#mother 3 enemies

[lasloser-mc-useless]

Carpet monster

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 11)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Forced!Betrothed!reader

CW: murder, gore, torture, angst, mental health problems

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part ten part twelve

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

It’s a typically busy morning as you move through the halls of your grand estate, keeping the household running smoothly. Servants rush by, carrying out tasks with quiet efficiency, but your sharp eye catches any lapses. You spend time reprimanding a few who slack, making mental notes of those who require further attention, and oversee the youngest girls of the house as they practice their chores and lessons.

The Mistress' Guard trails after you, as they always do now, their presence constant, though you hardly notice them anymore. Verona and her sect have become almost an extension of you, their vigilance unwavering.

In the middle of managing your duties, a tutor rushes up to you, his face flushed with frustration.

“Mistress,” he says breathlessly, bowing before continuing. “I must speak with you about Kyorlin. He removed the triplets from their lessons without permission. If he wishes to do so, he must follow the proper channels.”

You pause, a twist of unease settling in your gut. Kyorlin has always had an unorthodox way of doing things, but this… this is different. He never spent time with the children unless he absolutely had to, so him to seek them out, to disrupt them from their learning. You knew it just couldn't be good.

"Did he say why he was taking the triplets?” you ask, eyes narrowing at the tutor.

The tutor rubs his neck anxiously. “I… I don’t know, Mistress. I couldn’t ask him, not with a blade pointed at me - at my neck! He didn’t offer any explanation and just too them!”

You sigh, frustration creeping into your voice, of course, Kyorlin's reaction was violence when he didn't get his way.. “Very well. I’ll handle it.”

With a wave of your hand, you dismiss the tutor and make your way through the estate, your mind churning. Kyorlin had always been detached, rebellious even, but threatening a tutor and removing Lesaonar’s children from their lessons without permission? Something is off.

It doesn’t take long to find them. Gossip in House Baenre travels faster than a lightning strike, and word of Kyorlin’s whereabouts reaches your ears within minutes. The garden. Of course. It’s always the gardens with this place.

The garden was peaceful, a contrast to the simmering tension that always seemed to linger beneath the surface of the grand house. You were drawn there by the familiar sound of Kyorlin’s voice, low and deliberate, speaking to the triplets. Their young, inquisitive voices piped up now and then, filled with curiosity, unaware of the storm that was brewing beneath their innocent questions.

You crept closer, keeping to the shadows of the tall, twisting trees until their words became clear.

“These flowers,” Kyorlin said, pointing at a cluster of delicate, glowing blossoms, “I planted each one for a member of the Liakyre family. They were strong, proud, and—”

“What happened to them, Uncle Kyorlin?” Sarae asked, interrupting him. Her wide, innocent eyes blinked up at him, curiosity shining bright. “Papa never talks about them.”

Kyorlin’s voice grew quieter, more somber. “That’s because your papa is scared, little one. He doesn’t talk about them because—”

You knew where this was headed. The chill in the air felt sharper now as realization hit you like a blade. He was going to tell them. The whole truth.

Without hesitation, you stepped out from the shadows, your voice like steel as you commanded, “Triplets, return to your lessons. Now.”

The three children flinched at your sudden appearance, but they obeyed without a second thought, casting glances back at Kyorlin before scampering off towards the house.

The garden fell silent as you rounded on Kyorlin, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him away from the prying eyes of the servants and guards, your voice a low hiss. “What exactly were you doing, Kyorlin? What were you thinking?”

Kyorlin’s usual calm demeanor faltered, but his defiance remained. “They deserve to know who their family was. The Liakyres—our family—they were more than just—”

“The Liakyre family is dead,” you snapped, cutting him off sharply. “Minthara saw to that. There is no sense in dragging the triplets into a past that is six feet under.”

"Just because you have chosen to forget them, doesn't mean the world must." Kyorlin’s eyes flashed with frustration. “Conveniently, I might add. But the triplets—they don’t have to forget them.”

You could feel the rage building inside you, seething under the surface. You pulled him closer, your words venomous. “Do not pretend you know why I have made my choices, Kyorlin. You were not the one standing at the altar while Minthara carved the Liakyre insignia off my wrist. You were not Lesaonar when Melinoe carved it from his skin.That wasn’t out of convenience. That was survival.”

Kyorlin scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “You act like this is some grand sacrifice, like we all had no choice.”

“You think this is about choice?” you whispered harshly, glancing around to make sure no one was listening. “Do you have any idea what Minthara would do if she found out you were filling their heads with loyalty to a dead house? She would have your head on a spike before dawn. The Liakyre family is gone, Kyorlin, and if you’re too stubborn to accept that, then you’re forcing my hand.”

He stared at you, his lips pressed into a thin line, not conceding but knowing he couldn’t win this fight.

You took a step back, your voice softening, though the threat still lingered. “If you keep this up, I’ll have you marry into House Baenre. Man or woman, it won’t matter. I’ll strip you of your last name, for your own good.”

