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amarynthian-chronicles · 5 months

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Extended Contract Chapter 1

Fae Prince Sun, Fae Prince Moon, Fae King Eclipse x Witch Reader

(You are a witch that fell for the oldest trick in the book by giving your name to the mischievous Fae princes of the Celestial Court. Such an inconvenience on what was supposed to be a typical office night. You are honestly not having it. They, however, do seem quite happy about having you. You decide to make a deal with the Fae King to regain your freedom. The only thing that is functional in the whole situation is your phone signal in the Fae Kingdom.)

Warnings: kidnapping, suggestive themes, gore and the usual Fae tomfoolery

“May I have your name?“

“Of course, it is Y/N.“

“Your precious contribution is very much appreciated.“

It is not every day that one seals their own fate because of a simple misunderstanding of idioms and literal meanings, but there you were, bound to the realm of the Fae Folk and belonging to the royal twins of the Celestial Court. Mondays were known to be unlucky days, but this was just ridiculous.

You weren't really in the mood for getting abducted, thank you very much.

There were so many assignments and drafts due next week and you feared Vanessa's wrath far more than you feared the dark magic of enamoured Fae.

Furthermore, you had the misfortune of being stuck with those mischievous miscreants in the middle of the witching hour. The law firm building was empty, the cranky doorman had left hours ago and the janitor had the habit of never arriving before six in the morning. You could scream, but that would not do much good. The cameras did not pick up sound and technology could not record the presence of the Fae, so the only thing you would accomplish is create evidence of your own insanity.

“Excuse me, I really must protest.“

You were in the process of trying to escape the grip of the regal solar-themed Fae. He seemed rather amused, since you weren't really successful, but he almost seemed to be playfully encouraging you to keep trying. Prince Sun had always been a very supportive person, even if he was the one causing the problem in the first place.

“Go on, beautiful, nobody is stopping you. I think that every once in a while everybody needs to raise objections and such. It is healthy.“

His lunar twin grinned, red eyes glowing with roguish mirth.

“I wholeheartedly agree with you, brother. We fully encourage sincerity and dialogue.“

You told them that you wanted to make an appeal. They happily informed you that such a thing was not possible and that you officially belonged to them. You were certainly not touched by their infectious enthusiasm. After all, being gifted with a human's True Name was an experience akin to a cat falling into a whole box full of catnip for them.

“You will play with us forever."

“The Celestial Court is a wondrous place.“

“Word games galore.“

“But beware, for danger lurks in each syllable, my love.“

“Blades caress the consonants and glide along the vowels.“

“Running is futile, but at least it is a very healthy activity. It is always important to get some cardio for the day.“

By all logic, you should be feeling some form of despair and terror, but you were mostly suffering from a horrible case of injured pride. You had fallen for the oldest trick since the dawn of magic. You were an absolute idiot. True, you were running on two cups of coffee, you had not slept properly in a week and your blood sugar levels were more tragic than Shakespeare's “Hamlet“. In your defense, working for William Afton, attorney at law, was no walk in the bloody park. Especially when you had Vanessa as your immediate taskmaster.

You had grown tired of struggling, giving yourself a few moments of respite. Prince Sun was holding you bridal style, his blue gaze soft, showing a type of adoration one would give to a hidden treasure, a joy one experiences when holding a droplet of water in a desert.

Prince Moon had a personality that was diametrically opposite to that of his brother. Hunger reigned in his eyes. Your essence was intoxicating, calling for him, enticing him. You dared not even imagine what his claws could do to you, nor what he could accomplish with his razor-sharp teeth.

Rowan charms could no longer save you, nor could silver. Leaves of holly had no more power, either. You couldn't bribe the royal twins with cream either, since apparently you were the new dessert in the grand scheme of things.

Moon reached out with his claws, searching for your delicate hand. He traced his claw along the sensitive flesh of your inner wrist with all the fervour and ardour of a lover, inspecting the soft skin. Upon giving your name to them, two different markings had manifested on each inner wrist respectively. A crescent moon on the right one and the mark of the sun on the left one.

“Gentlemen, there has obviously been a bit of a miscommunication.“

“Yes, those tend to be very practical in our line of work.“

“I don't have time for this, do you have any idea how many assignments I have due next week?“

“Actually, we do. I must voice our disapproval of you overworking yourself in general. Following orders of such unworthy scoundrels.“

“Well, I am not really in the mood for changing one group of masters for another. I wish to be taken to the Fae King.“

“You will meet him later anyway, he is a bit busy now.“

“No, no, not in that way. I wish to make my complaint.“

“Haven't we closed that topic already?“

“I demand my freedom back. You two said that King Eclipse could grant it to me if I convince him to. Although, I see now that this statement does not exclude you two being capable of the same thing and most likely you are just using the wording to trick me to stop asking you.“

“Can you blame us?“

“Yes. I blame you. And I judge you.“

In spite of it all, you had to admit the celestial princes were quite handsome and their appearance would normally be breathtaking, if you weren't meeting them under such circumstances.

In a resting position, their large wings almost appeared like regal capes. Complementary colours reigned in their respective palettes. Deep royal blues of Prince Moon's wings were speckled with tiny stars, while the rich golden hues of Prince Sun's had swirls of blue interwoven in their texture. In a way, the twins were perfectly symmetrical when it came to the design of their wings. Their attire was similar to that of jesters, but far more elaborate and indicative of their status. Silk and velvet were present, bejeweled buttons, finely tailored doublets.

Both of them were eager, lovestruck and needy. To a degree you almost felt like a lamp attracting a pair of silly mothlings. Which was fitting, considering they too had wings and all.

As Moon was still caressing you along your inner forearm, Sun could not resist nuzzling your hair. You could have sworn that you heard both of them purr. A part of you wondered how on earth did such a scene appear on the cameras, were you simply just floating around and talking to yourself? You internally apologized in advance to any poor security worker that would have to go through the recordings later.

Sun's voice brought you back from your silly reveries, his cheek resting on your head.

“As soft as silk.“

You had been somewhat aware that a pair of Fae had been hunting you for the past several weeks, but it was impossible to decipher their identity. Their glamour and shielding spells had been extremely powerful, their cunning unparalleled and their tricks endless. In many ways, they had been testing you, the purity of your heart and the strength of your soul. They would come to you, disguised either as lost little animals in need of help, or as injured humans in need of assistance. You would always help, no questions asked and always ignoring the warning tingle of enemy magic. Your mind had completely warped to the logic of the normal world and you no longer asked yourself the questions a witch would.

You did not suspect the odd new coworkers that had appeared out of nowhere either, nor did you seem to wonder where they had come from. You had simply accepted that you probably just never noticed them before and that they had always been there. A few pleasantries here, a few kind words there, and that had been all. Of course, all up till tonight when the name trick finally came to rip the veil of denial off.

You huffed, unphased by Sun's compliments regarding your hair.

“Were you the one that has been making those silly fairy-locks I kept waking up with? Those are impossible to untangle!“

“Technically you are not supposed to do that, elsewise you bring misfortune upon yourself. The poor keyboard on your laptop suffered a premature death because of that.“

“I really liked that laptop.“

“I know.“

“It was brand new.“

“May it rest in peace.“

You looked over at the little digital clock on a nearby desk. The witching hour was almost over and the power of the Fae would slightly weaken after four in the morning. If you somehow escaped them, maybe you could distract them enough till the desired hour strikes. Your magical weapons may at least have a fair chance afterwards.

You gasped as Moon leaned closer to you, his hand caressing your cheek, sliding down to your neck, distracting you with pleasurable sensations and making your spine tingle.

“What is going on in that pretty little head of yours, wishing star?“

“Nothing much, honestly.“

Both of them spread their giant wings, showing all of their glory, then draped them over you in what one may interpret as a soothing and protective gesture, but given the circumstances, it was also a demonstration of entrapment.

Impish jesters, forever grinning, forever teasing.

It was one thing to be bound and made to serve an ordinary fairy. It was a completely different thing to be serving the royal twins of the Celestial Court. They were dangerous, powerful, their stature surpassed even the tallest of humans, their urges were never satisfied and their desires never at rest. Not to mention that they were the most competent tricksters of the Fae kingdom.

Fairies were incapable of lying. Therefore, they had to resort to literal meanings and multiple interpretations, distortions, tricks. You could imply one thing that was perfectly accepted and understood in human society, but they would purposefully give it an obscure meaning that was still not a falsehood.

Your predicament was ironic in many ways. Embarassing even. To be precise, you came from a long line of magical practitioners that had been known over the centuries as the Cunning Folk. Various terms existed for such people, but in the modern times the closest definition would be light witches. It was an adequate name that differentiated them from warlocks or dark witches.

You, dear Y/N, had done your best in life to keep the madness of magic at bay. Yes, you knew how to ward yourself from curious spirits, you always had your trusted rolled up newspaper at the ready to hit the local boogeyman on the head when he was living rent-free under your bed, and pretty much every imp on the block knew to avoid you if they wanted to keep all their limbs attached.

Fae Folk, however, were a different story. Long ago, it had been a custom for the Fae to connect to members of the Cunning Folk in order to form a soul bond. A familiar and their witch, in a way. It had always been a connection stronger than any spell and a love more intense than any passionate marriage.

All of that had changed when the realm of the Fae had been afflicted by a darkness far more potent than any light spell could heal. The Hopes and Dreams of children had become scarce and all that was once joyful and innocent had become corrupted and ruined. The Fae King had become cruel and wicked, his once cheerful and loving demeanour had transformed into that of a deranged villain. He did have an odd shift of behaviour on certain birthdays, though, and this would usually take everyone aback for a solid twenty-four hours.

In light of all that, the Cunning Folk had gone into hiding and refused any new bonds with the Fae. This was unacceptable, since the Fae had depended immensely on the sweet nectar that human souls could provide, especially when that soul happened to be a magical one. Consequently, over the centuries the Fae had to resort to various tricks, from luring humans into their fairy circles, kidnapping them and taking them to their kingdom, tricking them with various word games and always having them fall in traps when they least expected it. Certain Fae were less malevolent and were simply in dire need and want of being parents to a child, so they would take human babies to raise them as their own, leaving changelings in their place.

And despite all your efforts, you still managed to become a captive. Go figure.

