpses circled around him, but he gave up quickly. They were Hydra members for sure. The same Hydra members that had almost killed Steven and gotten the better of Marc yesterday. Two days ago? Three? Every inch of his body hurt. As if every inch of his body was dragging itself back to life.

They didn’t like to get involved in stuff like Hydra, but sacrificing the inhabitants of a homeless shelter trying to bring Set’s apocalypse down upon the sinful modern society had been worth involving themselves in. They had been personally offended for a lot of different reasons - not the least of which being that Set was pretty nice and had no apocalyptic interests - and they had chased the agents into…into an office front in London…

Marc took a step forward, then two. He was shaking - adrenaline leaving the body. The pain faded, but the weakness remained. It was only after three shaky steps that he realized he was walking towards someone - that he had begun walking towards them before he even saw them.

There was a mirage on the sand. A white ghost. He looked like Moon Knight, abstracted and simplified - a high stiff white cape, pure white thick fabric covering the entire body. Hood pulled low over the head with a pure black mask. Chunky white gloves and boots. Crescent moon insignia on chest. The eyes were covered by lenses, but Marc felt like he was staring into Marc’s heart. 

Marc opened his mouth to try and speak, but his freshly reconstructed trachea only managed a croak. He stumbled forward one step, two. The figure titled its head. 

The mirage didn’t flicker with the beat of the sun. It wasn’t a mirage at all. Marc somehow knew, deep in his bones, that the man was real. Maybe realer than anything else. 

Fabric scratched Marc’s face. Silky and smooth and breathable, like Steven’s own mask, but he felt the cape snapping stiffly at his heels. The thick gloves stained in red creaked as Marc flexed his fingers.

A Hydra agent blocked his path. He had been shot in the throat - a dignified death compared to many of the others. His helmet was shiny and polished, almost improbably so.

Marc stopped short and looked downwards, angling his head and attempting to see his own reflection in the heat that bore down in a suffocating curtain. 

In his reflection, he saw the man in the mirage. Two reflections stood in front of him - one warped, one real. His shaking hand reached up and tore off the mask, letting the black silk crumple in his fingers as his hood fell down. 

Only Marc stood in the reflection, as much as this new suit could be Marc. He looked back up at the mirage, seeing that his mask was off too. Somebody who looked like Marc stared back at him, expression blank and implacable.

Marc couldn’t speak. He only reached out a hand, straining to brush his fingers against something real. He didn’t know why - the man was several yards away, too far away to touch. 

The man spoke in Spanish with a voice that sounded like, but was not, Marc’s. 

“The body’s intact. I can return now. Go back to sleep.”

Marc shook his head. The corner of the figure’s mouth twitched downwards. 

“This is a dream. Nobody’s really dead. Go to bed.”

Marc shook his head again, even more frantically.

The figure’s eyebrow ticked. “You always go back to sleep. You’re always happy to forget this. Don’t change your mind now.”

Marc swallowed, and when he tried to speak again he was finally successful. “Change my mind on what?”

“That you and I are none of each other’s business,” the figure said. The figure who was not Marc. The figure that looked like Marc. The figure that wore Khonshu’s chains. “Every time we meet you decide to forget. This isn’t different. Rest, Marc.”

But it was different. Steven had his own suit now, and he was so damn proud of it. He fought his own battles and some of Marc’s too, and Marc didn’t need to protect him anymore. Marc didn’t need the mirage protecting him too. Or he didn’t need the mirage to stand by as he protected himself. 

Marc grit his teeth, stepping over the corpse. His limbs felt steady again, and he could walk unimpeded. “Give me the memories.”

“No.”

“I’m not forgetting this time,” Marc rasped, advancing on the figure who only stood still, “so give me the damn memories.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“I won’t hide anymore. You don’t need to protect me. Give me your memories. I deserve to know that you exist.”

The figure just looked at him, even as Marc stepped short in front of him. Breath heaving, limbs shaking. The figure just stared at him with cool, disaffected disinterest. As if he’d made his move and was waiting for Marc to make his own. Marc didn’t know what game they were playing. He hadn’t even known they were playing a game. He didn’t know what the stakes were, or what a win condition would be. The figure obviously knew. The figure knew everything, and Marc knew nothing. 

“What makes you think I was protecting you?” the figure asked blandly. 

“Show me who you are, Jake!”

Jake raised a hand, and Marc didn’t have time to duck away with his arms over his head. He slapped Marc, far more painful than should have been possible, and Marc fell down onto the sands. 

Jake showed him. 

*****

Steven opened his eyes in a taxi.

A taxi! This was a mystery. Despite the completely different form, he knew it was the mindscape. He almost wished it was real life - the question of why he was in a taxi would have had a very easy answer. But there was really no reason to be in a mind-taxi. 

Sure enough, when Steven looked out the window he saw that they were cruising the pockmarked streets of some Middle Eastern city that Steven was completely unfamiliar with but that Marc and Layla would probably know. Hopefully it was Cairo. Steven felt as if their family had a connection with Cairo. 

“How strange,” Steven remarked. “I suppose a little variety never killed anybody. But don’t you think it’s a wee small, Marc? I like hanging out in our first apartment far better. Still, there’s nothing wrong with shaking it up now and then.” 

Steven looked in front of him at the two seats turned inwards to face Steven’s seat. He craned his head to look through the thick pane of glass that separated the passenger area from the driver’s seat. Just the taximan there. When he looked right he finally saw Marc. That shouldn’t have been so difficult. But Marc shouldn’t look that bad either. 

 He was bent in half, forehead pressing against his knees. His hands were fisted in his curly hair, pulling it hard and alarming Steven. He was muttering to himself, like he always did as he swallowed screams.

“No…no, no, no…no!”

Just no, over and over again. Steven immediately put a comforting hand on his back, gently disentangling his fingers from his hair with his other hand. “Marc, love, you’re alright. You’re in your mind and you’re perfectly safe. Steven’s here, Marc’s here, everything’s fine.”

That normally helped. It always helped - Marc’s mind together with Steven was his safe space. Steven was always happy to step up, obviously, but it didn’t help this time. Marc just shoved Steven’s hand away from his hair and shied away from the hand on his back.

“Get away from me!”

Steven retreated, hurt. Hurt and confused. Marc always… “What’s wrong? Marc, I can’t fix it until you tell me what’s wrong.”

But Marc was almost hyperventilating, sucking breaths into lungs that needed no air. “I can’t do this again. I can barely handle one. I can’t have more, oh my god.”

“More what?” Steven was thoroughly alarmed now. “Marc, what are you talking about?”

“I’m insane,” Marc moaned. “They’re gonna lock me up. Mom’s gonna lock me up this time. She’s gonna make Dad lock me up. They’re gonna do it this time, they’re going to do it.”