"You would never-"

"-Do not test me, Kyorlin." You snap at him, pointed finger into his armoured chest. "To keep you safe, to protect you, I would do anything, even if it is saving you from your own foolishness."

At that, Kyorlin’s defiance seemed to crumble, though his eyes still held a flicker of resentment. He gave a slight nod, conceding. “Fine. No more talk of the Liakyres.”

You let out a breath, feeling the weight of the situation begin to ease.

“Good. Because I won’t tell Minthara—for your sake.” You forced a smirk, trying to lighten the mood just a fraction. “As much as you seem determined to keep the Liakyre name alive, you’re just as determined to get yourself killed. The only Liakyre left, and you want to throw it all away.”

He didn’t smile at your attempt at humor, only offered a hollow chuckle, before turning to walk away. You watched him go, relief washing over you. You thought you’d avoided disaster.

Little did you know, hidden behind the towering trees and shrubs of the garden, Verona stood with two of her guards, silently observing. Her expression was unreadable, her sharp eyes taking in every word exchanged between you and Kyorlin. As you turned to leave, oblivious to her presence, she gestured to her second-in-command, her voice cold and precise.

“Go inform the Matron,” she ordered quietly. “Tell her everything.”

The guard nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Verona behind, her gaze still lingering where you and Kyorlin had stood. A small, knowing smile crept onto her lips. It gave her no joy to get you in trouble, but a chance to get the discourteous Kyorlin, the ever-privileged and protected one, constantly saved by his sister's refuge, punished - that was just too delicious to give up.

Unbeknownst to you, the wheels of betrayal were already turning, and this secret would not remain hidden for long.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

That evening, you were running late to dinner. After the incident with Kyorlin and the triplets earlier, your mind had been a whirlwind of thoughts, and it had taken longer than expected to settle everything in the household. As you approached the dining room, the smell of dinner greeted you, calming your nerves slightly. You entered the room and found Minthara and Lythaera already seated, the little one giggling as she played with her food.

“Apologies, I’m late,” you said, quickly stepping in to give Minthara a soft kiss on the lips, and then immediately turning your attention to your daughter. You knelt down beside Lythaera’s chair, cooing at her, fixing her hair, and making her laugh with playful touches.

You were so focused on her that you didn’t notice the way Minthara’s gaze lingered on you, a predatory glint in her eyes as she watched your every move. There was a tension beneath her composed exterior, though she hid it well. She knew about Kyorlin’s little indiscretion earlier in the day, but she wasn’t going to reveal that just yet. Not tonight.

You finally took your seat at the table, still smiling as you wiped a bit of sauce off Lythaera’s cheek.

“Thank you, Minthara,” you said, tucking into the food that had been laid out. The variety was impressive, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how Minthara had managed to source all the strange foods you’d been craving during your pregnancy. “You’ve truly outdone yourself. I’m not sure where you found some of these ingredients, but I appreciate it.”

Minthara chuckled softly, her eyes gleaming as she watched you eat.

“Nothing is too difficult to find when it comes to the wellbeing of my wife,” she said smoothly, though her tone held something deeper, something unspoken. You glanced up at her, the warmth in her voice and words making you smile.

“How was your day?” you asked, hoping to ease into casual conversation.

Minthara answered, speaking of her day briefly, though you could tell by the way her eyes never left you that she was far more interested in your day. Her gaze was like a predator’s—sharp, waiting, and patient. You tried to ignore it, focusing on your meal and avoiding any mention of Kyorlin. The last thing you wanted was to burden Minthara with the issue when you’d already handled it.

“It was busy,” you began, carefully choosing your words. “Overseeing the girls, handling a few matters with the household staff.” You purposefully skipped over the incident in the garden, thinking you’d done well to gloss over it. “But everything went smoothly.”

Minthara’s smile widened ever so slightly, and she set down her glass of wine before standing up. With slow, deliberate steps, she made her way around the table toward you. Your heart fluttered as she stopped behind you, her hands gently resting on your shoulders.

“You’ve done so much today, my love,” she whispered softly into your ear, her voice a low purr. “You work so hard, always so diligent.”

You blushed under her praise, feeling her warmth so close.

“Minthara…” you mumbled, flustered by the sudden affection. She always knew how to disarm you, and even now, you could feel your cheeks redden as she leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“I love you,” she murmured against your skin. “I adore you.” Her lips brushed over your neck as she spoke, sending a shiver down your spine. You felt yourself melting under her touch, the tension of the day easing in her embrace.

You turned your head slightly to look up at her, your eyes soft as you took in her expression.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, a smile forming on your lips.

Minthara’s smile remained, but there was something else in her eyes now—something sharper, darker. She tilted your chin up slightly, her thumb brushing over your lips as she spoke softly. “And that’s why,” she said, her voice as smooth as silk, “it upsets me so when you lie to me.”

Her words hit you like a blade. The smile on your face faltered, and the warmth in your chest quickly turned cold. Your heart skipped a beat as you realized what she was implying, and suddenly, it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

Minthara’s fingers trailed down your neck, still so gentle, but now it felt different. There was a weight to her touch, a threat laced within her tenderness. You swallowed hard, trying to maintain your composure, but your mind was racing. She knew.

