i will forever owe my allegiance to the pitt solely for the fact that it gave me trinity santos. she’s sarcastic. she’s rude. she’s abrasive. she loves taking care of other people. she’s a survivor of sexual abuse. she’s struggled with suicidality. she hates when she isn’t believed. she is deeply scarred and wounded. she uses humor as a coping mechanism. she struggles with self harm. she is the most empathetic person you will ever know. she is deeply loving and generous. she’s ashamed of her own love and joy. she doesn’t take care of herself. she would rather be hated than taken advantage of again. she holds grudges. she doesn’t like herself. she tirelessly advocates for everyone she comes across because she knows what it is to be small and vulnerable and helpless. she knows that kindness is weakness but she cannot help but be kind over and over again.
In which you spend an evening with Steven's books until their exhausted owner returns to you.
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Tags: 18+; Steven Grant x Reader; No use of Y/N; One-Shot; Steven is autistic; Established relationship; Vague hurt, lots of comfort; Reader's gender is not stated. The poem is Loin du Monde; its Eng. trans. is by Peter Shor. Very casual, zero-stakes fluff.
Word Count: 2,565.
Warnings: N/A; this is self-indulgent info-dumping. A bit of Steven angst, but it's open-ended.
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Graciously, Steven had given you a key to his flat a couple weeks ago for convenience's sake, since you spent so much time with one another anyway. You like to think of it as a sort of gift to celebrate being with one another for a little over ten months. (Marc didn't get you anything.)
You'd quickly taken advantage of that key today, using Steven's shower after getting soaked head-to-toe on your commute back from work.
So now, after properly drying off, you get to flip to the next page, comfortable and dry and warm. Smelling like Steven's shampoo. Wearing one of his tees and a pair of his boxers. It's awfully domestic.
Ironic, since he's not even here to enjoy this with you. Poor sap is working late tonight. You'll just have to wait up for him, reading all his books, using up his water bill.
Trusting you with the key to his flat meant trusting you with the stewardship of his books. Not owning them, of course, but tending to them when he's not around. Really, he just invited you to read them, but you take it a little more seriously than that. Because they're glimpses into his mind. Which you want to take very, very good care of.
(Some of his books are so old that you wouldn't dare touch them without, at the very least, a pair of gloves. Steven had scoffed at that and swiftly corrected that wearing gloves can actually be worse for wear on their frail pages.)
(You still don't touch those particular volumes.)
Today's book of choice is a thin little paperback with one of the corners creased from being folded backward for too long.
Rolling onto your back, pressing up against the flattening couch cushions, you hold it above your face. Orange lamplight catches there, illuminating its contents.
The title of the collection is in its native French, which is Greek to you. But the author's portrait transcends language. A sad-eyed poetess gazing upward, pink fingertips pressed against her temples. Beneath reads her name: Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.
And though you don't understand what she wrote in her own language, you read Marceline's poems over and over again. Wondering if any of her original meaning or sentiment had been lost in translation. How she felt when she wrote them. Why Steven felt so connected with these poems that he bought a copy for himself to covet and keep.
'Dans vos flots ramenés quand mon coeur se replonge / Ô mes amours d’enfance ! ô mes jeunes amours !
Je vous revois couler comme l’eau dans un songe / Ô vous, dont les miroirs se ressemblent toujours !'
You bask the book's margins, fingertips brushing against old, penned-in ink. Craning your neck and lowering the book to your face, you spot the fibers in the paper, noticing how the edges of dried ink spread out like tiny black stars.
Those hasty ink scratches are in Steven's handwriting. A flourishing thing, denouncing that its writer thinks quicker than he annotates. Each letter connects to the last, overlapping in places, and the sentences tend to flow upward.
Unfortunately, you can't decipher it. Not because his handwriting is necessarily indecipherable, but because it's in French, too. You've grown to expect that kind of thing from Steven, and to appreciate it. How layered his mind is. How many wheels and cogs are whirring at the same time, formulating, piecing together fragments. Making sense of the mundane and esoteric alike with the love of a scholar and practitioner.
There's too much of Steven Grant to keep confined to just one language or experience.
On the next page, beside the original French, a translated version of the same poem lies on the page. You read it aloud, to yourself and the goldfish, adding to the ambient noise of Steven's flat. Mostly the bubbling of the fishtank, the quiet hum of a poorly kept heater, incoherent shouting outside voices, and impatient honks of distant drivers.