This was going nowhere. Steven grabbed Marc’s shoulders, pulling him upright. Anxiety was creeping up in his own chest. Seeing Marc hysterical was always so scary. “Mum is dead,” Steven said, as sternly as possible. Marc kept his head down, chin tucked into his chest. “Dad is an ocean away. If anybody tries to hurt you, I will stop them. Nobody can get past me. I’ll protect you, I swear.”

“Shut up!” Marc shoved Steven away, and Steven released him. He finally looked up at Steven, and he saw for the first time that his face was reddened and ruddy. That there was a frantic, disturbed look in his eyes - searching for enemies in the one place he knew there was none. “You’re not real! Neither of you are real, you’re just voices in my damn head! Go away!”

It should have hurt. On some level, it felt like Marc had taken an ice pick to his heart. But on every other level it barely penetrated. It was like Marc saying Layla wasn’t pretty or something. Something objectively untrue, and something that Marc would never believe. No matter what the rest of the world thought - if there were morons out there who thought Layla wasn’t the prettiest girl ever - it would never be true to Marc. 

Something was wrong. 

Steven obligingly slid away, giving Marc his space. Marc didn’t apologize or take it back - he just shivered, as if he was deathly cold, and tucked himself in the corner of the cab. He stared furiously out the window, as if he could pretend that Steven wasn’t there. Trying to convince himself that he wasn’t real, that neither of them were real -

“Neither?” Steven asked, voice ratcheting up just a little. He hoped it sounded firm instead of anxious, but he knew the truth. “What do you mean neither of you?”

“Who do you think I’m talking about?” Marc snapped. “The other one. The one that’s always around.”

Steven bit back his shock and confusion, fighting to keep his voice even. “Marc, I don’t know what you’re talking about. What other one? It’s always been us.”

But Marc just shook his head, looking out the window. Steven wondered what he was seeing. “Mom was right.” 

“Jesus, Marc!”

“She’s always right,” Marc said, voice rising higher and drowning Steven out. “She knew he was me. She saw it. Mom always knows.”

For just a second, Steven saw what Marc was seeing. It was nothing unusual. Just a little boy, hands pressed over his ears as a roaring echoed outside, telling himself over and over again that it wasn’t Mom. That there was an evil inside of Mom that wasn’t really her - until Marc understood that it was.

This was enough. Steven had to front and make sure they were safe. Marc wasn’t going to calm down anytime soon, and they could be anywhere or doing anything. He’ll get them home, lock the liquor and medicine cabinets, and take the emergency sedatives. 

He leaned forward and knocked on the plane of glass. “Hello? Hello, Mr. Cab Driver? Can you drop us off? We need to go home.”

Steven couldn’t see the driver’s face. He could only make out a silly cap perched on a jaunty angle on his head and black driving gloves. He was sitting casually, easily. Relaxed as anything despite the scene in the back of his cab. He didn’t give any sign that he had heard Steven.

Steven knocked harder, tapping insistently. “Sir, it’s an emergency.”

The driver gave an exaggerated sigh. Without turning around, he bent his arm to slide back the small window in the glass before returning to the wheel. 

He said something in Spanish. 

Uh oh. “I’m sorry,” Steven said, vaguely embarrassed. “I don’t speak Spanish. Uh, no llamo espanol. Despite, ah, my looks and all - do you have any English? Ingles?”

The driver said something else in Spanish. He sounded a little like he was laughing at Steven. Well, excuse him. 

Steven looked backwards at Marc, who had folded his arms. “What’s he saying?”

Extremely unhelpfully, Marc said something to the driver in Spanish. The driver spun the wheel in an unexpectedly tight turn, sending Steven sliding on the seat, and retorted something else. Marc snarled something. The conversation seemed very vitriolic. 

“No, go ahead and exclude me, this is grand,” Steven said. “Real chuffed about this.”

The driver slapped the wheel, laughing. He said something else, and Steven caught the word ‘nino’. Three guesses who that referred to. Ugh. 

Marc’s expression was dark, but Steven couldn’t help but notice the flash of fear too. He said something else, voice shaking. 

The cab driver just laughed at him again. With no warning, he pulled the sharpest U-Turn Steven had ever seen, sending the car skidding. He went sliding, jerking left and right, and he had to rush to buckle in his seatbelt before the car lurched forward again.

The cab sped up. Steven couldn’t read the speedometer from here, but he could see the needle climbing higher and higher.

“You are not excluding me again!” Steven snapped. “Marc, you tell me what’s going on right now!”

Marc forcibly jerked his eyes away from drilling holes in the back of the driver’s seat to look at Steven. He looked a little washed out, eyes flickering left and right - as if telling Steven was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Our lovely driver showed me what he did all day,” Marc rasped. “All the - the people -”

Steven’s life was awful enough that he could fill in the second half of that sentence. His gut sank like a stone.

“He says he likes it,” Marc said.

The rearview mirror flashed, and for the first time Steven craned his head to look at it. Unfamiliar eyes flashed back at him. An unfamiliar smile. He looked like them, just like them, but nothing about him was familiar.

“I’m insane,” Marc whispered. “I’m insane.”

The cabbie jerked the wheel again, sending them on another sharp right turn that pushed Marc against the window and sent Steven colliding with Marc. He tilted the rearview mirror, giving the passengers a better view of his craggy face, and his mouth split into a sharp grin. It was manic and dangerous, caught in something left of ecstacy.

“Welcome to the madhouse, tesorito.”

Oh god.

There was no time to freak out. Marc was down for the count and the cab was only speeding up. Steven scrambled away, leaning forwards as far as his seatbelt would allow.

“You’re an alter?” Steven asked, voice creaking upwards in badly concealed anxiety. He hoped it sounded like friendliness. “That’s grand, really, so am I! It’s awfully nice to meet you, don’t think we’ve been quite formally introduced - I’m Steven, Steven Grant. And what’s your name?”

The cabbie laughed again, hoarse and raspy. “We don’t need introductions. I've been wotchin’ yer for a long time, Stevie. Long, long time.”

“His name’s Jake Lockley,” Marc said darkly. He wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt - allowing the cab to toss him left and left. Steven anxiously leaned over and did his seatbelt for him, which he suffered patiently. “We split in the army.”

The time Steven wasn’t there. That explained a lot. Steven had always been quietly surprised that Marc had gone so long without a single alter. Guess he hadn’t. 

“So you’re the youngest!” Steven cried, faux-cheerfully. Jake choked. “That’s sweet! Well, it is really grand to have a new br - family member. Always cause for celebration when a family gets bigger. Isn’t it nice, Marc?” Marc said nothing. “Alright! Well, obviously we have a lot in common. Besides a body. I have a normal English accent, you have a very strange Cockney accent - by the by, that’s kinda my thing, so if you can just stick to that West Side Story thing you have going on then that would be great.”