“I—” you started to speak, but the words caught in your throat. You had no idea how much she knew, or how she knew, but there was no mistaking the intent in her words. She had been waiting for this, patiently watching, and now she had you exactly where she wanted.

Minthara leaned in closer, her lips brushing your ear as she whispered, “Tell me, my love… what happened today?”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying to muster a defense without sounding too defensive.

"It wasn’t anything serious," you said, your voice steady though your pulse quickened. "Kyorlin was just… speaking to the triplets about where they come from. Where I come from. Where Lythaera comes from. It was harmless, Minthara."

Her fingers, which had been tenderly stroking your neck, stilled. A soft scoff escaped her lips, and she pulled back slightly to look at you.

“Harmless?” she echoed, her tone dripping with disdain. “You think I will tolerate fantasies of loyalty to a dead house? A pitiful one at that.”

Your spine stiffened at her words, and you felt the anger simmering in your chest. Pitiful? You turned in your seat, eyes narrowing as you met her gaze.

“Pitiful?” you repeated, your voice low and sharp. “I am descended from Lolth herself, Minthara. My lineage—”

Minthara cut you off with a wave of her hand, her eyes flashing with irritation.

“Lolth supported that marriage contract because she knew your family line would die out in the ditch it deserved.” Her voice was cold, her words like venom. “Lolth used the marriage to elevate her descendants. To elevate you. Lolth is the only reason you’re alive, the only reason your brothers survived as long as they did. Without her, without House Baenre, your family would be nothing.”

You clenched your fists beneath the table, feeling the surge of power in your veins, your magic bubbling beneath the surface. You bristled at her words, each one cutting deeper than the last. How could she say that? How could she reduce everything you were, everything your family had been, to nothing more than pawns in Lolth’s grand game?

“Without House Baenre,” Minthara continued, her voice quieter now but no less severe, “you are nothing.”

Her words rang in your ears, and the power inside you surged uncontrollably. You felt your magic flare, a dangerous hum filling the air around you. Lythaera, who had been sitting quietly at the table, suddenly began to cry, her small voice trembling as the tension in the room thickened.

You stood abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor as you turned away from the table, away from Minthara’s piercing gaze. You needed to get out before you lost control. You feared that even a word slipping from your tongue could cause damnation.

Minthara went to Lythaera and you took the opportunity to leave. You stormed out of the dining room, your magic crackling in the air around you as you made your way toward the gardens.

The cool night air hit your skin as you stepped outside, your hand instinctively moving to rest on your pregnant belly. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the roiling anger inside you. But the memory of Minthara’s words kept replaying in your mind—her dismissal of your family, her cold indifference to your pain. Like you were nothing more than a tool, a pawn in a game that you hadn’t even chosen to play.

The moonlight barely touched the neglected courtyard as you made your way through the forgotten section of the vast Baenre estate, the soft crunch of dirt underfoot your only companion in the darkness. This was a place few ventured—its stone walls crumbling from disuse, vines creeping across the abandoned benches and cracked fountains, forgotten by nearly everyone. Nearly.

You had chosen this place precisely for its solitude, a moment’s respite away from the watchful eyes of the household. But tonight, even here, the presence of the Mistress’s Guard was unmistakable.

You paused, sensing them nearby, the shadows shifting unnaturally. With a scowl, you turned and shouted into the darkness, your voice sharp and commanding, “Stay back! Unless you want me to turn you into something with eight legs instead of two.”

There was a rustle, followed by the unmistakable sound of feet retreating. Good. You needed the quiet.

However, as you entered the courtyard, you were surprised to see that you were not alone. Lesaonar sat on one of the worn stone benches, clutching a bottle of vintage wine. His white hair gleamed faintly in the low light as he glanced up at you, smirking.

“Well, well, look who decided to haunt the courtyard tonight,” he teased, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “I was here first, so it would be dreadfully unfair to turn me into a drider, don’t you think?”

Despite everything, you couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fine,” you replied, walking over to sit beside him. “I’ll spare you this time.”

Lesaonar grinned and took another swig of wine before offering it to you. But then, his eyes flicked to your stomach, remembering. “Oh, right. No wine for you. How could I forget? You’re growing the next Baenre noble in there, after all.”

You smiled faintly, a hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach. “Yes, I'm doing my duty for House Baenre, my life purpose apparently.”

Lesaonar’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Well, Melinoe called me a peasant tonight. Told me I was as common as a spider and not even as pretty. She just went too far with that one.."

Lesaonar took another swig of his bottle, his eyes hazy with unshed tears and you raised a brow at him, "Because she called you common?"

"Because she said I wasn't pretty!" Lesaonar protested, and you couldn't help but smile at him. "And I know for a fact that I am very pretty. Honestly, you defend your twin for some light heresy and you get torn apart." He chuckled but then sighed, shaking his head. “Next thing I know, I’m kicked out of our quarters and exiled to the courtyard with only this fine bottle for company -and now the esteemed Mistress of the house!”