"You return in a flood when my heart dives back in," you recite quietly, liking the way it flows off your tongue. "O, my childhood loves! O, the loves of my youth! Once more, I see you rising like water in a dream…" you pause to sit up, balancing the book in your lap. "And once more, your rippling mirrors all look alike."
Admittedly, you like the way poetry reads, but it's another thing entirely to know what it really means. That's Steven's forte, not yours. So you enjoy the words for what they are, and let the curtains be blue just because they happen to be thus.
You flip to the next poem.
It's not there.
The words have been blacked out, marked across, scribbled over in countless layers of darkness. It's entirely unable to be read. Even the title is gone. Gently, you brush your thumb across one part of the would-be poem where the assailant's pen tore straight through the page in their efforts to hide its contents.
There are some things you don't ask Steven about. Things you can't help but wonder about when he subconciously fiddles with the small Star of David charm on his necklace, gazing into space with that murky, faraway look in his eyes.
Perhaps this is one of those things. In his reader's heart, he has rejected the poet's words, marred their very existance. Not erased, nor simply covered, but utterly tarnished and stained. It leaves a somber feeling in your heart, heavy and gray.
You close the book, holding it a little gentler now. It takes a second to pull your mind from it and back to your surroundings, but when you do, there's a slight difference in perspective as you glance around the flat. A new depth.
Mind your business, you think sensibly. You've been together ten months, not ten years.
You step around the couch and to a bookshelf acting as a sort of dividing wall between the Sleep Area and Living Area, as you understand it, and carefully tuck the poetry book back where it belongs. In his tank, Gus circles a little decorative statue of Anubis, the dog-faced god that gives you the creeps.
"Wake me up when you dad gets here," you tell him, and bypass the shelf to fall in a heap onto Steven's bed. You're not tired, but you don't want to go home without seeing Steven. It would feel weird to visit the flat without its owner, after all.
The cat-clock says Steven will be back in about half an hour.
Easy naptime opportunity. Or, at the very least, you can relax without distractions until then, pinned to the mattress by the immense weight of Steven's pressure therapy blankets.
You pull a blanket over your shoulder with more than a little effort, and bury your face into the sheets. That blacked-out page meets you in the corners of your mind.
In what feels like no time at all—you hadn't realized you'd actually fallen asleep—you awake with a start, body jolting. Steven is leaning over you, his hands raised as if he's equally as surprised by the sudden appearance of a home intruder.
"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to wake you," he says, just as you say, "Oh, I didn't mean to scare you."
He laughs at this, an awkward, half-hearted sound, and sits on the bed next to you.
The mattress dips in an uncomfortable sort of way, and you have to scoot over to make ample room for him. Brushing the sleep from your eyes, you sit up and get a good look at him.
And oh, he's so tired. Back bent, heavy shoulders rolled forward in a slouch. He pulls his legs onto the bed as if they're objects. When he turns to face you properly, those dark eyes you've fallen in love with are red-rimmed, strained. It's like he's been desaturated, drained of something essential. There's no fight in him this evening.
Along the bridge of his nose, there's a thin strip of white bandage.
It sends your heartbeat spiking into your ears while you sit up, reaching a hand to place on his knee. Entreating him.
"Hey," you say. "You okay?"
"Oh yeah, yeah," he says breezily. "Real chuffed. Great day. The best. Day."
Ah. So he was working late, but not at the Museum.
You sigh at that, his listlessness, and pull him back to lay with you. He doesn't resist.
Steven lays next to you with several points of contact, as though you're both assuring that the other person is entirely present. Your knees rest against one another, and his hand finds its way to rest on your waist. You cup the side of his jaw, stubble pricking the pads of your palm. He closes his eyes and leans into it, and there's just something in his expression, the sheer heaviness of him.
"You wanna talk about it, or do you want me to distract you?" You ask, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with your thumb.
He gives a one-shouldered shrug, eyes still closed. "You ought to go back to sleep. I didn't mean to wake you."
You let go of him for a moment, allowing him to get comfortable laying on his back instead, and then fold yourself into his side like a spoon next to a butter knife. You hook your leg with his and fling an arm over his broad chest, hand cradling the side of his ribcage.
Though he's not overtly the cuddling type, Steven's body relaxes, releasing all the tension he's been holding for goodness knows how long.