Prince Sun, ruler of the waking dreams, bringer of hope, and Prince Moon, protector of sleeping children and vanquisher of nightmares. All of those titles did sound pretty cute, but both of them were still impish fiends that loved to play pranks on adults. Oh, well, your time was running out, so you had to think of something fast. Or at least try to reach the little dagger with Runes that you had all nicely hidden and tucked away in a secret pocket of your trousers. You never knew when you would need to stab something supernatural. Or open an envelope.

You concocted a little plan and hoped for the best.

Trickery was not limited to the Fae and you lowkey felt proud of your cunning ways as you pulled Moon into a deep kiss, much to his initial shock. He began to eagerly reciprocate, the sweet haze of lust conspiring against him, your softness and loveliness engulfing his mind. Desire was a natural solvent to rational thought and you had no problems with using that against him. Sun, on the other hand, was both shocked, and slightly jealous, but he did know that something was off.

His suspicions were only confirmed when, in the span of several seconds, you pulled out a silver dagger with enough Runic carvings to obliterate a whole magical army, casually stabbed Moon's heart as if the very gesture was the most normal thing in the world, used Sun's surprise to wriggle out of his grasp and you ran away down the corridors like a feral kitten. Well, at least you were productive.

As you ran, your phone began to ring, conveniently giving up your location in the process, but oh well. It was Vanny, so of course you had to pick up.

“Y/N, where is that briefing paper that you were supposed to email me literally yesterday?“

“I'm in a bit of a situation, Vanessa.“

“What is it now?“

“Well, apparently I am getting married.“

“Congratulations, I still want that briefing.“

“I will call you back, alright?“

Meanwhile, Prince Moon was having a bit of an existential crisis. He stood there, shocked, dagger protruding from his heart.

Oh, yes, it hurt. It burned, stinged, all of the unpleasant things that one may imagine. However, it was nothing compared to how it could have been. The newly forged bond made him immune to most of your deadly spells and Runes, so at worst he would feel temporary pain and then it would cease.

In a way, his desire and respect for you only increased. A Fae always respected good examples of trickery.

Sun could not stop himself from wheezing, very much entertained with the situation.

“You really walked into that one, Moon.“

“Shut up.“

He would still make you pay for that little insult, nonetheless. The corridors had morphed into the same scenery over and over, the windows were suddenly sealed shut, the nearby doors leading to a dead end or into a void of eternal nothingness. You could no longer trust your senses, for mad whispers kept disrupting reality. Only a few more minutes, you hoped for only a few more minutes till the witching hour ends.

You were honestly an idiot for trusting your own luck.

Moon's voice echoed throughout the corridors, ominous and demonic. A bit spicy, as well.

“You should have saved that fire for the wedding night, wishing star.“

“Goodness gracious.“

It became rather obvious that Vanessa would not be getting that briefing paper anytime soon, nor would our good old William Afton be getting his early morning coffee next week, either. Or any week, for that matter. It was a tragedy beyond description, may he rest in pieces.

You had to stop to catch your breath, panting, perfectly aware of the fact that you were mostly screwed. Well, a part of your mind tried to add some rational remarks and told you that living with the Fae couldn't be that bad and at least you would hopefully be getting some really cute royal garments or something. When in doubt, at least material things never disappointed you.

Ghostly hands rose from the ground, grasping at your ankles, your calves, your thighs. You fell forwards unceremoniously and you would have experienced quite a hit to the ground had the hands not grasped you, shielding you from the hard floor.

“What a perfect way to spend my night, being manhandled seventy percent of the time.“

Wrestling them was useless, but at least there was more dignity in that than just doing nothing and thinking about the meaning of life till your captors arrived.

Prince Sun appeared first, somewhat sympathetic, but also visibly tired from all the shenanigans. He let you have your little moment of heroism, though.

“Take your time, darling one.“

“Oh, sod off.“

Prince Moon arrived soon after, eyes glowing a dangerous shade of crimson, the dagger still embedded in his chest. He pulled the blade out, his gaze following the path of the rivulets of blood, almost enchanted by the pattern they were making as they glided along the expertly made Runic symbols.

“Love the craftsmanship on this one. It would have been a poetic death. Stricken by a wishing star, tearing my heart asunder, red pearls the only gifts I have to offer.“

Sun went over to you, partially teasing, partially serious.

“Someone is a bit violent. Are you alright, darling one? Do you wish to talk about some unresolved issues?“

“You two are literally stealing me away.“

“It's not that bad. We shall be loving and caring consorts to you. After all, our bond is basically an engagement.“

“This is the shoddiest proposal ever. How is this even supposed to work, each of you gets their own day of the week?“

“We'll share equally.“

“Excuse me, I am not a meal.“

“Really? You do seem rather delicious.“

“This isn't fair. Do you have any idea how homesick humans can get in the realm of the Fae?“

“We have many spells designed to bedazzle the mind and encourage you to forget the mortal world. And everyone is nice in their own way once you get to know them.“

“You two had no other member of the Cunning Folk to bother and you just had to stumble upon me?“

The dark spell was lifted and you found yourself free. Well, not for long, since the twins were at your side once more. Sun kissed your hand like a true gentleman, his wings making the faintest flutter of joy.

“We searched for a heart of gold and dreams of hope.“

“And you decided to look in a law firm?“

“Bright light contrasts best against a shadowy background.“

“Can I see the terms and conditions of my service?“

“Oh? Good idea! You can read all of that on our way to the palace! It will be so much fun to explain it to you. Of course, the letters are inverted, so you will need a mirror just to read it.“

He conjured a seemingly reasonable rolled-up piece of paper, before letting it unfold. It reached the ground in a comical fashion and kept on going till the end of the corridor.

“Sun, that list is longer than the border of Ancient Rome.“

“Indeed! I had it shortened to make it easier for you.“

“Dear god.“

“I also must say that I wrote it myself. I do my fair share of corporate business and contracts with humans are my specialty, but I do prefer to engage in theater. I may have given a certain playwright a few tips on writing his special little Midsummer work.“

“Old Will? For real?“

“Wonderful chap to have a pint with at the pub. I am certain he would have had an aneurysm had he lived to see what his reputation had become nowadays. A cheerful knave being the main topic for school and homework? Scandalous. He was a most charming actor and a talented wizard of words. Had many a verbal battle with him, and I never managed to snag his soul. I fully respect him for that.“

“Good to know. Regardless, I still wish to talk to your brother about this whole affair. It is my right, considering the fact that I am not a normal human and I do have certain perks. I am certain that King Eclipse will have more respect for old customs than you two.“

Sun and Moon gave each other a look, before giggling at you, as if charmed by how silly your request was.

“King Eclipse? Darling one, do beware.“

“The knave stole the moonlight fair.“

“Neither fools nor traitors breathe for long in his lair.“

“Be our guest, challenge him, if you dare.“

You raised an eyebrow at their improvised little poetic endeavour, tilting your head, curious.

“Did you two just come up with that?“

“Well, we did think of incorporating a iambic pentameter somewhere in there, but we simply decided to free verse it.“

Needless to say that the whole charade continued even after they had conjured a portal to their world, taking you with them. You were playing a dangerous game, but realistically you had nothing to lose. Well, except your dignity and maybe your life, but nothing lasts forever anyway, so might as well.

Your case was one type of extreme. On the other end of the city, two members of the Fae species were in the process of “adopting“ a few bundles of joy. The bear Fae and the wolf Fae were aware that two children were very unhappy in their orphanage and oftentimes they would hear the little girl, Cassie, vocalize her wish to be taken away by magical creatures. The boy, Gregory, had nothing against any of that, as long as there was proper acommodation involved. He hated the hard old bed he had in the orphanage and the food was positively awful.

Of course, there had to be an equivalent exchange, so the two Fae had to bring some friends along. One of them was not too thrilled.

“Why are we doing this? I don't want to stay in the human world.“

“You only need to stay till the next full Moon, Bonnie, and then you will be free of the obligation. Monty will keep you company.“

“Monty is insane.“

“Don't be rude.“

“He pushed me off the stairs, Roxy.“

“Happens.“

Montgomery was far too busy exploring the wonders of a music player to really care where he was, honestly. A few broken orphanage windows and one angry half-blind nun later, the wolf Fae and the bear Fae had become proud new adoptive parents. Bonnie and Monty would have to serve as changeling replacements for a bit, but that is what happens when you lose fairy chess. You owe favours.

By the time Roxy and Freddy had returned home, Gregory had partially woken up, while Cassie was all snuggled in the soft pillows of her new bed. They boy looked around his new house, nonchalant and trying to read what was happening from the clues given.

“Have I been kidnapped?“

“Some may call it that.“

“By fairies? Like, a changeling type of situation?“

“Yes, but I assure you we are using all of the safety protocols that are necessary.“

“Well, I'll be damned.“

“We do wish to make the best effort and become your new family, Gregory. For you and Cassie.“

“Is that food over there? Cupcakes?“

“Oh, indeed, with buttercream and cherries.“

Gregory observed the treats for a good few moments, thought a bit, weighed all his options and of course made the best possible decision for himself in that type of situation. Fairy food was usually a forbidden thing, but he was already stolen anyway.

“I am a simple lad, I see free food and I cannot complain.“

AO3

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ddarker-dreams · 1 year

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i wear glasses and i feel like chrollo would hide them so i’d have to come up to him and ask where they went — especially since i’m so forgetful too

(glasses wearing club obtains an extra debuff when it comes to yanderes imo. they can just decide you've seen enough and snatch them away)

It has often been said that the devil takes on many forms. Snakes, black goats, flies; the adversary apparently switches between multiple masks with ease.

Considering what you're forced to deal with now, you would've gladly preferred the animal alternatives.

"Stealing is a federal crime, you know. Liable for up to twenty-five years in prison. Good luck renting an apartment with that on your record."

Evil incarnate flips a page of his apocryphal text, because of course that's what he's reading at 11 a.m. "Sentencing on theft varies depending on the amount stolen."

You rush toward him, jutting a finger in accusation. "Aha! So you admit to stealing my glasses, you miscreant."

"I was just correcting your cute, confident assertion," he hums. He pats the spot on the couch next to him. You sit a few feet away, glaring daggers in his direction, arms crossed over your chest.

"I need those. Without them, it's likely I'll walk into a wall, enter a vegetative state, then my organs will start to fail, and I'll write do not resuscitate on my forearm in sharpie."