Lesaoanar did a mock bow before bringing the bottle back up to his lips and taking a long swig. You eyed him, out of you thought was caution but was most likely envy, what you wouldn't do to be able to have a drink right now.

"I had to leave, our arguing was upsetting Lythaera." You said softly, leaning back against the bench. “Though if I weren’t Minthara’s broodmare, I’d probably be facing the same fate, exiled from the quarters.”

Lesaonar shot you a sharp look, the humor in his eyes darkening.

“Don’t you dare think of yourself like that,” he scolded gently. “You’re so much more than that.”

You let out a bitter chuckle. “Am I? Sometimes, I wonder. Lolth’s chosen, Minthara’s wife, Lythaera’s mother—everything I am is tied to someone else. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Lesaonar scoffed, as if the idea were utterly ridiculous. He turned to you, his face softened but firm.

“You don’t know who you are?” he repeated incredulously. “You’re the one who healed mine and Kyorlin's wounds when our sisters tormented me, who stood up to our dear mother matron when no one else would. You survived the wilds of the Underdark, and now you command the entire household of House Baenre. You. You’re so much more than the titles others have placed on you.”

His voice grew quieter, more sincere. “You are the best thing that’s happened in this wretched world.”

You looked at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. For a moment, the weight of the expectations on your shoulders seemed to lessen, if only slightly. Lesaonar, for all his teasing and charm, saw you as something more than just a vessel for power or status. He saw you.

Silence settled between you both, but it was a comfortable silence, filled with the quiet hum of distant wind through the vines and the faint rustle of leaves. You glanced up at the dark sky, the familiar unease of the day's events still gnawing at you, but for this moment, sitting with Lesaonar, it felt a little less overwhelming.

“You always know what to say,” you murmured softly, grateful for his presence. He chuckled, stretching out his legs and leaning back, his voice light and teasing again.

“It’s a gift. One that I hope will earn me a place back in our chambers.” He gave you a sidelong glance. “Though, knowing Melinoe, I’m going to have to grovel for a while.”

You smiled despite yourself, the image of Melinoe and Lesaonar’s bickering always a source of amusement. The two of them were like fire and ice—constantly at odds, yet inseparable.

Lesaonar got to his feet, brushing the dust from his dark cloak.

“Well, I suppose I should freshen up before my grovelling begins,” he said with a smirk. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be back in her good graces by the end of the night.”

He paused, glancing down at you. “Though if I see Kyorlin on the way, I might punch him first.”

You raised a brow at that. “And what would that solve?”

Lesaonar shrugged. “Nothing. But it would make me feel better.”

You shook your head, amused. “I’m going to stay here for a bit longer.”

He nodded, a flicker of concern passing over his features before he gave you a reassuring smile. “Take your time. Don’t let her get to you too much, alright?”

You offered a faint smile in return, but your mind was already drifting back to Minthara, her words replaying in your head over and over. Lesaonar gave you a final nod before turning and disappearing into the shadows, his footsteps fading as he made his way back into the main estate.

Now alone, you closed your eyes, letting the quiet envelop you. One hand rested instinctively on your growing belly, your thumb tracing gentle circles over the fabric of your gown. The cool night air kissed your skin, calming the magic that had simmered just beneath the surface all evening. But Minthara’s voice still echoed in your thoughts, her cutting words, the way she had torn you down during dinner.

Her cold indifference, her dismissive attitude toward your pain. She had belittled you in front of your daughter, made you feel small, insignificant, like you were nothing more than a vessel for her ambition. And worst of all, she had done it while you were carrying her child.

The weight of it pressed down on you, crushing your chest, suffocating your breath. And what had you done? You had run. Fled from her, too overwhelmed to even stand up for yourself in that moment. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps you were nothing. Just another pawn in the grand game of drow society, destined to be used and discarded when convenient.

But then, Lesaonar’s words echoed back to you, piercing through the fog of doubt. He had called you strong. He had reminded you of who you were—who you had always been. You were more than just a vessel, more than just Minthara’s broodmare. You had fought for everything you had. You had survived, endured, and thrived in a world designed to break you. But like all sources of light in the Underdark, it was doomed to be consumed by shadow.

Something inside you was unraveling, and the thought of seeing Minthara again, of pretending everything was fine, was too much to bear. You needed space—distance from the suffocating expectations, the lies, the betrayals.

With a soft sigh, you rose to your feet, your decision made. You wouldn’t return to your chambers tonight. Instead, you would walk—into the dark, into the wilds that bordered the estate. You could lose yourself there, even if only for a little while.

You moved quickly, slipping past the gardens and through the outer gates, ignoring the questioning glances of the guards. When they tried to stop you, asking where you were going so late into the night, you didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. You lashed out with your magic, faster than they could react, your hands glowing with a deadly light. The air crackled with power as you killed them without a second thought. The first fell to a bolt of arcane energy that left him smoking where he stood; the second crumpled to the ground with a silent scream, his body convulsing as your magic tore through him.