You physically feel the difference—the cadance of his breath, the slight twitch of his eyebrow. That crooked frown finally evens out. You study his side profile as to commit it to memory, to drink it all in. The slope of his nose and the hastily put-together bandage, stained with something dark in the center. The permanent circles beneath dark eyelashes.
The two of you rest there in tandem, and let the shadows of the flat grow taller.
It's a good move, on your part, you think. To just let him sleep it off, whatever is bothering him. Issues at work? Probably. Not his day work. That wouldn't leave him beat-up and bruised. This—the exhaustion, the quietude—comes from the job with his less-than-agreeable immortal employer.
Again, you think of the poetry book. Of that sad, bone-deep grief in the gentle eyes of Marceline Desbordes-Valmore.
"I changed my mind," Steven interjects your thoughts, and there's that thinning tone there. "Distraction sounds good, yeah?"
When you open your eyes, you feel that Steven is glancing down at you, and it's so clear that he's trying to hold on to something that you simply have to provide it.
"I was reading about Oedipus," you say automatically. "Last time I came over. And I was thinking about the Sphinx's riddle."
He doesn't respond verbally, but prompts you with a slight nudge of the chin that brushes the side of your head.
"What walks with four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and three legs at night?" You quote. Honestly, you're just filling the silence, letting your train of thought flow. "And it got me thinking, because you had mentioned that Khonshu, back in the old days, used to be represented with different ages, too."
"Quite symbolic, really," Steven replies softly. "Just like the moon, that one. Waxing and waning, and all."
"Why is that?" you ask, and stifle a yawn against his shirt. Please, talk to me. Let me be here for you, however I can be.
Steven hums in thought. "Lots of overlap wiff these things. Thebes—a different one than Oedipus', this being in Egypt; it's, ah, called Luxor now—was said to be a seat of power for Khonshu. Not that he needs any more power or ego than he already has, I think," he adds bitterly.
"I'm so used to viewing the moon as a feminine force," you confess. "With the phases representing the menstrual cycle."
"Oh, it isn't all that different. When I said Khonshu was a youth during the day, that was tied to fertility." He pauses for a moment, and raises a hand from beneath the blankets to gesture a wide, spread-out hand to the ceiling. "Think of the Greek Ouranos. Remember him?"
"Primordial sky god," you recall. "What about it?"
"Well, he fertilized the Earth from the sky."
"With the rain," you say.
"With his semen," Steven agrees candidly. You follow his hand mimicing little droplets of rain until it lands palm-down on his chest, near your arm.
Hesitating, you ask, "Then, did Khonshu ever…?"
You can practically feel Steven grimace. "It was more a general thing, I think. Sky gods, and that. He was associated with healing, er, verility."
"Such a nice guy," you say with a sort of half-sneer. "Hard to imagine Khonshu healing someone."
"Well, he keeps me fresh in a fight."
Ever so slightly, you tilt your head upward, as to see his face properly. Testing the waters. Gently prodding. "And did you…get into a fight today?"
"A bit," he says. "A bit." He's looking at the ceiling, directly overhead.
So you've narrowed it down to this: Steven is upset with or about Khonshu. There is a reason that he is upset that he doesn't want to share with you, but he does want to share a conversation. Or, at the very least, companionship.
You can work with that.
Gingerly, you lean up on your hands, so that you can look down on him instead of the other way around. He meets your gaze, and there's something deeper there, and there's nothing you can say about it that can make it any easier.
So, instead, you scrunch your body so that your thighs are beneath your stomach, and you're able to slide more or less on top of Steven.
He lets you straddle him, chest-to-chest. His hands find their way to your waist, your shoulderblades, the small of your back. Warmth spreads from his touch all the way to your heart, your belly. You lean into it, pressing your body on top of his, wanting to physically force his nervous system to ackowledge that he's safe, he's safe, he's safe.
"Not giving you much to work with, today, am I?" Steven asks, a smile turning up at the end of his words.
"Plenty enough," you say, and you mean it.
And, admittedly, you are acutely aware that you're straddling your boyfriend in his bed, wearing his clothes, and he's looking at you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, and it burns a pool of desire deep inside you.
But that's not what he needs right now. Not that kind of love.
So you lay on top of him and think of anything else to talk about. To take his mind off of whatever has troubled him today. To let him rest.
There will be opportunities for you to ask, or for him to tell. For you to learn about that blacked-out poem, and any others destroyed for any amount of reasons. And more physical, present hurts, too. The bruises. The scars, fresh and old.