“Your thing?” Jake asked, grin spreading. “Looky here, chaps. Laddie’s got a thing. Could’a sworn it was toddlin’ after Marcito all the time. Oh, oh! I know!” He slapped the wheel, cackling. “Pacifism! Blimey, that’s a right laugh. I’m a bit of a pacifist meself.”

“Wow, that’s great,” Steven said, desperate for anything that might distract the man with the worst accent alive from crashing them into a sand dune. “I like to think that we all abhor violence, in our own rights. Now quite sure how that fits in with your killing people thing, but we can workshop it!”

“Oh, that one’s easy. Real easy.” Jake grinned again, propping an elbow on the window edge. “Once you kill a guy he stops hitting you. I like to steal his wallet afterwards. I’m a bit of an anarchocommunist too.”

That backfired. Steven desperately tried again. “You have to do things other than kill people. What are your hobbies?”

“Drinking,” Jake said cheerfully. “Love a good kitchen sink after work.”

“Do you run missions for Khonshu?” That was the only explanation for this. Never mind that Khonshu hadn’t mentioned a word, but that was par for the course. “Is that when you get into - into your fights?”

Dunes sped past them, blurring into burnt orange streaks of light. Jake just grinned. “Wouldn’t you wanna know.”

“I - I do, actually -”

“Here’s the scene, chaps.” Jake jerked the wheel again, sending the car skidding in an arc and making Steven clench his jaw. “I got me this friend, see? You might know him. Big an’ boney an’ pokey. Bit bossy. But we real good friends. And we don’t like being fucking interrupted!”

He circled the wheel, sending the car into a tailspin, and Steven’s neck jerked with the crush of force. Marc was silent, huddled in the corner. 

“So I’m gonna tell you the fucking deal!” The car skidded in a wide arc, Jake’s hands firmly on the wheel as he pumped the breaks with a demented grin. “We don’t bother Jake. We don’t bitch and moan about Jake’s killin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ screwin’!”

“Stop the car!” Steven yelled, heart jumping into his throat. “Stop the stupid car, we’re gonna -”

“Nobody tells me what to do!” Jake yelled, and Steven shut up. The car straightened, back end swaying. “Not in my own cab! Not even you two!”

Marc thumped the back of the glass with a fist, unphased by the tailspinning car. “You’re scaring Steven, dickhead.”

The car righted itself, and Jake finally killed the engine. The leftover acceleration kept the cab moving long after he killed it, the sudden silence magnifying the sound of Steven’s beating heart, and it wasn’t until it finally rolled to a stop among the dunes that Jake turned around.

It was the first time Steven could see his entire face. It barely resembled them at all. His eyes were more lively than Marc’s and more intense than Steven’s; his mouth pulled into a permanent grimace or smile where Marc’s stoicism usually lingered. His mouth was locked in a scowl now, fierce and intense. 

“I don’t need you,” Jake spat. Marc’s face twisted in a matching glower. Steven was almost jealous - he didn’t know what he felt at all. “Carino wasn’t supposed to ever remember me. I don’t need your life or your limp little family. Stay out of our way. An’ if you don’t do it, we got ways of makin’ you do it. Savvy?”

“You’re a traitor,” Marc said lowly. “Shacking up with Khonshu like that. It’s pathetic.”

“Khonshu takes care of me!” Jake yelled, and Steven shrank back. “I don’t remember you ever takin’ care’a me! I knew you’d hate me! I knew it! I knew it!” He smacked the wheel of the cab hard, and Steven winced. “I don’t want you two in my damn cab ever again! The last thing I need are more civilians draggin’ me down and making me life harder than it has’ta be.”

Impossibly, Marc’s outrage grew. “Who are you calling a civilian, you -”

“Someone who ain’t working the jobs I’m workin’.” Jake pointedly unlocked the doors, letting one swing open by itself. “See you again never. Familia.”

Marc clenched his jaw hard. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jake. Jake refused to look at him. “I’m not letting this go.”

“Big surprise.”

“I’m not going to let you keep doing this,” Marc said, voice rising. “I won’t let you keep hurting people.”

“Bring your complaints to the boss,” Jake said snidely. “He’ll take my side. He likes me better than he likes you.”

Steven put a hand on Marc’s shoulder and squeezed, cutting off any future screaming matches. “We don’t know where the body is,” Steven said lowly, and Marc stiffened. “You need to go front and get us home. We’ll talk then, okay?”

Marc’s glare melted away, revealing only sick fear. He folded his hand over Steven’s own, looking away from him. “I’m sorry for yelling that stuff at you. I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s alright. I know you didn’t.” Steven offered him a weak smile. “You can make it up to me with a museum day.”

Marc groaned, but he didn’t hide the twitch of a smile. “Sure, waste a day of our -”

“With Layla.”

“I’m not in charge of her schedule.”

“She’ll clear it for me,” Steven said loftily. He squeezed Marc’s hand tightly before releasing it, giving him a little push. “Go. I’ll be right behind you.”

He unbuckled the seat belt and slid out of the cab, not bothering to look behind him to be sure Steven was following. Marc disappeared into the dunes - hopefully into the body, where hopefully nothing catastrophic was happening.

Steven didn’t move. He just looked at the driver’s seat, where Jake slouched heavily and crossed his arms. He could half-see the ghost of a scowl in the rearview mirror. 

He closed the door behind Marc. Jake jerked up, twisting around to check the door, but when he scanned the passenger compartment Steven was gone. Jake exhaled and turned back to the front, fiddling with the mirror. It bent to the left, and a pair of eyes somewhat familiar to Jake flashed in the mirror. 

“Why a cab?”

Jake jumped in his seat, spooked despite himself. “Jay-sus! How’d you - get out of the front, dickhead!”

“Our mindscapes are always our homes, past or present.” Steven hummed, inspecting the clean and neatly kept interior. “You must feel very safe here.”

“I told yer to get out,” Jake said, puffing himself up. “Now scram before I -”

“That’s enough of that,” Steven said calmly, and Jake shut up. “Do I look like Marc to you? Save it for someone who’ll buy it.” Jake opened his mouth, biting retort already on his tongue, but Steven didn’t give him the opportunity. “I’m sorry your first meeting didn’t go well.”

“I don’t know what in God’s dumb-ass name you’re on about.” Jake folded his arms tightly, glowering at the steering wheel. “It went exactly how I always knew it would.”

“And you made sure of that, huh?” Steven asked archly. Jake looked away. “Reject him first so he can’t reject you like he did the five other times?”

Jake was silent for a long moment before speaking. “He’s already thinking it. He’s thinking - ‘that’s all the evil inside of me’. Jake Lockley, evil fuckin’ incarnate, pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

“You don’t want to try and convince him otherwise?”