Tears pricked at your eyes as you watched them die, not because you mourned them, but because of the force of emotions that began to tear through you. But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The pressure in your chest had become unbearable, and your magic responded to it, lashing out at anything that dared get in your way. With the guards lying dead at your feet, you wiped away your tears, your breath coming in ragged gasps, and pushed forward into the darkness beyond the estate.

The wilds of the Underdark stretched out before you, vast and unforgiving. The bioluminescent glow of strange fungi and the eerie light of the ceiling’s rock formations guided your way as you walked deeper into the unknown. The oppressive silence of the wilds pressed down on you, but you welcomed it, like an old friend. It mirrored the storm raging inside you, the turmoil of emotions that had built up over weeks—months. Maybe years. You couldn't grasp anything at this moment. How were you to know what was to be unleashed after keeping it all together all these years?

Your magic flickered around you like an unstable current, coiling and lashing out unpredictably. Any creature that dared approach was met with a swift and brutal end. Beasts of the Underdark, drawn by your scent or your aura, fell dead before they could even get close enough to strike. You barely registered them. They were inconsequential. Your power responded to your anger, to your pain, with ruthless efficiency.

And yet, strangely, the spiders didn’t shy away from you. They skittered along in the shadows, following your steps, watching you from the safety of their webs. They didn’t attack; they didn’t need to. You were Lolth’s chosen, after all, and they could sense that chaos lived within you tonight. They, too, seemed to revel in it.

You continued walking, tears streaking your face as the existential crisis inside you deepened. What were you? Who were you? You had been molded and shaped by the world of power and cruelty that surrounded you, but now, as you carried Minthara’s child - your child, you felt the weight of every choice, every sacrifice. Could you still claim your own identity? Or had you lost it long ago?

The darkness closed in around you, but it was the familiar dark of the Underdark, not the suffocating darkness of the Baenre household. You welcomed it, even as it felt like it was swallowing you whole.

Your path led you toward a clearing, where the dim light of a large campfire flickered in the distance. The unmistakable sight of a large duergar encampment came into view, the squat, grey-skinned dwarves moving about the camp with a casual arrogance that made your blood boil. You could hear their guttural voices carrying across the quiet, their conversation punctuated with cruel laughter.

As you drew closer, one of the duergar noticed you, his eyes narrowing with recognition.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” he sneered, eyeing your figure. His gaze lingered on your belly, his grin widening. “The Baenre matron’s whore, out for a stroll?”

Another duergar, equally as filthy, joined him, his eyes gleaming with malice.

“Looks like she’s carrying a little Baenre bastard too,” he chuckled. “Maybe we can fetch a good price for her. The Matron might pay handsomely to get her pretty little breeding stock back. Or someone else will pay twice as much.”

Rage surged within you, a searing hot fury that obliterated everything else. Before you even realized what you were doing, your magic exploded outward, a violent storm of power that ripped through the camp. There were more of them, many, many more, but that didn't matter. The duergar’s smug grins vanished in an instant as they were thrown to the ground, their bodies writhing in agony as your magic tore into them.

But you didn’t stop there.

No, you didn’t kill them—not right away. Instead, you held back, just enough to keep them alive. You wanted them to feel it. To suffer. You wanted them to beg for death.

Their screams echoed through the camp as you mutilated them, your magic flaying their flesh, breaking their bones, leaving them on the brink of death. They pleaded, their voices hoarse and desperate, but you ignored them. Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your hands trembling as you watched them squirm.

This wasn’t for Lolth. This wasn’t a sacrifice in her name.

This was for you.

For the pain you felt, the rage that had built up inside you. It poured out now in a torrent of violence, leaving the duergar in pieces, barely clinging to life.

You stood over them, your chest heaving with exertion, your tears finally spilling freely down your face. You knew you should have killed them outright, offered them up to Lolth as any proper drow would have. But you didn’t care. Not tonight.

The spiders gathered around you, watching silently as you wiped your face, the chaos you had wrought still buzzing in the air. You could feel Lolth’s presence, distant yet present, observing your actions. She didn’t demand their lives. She seemed content with the chaos you had sown, the way you had let your anger and pain drive you to this point.

And in that twisted moment, you knew that Lolth was pleased with you. Not because you had followed the rules, but because you hadn’t. Because you had embraced the darkness inside you and unleashed it with abandon.

And perhaps, in her eyes, that was the greatest offering you could have given.

You decided to remain in the Duergar encampment, a twisted sanctuary of death and chaos, as the final echoes of a one-sided battle fade into the distance. The moans and groans of the nearly hundred dying Duergar fill the air, each one a testament to your power.

All around you, the spiders that had followed you through the wilds work with eerie precision, spinning webs over the mangled bodies of the fallen, some Duergar being devoured alive, others cocooned for later. The scent of death and blood was thick in the air, but rather than disgust, it brought you a strange sense of calm.

The spiders are tireless, spinning great webs around you, their eight-legged forms dancing in the firelight of the encampment’s ruins. They seem to be building something grand, weaving their silken threads into an intricate design, almost as if they are crafting a home for you here among the corpses. It’s not the home of House Baenre or any noble family, but a twisted throne of death, one born from you for you.