Chrollo smiles. "You're creative as ever, dear."

"It's amazing what the mind can come up with when I have next to nothing to do."

"There's always—"

You put a hand up to stop him prematurely, catching the lascivious glint in his eyes. "No, I'd prefer the vegetative state over whatever you're about to say next. Hand them over."

He feigns a dejected visage. "Would it be so awful to ask nicely?"

Without hesitation, you reply, "Yes."

His attention returns to his stupid dusty book with its stupid yellow pages that would probably turn to dust if you so much as sneezed on it.

"In that case, I'll be sure to accompany you until they're located, so that no walls endanger my beloved's wellbeing."

#i hate him.#yandere chrollo x reader #chrollo brainrot #answered #Anonymous

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headphonesleatherjacket · 1 month

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“Juno, I can hear you thinking,” Sasha snapped. “Just say it already.”

Juno glanced to her, lips twisting. He hooked an arm through hers. Sasha’s face said, you and I both know this is about to be bullshit, in one perfectly arched eyebrow.

“I was just thinking, Wire, that for a city this nice, they sure don’t spend a lot on cameras. And it’s not like we’re ever coming back here.”

Juno looked pointedly to a nearby chain store. In the window, goods of all colours and sizes were displayed in military formation. In abundance. His fingers itched. Sasha punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow! Hey, what was that –?”

“Pavlovian response. It’s not like you’re ever coming back here. I need an impeccable criminal record, Steel, and it’s unfortunate enough that we’re associated as it is! You wouldn’t dare to – to –”

“Steal?” Juno suggested helpfully. “That is my name, Wire! Or did you mean, uh, liberate? Unburden? Introduce to the local miscreants? Or their pockets? Come on, man, did your mom pack you lunch today?”

“Don’t you have a job?” Sasha shot back.

“Don’t you have a sense of deep injustice about the system we live in?”

“Do you ever shut your mouth?”

“Hey, what’s a Pavlovian response?”

“Juno!” She punched him again.

“Ow, ow! What is this, 20 questions? Animal, vegetable, mineral, Wire?” Juno barrelled on before she could answer. “Aw, fuck, alright, you got me! I’m an animal.”

“At least you know that,” Sasha muttered darkly.

#writing juno as a young poor punk ass miscreant is so fun he's so maddddddd all the timeeeeee #this is from my OTHER fic that i'm working on where juno and nureyev meet as teenagers where juno is stuck in this short story competition #and nureyev is pretending to be for a heist #peter nureyev #juno steel #tpp #the penumbra podcast

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keldae · 4 months

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Four word prompts - “You love me, right?”

“... So, you love me, right?” Devi abruptly asked as the party made their way down one of the countless alleys in the Lower City. She squeezed Gale's hand in hers as she looked up at the wizard.

Blinking at the suddenness of the question, Gale looked down at Devi with a concerned frown. “Of course I love you, my rose. Why would you ask that? Have I done something to make you question me?”

“No! Far from it.” Devi squeezed his hand again. “Would you love me even if I did something particularly dumb?”

Suspicion crept into Gale's mind; his eyes narrowed as he looked at Devi. Her wide, earnest eyes and the way she worried at her lower lip with her teeth almost hid the glint of mischief in her gaze. “What did you do?” he asked with a sigh.

Devi blinked innocently. “Me? Do something? What makes you think I did something?”

“Darling, you know that I adore you more than life itself – but I know you. And I know that you and Astarion snuck out of camp last night and were gone for over an hour.” Gale glanced ahead to the aforementioned vampire, casually strolling along with Shadowheart beside him. “Where you two are, shenanigans are sure to be had.” He looked back at Devi, just in time to see her lips twitch in a grin. “Ah, so you did get into something! What did you do?”

“... You'll find out soon enough,” Devi said. She grinned impishly. “Just know that it could have been way worse than what we actually did.”

Gale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Am I going to have to bail you out of prison?” he asked with another heavy sigh.

“Nah. That would imply I got caught.” Devi seemed to have a spring to her step, the mark of a miscreant proud of whatever mischief she'd accomplished last night. “Just remember that you love me, and don't rat me out when the time comes.”

Shaking his head, Gale looked forward again. “Astarion, what in the Nine Hells did you two do last night?” he called to the pair ahead of himself and Devi.

“Ask us no questions,” the vampire answered, “and we'll tell you no lies.” He had a grin on his lips as he looked over his shoulder at the wizard. “Just don't set either of us on fire.”

“For the record, I have no idea what happened,” Shadowheart interjected. “I'm completely innocent in whatever wrongdoing these two idiots did.”

Gale suppressed the urge to groan out loud. “Whose fault was it?”

“Hers,” Astarion answered, without hesitation.

“And it was totally worth it,” Devi added, grinning evilly. “On that note, Elminster's left for Waterdeep, right? He's no longer in Baldur's Gate?”

Coming to a stop, Gale turned and set both hands on Devi's slim shoulders, fixing her with a stern look. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“You'll see, first in my heart.” Devi giggled, then stretched up to lightly kiss Gale. “Just know that I regret absolutely nothing.”

Gale suspiciously watched Devi for a moment before he sighed and resumed walking, holding her hand. “I love you, but right now, I'm not sure that I want to admit knowing you. Is this better or worse than you licking the spider meat in that Sharran temple?”

“You know what they say about comparing apples and oranges, my love…”

That made the wizard groan as they came out into the main thoroughfare, running by the Stormfront Tabernacle. “Am I going to wish that you had just chosen to lick another dead spider?”

“... Maybe.”

“That does not bode well,” Gale muttered. He paused as he took note of the crowd in front of the temple, and the excited whispers he could hear. “Huh. Curious–” He looked at Devi, and groaned again when he saw her slyly bumping Astarion’s fist with her own, as if in celebration of mischief well done. “Oh, I have a terrible feeling about this.”

“What on earth could that be for?” Astarion asked with a too-innocent blink. “Perhaps it's just indigestion.”

Gale narrowed his eyes at the vampire, then slipped into the crowd, making his way to the temple’s entrance, his companions following him. Dread settled into his chest with every step that he took to the temple – the anticipation of something awful inside the imposing building.

He finally gained the entrance, and stepped inside, only making it a couple of steps into the building before he was halted by another crowd of gawkers. But he didn't need to go any further – he could see the cause of the commotion, all centring around the statue of Mystra. The sight before him made him blink in shock before he groaned out loud.

He knew, better than almost anyone (save for perhaps Elminster) that Mystra wasn't supposed to sport a moustache and pointed goatee, or a monocle, or a unibrow, or crude devil's horns like what currently adorned her statue, bright red paint standing out starkly against the white marble.

With a heavy sigh, the wizard slowly turned to see his companions. Shadowheart's eyes were wide and she had a hand over her mouth – Gale wasn't sure if that was shock, or simply to hide a smile. Devi and Astarion were hiding their satisfied glee surprisingly well, although Gale could recognise the same look of mischief that they had sported after similar vandalising of the portrait of Vlaakith. And he knew Devi's handiwork. “Deviali…” he hissed under his breath, giving the love of his life a glare.

“Just know that it could have been far worse,” Devi whispered, an evil grin on her face. “I could have pissed on the statue too.”

“You only didn't because we almost got caught as it was,” Astarion pointed out in an undertone.

Devi waved her hand dismissively. “Details.” She eyed the vandalised statue, then looked at Astarion with a grin. “Might be our best work yet,” she lowly said.

Astarion chuckled. “It looks so much more vivid in the daylight, too. The red contrasts so nicely with the white of the marble…”

Gale felt his eye twitch warningly. “You two are going to wind up in hell for this,” he groaned. "A very low level of the hells."

“And you'll be right there with us!” Astarion pointed out, his fangs glinting as he grinned. “Guilty by association, my dear wizard.”

“Don't remind me,” the wizard muttered. “I will not be surprised if she manifests in this plane right now, for the sole purpose of striking you two down!”

That did not seem to sober Devi up in the slightest – quite the opposite, in fact. Her eyes lit up with even more glee. “So I’ll have the opportunity to punch her in the throat like I was planning before she smites me!” she excitedly whispered. “Even better!”

“Shhh!” Gale glanced around, making sure nobody was paying undue attention to the four adventurers. Satisfied that the crowd’s attention was on Mystra’s statue, he looked back at Devi and Astarion. “What made either of you think that this was a good idea?” he whispered.

“She told you to kill yourself!” Devi hissed. Anger flashed in her eyes, momentarily overwhelming the glee. “You needed her help, and she was going to send you to your death for a chance at her bloody forgiveness! Why should I show her any hint of respect or admiration when she threw you away like that? Even if I didn’t love you more than life itself, nobody does that to someone I consider a friend!”

“You really shouldn’t be surprised, you know,” Astarion added. “We all know how Devi feels about throwing hands with deities on behalf of the people she cares about.” He looked at Shadowheart and winked. “Don’t worry, Shar is on the list too.”

“... Thank you?” Shadowheart responded. “I may join you two, once we find out what happened to my parents.”

Gale sighed and shook his head again – Astarion was right. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised that Devi would take it upon herself to disrespect Mystra so brazenly. It took more courage than he suspected he had to vandalise the idol of the Mother of the Weave, especially in the middle of the bloody tabernacle. And he would be lying if he said that he didn’t feel his own lingering anger towards Mystra for how she had so cruelly discarded him. His conversation with the goddess, only the day before, had been fraught with tension. Would Mystra withhold her offer of cleansing him of the orb if he brought her the Crown of Karsus now, thanks to Devi’s actions? He was inclined to agree with Shadowheart – the gods truly were a petty bunch.

But then again, he had his own moments of being petty, himself.

He turned back to the statue, eyeing it for a long moment, before he looked back at his companions. “... The unibrow is a nice touch that she would despise,” he muttered, and saw Devi and Astarion glance at each other with immense amounts of satisfaction. A little smirk played around his lips before he quickly suppressed it. “Come – let’s get out of here. Knowing our luck, Elminster will be on his way here, if he isn’t in the crowd already; and I would really prefer not having to lie to his face about you two.” “Gods, I can’t wait for tomorrow’s issue of the Gazette,” Devi laughed as the four slipped out of the tabernacle and back to the safety of the alleys – just in the nick of time, as Gale caught a glimpse of Elminster’s pointy hat in the crowd and heard his former mentor ranting furiously about the open disrespect to his goddess. “I’m saving a copy of that for the rest of my life…”

#bg3 fic #gale x tav #gale/tav #tav x gale #astarion #shadowheart #gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 mystra #shenanigans #friendship #when the rogues are left unsupervised #Devi is part of the 'fuck Mystra' team #vandalism #graffiti #Deviali #Kel writes #Thanks for the prompt!