“No,” Jake said shortly. “Fuck ‘im. Fuck you too. I don’t wanna be ‘nother Roro replacement. That’s all he cares about. I’m not a damn goldfish.”

It was a remarkably uncharitable view of Marc. Roughly as charitable as Marc would have for himself. Steven had never once felt like a replacement for anyone - only loved as equally. Marc worried often that Steven felt this way, and he had to reassure him every time that some shared traits did not a transference make. Granted, Marc had a bit of a complex that he did occasionally take out on Steven, but that was more of a proximity thing. 

“So you pick Khonshu over us, then?”

“Shut up about Khonshu.”

“Jake, look at me.” Steven held out his hand, but Jake still refused to look at him. Steven let it fall on the space between them instead, palm upwards. “Khonshu’s not your friend. Friends are equals.” Jake pressed his lips together thinly - was he finally listening? “Friends take no for an answer. I know he supports you and he’s nice to you, but that’s not because he cares. He just wants something from you, and you’re giving it to him.”

Jake hunched his shoulders, turned firmly away. “You dunno wotcher goin’ on about. Khonshu lets me do whatever I want. And when ‘is attention is on me it ain’t on you anyway, so don’t muck about and complain.”

That explained why Jake was so empathetic about Marc and Steven staying out of his life and leaving him alone. He thought it’d put them in Khonshu’s crosshairs. Kind of noble, pretty stupid. 

But it sent a pang through Steven’s chest. Did he even register what he was saying? Or was he too much like Marc, ignoring everything bad that he couldn’t change? At least Marc knew he was afraid. Jake didn’t seem to know he was scared at all. “Friends don’t let you do whatever you want. They don’t make you ask permission to do things.”

“How am I suppose’ta know something like that?” Jake snapped. His hatred and anger was running out of steam, and all he was left with only hurt. “I don’t got no friends. I don’t need ‘em either. I don’t need anyone.”

“Jake, please. You aren’t alone.” Steven had never felt so powerless in his life. And he was always powerless. “You have us. You don’t have to let him do this.”

“I have you?” Jake’s voice rose, brittle and sharp. “Yer jokin’. Marc threw me to him. It’s Abraham and Isaac here. Marc threw me to him because he can’t handle being friends with Khonshu, and it’s whatever. I don’t care. Khonshu gives me something I want too. I get that and I don’t need nothing else. I know he ain’t - but he’s all I got, okay?”

Part of Steven felt his heart break. Jake was lonely. His life was small and violent and he didn’t know anything else. The two people on Earth who should always be there for Jake, who should never leave him alone to bear the oppressively cruel world, chose to forget he existed. The three of them weren’t meant to be alone, and Jake was left trying to fill that hole with Khonshu.

But the vast majority of Steven felt a wash of hot rage. Anger didn’t come easily to Steven, but it burned hot and fast in his chest now. 

Jake was a kid. Not Steven’s occasional innocence, but an actual kid. He’d been alive for maybe fifteen years and he had never fronted for more than a few hours at a time. He said all he did was fight and drink. In many ways he was more naive than Steven, and Khonshu was taking advantage of that. Khonshu exploited him. He pretended that he was Jake’s friend and that he cared about him when he was just enjoying their most pliable side. 

Has there ever been time for Jake to discover who he was? To enjoy that person? Or was he stuck in that awkward and half-alive place - where every second of his life was defined by Marc and controlled by Khonshu?

Steven leaned forward, lowering his voice and making it gentle. “I have an idea. You’ve had to hide yourself from us your entire life, right? But you don’t have to do that anymore. You can front as much as you want.”

Jake finally turned to look at him. Steven had been half-expecting him to bristle at the tone, but the tension in his shoulders eased. He filed that one away. “As much as I want?”

“Yeah! So long as you’re polite about it.” Steven forced a big smile. It was difficult when he was this iridescently angry, but Steven was the world champion in emotional bullshitting. Besides, there was no way this promise would come back to bite him later. “Think about it. We aren’t working right now. You can take a whole day if you want. Maybe even a week, if you check with us first. You can go on museum days, or - or whatever you want. Buy your own wardrobe! It’s quite exciting when you think about it. Whatever you want.”

Jake stared at him, eyes wide. Finally, he said, “Whatever I want?”

“If you’re reasonable about it,” Steven said quickly.

“Whatever I want?”

“Within reasonable parameters.”

Jake straightened, finally relaxing. When he wasn’t trying to look older and bigger and tougher, he almost looked like Steven. “Marc wouldn’t go for that.”

“I think it’s time for Marc to get over himself,” Steven said gravely, and Jake’s expression lightened. “I’ll work on him. We’ll figure something out. Maybe all of this could be a good thing, yeah? You can find out what you want.” Find something that Khonshu couldn’t give him.

Jake looked around, as if there could be someone spying on them through the dunes, before leaning in. In a half-hushed voice, far more uncertain than Steven had heard from him so far, he said, “I always kinda wanted to be a New York City taxi driver.”

Steven stared at him blankly.

“I like the London cabbie thing I got going on,” Jake explained, as if this remotely counted as an explanation, “the cockney is good, it’s a great touch. Real classic feel. Almost Shakespearian, if you get me.”

“I - I don’t, actually -”

“But New York really just calls to me,” Jake finished triumphantly. “I think Marc’s got a thing or somethin’ - but think of it! I can go, like - ey, I’m walkin’ here! Fuggedaboutit! And stuff like that. Ain’t nothing tougher than a City cabbie. And the grid system sounds real nice, driving would be a dream. What do you think?”

Steven thought the matter over carefully. “NYC does have superheroes…”

“Yeah, that’s a downside,” Jake said grimly. That wasn’t quite what Steven had meant. “I can dodge those freaks easy enough. All the good sinners are in NYC, it’s nothin’ like London. And there’s, like, actual Jews. And Latinos. I’m kind of conspicuous here. I wanna blend in with the working class. I like all the pubs and rampant alcoholism here, but I hear in the City they got cannibalistic rats -”

“Please don’t tell me about the rats.”

He had no idea how NYC would even work. Too close to Jersey City for Marc. That’s faking a lot of citizenships and identifications. And, as much as Steven loved superheroes, what they did wasn’t strictly legal and highly resembled murdering people all the time. He really didn’t want to get into fights with the Fantastic Four or something. That would be super depressing and kind of embarrassing. And painful. What if they thought he was a supervillain or something? All they had to deal with in London was Excalibur, which didn’t count.

But Jake was still looking at him with wide eyes and excitement slowly fading the longer Steven hesitated. How many times had Jake asked for something that he wanted - actually wanted, something more than a drink or a kill - and recieved it? It was amazing that he still asked, that he still wanted and fantasized. That he wanted to be around people of his own freaking religion and ethnicity. The bare minimum. Friends, a life. The bare minimum.

“Yes,” Steven said, and Jake straightened. “Yeah. Yeah, why not? I’ll make it happen. Count on it.”