Your hand instinctively moves to your growing belly, a protective gesture as you stand in the heart of the destruction you’ve wrought. The movement of your child within you is a reminder of the life you carry, even in the midst of so much death.

You begin to feel better, more relaxed, as if the tension from the day has finally ebbed away. There’s a strange serenity that settles over you, a peace that comes not from the absence of chaos, but from the acceptance of it.

This is who you are. A drow. A mother. A chosen of Lolth. Powerful.

You sit amid the corpses and webbing, allowing your mind to drift as you survey the carnage around you. The Duergar—ruthless in their own right—now reduced to nothing more than a testament to your strength. In this moment of reflection, you realize that House Baenre didn’t make you this way. They may have taken you in, but they didn’t shape your power. You did.

A dark and twisted thought forms in your mind as you stare at the dying Duergar. You imagine them as the Baenres—each one of them, from Minthara to Melinoe, reduced to this. You could have done this to them. You could do this to them, if you wished.

You see the image so vividly in your mind’s eye: the great Matron Minthara, your wife, cocooned in silk and helpless as the spiders begin to feed. Melinoe’s viciousness reduced to nothing more than a lifeless shell.

The thought stirs a sense of amusement in you, and you allow yourself a small, wicked smile. But then, as quickly as the thought comes, you shake it away. Lythaera is a Baenre. The triplets are Baenres. You and Lesaonar are Baenres now. They are your family, whether born into it or bound by choice.

But the smile lingers on your lips. Let Minthara find you like this. Let her come to the encampment, see the bodies, the spiders, and realize the depths of your power. Let her come to her own conclusions, make her own realizations about just what kind of being she is bound to.

You know Minthara; she is as sharp and cunning as they come. She’ll see this scene for what it is — a testament to your power, your strength.

As the webs continue to build around you, creating a dark, silken sanctuary, you close your eyes for a moment. You are Lolth’s chosen, and this — this chaos, this destruction, this power — is your birthright. You will return to House Baenre, to your family, but for now, you sit in the web you’ve spun, content to let Minthara see the truth for herself when she finds you.

And when she does, you’ll be ready.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The morning light filtered through the elaborate curtains of House Baenre, but Minthara’s mind was shadowed with worry. She paced back and forth in her private chambers, eyes flicking toward the door every few moments. It wasn’t like you to be late rising, especially not when it came to tending to Lythaera. She knew you had a temper and a tendency to need space after intense conversations, but this was different. Something gnawed at her, a deep, uneasy feeling that only grew stronger as the minutes passed.

Her heart thudded with increasing urgency, especially after the report of the dead guards. She turned sharply as one of the house’s senior servants entered the room.

“Where is she?” Minthara demanded, her tone colder than intended. “Why has no one seen her this morning?”

The servant, looking as unsettled as Minthara felt, stammered, “Mistress… she was last seen with Lesaonar.”

A dark glint crossed Minthara’s eyes. “Summon him. Now.”

In mere moments, Lesaonar stood before her in the grand receiving room, his posture composed but his eyes watchful. He bowed his head slightly, more out of formality than submission. His usual casual demeanor was present, though there was an edge of protectiveness in his stance.

“You know where she is,” Minthara said, not bothering with pleasantries. “I want to know now.”

Lesaonar met her gaze without flinching, his lips curving slightly into a sardonic smile.

“I don’t know where my sister is, Matron. Though…” He paused, then continued, his words deliberate. “I do know she was quite upset last night.”

Minthara’s brows drew together. “Upset?”

Lesaonar crossed his arms, still standing at ease. “Well, why wouldn’t she be? Being belittled in front of her own daughter, by her own wife. Reduced to nothing more than a tool. Over some heresy from Kyorlin of all people. It's not like like a Bulette came in and sat down for afternoon tea, every fifth word out of his mouth is a slight."

Minthara’s jaw tightened. She pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a slow, tense breath. “Lesaonar, you are testing not only my patience, but my sanity.”

Lesaonar shrugged, unbothered by the tension in the room. “You asked. And I’m telling you. She was hurt. No one enjoys feeling like they are less than they are, especially not someone like her. I mean, look at all she has done for this house. You have had no real challenges in years, no significant assasinations, all the trade deals you could dream of, and what did you call her again? Nothing was it?”

Minthara’s sharp eyes bore into him, her mind racing. She had felt justified in what she had said to you last night, but hearing it from Lesaonar now, she wondered if perhaps she had gone too far. The memory of your flustered expression flashed in her mind—how you had tried to deflect, to keep peace, even as she pressed. But her words had struck deeper than she realized.

"Where did she go?" Minthara pressed, more softly this time, though her voice still carried the weight of her authority.

Lesaonar raised an eyebrow, clearly aware of how much power he held in this moment. He tilted his head, as if in thought, before casually offering.

“Well, if I had to guess…” He paused, enjoying the moment, before finally continuing, “The wilds were always a comfort to her. When we were younger, she’d disappear out there whenever things got rough.”