Right now, you're more than content with just being here.
And when Steven exhales again, and wraps both of his strong arms around you, you know you've made the right decision.
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Tag list: @wspia @julisvessel @loki-love @lunacreepy6 @draggolblackthorn
A/N: I hope you don't mind this one being simple! I drove between three states for five hours today (standstill traffic is my worst enemy), so my brain is pretty fried. Thx for reading!! <3
In which Jake does his job. His real job: trying to protect someone. Whether they like it or not.
(continued in to bite the hand that feeds.)
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Tags: 18+; Jake Lockley x Reader; Non-Established Relationship; No use of Y/N; Reader's gender is not stated; Marlene, Diatrice, & Layla are all mentioned! Jake is the father!
Word Count: 2,131.
Warning(s): Hurt, no comfort! Jake smokes a cigarette. Marc's general mental state and some dramatized MK (2022) versions of his DID. Complicated relationships and absentee fatherisms. Break-ups and divorce mentioned. No conflict resolution in this one!
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Marc doesn't smoke.
But he's out there on the piss-poor excuse of a balcony—really, just a concrete platform—and his hand is cupping at nothing with a lit cigarette poised between his index and middle fingers. In the other hand, he holds a cellphone to his ear.
Marc has a collection of burners. Some are there for when he's out on the run. Others, like this, are kept safe in a lockbox. You know that one burner is for Frenchie. One is for Layla.
And another is saved just for Marlene.
While you busy yourself with washing the afternoon's dishes, you wonder if you'll ever be reduced to a contact name buried in a box beneath his bed, too.
Rinsing suds from a plate, you peek out the window again, as if to check if he's actually out there. But that thick, heady scent is hard to miss.
This—the smoking, the phone call—leads you to one of two conclusions: either Marc has finally lost his mind, or that's not Marc at all.
You place the plate into a dish rack and dip your hands in the sink to clean another.
Narrowing your eyes, you steal a longer look through the foggy window. Decidedly not Marc. And he's not moving like Steven, either. His back is straighter than Steven's, for one. He's carrying himself as though he's exactly where he wants to be, arms bent on the railing, facing the alley. If it were possible, you think the bend of his shoulders is almost…relaxed. And you hear him laugh when you turn the faucet off.
You're not completely in the dark. You know that Marc had a brief, complicated relationship with a woman named Marlene Alraune before his marriage and subsequent divorce with Layla El-Faouly. And you know that brief, complicated relationship with Marlene resulted in a baby who he's only met once.
There's a weird feeling in your stomach. You scrub a bowl with a sponge over and over and over until it sparkles.
You've known Marc for over three years. In those three years, you've learned two important things: Marc is going to do to himself what he thinks he deserves, and there is nothing you can do to stop him.
And usually, when there's even the slightest of references toward his past—the real, raw past that didn't die with him—it ends in a disaster. Self-deprication, violent mood swings. Sudden break-ups and guilt-fueled reconciliation. Staying out for nights on end, throwing himself at the mercy of the God in his head—the only creature, perhaps, that hates Marc more than he hates himself.
The first time he opened up and told you about his daughter, Steven fronted for the next five months.
You place another dish in the dishrack. Not-Marc snaps the cellphone shut. Takes another drag of the cigarette. Exhales into a gloomy, gray sky.
Eyeing the smaller pile of still-unwashed dishes, you unplug the sink drain and rinse your hands off. They can be attended to once things return to normalcy. Once your pulse settles down. You wipe your hands on a spare rag, but it does nothing for the anticipatory sweat budding on your palms.
Not Steven and Not Marc means Not Your Business.
You don't know this guy. The one you can't see anymore while you tactfully move to the couch, putting as much room between you and the balcony as possible. Which is also closer to the front door, in case he's not as dear to you as his companions have proven to be.
You reach for the remote, laying next to a scattered pile of DVDs. None of them are in their intended cases. And though the television is playing, and the sink has finished draining, you find yourself entirely focused on the balcony door.
It opens.
The cigarette is gone, but the scent clings to his tee. The man gestures with his cellphone. "Marlene," he says, by way of explanation. Markedly, his accent isn't at all like Steven's—closer to Marc's, but not by much. "You eat dinner?"
"Not yet," you say carefully, and angle your body on the couch to better observe him. "I was trying to clean up a bit before adding to the mess."