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wisteriagoesvroom · 8 months

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my first foray into galex - thank you for the prompt from the f1 wild side discord!

a galex drabble written from the following prompts: morning, window and cat. with the tone: content

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Alex wakes to a terrible screech. It sounds like someone’s dying, or losing a tooth, or both. Bleary eyed, he drags himself out of the bed, kicking off half the covers off as he goes. When he makes his way to the hallway, George stands there, shoulders hunched. His morose expression is a jarring contrast to his fluffy bathrobe.

“What happened?”

“Gucci.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Alright. Gucci, as in resident menace, knocked the plates over.”

Alex surveys the damage. It doesn’t look too bad, though whatever was on the plates - pancakes, from the looks of things, seem to be splashed halfway across the floor.

His partner seems worse for wear.

“Typical ginger cat behaviour. Are you fine, though?” Alex asks.

George nods, eyes all watery. Mouth pinched in a straight line, perfectly English of him, barely held together by his own tightly wound composure. He’s always been this way, since the days they’d been karting. Heart on his sleeve, feelings like rainclouds at the end of races.

Alex has seen him at his best and his worst, been there to hug him close or listen to him babble on about mechanical failures that were perfectly avoidable. Even let George drone for two hours with a PowerPoint on ways he could reform the GPDA for better driver solidarity until Alex had cut him off with a “you’re kind of sexy when you’re mansplaining to me. Even if I’m a man, and all”. Which had stopped George so short that he didn’t have anything to say for almost an entire minute.

What happened after that was just natural, really. They'd clambred into each other's drivers rooms, held hands furtively at afterparties, kissed in the shadows of locations as exotic as Monaco and mundane as Milton Keynes. This was to none of the grid’s surprise, having seen their friendship blossom over the years, now into something else. Friends, however distant, who helped to guard their secret until they were ready.

“Today was supposed to be perfect.” George says, tugging Alex back to the present. It’s been two years since. Two good ones.

George pinches his nose . “Christ, this is a disaster."

“We talked about this. No self-flagellating in the new year.”

“Right. Yeah. It’s just–”

Alex takes the other man’s hands. They’re large, and warm. Slender fingers roughened with callouses from gripping the wheel, capable hands for a capable man.

This close, George smells faintly like berries. Affection flutters in Alex’s stomach.

“We'll just start it over. It'll be fine, Georgie."

"I just wanted it to be perfect."

"Hey. This is my perfect. This is it, mate. You know that, right?”

George nods, softening under Alex’s touch.

“Besides.” Alex continues. “It’s a little hard to take you seriously when your apron says do I look delicious. Which for the record, you do.”

George wipes his nose with the back of his hand, eyes darting down and up again. “You bought this, mind you.”

“I did.”

“And you love it. And me.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Alex pokes George in the side playfully, and George rolls his eyes. Attention diverted for the moment, smile finally back and starting to warm his eyes.

"Such an arsehole." George says, glancing at Gucci, who is walking calmy across the kitchen counter. Happily acting as if nothing has happened.

"I know. But he's our arsehole."

"Never say those words in that combination again."

"Our arsehole." Alex adds, emphatically.

To that, George only emits a long sigh.

And there is cleanup to come. Breakfast to be made again. But just for a moment, it’s the two of them. Spilled pancakes. Patience. tender love.

A miscreant tabby that happily suns itself under the window.

Two of their hands perfectly intertwined. Room perfectly incandescent.

#galex #alex albon #george russell #aa23 #gr63 #f1 rpf #fanfic drabble #fluff #this came out like tooth-achingly sweet #i tried to keep the very bro-snipey galex essence in there #not sure i succeeded but there we have it #wiz.writing #if you’re being pedantic gucci isn’t actually a ginger cat #but I’m changing it #for the plot

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choppedcowboydinosaur · 2 months

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A few weeks ago I delved into this rabbit hole of watching videos about the In Praise of Shadows hit piece on Wendigoon. Now mind you I don't watch either of these people's content but here's what I noticed during this whole drama.

For In Praise of Shadows I noticed the following (Note for the rest of this post I will refer to In praise of shadows as IPOS because it's easier for me to type.):

He wants ideological purity for horror movies. He doesn't think any conservatives should be allowed in horror. He thinks horror is inherently leftist. Which is odd since you could make the argument 80's slasher films have a conservative bent to them. Were all debauchery is punished by the slasher villain and only the final girl survives by being pure. Also, he accuses Late Night with the Devil of being a conservative movie because some of the transition cards use AI. That is odd to me since if you are going to call that movie conservative it should be by analyzing its themes rather than accusing it of AI. It just makes him seem like a very fragile person.

Most of his accusations are just guilt by association and lying about the youtubers he's complaining about. He accuses a bunch of people I've never heard of being gun crazed guntubers. None of these youtubers are guntubers. He also shits on Mutahara and Shoeonhead for no legitimate reason. I stopped watching Shoeonhead a while ago and distrust her somewhat but even I thought that accusation of her being conservative was completely disingenuous.

He accuses Internet Historian of being a neo-nazi because his birthday being 4/20 which is apparently Hitler's birthday. This stood out to me since you'd think for someone as terminally online as him, he would know what the 4/20 meme is.

He often associates guns with right wing despite there are leftists who use guns. Again, it's a very twitter mentality he has.

He bitches about Wendigoon being supposedly rich. I don't know how true this is, but I am starting to doubt IPOS claims of poverty given his pretentious manners. That and all he cares about is making video essays.

Also, he is whiny about not making enough youtube money and having to walk in a parking lot to a horror convention in North Carolina. To be fair he might have been saying this on behalf of handicap people, but they have handicap stalls for a reason. Also, if you aren't making enough youtube money there's this thing called getting a job. Especially, a part time one which allows for a more flexible schedule for him to make videos. Again, this man is very whiny.

He sounds like a pretentious version of Morakiu. He speaks in a monotone voice with no inflection in his voice. At least Morakiu was funny.

He has twitter brainrot. I say twitter brainrot because specifically he thinks all of Appalachia is white racists. Say what you will about this site many here would have called him out on that. For the record Appalachians are not inherently racist.

He associates aloha shirts with the boogalooo boys/alt-right. He said this while wearing an aloha shirt himself. Now that might be him being ironic but his stupidity cancels it out. Now while the boogaloo boys love their aloha shirts it is not explicitly a right-wing thing. I am a local from Hawaii and many of us here wear aloha shirts regularly so it's not some alt-right thing. I hate how people have now associated something innocent with that. Aloha shirts existed long before the alt-right ever came into existence.

He has this schizo moment where he thinks Wendigoon was trying to harass him by following him on twitter. When it turns out Wendigoon followed him because he liked his Slenderman video.

Pretty much the whole internet pushed his shit in after he spouted all that nonsense. He is a living case of a terminally online leftist with twitter brainrot. On one hand this man was clearly going through a mental breakdown, is delusional and should touch grass/seek therapy. On the other hand, he is a spiteful miscreant who likes to tarnish other people so my sympathy for him is very limited. It's good everyone rejected his ass because I feel like if he did this shit in 2017, he might have gotten away with it given how crazy everyone was driven with the TDS.

Now onto Wendigoon. Despite all this slander Wendigoon forgives IPOS. To me this shows he is legitimate in his kindness and beliefs. Since he was forgiving to someone who did not give him any courtesy at all. Which is doubly ironic since IPOS hates when people slander him, but he is fine with slandering other people. It's like I'm looking at two people diverging form a forked road. One chose the path to hurt people because he was hurt. The other chose the path to help people because he was hurt and doesn't want anyone to suffer. He's honestly far more merciful than I would have been in that situation. The thing was bizarre overall. Hopefully, after seeing IPOS madness people will calm down and not try to cancel each other. Unlikely but hopefully that reckoning will come and people go back to normal.

#ipos #wendigoon #in praise of shadows #youtube controversy #internet drama #ipos is the textbook definition of terminally online twitter leftist #jfc he's insufferable

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gamerdog1 · 7 months

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Samurai Champloo Review

What the hell even is a 'champloo' anyways? Ever since one fateful Passover seder, where my older cousin told me about this series, I've wondered about it. Its certainly not English, and though a quick Google search could give me my answer, the mystery of it all kept this show on my radar for nearly a decade. Its not often that a show with a title as puzzling as this get popular, especially enough for my slacker cousin to recommend it to me. With a recommendation like that, though, I knew there was something special about it.

Samurai Champloo is a strange breed. Created in 2004 by Masaru Gotsubo, and animated by defunct studio Manglobe, the series follows a trio of miscreants on a journey to find a mysterious samurai. Along the way, they dodge the law, fight assassins, and discover how hard it is to be a minority in a changing world.

Champloo's biggest draw is it's style. The series features a modern-style Edo that keeps the historical dress and architecture, but adds a contemporary kick everywhere else. The opening alone sets the tone perfectly: sharply colored characters, juxtaposed onto paper-like backgrounds, moving to a hip-hop flow. Its stylish, like an old-school music video, and draws you in in seconds with its funky beat and striking visuals. Its the perfect opening, and things only get cooler from there.

The Edo of this anime features a mix of traditional Japanese and modern North American styles, presented in a way that sets it apart from the rest. Its a show where you might find a samurai sword fight set to record scratches, or characters wistfully embarking on a journey while hip-hop music plays in the background. Early episodes use these scratches in the soundtrack as editing cues, cross-cutting between actions at the sound to create a wholly unique experience. It can't be overstated how much the musical styles of this anime make the viewing experience shine.

On top of that, much of the content of the show's episodes takes pages from a more modern handbook. One episode has the main trio caught up in the world of graffiti, as two brothers compete to see who can 'tag' the most dangerous places. Another has them play against American traders in a overly-violent game of baseball. All the while, characters talk with modern slang, ditching formalities and keeping with the tone the soundtrack sets. All this combined creates a historical anime that feels surprisingly contemporary, despite the obvious.