Jake’s eyes widened. A smile split his face - slow, lopsided, real. “Class.”

“If you’re gonna be American then you have to say ‘cool’,” Steven teased lightly. “Class is lingo for us swotty Brits.”

Jake brightened, smile widening. “Cool. Cool! That’s cool!”

“It’s very cool.” Steven couldn’t stop the authentic smile. Once you picked through…everything, then Jake was a little sweet inside. He looked like Steven, if you let him. “Listen, I have to go help out Marc. He’s probably too upset to front alone.”

If Jake was disappointed, he didn’t show it. He just closed off, straightening and looking away. But maybe that was answer enough. “Then I guess this is your stop.” The door opened by itself, swinging out onto the dunes. “Don’t come back, darling. You and Marc don’t got a place with what I do. It’d only make you miserable.” He halted a second, almost hesitant. “But I’ll catch you on the flip side, yeah? In New York City?”

“I’ll meet you in New York City,” Steven said warmly, sliding out of his seat and clambering out of the London cab. “But this conversation’s far from over. We have to talk again. Now that it’s three of us, we have to find a way to make everything work and have everybody get along, because what we got -”

“Christ, you’re boring,” Jake said, shutting the door. 

*******

Steven bolted upright in bed. 

It was night, the endless thumps and shakes of London echoing outside his flat as the streetlights dappled his wall in a faint shine. His towering bookshelves and stacks of notebooks cast a familiar cityscape of shadows on the floor. Next to him, his wife snored. 

Steven grabbed his phone, noting that it was plugged into a charger. He flipped it on and hissed at the flood of light, and turned down the brightness to minimum as he checked the date.

Wednesday night. They ran into the London building chasing after Hydra members on Monday night. Who had fronted for the last two days? Steven didn’t know. It was kinda creepy not knowing. There was something so uncomfortable about Jake.

Jake. 

Steven bent over the side of the bed and withdrew a locked box from the bottom drawer of his nightstand, inputting the code by muscle memory and popping it open. He grabbed a notebook and a pen from the top of a stack and shut the box, using it as a hard backing to scribble on a new page.

What are you doing? 

In careful script, Steven wrote ‘NEW YORK CITY’ into his plans. 

What? America? That is very inconvenient. The geography, the superheroes, the noise. This is against all of your plans. 

A smile twitched at the corner of Steven’s mouth. I know what I’m doing, Khonshu.

Are you going to tell me why?

Steven grinned. He wondered if he looked like Jake. From Khonshu’s slight alarm, maybe he did. “Nope.”

*******

Things didn’t change.

If they did, it was only in subtle and awful ways. Discovering Jake had sent Marc into a two week bender, unable to cope with the fact that his body had been killing countless people without his knowledge or consent. He took it worse than Steven had - but Steven didn’t blame himself for Khonshu. He and Layla had a massive fight about it, but he couldn’t tell her why. Steven pleaded and played peacemaker and lied and pretended that a mission had gone catastrophically wrong. 

They didn’t tell Layla. Steven had been the one to suggest it. The thought of her knowing was terrifying. He didn’t really know why. 

They lost more and more time, which infuriated Marc. Steven wrote several very empathetic sticky notes to Jake that maybe they could coordinate and make some plans so they stopped unexpectedly losing three days. He woke up the next morning to find the note floating in Gus’ tank. What an absolute teenager.

It continued to feel like they were sharing a body with a homicidal teenager. Petty, impulsive, constantly attention seeking, and rejecting all affection in the same breath he demanded it. Marc’s opinion had landed solidly on ‘serial killer’ territory, which was tremendously mean and sparked a lot of fights. 

“You didn’t see what he showed me,” Marc had said. “You don’t know him like I know him.”

“Neither of us know him!” Steven had exclaimed. “He’s just a kid, Marc! If we can just get him to talk to us and listen -”

“I’ll change my mind if he changes my mind,” Marc had said. “Until then, he’s a grown-ass man who jumps when Khonshu says how high.”

And that, of course, was a mortal sin to Marc.

Jake never tried to change his mind. They only saw him in the mindspace a handful of times since then. It always ended in a screaming match. Marc never tried and Jake never tried and they never listened to Steven when he tried. Nobody ever freaking listened to him.

And, one day, Steven noticed that Jake had changed. Or that he had been changing for a while, and Steven only just noticed. 

Jake stopped bragging about being Khonshu’s friend and started bragging that he could do the dirty work that Marc couldn’t stomach. He stopped speaking English in the mindscape at all, leaving Steven relieved that he had finally re-learned Spanish. He asked when he was going to meet Layla once, then never again. 

Jake grew up in fits and bursts. Or maybe he just grew away - it was almost impossible for Steven to tell. He was never cruel to Steven like he was to Marc, but he wasn’t exactly nice either. The parts of Jake that felt young and naive withered away. It meant that Jake was taking his advice - that he was fronting longer, that he was building himself - but it was a cold comfort. Steven never got through to him again. 

Was he still scared of Khonshu? Steven didn’t know. He couldn’t ask. Marc still yelled at him for getting in bed with Khonshu, and Jake still sneered that Marc was just jealous. 

  Steven never saw a real smile from him again. 

(“I had to promise them that this one wouldn’t go on the website. Or that we’d hang it up. So I guess it just lives on our phones. But maybe you can hang it up in your place!” Danny angled the phone closer, leaving Steven to squint through his reading glasses. “We had to bribe Jake to stand in it. And Matt made us retake it five times because he thinks staring randomly around is funny. Or maybe he just does that habitually? I dunno. I think I look pretty good, though! When I got here cameras really freaked me out, I thought they had ghosts.”

It was the Heroes For Hire, plus two freelancers. They were standing in a line, squished up so they all fit in frame. Whoever arranged the photo had a flair for the dramatic - they were all leaning against the metal siding of a warehouse, giving them a rugged Urban Outfitters look. 

Misty and Colleen were next to each other with one foot kicked on the wall, elbows brushing. Danny stood next to Colleen and Danny, grinning brightly and making a peace sign. Next to him stood Luke, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Jessica stood next to him, wearing an unfamiliar expression on her face. Jake was leaning against her obnoxiously, one arm thrown over her shoulders - an unfamiliar expression on his face too. Matt stood next to him, slightly apart from the others, wearing his usual Mona Lisa smile.

Jessica was smiling, self-confident and defiant. Jake was too. It was usually an expression only Steven ever wore, but somehow it was only Jake. It was a bright beam, cheerfully obnoxious. It was reminiscent of his constant fake beams, but the difference was clear - when he was faking a grin, he kept his eyes wide open in a way he knew unsettled people. His eyes were almost crinkled closed in the picture. No need to look for enemies. Safe.