"I appreciate that," he grins. "What're you in the mood for?"
This is the last conversation you expected to have. But living with Marc means learning to adapt. You clear your throat. "I was thinking pasta."
He starts rifling through the pantry, turning his back on you.
You sit there. While he starts to, evidently, cook you dinner.
And, as if you could be any less shocked, he is humming. Under his breath. But louder than the TV's tinny little voice. Moving around the little kitchenette like he owns the place. Closing the silverware drawer with a nudge from the belt around his hips.
"Garlic bread?" He asks, looking over his shoulder at you.
"In the freezer," you say.
Marc has shared a lot with you. His death and resurrection by the hand of the Egyptian God of the Moon was surprisingly easy to digest (after the Blip in 2023, you'll believe in just about anything). But the personal stuff…that's a little more complicated.
Once it became clear that your strong-will and faith outweighed Marc's uncertainty and general distrust of everyone, there was a lot to talk about: Dissassociative Identity Disorder, his being a loyal fan of the Chicago Cubs, Autism; his past relationships, and yours; Generalized Anxiety Disorder; which side of the bed you preferred to sleep on; Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Whether he's a morning shower or night shower kind of person.
Learning what kind of person he is when he shares a body with another man.
Or…two. He's striking up the stove now, setting a pot of water to boil. And you're sort of just watching it all happen.
"Y'know, I never knew why she picked Diatrice of all things," he says, and the genuine surprise of such a casual remark about his daughter sends you standing upright. Then sitting down, like a fool.
"She can't pronounce Beatrice. Think that's what she was going for. Eric probably suggested it." He reaches up and takes a glass jar of tomato sauce from a cabinet. "Don't think Marlene knows many Beatrices."
Alarm bells are shooting off in your brain left and right. You're not supposed to be hearing any of this. But he's telling you anyway.
"I figured her name would be…more French when I first heard it." You hesitate, trying to pick out the most appropriate words. How to change the subject the quickest. "What's yours?"
The man pauses and turns to you, wearing Marc's clothes like they don't fit. He seems taller, somehow. More full. He gives you a crooked sort of smile. "I'm Jake. Hope I didn't make you uncomfortable by springin' up outta nowhere."
Gingerly, as though you're approaching a stray animal you might befriend, you make your way from the couch to the kitchenette. The cigarette smell is worse up close.
You lean your elbows on the counter and say, "You scared the shit out of me. And still are."
"Sorry 'bout that," he says, and it sounds surprisingly honest. He opens the oven to slide in a baking sheet with a loaf of garlic bread. He doesn't wear oven mitts. When he shuts it, stands to his height, and turns toward you, you're just struck with it—how genuinely off-kilter you feel right now.
"Take it you don't get too many visitors." He grins again. That's a thing in of itself. Marc has that sardonic, crinkle-eyed smile you can wrestle out of him occasionally. Steven finds open expressions a little easier, though he's too shrewd to truly smile with his teeth.
But this guy—Jake—he seems to be having the time of his life pouring in a box full of dry noodles into a boiling pot of water.
You wonder why you've never met him. Why he's here. Why he was talking to Marlene instead of Marc. Why she called. Why the hell he told you about his daughter in the first place.
"I don't…think you should tell me any more about Marlene," you say, crossing one ankle over the other. "It feels like I'm invading Marc's privacy."
"Well, you're not," Jake points out tactfully. "My business, too. And I'm not tryin' to shoot the fair or nothin'. But I don't like it when you don't know things."
You chew on that for a minute. "That's considerate of you. I think. But it's up to Marc to tell me that, isn't it? You wouldn't like it if Steven aired out your secrets when you weren't there, would you?"
Jake laughs at that, giving the flat a sidelong glance. "I'd love to see him do that, actually."
That was charming. Too charming. If you're not careful, you're going to lose your nerve. You bite down on the inside of your cheek. "Okay, well, morally, stop telling me about your daughter. Marc won't like it."
Jake fixes you with a stare you've never seen before. Not on that face. "Marc's not here."
It sends a flush down your skin, and you have to tear yourself away. You kick off from the counter and go to the other side of it, using it as a sort of physical barrier between the two of you.