Minthara’s eyes darkened. She knew about your past, about the times you were exiled to the wilds by your mother. She knew you had learned to find solace in the untamed lands, where you could unleash your anger on whatever unfortunate creature crossed your path. But now, things were different.

“She’s pregnant, Lesaonar,” Minthara snapped. “She can’t go wandering into the wilds, especially not in that condition. It is foolish and reckless.”

Lesaonar’s smirk widened, clearly enjoying the opportunity to push her buttons. “Foolish and reckless, yes. But then again, wasn’t it also foolish and reckless to yell at your pregnant wife in the first place? Especially one with a penchant for turning people into driders when she’s really upset?”

Minthara’s expression tightened, her frustration mounting. Lesaonar was, annoyingly, not entirely wrong. She had miscalculated. But still, she couldn’t help but bristle at his casual tone, his relentless teasing.

“Well, what can you do?” Lesaonar finished with a shrug, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Minthara's frustration grew as Lesaonar stood there, still wearing that infuriating smirk. She had no time for games, not when your safety could be at risk. Taking a step closer to him, her voice dropped, cold and commanding.

"You’re coming with me, Lesaonar. You were the last one to see her, and now, you're going to help me find her."

Lesaonar raised an eyebrow, a look of surprise flickering across his face before he tilted his head and chuckled softly. "Me? You want me out in the wilds? Matron, I’m better suited for lounging in silks, charming our allies. I’m a courtesan, not a ranger."

Minthara’s patience, already thin, snapped. "Well, consider it a broadening of your skills. Do I need to remind you that she is your sister? If anything happens to her, I’ll hold you responsible."

He gave her a long, exaggerated sigh, still far too casual for Minthara’s liking. "Responsible? That seems a little harsh, Matron. It’s not as if I told her to run off into the woods."

Minthara's glare hardened. "Lesaonar, I’m not taking no for an answer. We’re leaving now, and you will get ready."

Lesaonar, with that insufferable smile still on his face, leaned in slightly, lowering his voice in a conspiratorial tone. "Ahh, I see now. You’re planning to use me as a drow shield, aren’t you? For when you find her, and she’s still angry enough to turn you into a drider. Smart, very smart, Matron."

Minthara’s scowl deepened, her lips thinning into a tight line. "Get. Ready,"

Lesaonar chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying every moment of her irritation. As he turned to leave, he paused, tossing a final remark over his shoulder. "Should I bring my darling triplets along? You know she wouldn’t hurt their pretty little faces. Or perhaps Lythaera? Might keep us all out of danger."

Minthara ignored him, turning on her heel and barking orders to a servant to prepare the guards and their mounts. She had no time for his theatrics. The only thing on her mind was finding you, and finding you quickly.

Hours later, the group rode through the dense, tangled wilderness surrounding the outskirts of the city, mounted on sleek spiders. The air was thick with humidity, and the dim light filtering through the canopy gave the forest an eerie, oppressive feel. The ground beneath them squelched with every step of their mounts, and the smell of damp earth filled the air.

Lesaonar, riding beside Minthara, was complaining loudly, as expected.

“This is truly unbearable,” he muttered, wrinkling his nose at the surroundings. "The damp, the filth… even my spider doesn’t want to be here. And to think, I could be sipping wine right now, basking in luxury, watch my darling children wreak havoc on the servants. But no, instead, I’m here, crawling through mud.”

True to his word, Lesaonar's spider, much like his owner, was clearly displeased, tentatively stepping around the ground. Minthara kept her eyes on the path ahead, ignoring him as best she could. The guards flanking them exchanged glances, clearly accustomed to his complaints.

“I bet Melinoe is loving this,” Lesaonar continued, adjusting his robes in an attempt to avoid any further dirt from splashing on him. "After our little spat last night, this is probably her idea of poetic justice. ‘Let him suffer out in the wilds,' although she should be grateful that I am not like my sister - otherwise, this could be her you know-"

"-Lesaonar will you cease your nattering." Minthara shot him a glare. "If you spent half as much energy being useful as you do whining, we might actually find her."

Lesaonar smirked. "Useful? Why, I am the picture of usefulness. If not for me, you wouldn’t even know where to start looking. Not to mention, I’m providing you with such charming company. Really, what more could you ask for? "

Minthara rolled her eyes but said nothing, her attention once again focused on the trail ahead. She knew Lesaonar well enough to understand that this was his way of deflecting. Beneath the humor and the dramatics, he was just as worried for you as she was, even if he would never admit it outright.

A tense silence fell over the group as they pressed further into the wilds. The forest seemed to grow darker and more oppressive the deeper they went, the thick underbrush and twisting roots creating an almost labyrinthine path. The spiders moved carefully, their legs deftly navigating the uneven terrain, but even they seemed unsettled.

Minthara’s mind raced. She knew you were out here somewhere, with their unborn child, but with every passing minute, her worry deepened. What if something had happened? What if you were hurt—or worse? She clenched her jaw, refusing to let her mind wander down that path. No, she would find you. She had to.