“I don’t know why Matt has to look creepy in every picture, but - Steven? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Steven said, wiping his eyes. “We’re fine. Can you send this to me?”)

So Steven spent long hours crouched over his desk. 

There was barely enough room to write. Every inch of it was crowded with books. Textbooks coughing post-its occupied corners and printed sheafs of paper clamped between binder clips were jammed in folders. Five notebooks and counting lived in the locked desk drawer. Only Steven had the code. 

Marc thought Steven had developed a new hyperfixation. He didn’t really understand why Steven was so secretive about it - why he insisted that Marc leave him alone and not peek as he typed and wrote and annotated - but he respected his wishes. He knew Jake rifled through everything and occasionally stole the philosophy books, raising many questions, but he left it alone too. Layla eagerly asked if he wanted to audit courses on the subject, but Steven waved her away. Any course wouldn’t move fast enough. Steven needed to move as fast as possible - he needed to do this yesterday, a year ago. They couldn’t waste any more time.

Two or three books a day. One book a day for the particularly dense ones. It was slow going at first when he had to Google every other word, but eventually it became easier and easier. The easiest bits were just rereading the relevant books and articles on the Egyptian history and philosophies on the topic. He filled an entire notebook of an idea, realized it was stupid, then started another notebook.

He couldn’t rush this. It had to be perfect. He already knew he’d have to make a lot of compromises, so he had to start from the strongest stance possible. He had already resigned himself to capital punishment, but there were a lot of other areas he could make a lot of ground on. Areas that they didn’t even know about - global warming, white collar crimes, prejudice. Maybe someone out there would care about anti-semitism. He could design something that cared. An institution that cared.

Law. Legal philosophy. Forensics. History. Sociology, anthropology (he wished he knew an anthropologist!). Anti-racism and civil rights activism in America. Politics and corruption. Endless bills and case law and precedents.

Steven didn’t have a high school diploma. It felt so impossible. His head swam every day. But Marc and Layla did impossible things all the time. Steven could do it too. 

Marc saved Steven all the time. Steven had to save him. Save poor Jake. If he could do anything for the kid, even the smallest thing - he had to. Maybe he had a brother complex too. 

It wouldn’t fix things. But if it would just make their lives a little easier, ease that burden. There was no room for pacifism in their bloody lives. Steven would have to make room. Nobody said pacifism was easy. 

Khonshu knew, of course. He was fascinated and confused. He was the only god Steven had on regular call, so he ended up being Steven’s source on a lot of the practicalities. Steven would have to press him to arrange an introduction to Thoth and Anubis. He needed allies. Taweret was another huge help. If Thoth wasn’t in the bag no one was. Anubis was crucial. Anubis and Taweret together covered an important part of the process. It would be almost impossible to get an audience with Set, but that could really swing things. He had to be political about this. Terrible sentence.

You don’t know what you are proposing, Khonshu warned. He sat on Steven’s couch, feet propped on the coffee table, as Steven bent furiously over his desk. It was four am, but they didn’t need as much sleep as other people. It was fine. This could have far-reaching implications. 

“Last time I checked I’m the only one who understands what I’m proposing,” Steven said, only half-paying attention. He circled an important precedent in a court case and wrote it down in his journal. “You’re the only other one who knows what I’m doing, and I know you don’t get it at all.”

You misunderstand. The planes have been unstable for almost two decades. What you are proposing will destabilize reality.

That got Steven’s attention. He straightened and turned around, taking off his glasses. “Excuse me?”

Khonshu nodded. He seemed serious for once. The Old Gods have withdrawn their influence from the mortal plane. Aliens masquerade as us. As we visit, it is through humans like you - conduits for our power and influence. Recipients of our gifts. But it is our weapons who handle our mortal affairs. Rarely us. We do not interfere.

“Do us weapons really not count as you interfering in mortal affairs?”

I was excommunicated from the gods because of you and your predecessors. Yes. 

Alright, that was fair. All gods did was cheat and exploit loopholes. Which was why this charter had to be perfect. “So you’re saying that my idea would magnify godly influence on the mortal plane by ten?”

A hundred. A thousand. Steven paled. You are suggesting more than a visit or a representative, Steven. Even a temple. You are suggesting an outpost. A home for the gods on the mortal plane. That we take personal responsibility for the natural conduction of human affairs. That we step outside of our aspects. Do you even understand this? 

How could he? Steven was just a lowly human. A doctorate wouldn’t help him understand godly whatevers. “Don’t you understand that this would increase your power by a thousand?” Steven shot back. “I told you this at the beginning - I’m making you more powerful than you ever dreamed of, Khonshu. Tawaret’s ship was empty! The Duat hasn’t seen a soul for a thousand years. I’m offering you a lifeline. Like it or not, you’re the one without much bargaining power here.”

It is why I believe in your success, Khonshu said. Steven exaggeratedly clutched his heart in shock. But that you taking advantage of our desperation -

“Wonder what the hell that’s like!”

-  will result in us making changes we have spent a thousand years denying. Changes that no Old God has ever accepted. You are suggesting modernity, Steven. It is unthinkable to us. And if the Egyptian gods take that step, then others may follow. Khonshu tilted his beak down, empty eyesockets boring into Steven. This is more than changing our operation. It is more than changing the world. It is even more than changing the Egyptian gods. You could change godhood itself.

“You said the mortal planes were unstable,” Steven said. He was already sitting, but he had the sudden urge to sit down. “Do you think this might…what, destabilize reality?”

Perhaps. Khonshu held up two skeletal fingers perpendicular to each other and slowly crossed them. You will bring the godly realm closer to the mortal one without a doubt. What the impacts of such an event shall be…I do not pretend to know. Perhaps nothing will happen. Perhaps everything. Perhaps it will simply be the beginning of a ripple effect. You are throwing a stone in the water, and we do not know where these ripples might lead. 

“You don’t…really think I’m going to destroy the universe, do you?” Steven asked dubiously. “You wouldn’t think this is nifty if you thought that.”

I am attached to the universe, so no. I do not think what you do will make this universe better or worse. I simply think it will change it. What happens after that is up to everybody else. Khonshu paused a beat. There will definitely be more superhero fights.

“Oh, but that’s their problem.”

Yes, I don’t care. 

Steven thought about it.

The words should have rocked his world. They were insane. The thought of Steven and his stupid little idea changing the planes of reality itself? He’d read enough about mortal and mystical planes and everything to know that they were kinda important. This crowded desk and dog-eared books and highlighted textbooks - could it really change everything?

A fifty/fifty chance of saving the world or dooming it was a risk too big to take. Steven was insane for even considering it. There was no way this wouldn’t destabilize the universe even more.

And the other gods. Steven knew that they were out there. The Ancestral Planes, Heaven and Hell (or, as normal people said, “Heaven” and “Hell”). If Steven accidentally put the “Devil” on Earth and helped him start a nightclub Marc would be mad at him for sure. What about the New Gods like the Eternals? Or those guys who live on the moon?