But Jake isn't done. And he speaks with his hands, gesturing, pointing, letting them do the talking. "What Marc fails to realize is that the more he keeps you in the dark, the more danger you're in. Don't believe me? Ask Marlene. Ask Layla. Ask yourself. That's why he can't keep shit, because he's too afraid to lose it. I'll call Marls back right now, and the two of you can have a very long discussion—"
"Jake!" you exclaim, affronted. "I know. But I've told you no, like, three times already. I'm not going to keep repeating myself. For Christ's sake, I just met you!"
"You've known me for way longer than that," he says, and turns to stir the pasta.
The kitchenette's ceiling light has taken to buzzing the past couple of nights. It starts up again now. You fix it with a glare so heated you're surprised when it doesn't burst into flame.
But, for reasons you can't explain—maybe something Pavlovian, because you can't help but to feel something when Marc's around, even if it's not him directly—your temper cools. You fold in. Somewhat. For now. You squint over at Jake.
"I believe in Marc," you say with some difficulty, as though you could defend Marc from a version of himself. "I don't agree with him, necessarily, but I do believe that he's doing what he feels is right."
"¿A poco?" Jake scoffs, turning to face you. "You think he's that self-aware?"
You're about to bark out a retort, ears burning, but stop short. There's a sort of glimmer in Jake's eyes. A different sense of humor.
He's aiming toward something.
Baiting you.
Steven once explained that, in a System—the collective that makes up who Marc truly is—there are roles. Duties. Marc is the host. The original. The one who got the diagnosis. It's not exactly a clinical thing, but each Alter—like Steven, like Jake—serves a sort of purpose to keep Marc going. To keep him safe.
And you don't know what the fuck Jake is getting at. Or what his purpose is right now. But you're not enjoying his company at all.
"You better wash those clothes before you leave," you say, and press your lips together. It's a bad attempt at, what, a clap-back? But you're physically averted toward conversations without a constructive point, and Jake's looking at you like Marc's making the greatest mistake of his life.
So you leave the kitchenette. Stride across the room. Grab your keys from where they hang on the wall, and promptly slam the door behind you.
Facing a plastic potted plant in the building's dingey hallway, you scrub a hand across your face.
Ironically, you really wish Marc were here.
But you can't imagine what it's going to be like once he comes back. The hollow look in his eyes when he learns what transpired. It's a violation. Boundary-breaking. The kind of thing that means the streets of London are about to be very, very safe soon, because Khonshu's vengance is going to flow through the streets like blood.
You didn't ask for Jake to show up and start…doing whatever he was doing. Smoking. Ruining the environment. Ruining your afternoon. Ruining...something else, potentially.
It's going to cause a fight later.
You didn't plan this far. You sink to the carpet floor that hasn't been cleaned this week. And sigh.
“scientists don’t want you know” is a phrase that always cracks me up because if you actually meet a scientist they will be shaking and crying like an overstimulated chihuahua with the need to let you know
In 2026, the chicest thing a gay actor can do is never explicitly come out as gay but also make it abundantly clear that he is. Coming out is too modern. Staying closeted is too old fashioned. But this method merges contemporary freedom with Old Hollywood glamour and allure, and it weeds out the dumbest people who truly don’t get it. I call it the Pascal Method.
dress is an indicator of status that poor people, people of color, disabled people, some religious people, and women consistently fail to meet due to social prejudice or barriers to acquiring the appropriate clothing
obviously there are scenarios where specific clothing is required (like PPE at a job site)
but a person coming to an office job in sweatpants doesn't make them less qualified to do their work, it just means they're more comfortable while doing it
"you're required to wear a face shield, an apron/coat, and closed toed shoes in this lab environment for your safety" awesome perfect, i love safety, and i can wear whatever i want under it.
"you're required to wear a suit to present your lab work" i do not become less intelligent wearing non-formal clothing, and this presentation has now become inaccessible to someone who cannot wear appropriate formal dress
When I was younger I thought the black market was a physical place in the middle of a desert canyon somewhere, and the reason it was called that was because all the stalls used black fabric. I thought that human bones and brains in jars were sold there. I thought you could buy smuggled artifacts and stolen artwork from painters long dead. I thought that you could buy elephant ivory and endangered bird eggs. I thought that you could buy rhinoceros meat and wild chinchilla coats. I thought you could buy pirated copies of movies and hard drives full of government secrets. I kind of wanted to go, but I knew it was a terrible thing to ask. I wouldn’t have bought anything, I would have just liked to look.
Sleeping Under The Stars @pakhiya - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