Over the course of the show's 26 episodes, we follow a main trio of characters as they journey to find a mysterious samurai who smells of sunflowers. The trip is long, and each episode usually features the gang stopping somewhere and getting involved in a stranger's problems, usually learning some moral or getting a lead on their quest afterwards. Its not often for series as mature as these to be episodic, given how seriously they take their plots, but here, it works well.

Every episode feels like another step along their journey, whether it be an eating contest in a big city, or hunting down a pick-pocket who stole their wallets. The series also does an excellent job at making the journey feel long, often referring back to the places the characters have been so far to keep track of it. You could actually track the trio's journey with a real life map if you wanted, since all the places they visit are historical, and probably still exist. Maybe someone out there has even tried their journey in real life...?

An anime is only as interesting as its main characters, and this one certainly has an interesting cast. The series stars three characters, who together, always find a way to screw things up in the most hilarious ways. First, there's Fuu, a young woman who meets the other two characters when they burn her workplace down, and enlists them to help find the samurai who smells of sunflowers. The show pulls no punches with her, often having her be the butt of the joke just as much as her companions. She's loud, whiny, naïve, and often eats the most out of all of them. Yet, she's usually the one that stops fights, is the voice of reason in all this show's chaos, and shows kindness to everyone she meets, even someone who tried to kill her. Though the other characters might play her off as another nagging woman, Fuu's right more often than not, and is a valuable member of the team.

Next is Jin, a ronin with a cool attitude. He's the level-headed one of the trio, often keeping to himself instead of jumping into arguments like the others. His cold exterior hides some pretty deep traumas, which were exciting to learn more about as the story developed. Characters like him are often stereotyped as unfeeling swordsmen, yet beneath all the sullen glances and reclusive body language, he grows to care about his companions more than any sense of pride.

Lastly, there's Mugen, the wild vagrant. His reckless fighting style, love for battle, and unquenchable pride endeared him to me pretty quickly, making him an easy choice as favorite. Compared to Jin and Fuu, Mugen is an old-school tough guy, a shonen protagonist aged up a decade and thrown backwards a couple hundred years. Like Jin, he initially is quite guarded, but learns to express himself little by little, eventually revealing his tragic backstory. Though, to be fair, most of his self expression comes in the form of violence or threats, but I'm not here to judge him.

Together, these three form a simple comedy trio, and get into trouble at every turn on their journey as they learn to tolerate each other. From start to finish, the trio struggle to get along peacefully, but that's what makes their dynamic worth watching. Mugen and Jin's mutual hatred, balanced out by Fuu's persistence, is what keeps them going. Depending on what episode it is, they take turns being the 'straight man', keeping the dynamic fresh and free of stale tropes.

At the heart of this anime, though, is its theme of identity in a changing world. Throughout the series, the trio encounter various minority groups along their journey, and learn about their unique struggles. One episode has them protecting a secret Dutch immigrant, taking him on a tour of the city while they dodge immigration officers. When the man reveals that he fled his home country because of homophobia, it doesn't feel out of place or poorly handled. His queerness is just as much a part of his character arc as his foreign-ness, and though the show makes a few light-hearted jabs at his accent and obvious visual difference, it takes the rest of his identity rather seriously. This character, while only in the show for an episode, is just one of many minority characters in this series that is handled well, showing that a series doesn't have to be disrespectful to be historical.

Another major theme in this series is death, and the acceptance of it. Being an action series, its pretty obvious that a lot of characters die, but what's interesting is how other characters deal with those deaths. Many side characters who the trio befriend on their journey are dealing with loss in some way, whether it be a husband, sibling, child, or something else. We witness how their grief drives them, such as with Fuu, or various other characters in the series. In a world such as the one in this series, death is commonplace, but a healthy acceptance of it is unfortunately less so. Each encounter with death in the series opens up new discussions about it, and often had me pondering what these characters might do next, or how I would deal with their situations.

In the end, though, Samurai Champloo is a fascinating series that brings a unique blend of Eastern and Western styles to make a truly memorable viewing experience. It's hip-hop soundtrack pairs beautifully with flashy and quick-paced sword fighting, creating a simultaneous modern-historical vibe to it all. Its characters have an enjoyable dynamic that kept me coming back day after day for more, which inevitable led to disappointment upon discovering how short this series is. If we lived in a perfect world, this would have at least an extra season, but unfortunately, perfect this world ain't.

But hey, at least I can spend my Pink Halloween (read: Valentine's Day) knowing that Fuu is valid, Mugen is gender, and Jin defintely got pegged in that one episode.

#anime and manga #anime review #film critic #review #anime #anime critique #animation #animated series #samurai champloo #otakucore

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ahru0226 · 15 days

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Hey sorry it's been a while, ive been through some shit and sadly have no time to draw any Tomarrymort, so I can only present you this snippet I wrote a long while ago, inspired by contrapasso wrote by hanamichi, it's a very good read, I recommend it from the bottom of my heart.

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With love. With hate. With something unfathomable between he and him. Something felt so sacred yet fragile, cracked and disappeared in cold dead night with simply touch of a feather. Yet in this dimly light room, with bed as its holy altar, no feather should be found in this sanctuary, only former dark lord with his chosen lamb.

His touch is anything but cruel, yet this act itself is the embodiment of cruelty. It was cruel, merciless, even blasphemous, when sinners came to god yearned for atonement, only to be met by the face of the devil in disguise, for him to be giving fictitious salvations to ravenous miscreants.

Harry shakes. His body is home to so many sins and grief, it shambles under mere touch of kindness, of care. It knows nothing but pain, since he was marked on that fateful night, with owner of this hand of incompatible benevolence. It knows briefly, of warm hugs and heartfelt touches, yet in its core, hard punches and dislocated fingers are a more familiar music.

"Please..." Harry begs. Begging for what? He does not know. For the kindness to shed its abhorrent skin? To cease to be what it is not, and reattain its wicked self? To be the Lord of Darkness, the habitat of the monster with so, so much rage, yet the little orphan so full of ambition with a vision of centuries? To be the entity respected by many, but feared, always feared by many more?

( 'But not me.' 'No, not you, Harry.' )

"Shh... You're doing so well, Harry." The man who should be the devil whispers, he who should be granting him the suffering, yet punished him with underserved touch of affection. It was frustrating, and confusing, it grated eerily in Harry's body, his mind, and his broken soul.

He doesn't know what to do, for he is underserved of this kindness, even if it came from the once incarnation of cruelty, even if this incarnation himself is the cause of all his suffering in his life, since the wicked green of the Unforgivable kissed his forehead in his crib.

"Just let go, Harry. Let me take care of you."

Eye filled with tears and mind with despair; with screams and faces and memories of many dead, still echoing like a broken record, singing a song buzzed with static only he can hear; with regrets and grief and an overwhelming sense of impending doom; yet, they shaken and shattered under every gentle touch, under every hot breath in his ear; and the constant pleasant warmth, like sitting before a fireplace in room full with golden stripes and red, embrace him as a lover would. Harry closed his tearful eyes.

He gave in.

#tomarrymort #tomarry #snippet #english is not my native language #but i really enjoy writing with it #LOVE HANAMICHI

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horsewizardart · 1 year

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HI!!! what do you think of trixshy? I think theres potential for a really cute dynamic between the two :)

i think trixie would have to learn to be about ten times less obnoxious to make it work but i can imagine this. fluttershy has a track record for enjoying spending time with weird miscreants

#horse asks

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treason-and-plot · 1 year

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“I refuse to eat while this miscreant is seated at our table,” says Michael, fists clenched at the side of his plate. Roy is beginning to think of him as a middle-aged toddler, albeit a toddler with quite an impressive vocabulary. Jane seems entirely unconcerned by his behaviour, happily channelling forkfuls of peaches into her mouth.

“You’re missing out, Dad,’ says Anya. “It’s delicious. You’ve really outdone yourself, Mum.”

“Yes, it’s great, thanks Jane,” says Roy, though it doesn’t compare to Sonia’s cobbler, with its melt-in-the -mouth dough and perfect cinnamon-to-brown sugar ratio. Michael sends him a poisonous stare.

“Anya, I know I can’t stop you moving into this man’s apartment, but I want you to stop and ask yourself if you are making the right decision," Michael says. ”Because clearly he is not to be trusted. Nor is he a person of strong moral character.”

“Why do you say that?” says Roy through a mouth filled with cobbler.

“Because you lied to me," says Michael, his eyebrows flaring. “You told me that you and Anya were getting married, which was an outright lie.”

“I was just yanking your chain because you started spouting all that armchair psychology bullshit,” says Roy. "Which was a total load of crap, by the way. I'm way too secure in my skin to feel diminished by the fact that my ex-wife prefers muff."

“Dad," says Anya. "Seriously, what on earth-"

"And for the record, it was Anya who pursued me, not the other way round," says Roy. "Not that I'm complaining. I'll be forever grateful. But you need to get your facts straight, Michael. And stop pigeonholing me as some narcissistic wanker who's only interested in a trophy-wife. I'm in love with your daughter. And to suggest I'm with her for any other reason is pretty damned disrespectful. Okay?"

#Anya #Roy #Jane simko #michael simko #michael #back to bridgeport #5 years later

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sehtoast · 1 year

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From Ashes to Home (Depowered Homelander x OC)

18+

Word Count: 6.6k

Summary: Some ghosts aren't meant to be found, but the case of Homelander's mother is one that deserves to be revealed. He deserves a chance to know what's left of her. Chapter 11 of All of You is Left to Love. Not plot dependent.

Warnings: Smut if you squint, parental death themes, he's finally allowed to grieve. Vought's catalog of inflicted horrors.

OC: Benjamin Colyer (The Boys-verse Spider-Man)

Special thanks to @theonlymanintheskyisme for beta reading <3

Fic Directory

I just… I wish I knew anything about her.

Those words echoed in Ben’s mind for days on end, endlessly looping in that sad, defeated whisper. Somehow, the subject of Homelander’s parentage came up, and, well…

It always was a tender topic.

He hated the way John bit back his tears. The way he hid himself behind an air of indifference lest he let the last pillar of his defenses crumble to dust.