A lot of fancy thoughts. Steven didn’t pretend to know anything about any of it. Interplanar geometry and the multiverse and magic - it was way above Steven’s head. He was just an incredibly mentally ill Latino guy who never graduated high school living in indentured servitude. Steven was kinda at the bottom of the ladder here. 

He tried to care. He really did. Steven tried really hard to care about the multiverse, the universe, the planes of reality, the galaxy, Earth. New Gods and superheroes. It was probably super important.

Steven looked down at his notebook. His untidy scrawl covering every square inch of the page and then some. Every plan. Every hope.

“Would the courthouse help Marc?” 

I am the greatest help to - 

“You are not.”

Khonshu sighed. Marc wouldn’t assassinate anybody anymore. He paused a beat. Mostly. I am hardly giving you away. 

Steven clenched his jaw. “Would it help Jake?”

I hardly think Jake wants your help. He likes his life with me - 

“Shut the fuck up.” Khonshu shut up. Steven clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. “Would this help Jake? Would it make him happy? Actually happy, not your sick definition of happiness.”

Khonshu was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, A burden on Jake would be lifted, yes. Not all of it. But some. 

Steven’s conviction settled. But it had never really been a debate. He had never really been conflicted. Like Marc, like Jake - Steven didn’t go back on a promise. 

“Then the multiverse can burn.”

Khonshu stared at him. Steven ignored him, listening only to the thump of his heart in his chest. It beat an insistent drumbeat in his ears. 

The consequences. The domino. The ripple. What this might mean for everything and everyone. Who and what Steven would sacrifice just to make the impossible happen.

Marc, passed out drunk in a bathroom with vomit on his chin. Jake, sharing a smile that Steven never saw again. Layla, holding divorce papers and crying silently. 

They had sacrificed everything. Nobody had ever sacrificed anything for them. Nobody had ever helped them. Marc, Steven, Jake, Layla - they had given their entire lives and they had never received anything in return. Only pain and heartbreak. 

The multiverse had never helped Steven’s family. Steven wasn’t giving it anything more. It stopped here.

Steven dragged over a textbook, cracking it open and flipping to a new page in his journal. He didn’t answer Khonshu. He just put his glasses back on and bent over the textbook, highlighting furiously and scribbling notes in the margins. 

Ah. I - well, see you tomorrow!

The multiverse was going to work for them from now on. The courthouse would change everything. Steven was going to fight tooth and nail for it. For the courthouse. For Marc’s peace. For Jake’s New York City. This charter was going to be foolproof, and the gods were going to see. The gods were going to agree. They had to. 

Steven continued reading and writing until the sun broke over the horizon, and for many hours afterwards.

[clevercloudpoetry]

You want Tentacle porn? Nevermind, you are going to get it.

- The Boys writers, probably.

[bitchinturner]

does that man know coverup tattoos exist or

[pythiaswine]

i fucking love Frenchie i love him i love him so much i can't explain it i just love him.

[strawberryaziraphale]

thinking about stede wanting to write a romantic song for ed so he enlists frenchie’s help. that’s not enough, though, stede wants to play the song himself so frenchie has to teach stede how to play the lute. basically I’m picturing frenchie storming into his cabin and saying to wee john ‘I can’t work under these conditions, he’s stifling my creative energy’ and wee john just says ‘it’s been five minutes’

[scripted-downfall]

Just pointing out that the last "room people" were Jim and Olu and they're together-together, so obviously Wee John and Frenchie are obliged to, as room people, follow suit. I'm sorry, I don't make the rules.

[dickfuckk]

What characters from ofmd are going to have the cliche “waking up next to each other screaming” moment

[melusinah]

Kevin, tall af, hates kids, but also very sweet to them

[hapapapa-go-noir]

This episode was so extra😂 I have no notes I only want more.

[age-of-moonknight]

Moon Knight: Divided We Fall (Vol. 1/1992).

Writer: Bruce Jones; Penciler: Denys Cowan; Inkers: Tom Palmer and Mike Manley; Colorist: Noelle Giddings; Letterer: Ken Lopez

[elizabethmasen]

the way french people say olive oil is so fucking funny to me

[loisroo]

‘what if she’s a spice girl?’

[teeny-tiny-revenge]

Came across this in a fic again and I have to vent for a moment here: Ed's hair isn't unclean or not taken care of. Ever. Even at his lowest, in the first two episodes of season two, his hair is light and blows with the wind, it's got perfect waves, there is zero grime in it. Impossible Birds Ed hair has clearly been fairly recently washed, combed out and conditioned. Ed canonically loves soap, and you don't get that hair without owning a comb or brush and frequently working oil into it. He's at sea! The air is salty! It'll dry out your hair, but Ed's hair doesn't ever look dried out. The day he decides to commit suicide he puts his hair up into a lovely bun, with whispy stands framing his face. I have no idea what some people are watching, because Ed taking meticulous care (and most likely also putting pride and love) into his hair is clear, on-screen canon.

Like, if you want to write about how he was neglecting himself in his depression Kraken era? There's plenty there for you on screen as well! He sobs all night, probably sleeps on the floor if he sleeps at all. He doesn't wear his knee brace. He drinks and does drugs (and admits to that being poison to Frenchie!). He's pushing everyone away, he's pushing himself hard into a role that made him passively suicidal even before the breakup depression. He doesn't watch his back during raids At All. There's so much self harm there to address. If you want to, it would probably be plausible to add him not bothering to properly care for any wounds he might obtain during a raid. But he clearly doesn't neglect bathing and hair care. They're probably the only elements of self-care he actually still does during this dark time!

Even rock bottom Ed doesn't neglect his hair. And that says things about him! It's also something I'd love to see actually addressed in fic (will probably write it myself one of these days...): Taking good care of his hair, putting on jewelry, doing his makeup, these are things that seem to bring Ed joy or relief in his darkest moments. Where's my fic about these quiet moments of self-care being a straw he clutches to when everything else is terrible?

I love a good bathing together/doing each other's hair fic. It's intimate and loving! And Stede and Ed are prime material to write a mutual caretaking and bonding over it couple! Ed canonically loves soap and taking care of his hair! And Stede brought an entire fucking bathtub on a ship, the wonderful madman. S1 Stede's hair is always carefully curled, and we know that's not its natural state (it's wavy but not in this manner) from seeing him in S2, away from his certainly plentiful bath and grooming equipment. Stede probably has an hour of daily hair routine! We know he has nice smelling, probably expensive soaps. Where's the fic where they share in this?