Even now, after all this time, he still struggled to really let it out. But Ben always knew. Could always tell by the twitch of Homelander’s lip, the scrunch of his nose, the way he wouldn’t blink as a way to hold back his tears.

He made a silent promise to find all that he could as he held Homelander that night. Each brush of his hand through his once god-like lover’s hair a vow to find something, anything that could bring him closer to the mother he never knew.

Every day that followed, Ben found himself more and more consumed by ideas on how to find her. Would he have to bribe someone? Money was certainly no worry. Would he have to intimidate people? Most likely, but it wasn’t particularly hard to get the staff in Vital Records to shit their pants.

Would he have to march into Stan’s office and make more demands?

Luckily, being the new head of The Seven came with many perks, even more so for actually being liked by the staff at Vought Tower.

What little information referenced John’s parentage only directly named Soldier Boy, who'd already revealed himself as Homelander’s father. Granted, that information was updated by Homelander himself after it came to light. Prior to that, the line for the father's name had been blank.

Perhaps sperm donor was a better title... He hadn't exactly been father of the year when he tried to go nuclear– much less a decent grandfather for leaving Ryan battered.

Ben admittedly had a chuckle over their shared first name, but he found it incredibly odd that Vought named the mother by a code.

1-G.

Benjamin spent several hours a day in the record center’s library of paper files. Many of them were scheduled to be destroyed after being recreated digitally, but it’d take an army to copy and sort decades of documents. He had plenty of time, and he’d rummage through every filing cabinet in the room if that’s what it would take to find even the slightest scrap of information about John’s mother.

The wall crawler drove himself mad trying to work off that one piece of information.

1-G. A code? A title? A fucking label designation for some petri dish somewhere?

Each night, he went back home to Homelander. Each night, he had to pretend to have been out prowling the streets for miscreants instead of playing librarian. He’d come home with dinner, sit down with Homelander, and pick at his food as each disgusting secret he’d uncovered entangled itself into his waking mind.

“What’s wrong?”

Ben jumped, looking up at Homelander with wide eyes and a piece of spaghetti dangling from his lips.

“That! That right there.” John pointed accusingly with his fork. “You’re not telling me something. What’s going on?”

“Nothin’,” the web-head shook his head. “Just– work’s been a lot lately, y’know? Stan’s a bastard, the team is acting up... Same headache, different day.”

Homelander’s eyes narrowed at him, suspicion nestled deep inside those beautiful blues.

“Bullshit! You’re not eating lately and you’re sure as fuck not talking. Did– Are you mad at me?” John pushed away from the table, standing. “You haven’t said more than five words since you got in.”

“Johnny,” Ben sighed, lowering his head. “I’m not mad, I just… I’m just really caught in my head right now, okay?”

“Right, right.” Homelander rolled his eyes, grabbing his carryout container. “Whatever. Talk to me when you feel like it, I guess. I’ll just give you your space.” Dejected bitterness laced every word.

Ben lacked the steam to chase him to the bedroom and talk some sense into him. Fuck, he could barely do it for himself, let alone John. So, he let the pot simmer. Cleaned up around the house and showered to kill some time before meandering back to their room.

Homelander had shut off all the lights and curled up close to the edge of the bed, blankets obscuring his form. Ben wondered if his love was actually asleep, or just hiding in the only way he knew how anymore.

A pang of guilt hit his heart.

It’d been roughly two weeks since he started rummaging through Vought’s archives, and quite likely two weeks since he’d paid enough attention to Homelander.

Ben eased into bed, curling around Homelander’s ‘sleeping’ form. He didn’t move to pull the covers away, opting instead to let love keep a layer of protection between himself and a source of pain. He knew times like these only stoked the paranoia that one day John would wake to an empty bed and home. That Ben would up and leave him after finding someone better, or realizing he wasn't worth the effort.

Something that would simply never happen.

Benjamin nuzzled close, lips hovering right above John’s covered ear.

“I’m not mad at you…” He began. “I promise, Johnny. I’m not. I just… It’s a lot to explain. I’ve got this… project that I’m working on. It’s really important, but I’m finding so many fucking horrors from Vought in the meantime that I just…”

He breathed a heavy sigh.

“It’s taking a lot out of me. That with everything else I see in a day, and… it’s a lot, y’know?”

Ben paused, waiting to see if Homelander would shuffle out from under the blankets. When he didn’t, Benjamin continued.

“I love you. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

He shifted away from Homelander, opting to give him space instead of smothering him. It took only a few moments for that bundle of blankets to shuffle his way. A hand snaked out from underneath, fingers joining with Ben’s.

The wall crawler shifted onto his side and pulled John closer.

No words were exchanged for the rest of the night. Ben dozed off with ease while Homelander fought against his drowsiness to bask in the moment. The rise and fall of Benjamin’s chest against his head, the steady beats of his heart.

He adored his little spider more than anything in the world. Even the slightest thought of losing Benjamin was enough to send him spiraling into paranoia and rampant imaginings of worst case scenarios. It’d been two years since he lost his powers, and every day he wondered if Ben would finally decide he wasn’t worth keeping around. Every day he had to remind himself that the wall crawler loves him. That he was more than the house pet his alter ego dubbed him as.

Where would he even be without his Benjamin?

Would he even be alive? Would he have made it out of that containment cell? Would he have survived another week of torture before that guard simply killed him?

Would there be a roof over his head, or the promise of regular meals? A warm bed and a devoted soul with whom to share it?

Would he have someone to protect him now that he couldn’t fend for himself?

Every swirling thought made him realize no, he wouldn’t.

He'd still be in the bad room. He'd likely be dead. Starved or beaten to death, surely. Tortured every single day until he succumbed.

But, god above, that only meant it would make sense if Ben grew tired of him - weak mess of a man that he was now.

Despite the storm of what-ifs pulsating in his mind, John dozed off fairly fast once he laid his head upon Ben’s chest. When he woke, his body was enveloped in heat– some areas more than others.

He was on the brink as soon as his eyes fluttered open.

He lifted the covers to peek, and the sight alone of Ben swallowing him triggered his release instantly, leaving him a writhing, panting mess.

“You,” Ben licked the length of his softening shaft, “and I are due for a date, sir. I called off. We have the whole day.”

Benjamin made good on his word, devoting the entire day to Homelander. He’d barely even thought about his little side project while they were out.

The dying warmth of an early September breeze swept around them as the pair passed all sorts of eateries. The openness of the streets in Queens kept Homelander’s nerves at bay, but John still struggled quite a bit with entering crowded spaces– especially stores. The smaller they were, the more his mind would linger on memories of both his childhood cell and the… other one. But, Benjamin’s presence, along with the duty of carrying the grocery basket, made it a smidge less stressful to accomplish their trip.

“Proud of you,” Ben nudged his shoulder as they walked home, each carrying a paper bag of goods. “Seriously. I hope you know how great it is to see you do all this.”

He couldn’t help but grin despite how vulnerable he really felt. He was like an open wound in public. Exposed, waiting for someone to pick at him or throw salt his way. What if someone recognized him?

What if someone realized the shame of his current state, and he was plastered on the screen of every device with internet access?

Hell, probably every newspaper, too.

Homelander Spotted Looking Half Homeless! is what he imagined the headlines would read. Though he began to allow Ben to trim his hair, he still found himself feeling subpar in appearance. Be it the weight he’d gained, or his casual clothing, he just wouldn’t be The Homelander anymore.

Christ, what if someone asked him to use his powers?

He took deep breaths as they turned another corner, counting each step as they made their way closer to home. By the time the front door closed behind them, he’d about reached his breaking point.

Ben, however, wasted no time in distracting him with banter and meal prep duties.

“Don’t cut yourself again,” the web-head warned as he sorted through pots and pans.

“Not my fault,” John countered, hand idly rolling a bell pepper along the length of the cutting board. “You showed me doing it fast, so I went fast.”

“Yes, babe. But I have actual experience with cooking.”

By the time they could leave the rest of the work up to the oven, the pair had made their way to the couch. John’s legs were strewn over Ben’s lap as he watched TV. Benjamin, however, had pulled out his laptop to browse that barebones document he’d found on John’s parentage.

The sight of the Vought logo snagged Homelander’s attention like a moth to a flame.

“Just that project I’m working on.” Ben hummed coolly, praying to whatever gods there may be that John wouldn’t press the issue. “Mostly just paperwork.”

Suddenly, an idea struck him.

“Hey, unrelated...” He began, hoping the little lie would go unnoticed– mostly because he didn’t want to admit to what he’d been doing and get John’s hopes up just to dash them with inevitable disappointment. “I was poking around in the paper archives the other day.”

Make up a new number… He’s definitely seen it before.

“3-F as a name placeholder mean anything to you? Like, is it a code or something?”

John’s brow pinched, and he sat silent for a while, raking through memories of decades of Vought propaganda and genuine fact.

“I think…” He trailed off. “I haven’t seen it in a while, but I’m pretty sure that’s how the first supe trial volunteers were categorized. There weren’t massive amounts of people signing up to get injected with V– if you can imagine.”

Ben quirked a brow as his brain raced to connect the dots.

“It was part of keeping their identities off the record, too. Liabilities and all that. Last I heard, all the files on ‘em were shredded once they got what they were looking for.” he continued, brows pinched. “Some fucked up shit went on there. Why?”

“I, uh…” Ben sighed. “Saw it in place of a name in one of the paper docs I pulled the other night. It’s just been bugging me.”

“Deep rabbit hole there.” John sighed, leaning back. “I couldn’t find anything besides the bullshit when I dug out Soldier Boy's old archives. Same thing when I… tried to find my mom– ‘cept everything on her was long gone. Whoever’s on that paper of yours is probably a ghost by now. Literally and figuratively.”

Ben swallowed thickly. Chances are that this 1-G person is certainly dead by now.

John’s mother was certainly dead by now.

But he wouldn’t jump to conclusions until it was time. Just as Ben was about to remote to his work terminal, the oven timer went off.

“Thank god.” John whined. “Staaaarving!”

Over the following weeks, Ben had become wholly consumed by the motivation to find anything about John’s mother. He’d dug through the paper archives every chance he could, even going as far as enlisting some help, but there was nothing.

Ben began to believe there was no trail to follow when one of the staffers he’d paid to assist emailed him a scan of a very old, yellowed notepad.

Pretty sure I found something, the email read. It’s hazy, but it looks like notes from old trial runs. Found it in a junk folder of blurry scans from one of the old ward doctors. Gonna keep looking for more.

True to her word, the staffer even went and drew an arrow to the section she’d found. Instead of 1-G, this Doctor James Waltz person wrote it as ‘Patient 1-G: Gillman.’ The writing was barely legible under the color of a coffee stain, but it was more than Ben had to go off of mere minutes before.

Gillman.

Ben immediately replied to the staffer, practically begging her to send anything else in that file– or at least give him details on where to find it. Blurry or not, he wanted everything he could get his hands on.

It was the gold mine he’d been looking for.

Despite the poor image quality and faded ink, Ben was able to find significant amounts of information on the initial test subjects for Compound V. He had to dive deep through hundreds of file folders to find anything about them– which left him concluding that someone hid these rather than follow the original order to destroy them.

The name Gillman had been his golden ticket. He’d found the liability waiver she signed, partially torn, left with only ‘illman’ remaining on the line – but still distinctly the same name. Ben cursed the record keeper of that era to hell for adding to his frustration.

It seemed everywhere he looked– old genetics testing records, ability documentation, and experimentation records, she was simply dubbed 1-G. All he wanted– needed was a first name. From there, maybe he could track her through public records beyond Vought, but there was nothing.

Except for the harrowing details in her record, that is. Despite the lack of a first name, Ben was able to piece together patient files with mention of her to create quite a… horrifying picture.

Enough to leave him sick to his stomach.

The Doctor Waltz fella who’d been all too kind and revealed her last name also had been to her what Vogelbaum was to John– if not a thousand times worse.

Downright evil, even.

Not every patient survived the Compound V trials. An exceptionally small number of them made out like kings, sporting powers with zero side effects. They’d received the same strain Soldier Boy was given.

Ben considered the dead to be far luckier than those who landed somewhere in the middle.

The unsuccessful strains of V had one of three outcomes: instant death, powers that killed the wielder shortly afterward, or– in the case of John’s mother– the body survives empowerment, but the mind does not.

His mother was left in a state of rageful madness.

As Benjamin pieced together mangled papers and deciphered blurred writing, he was able to construct a vague idea of what happened to her.

Roughly one day after injection, she’d come back to report malaise, but was written off by the doctors. By the second day, Vought had brought her back and contained her in a special cell.

Patient aggression exceptionally high. Engages with hallucinations. Refuses to eat and will not speak to psychological team. Containment failing, recommend sedation.

Notes following were conveniently lost, but picked up roughly two months later. Only problem being that they were almost entirely illegible from what seemed like water damage.

Because of course they’d be damaged.

What was left of her patient reports painted a devastating picture.

Homelander’s mother became a ward of Vought. She’d been the only subject to lose herself that Vought caught before she could come to harm. Waltz had found her ripe for experimentation after studying her abilities. They’d opted for round the clock sedation.

Keep her docile.

Flight, strength, and laser vision were among the descriptors they used. Damn near identical to Homelander’s abilities– lacking his invulnerability. A modern mind could look at this and realize that, along with Ryan’s inheritance of John’s powers, this meant there did exist a genetic component to the development of superpowers in those injected with V.

That understanding, though, was only a theory for Waltz back then.

–breed a new line of heroes.

Subject tissue sent for testing.

The possibilities … ……. mother of modern supes.

–extraction of eggs–

It didn’t take an exceptionally bright mind to realize what had happened to her. A shiver ran down Ben’s spine as he read more and more.

They’d used her as a fucking incubator for their experimental ‘purebred’ supes. For years, she was kept like cattle– artificially inseminated with sperm from promising supes until they’d written off her ability to carry children. After that, they simply harvested her eggs and used an undisclosed method of growing the fetuses to term.

The list of failed subjects was…

It was far too long.

Before Vogelbaum, there was Waltz.

Vogelbaum was not the father of the method by which John came to exist– but he was the first doctor to achieve a perfect creation.

Waltz had the blood of children on his hands. Infants, toddlers. Children beaten to death in combat tests. Children drowned in aquatic efficiency tests. A new subject every five to ten years, it seemed.

Killed in surgical procedures.

Destroyed by their own powers.

Murdered by a madman’s curiosity.

All of them lacking that one thing that made John the exception that he was.

Invulnerability.

Well, that and DNA infused with Compound V.

Waltz retired before his project saw success, passing on the mantle of monster to Jonah Vogelbaum.

Fuck, Homelander may not have even been Vogelbaum’s first subject…

The last note Waltz ever made on John’s mother was in 1986. A new hire slipped up during an operation on her brain.

She died that same day.

It had been the shock of a lifetime when, upon scrolling the dwindling remainder of Waltz's notes, he stumbled upon a faded polaroid. Though it was hazy, there was no denying what he was seeing.

Laid back in a reclined medical chair was an older woman. Long, gray hair. A gaunt face. Expression void of anything. IV lines leading into her arms reflected the flash of the camera.

If he squinted hard enough to combat the blur, Ben could thoroughly see a resemblance. He'd know that face anywhere– those big blue eyes, high cheekbones, thin lips. The curved bridge of her nose.

God, John looked just like her.

And now?

He’s all that’s left of her.

What they’d done with her remains was a mystery, but Benjamin almost didn’t want to know what more they could have possibly done to the poor woman. He felt sick. Bile burning in his throat as he pressed his face into his hands.

He goes out every day and represents Vought. Represents pure evil under the guise of heroism. Fell in love with one of their seemingly infinite amount of victims…

In the weeks it took him to find the end of her story, Ben would hold John tight every night. He’d stare down at his love’s sleeping form and go back and forth in his mind on whether or not to tell him. The thicker the file, the heavier his guilt. Each printout only made it worse.

Would it hurt him? Certainly.

But, it might also close a chapter in his life that John had been so desperately trying to decipher.

Alternatively, it could make everything infinitely worse.

He knew he had to tell Homelander the truth. The only problem was getting the words to quit sticking in his throat every time he tried.

He could tell there was a strain between them with this recent secrecy of his. Where he’d been so late at night, why he wouldn’t talk about it. He stopped pretending he was swinging around the city and just settled for saying work kept him late.

But how could he tell him?

Hey, I found your mom.

It seemed like a ridiculous statement, especially because he didn’t actually find her– just traces. There was no headstone, no urn of ashes.

There was nothing left of her except yellowed paper and faded ink.

As it happened, the pot boiled over one day. Ben hadn’t even realized how bad things had really gotten until the morning John clung to him in bed, preventing him from leaving.

“Is there someone else..?”

The question had taken him completely by surprise.

“Is that why you can’t tell me what you’ve been doing?” He followed up, voice cracking no matter how hard he tried to hide it. “Where you’ve been…”

“What?” Ben rolled over to face him. “John, I–”

“I’d understand.” Homelander shook his head, avoiding eye contact. Tears leaked freely from the corners of his eyes. The dark circles lining them let Ben know he hadn’t slept at all last night. “I’d hate it– I’d hate it so fucking much… But I’d get it.”

The dwindling of his self worth screamed so loudly in every word.

“No!” Ben gripped him, his own eyes clouding. “Never! No, god no– never!” He pulled him closer, burying his face in Homelander’s chest. “No. No, Johnny.”

He didn’t wait for Homelander to speak before he spilled everything. All of the guilt inside falling off his tongue in stammered confessions.

“I didn’t want to– I…” Benjamin breathed, shaking his head to collect himself. “I didn’t want it to hurt you, I just… Not until I knew it was enough to be worth the hurt.” He moved away to look at John, a hand at his cheek to thumb soothing circles. Wasn't sure if he was doing it more for himself or Homelander. “And even then– fuck…”

Ben took a deep breath.

“I’m… I found your mom– sort of, I mean. Not like I actually found her found her, but what happened to her, at least.”

He gulped when John didn’t reply. Instead, that unwavering, wide blue stare begged him to continue. There was something in his eyes… Fury, perhaps. Fascination– absolutely. But, mostly, fear.

Fear that whatever Benjamin was about to say would reopen a lifelong wound held together with makeshift bandages. A wound that would unravel and gush the second something picked at it.

“I found a paper trail. Buried deep in junk folders where nobody would ever think to find shit that matters. Been a big puzzle to put together but…” Ben sniffled. “I can bring home what I have, but I just… I didn’t want to drop that on you without a final answer– and, god, I didn’t want to risk hurting you either. I wanted to find her for you, but it took so long just to even get her last name and I still don’t even have the first na–”

“What is it?” Homelander demanded, eyes widened as though he were in a frenzy. Perhaps he was. “What’s her name!? Is she alive!?”

“Gillman.” Ben replied instantly, the weight of secrecy falling from his shoulders with every bit he revealed. “Her last name’s Gillman. And… by rights, I guess yours is, too, but… no. No, she’s… she’s gone.”

The realization he’d never know his mother crashed over Homelander in waves so violent Benjamin could physically see it happen. He watched John begin to crumble, gradually unraveling more and more until he choked back quiet sobs.

“S’why I asked you that one night about placeholder names… I should’ve just told you upfront.”

Homelander shuddered. “1-G…”

“Yeah,” Ben pulled him close. Of course he knew that name. “That’s her… I’m so sorry, honey.”

Homelander was fully prepared to find he’d been abandoned by the love of his life. Kept around out of sympathy, but abandoned nonetheless. He’d practically convinced himself entirely of it. He wanted to be angry– furious, even. He wanted to grab Ben by the shoulders and shake him for keeping this hidden, but god.

His mother.

The mere thought of her shattered him, and all he could do was plead.

“Show me. Please, Ben– I need to see…

Benjamin spent the day gathering everything he had, abusing Vought’s unlimited employee printing access to duplicate seemingly endless amounts of paper, piling it all into one big folder. He’d warned John about how ugly this would be. How horrifically they’d treated her.

He didn’t have the heart to tell him about the others just like him…

Benjamin felt almost awful walking through the door that afternoon, shuffling in to find Homelander sitting on the couch, simply staring into space. No TV, no book or phone in hand. Just lost in his own mind, leg bouncing restlessly.

“Hey,” he whispered, drawing his love back to earth.

John shot up from where he sat, making a beeline straight for Benjamin.

The web-head had the file extended for him to grab immediately. Homelander snatched it like a child does a toy they’d been excited to finally receive, though excitement seemed to be replaced with dread.