There's so much potential! They can show each other their favourite care products! Sometimes they'll work on each other and sometimes not at all! Ed's rich hair oils will make Stede's hair all sticky and weird! Ed will think it's hilarious and adorable, he'll try to ruffle his hair and make it stick up worse and Stede will pout! 🥺 He'll look like this, just with weird spiky hair! One ill-advised day they try putting Stede's curlers in Ed's hair and then they almost can't get them back out because Ed's hair is so long and has lots of natural wave and it'll cling to the curlers and it's awful (they laugh about it afterwards, once Ed has very carefully brushed his hair out again and it no longer pulls at his scalp).

Makeup was a thing done by men and women at the time, especially for aristocrats (as seen in Episode 5), so Stede will know his way around hoity toity makeup, meaning rouges and whites (contained lots of lead, yuck!). Meanwhile Ed does pirate costume makeup for Blackbeard endeavours, that's a whole different thing. And both of these are makeups they don't actually enjoy doing (Stede avoids heavy makeup for the party, and Ed's Kraken makeup is part of his whole Everything Is Awful And I'm Making Myself Feel That look). But we see Ed do nice makeup that seems to be him! On his supposed to be final day on Earth, he cleans away all the Kraken coal, he cleans up his cabin, he gets rid of drugs, booze, Izzy (everything that was harming him), he does up his hair really nice and in a style that's very much Not Blackbeard, and he puts on a gorgeous bit of eyeliner that really brings out his eyes. And now that they're safe and happy together, when Ed decides he wants to look pretty today, not only can Stede lose his marbles over the look, Ed can also show him how to make his own eyes pop like that. They can stand in front of their mirror together, giggling and trying not to poke anyone in the eye.

Like. This is a fancy bathroom items for fancy bathroom items couple. They will bond over their love of bubble baths and nice smelling soaps and soft oils for hair and skin! They will learn each other's routines and how to do them just right for them. Let Stede learn that Ed loves his baths scalding hot (Stede has to wait a while for it to cool before he joins him in the tub because he'll get all pink and lightheaded). Let Ed learn how to put in Stede's curlers for him if Stede wants his hair to look extra fluffy the next day. Let Ed learn to massage Stede's back and Stede learn to massage Ed's knee. There's so much potential for loving caretaking with this ship. The trope doesn't at all require Ed to not know or not want to take care of his hair and hygiene. Fuck's sake.

[ourflagmeansbts]

Source (Season 1 - May 13th 2022)

sambaschutte: BTS#37: Joel Fry appreciation post🏴‍☠️ Don’t know if it was our hair but Joel and I would get mixed up sometimes. It was great for getting him in trouble☠️ I finally got him to pose properly for a picture, and what a sweet, hilarious and seriously talented man. Fantastic singing voice (hear him on the soundtrack) and Frenchie covering his face while sitting next to scurvy Swede still cracks me up. Also you’re welcome for the last slide🖤✨

[deliciouskeys]

So I liked what we have of season 4 a lot?! I don't know if I set my expectations really low, maybe didn't expect to get that fandom feeling back, but I think I can say with certainty that I've enjoyed e1-3 of s4 more than e1-3 of s3, and mayyyyyybe even more than e1-3 of s2. Some of the storylines don't interest me, but that was true of prior seasons too.

Things I am loving so far...

(under cut because there may be teensy weensy spoiler references)

Sister Sage! Yes, she says the lines that are in the trailer, but they are so misleading about the type of character she is. I LOVE her so far.

Homelander's frustration with being adored no matter what he does and his ennui about being surrounded with sycophants (which tbf, he engineered). I am SO glad they're walking that back to some degree. Related to point 1 above, I am delighted by the way he goes about solving this problem.

Every single scene with Ryan is so fucking good?? Like, Cameron Crovetti is the ideal Ryan of my mind's eye when I write fic. I feel SO bad for him. But I am loving the divorced plot and them jockeying to be his dad. Some of it reads like fucking fic, in a good way too. Like I can't believe the conversation between HL and Ryan after he comes back from Butcher's place actually happened on TV and not in my head.

I am actually SO SO happy they decided to outsource Billy Butcher's shitty tendencies to his Tyler Durden. I did not expect him to fucking apologize to Ryan for the S3 debacle. Even ~I~ felt apologized to for that "necessary for the plot but makes zero sense outburst".

I am loling every time Noir speaks. I don't know why, but I'm finding it hilarious.

I think they're actually doing a good job with A-Train's storyline, or a better job than I expected to justify how he becomes their new double agent.

I'm enjoying Chace Crawford's work in season 4. I like that he's sincere about the comic relief role.

Hughie is so charismatic, and for the first time in 4 seasons I think he elicited tears in me (in the scene right before his mom shows up when he's listening to his dad's messages).

I like Ashley's dialogue more this season than season 3. Part of that may have to do with me enjoying her character when she's angry rather than scared shitless or "trying to imitate HL"

I welcome the larger Victoria Neumann presence, and can't wait to see more about her past.

I enjoyed BIlly Butcher using a crowbar in a fight

I enjoyed seeing Antony Starr playing a mommy and a daddy and a.... secret third thing in the mirror.

What I'm meh about...

I hate to say this but the Boys' storylines are mostly dragging and feel disconnected. I'm already tired of Frenchie and Kimiko refusing to talk to each other and attempting to drink/drug their problems away. The mystery about why Frenchie is distraught was mostly solved right away, and Kimiko's mystery is still some derivative of her backstory in S2. It just doesn't feel connected.

Mother's Milk is fine, but I do think his character took a turn toward the unreasonable in season 3, and it has sort of continued. It's not clear to me why he's kicking Butcher out of the team multiple times, especially when Butcher saves them, and clearly has nothing better to do with his time. It feels especially cruel to kick him out when he tells him about the terminal illness.

Annie's storyline is.... fine, I guess. Maybe it will develop into something more interesting, but it feels like the writers don't exactly know what to do with her now that she's out of the Seven. I don't know why Firecracker had to have a personal vendetta against Starlight beyond being a symbol of 'wokeness'. I guess I'll wait to see if Annie's meangirl past becomes relevant as the season goes on.

Firecracker is okay. I'm amused that Homelander seems bored and annoyed by her, so I take it it's fine if we feel the same way too. It's certainly an interesting addition to the Seven to have someone so underpowered.

Hughie's mom frustrates me so much I wanted HL to come and laser her instead of Hughie after that chase. Her explanation made it worse for me, not better. I await to be proven wrong, but so far I think Hughie is being a really kind person to her. "Your father didn't want me to talk to you". But you were allegedly talking to him for years? And you son is in his 20s, I think you could have contacted without his daddy's say-so. UGH.

I don't really care about this so much, because I don't like character deaths, but it is pretty funny when Vicky doesn't kill Hughie or Butcher, and when Homelander is nerfed beyond all belief and is unable to laser Hughie in a closed space. I'll chalk it up to him losing a step or fifty with the enlargement of his prostate.