He looked at it for a time, staring at the dense rubber banded folder as though opening it would unleash a black hole that absorbed the whole world. He was afraid to know.

And Ben knew it, too.

“C’mon,” he rested a supportive hand against Homelander’s shoulder. “We’ll do it together.”

He guided John to the couch, heart clenching at the way his blue eyes never strayed from the folder. As the papers became harder and harder to read, Ben had to help fill in the blanks on smudged words he’d deciphered himself. He had half a mind to tease Homelander about never wearing his glasses, but it was far from an appropriate time for such things.

Homelander’s expression grew grim as he read on, and they’d barely cracked through an inch of paper before Ben was encouraging him to take a break.

John’s breathing was uneven, eyes stinging with tears, teeth clenched in fury. His body was too hot, skin too tight, his head pounded. The audacity of the request sent him over the edge.

“How the fuck do you expect me to stop!?” He roared, snatching Ben’s hand away from the folder. He bit his lip, desperately trying to don his mask to hide his emotions. “What, y-you hand me this and now you want me to– no!”

“Okay,” Ben breathed, hands held up in surrender. “I just don’t want it to be overwhelming, y’know? This took me months to get through, and I know how I felt. You’re getting all this right away, and it’s a lot, and–”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Ben gulped, recognizing a burst of rage that once would’ve triggered a crimson glow in those ocean eyes.

“You don’t get it! You don’t fucking get it!” Homelander grit, teeth bared. His eyes accused Benjamin of betrayal. ”You have a mother. A father. Brothers. You have a family. This is all I get! Just a bunch of goddamn paper! So don’t you dare tell me to fucking stop!”

He expected this, but it never did soften the blow to know it was coming. Benjamin knew damn well Homelander would lash out eventually, emotionally fragile as he was given the situation.

The wall crawler shut his eyes as more abuse flew his way, simply taking it.

The dam would burst as soon as the rage faltered. He could practically time it to the millisecond.

“You– I don’t–” Homelander stumbled over his words, breaths coming in and out erratically as he fought to pretend he wasn’t coming undone at the seams. “Nobody– god fucking damn it! N-No!”

When Ben opened his eyes, it was to the sight of John leaned forward, hiding his face into the folder as he fought the lurch of a deep cry.

“It was never supposed to be like this…”

His own eyes pricked with tears as he watched Homelander break.

“I always…” Homelander’s voice leaked in a tight, throaty whisper. “I used to imagine what I’d do if I ever… ever met her. All I could ever think of was hugging her, but… I couldn’t even picture it because she was never real. I used to think if I did find her, maybe I’d feel okay… Like it’d make up for all these years.”

He nearly flinched when Ben began to rub soothing circles between his shoulder blades.

“I always wondered if she’d be proud of me, you know? Her son is– was The Homelander, after all. She’d have been proud, right..?”

Ben didn’t know how to respond– or if he even should. All he could focus on was the sorrow twisted on Homelander’s face when he finally lifted his head. The tears staining his face. A streak of snot that would’ve humiliated him were he in a clearer state of mind.

"D’you think she would've loved me..?"

Seeing him break like this made Benjamin regret having ever gone looking for Homelander's mother. And yet… somehow this felt right. Watching him finally feel it. Filling in the pages of his missing parentage after so long.

No… he needed this.

"She would've adored you, pumpkin." Ben worked the file from Homelander's grip as one takes meat from a lion that trusts them enough to allow it. Almost immediately, Homelander leaned into him. He ran his fingers through John’s hair, rocking him slightly. “She’d have loved you more than anything in the world.”

He wanted to say more– god he wanted to say so much fucking more… But he couldn’t. Nothing came to mind. Nothing that would’ve dulled the hurt in his love’s heart to make it all easier, anyway. There was one thing, though…

She was never real. The line reminded the wall crawler of what he’d left out of the folder, fearing that it’d shuffle loose and be lost on the swing home. He was about to throw the egg beater into the already boiled-over pot, but this is what needed to be done. One more thing his discoveries could heal with fire-like agony.

"Johnny..?"

Ben slipped his hand free, reaching behind to his back pocket, pulling free a little photo. He'd printed and laminated it before leaving Vought Tower, just to make sure the incoming tears wouldn't stain it.

He handed it over face down, and the look on Homelander's face said he knew what this was.

"This is… That's her." Homelander stared for what seemed like forever. Fingertips danced across the smooth surface as the tears rolled freely down his cheeks. "S'my mom," he rasped over and over again. "My mom…"

"Takes a little squinting on account of the quality," Ben sniffled. "But you look just like her."

Homelander breathed a laugh, finally wiping the mess of tears and snot on his sleeve. In time, his breathing began to even out as his cries tapered off.

"She's so…" John paused, sucking in a deep breath, holding it tight as he took in every detail of her. "She's beautiful."

Ben wrapped an arm around Homelander once more. “Hmm. Like mother like son, huh?”

Homelander looked as though he’d been given the world and had it taken away all at the same time. Perhaps, though, that’s exactly what this was.

In the span of but a few moments, he’d lost her all over again despite never having had her to begin with.

It took some convincing for Ben to finally get Homelander to stop reading and take a break. Help me with dinner, he’d asked once his love finally calmed down.

John seemed worlds away as they worked, not even realizing how he was reacting to what went on inside his mind. Benjamin realized he probably should’ve just let Homelander relax and collect himself.

“Babe,” he murmured, thumbing away a stray tear on his cheek. “That’s not how we salt the pasta.” A joke was all he could muster to try to alleviate something. “You can go sit down or something if you’re still working through it, y’know. You don’t have to–”

“No,” Homelander interrupted. “I’d rather be here.” He reached up to hold Ben’s hand against his cheek, staring back into those chocolatey eyes that always warmed him to his core. “Can you just… I– Give me something that I gotta focus on. C’mon, spoil me a little.”

Used to be that he’d take that offer and sulk. Let his sorrows drown him bit by bit until he was right back at square one - just as miserable as the day he’d lost himself. Ben always encouraged him to channel his negativity into something productive, but he never followed through. Never picked up hobbies beyond reading history books and watching movies.

But now..?

“Chef Johnny,” Ben grinned, proud as could be of his love. “You’re gonna learn to make a mean margherita pasta today.”

He figured he’s changed quite a bit over the years after all.

Homelander struggled to balance his focus against the raging thoughts of his mind. Minding the aromatics sizzling in the pan while flashes of what they’d done to his mother jarred him. Focusing on Ben’s instructions on what to add, what seasonings paired best with the chicken, the gentleness of his love’s touch as he held his hand to show him how to properly rock a knife to cut fresh herbs.

In the back of his head, he saw her. His mother, wired to those machines just as the doctors had done to him. Instead of what he’d always imagined - hugging her - he saw something else. Heard something else as he saw her, felt Ben’s hands on his.

Mom… I made it.

In the weeks following, Benjamin helped him absorb the rest of what happened. Sat with him while he wept over the siblings he’d never know, the grief of knowing he wasn’t the first, the relief of knowing he was - hopefully - the last.

It was a lot. A lot of crying. A lot of anger. Misery. Resentment.

But he worked through it.

The web-head eventually returned to his regular crime fighting antics and balanced his home life once more. In the meantime, he’d commissioned a headstone. There was so little to go off of, and no body to bury, but it felt right to put her to rest in at least some way. This, he kept a secret from Homelander.

It was a surprise for later.

Once the time came that the cemetery notified him that it was in place, Ben nagged Homelander all day to go for a walk. Well, more like a swing.

“C’mon, it’s important!” He whined. “You’ll like it.”

“We can have a date inside, you know.” Homelander huffed. He was perfectly content not suffocating in crowds of people, and he’d like to keep it that way.

“Yeah, but inside doesn’t have what I wanna show you,” Ben stuck his lower lip out. “It’ll be quick. I’ll swing us there. Land in a nice smelly alley. Just a walk across the street, okay?”

Homelander sighed, pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Fine.”

“Great!” Ben chirped, pressing an enthusiastic kiss to his cheek. “Be ready in a few.”

The swing there was leisurely. It included a stop by a flower shop for roses, which Homelander questioned endlessly.

”You don’t need to buy me flowers,” he feigned a complaint.

”You’ll see.” That was all Ben had to say on the matter before they were back in the air.

He clung to Ben like a leech as they sliced through the air, high enough to avoid being photographed, but low enough that Homelander’s renewed fear of heights didn’t have him on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He focused on the flowers he’d been holding in a death grip. Pressed them against Ben’s back and stared into the petals.

When they finally landed in the promised smelly alleyway, Homelander furrowed his brow. From the path to the sidewalk, he could make out a graveyard.

“Ben?”

His little spider held out a hand without a word, leading him out, across the street, and through the iron gate.

He had an inkling of what was coming, but it felt like something out of a movie. Holding hands with the love of his life, walking through a monument of lives long gone, feeling the autumn breeze gust through the knitting of his sweater.

Homelander practically fell to his knees when they came upon it. His legs wobbled as he approached, flower stems creaking under the grip of his fist. He let his fingers touch the stone, tracing the letters engraved into the face.

Gillman

192?-1986

He hugged it. Didn’t know what overcame him, didn’t even know he’d done it until the cold marble pressed against his cheek. Didn’t even care that it pressed his glasses harshly into his temple.

He hugged his mother.

Homelander didn’t hear the shuffling of leaves under Ben’s shoes, but the hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality.

“Thought she deserved it, y’know?” Ben murmured, thumbing against John’s blue sweater. Part of him worried his lover would’ve been upset - maybe gave him grief over the fact she wasn’t actually in there. ”You deserve this, too.” He pressed a kiss to Homelander’s hair, then stood. “I’ll give you some space…”

Benjamin was ready to go for a stroll until a hand caught him by the sleeve, tugging him back down.

John was silent for a time, simply resting his forehead against the chilled stone, warmed by Benjamin’s arms draped around his neck. Ben figured he was simply thinking it instead of speaking, but then…

“I made it, mom.” With the love of his life embracing him, and his arms around her headstone, he pulled from the depths of his heart.

“I’m home.”

#homelander #depowered homelander #homelander x oc #homelander fanfiction #the boys #antony starr #this took literal weeks to write and plan sjdfhlakshfd

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