Lesaonar broke the silence once more, his tone still casual but with a hint of genuine curiosity this time. "So, what’s the plan when we do find her? Groveling apology? Grand gesture of love? Maybe offer her something shiny to distract from a rage that could rival lolth's?"

Minthara shot him a sidelong glance, her expression hard but her eyes betraying her concern. "I’ll do what I need to. But right now, I need to find her first. Keep your focus on that."

As they trekked, the path through the wilds of the Underdark grew darker and more twisted. They had long since passed the familiar stalagmites and glowing fungal forests, venturing deeper into the more dangerous territories where few dared to tread without a full contingent of warriors. But Minthara wasn’t about to turn back now—not when every step brought them closer to finding you.

The first body they found was that of a Hook Horror, its exoskeleton cracked and shattered as though it had been torn apart by pure force. The creature’s massive claws, normally used to crush prey, now lay useless and lifeless, twisted in angles that made even the guards accompanying Minthara flinch. Its once-fearsome head, beaked and armored, was caved in, and the ichor that once pulsed through its veins had splattered across the cavern floor.

Minthara halted her spider and surveyed the scene. Her jaw tightened. This was not the work of a wild beast, but rather something fueled by rage and precision. It made the Hook Horror you decapitated at your engagement party look like child's play.

Lesaonar’s usual sarcasm was conspicuously absent. His spider shifted uneasily beneath him, sensing the tension in its rider. He stared down at the remains of the Hook Horror, brow furrowed in disbelief.

“This… wasn’t just magic,” he muttered, his voice low. “She tore through this thing like it was nothing.”

Minthara glanced at him but said nothing, her mind racing. She had seen your power flare before, especially when your emotions got the better of you, but to eviscerate a creature this powerful—so completely and with such violence—it was beyond anything she had ever witnessed from you.

The party pressed on in silence, the next victim coming into view not long after.

A pair of Quaggoths lay sprawled across the cavern floor, their thick fur matted with blood. Their powerful, brutish bodies were crumpled like ragdolls, and the air still crackled with the residue of arcane energy. It looked as if lightning had struck them down where they stood, searing through muscle and bone. Their eyes were still wide with shock, frozen in their final moments of terror.

Lesaonar, still silent, dismounted from his spider to inspect the scene more closely. His casual arrogance was gone, replaced by something far more solemn as he knelt beside the nearest Quaggoth.

“I’ve never seen her like this,” he said finally, breaking the tense silence. His voice was quiet, almost reflective. “She’s always had control—more control than most of us. But this…” He gestured to the bodies of the Quaggoths, his eyes darkening. “This is something else. Something darker.”

Minthara’s grip on her reins tightened as his words echoed in the cavern around them. She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that this was just a result of the pregnancy, that your magic had been unpredictable before when you were carrying Lythaera. But she couldn’t deny the truth in what he was saying. This wasn’t just a surge of power—this was fury, unleashed without restraint.

“During her pregnancy with Lythaera,” Minthara began, her voice firm but not entirely convincing, “her magic was… chaotic. Unstable."

“Chaotic, sure. But not like this.” He waved a hand toward the bodies of the Quaggoths, then back to the Hook Horror. “This wasn’t just a random outburst. She chose to do this, Minthara, at least a part of her did. She wanted them dead, and she made sure of it.”

His words hung in the air like a weight. Minthara looked past him, to the devastation all around them. He was right—this was intentional. Your magic, raw and powerful as it was, had never manifested with such brutality before.

“Why?” Minthara muttered under her breath, more to herself than to Lesaonar. “What could have driven her to this?"

Lesaonar looked at Minthara plainly, a single brow risen, "Matron, are you really asking what could have caused your pregnant Lolth-chosen wife to cause this much havoc after you-

“-We’re moving,” Minthara interrupted Lesaonar, emotion thickening her voice, displaying the growing unease inside her. “We have a trail to follow.”

The guards exchanged uneasy glances but followed without question, their spiders skittering across the rough terrain. The atmosphere was tense, and even the creatures of the Underdark seemed to sense it—their usual rustling and chittering had faded into an oppressive silence.

As they went deeper into the caverns, the signs of your path became more frequent and more vicious. A Cave Fisher, its long, deadly threads normally used to trap prey, was shredded into pieces, its segmented body scattered across the cavern floor. Further ahead, a swarm of giant bats lay in heaps, their wings snapped and mangled by what appeared to be a telekinetic storm.

And through it all, Lesaonar remained silent, his usual humor long since abandoned. For once, he wasn’t enjoying the chaos. He wasn’t teasing her or making light of the situation. Instead, he looked troubled—truly troubled.

The change in him was so stark that Minthara found herself glancing at him as they pressed forward. His expression was unreadable, but she could see the worry etched in the lines of his face.

“What is it?” Minthara demanded suddenly, unable to take his silence any longer. “What are you thinking?”

Lesaonar met her gaze, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. That was more terrifying than any of the corpses they had come across.

“I’ve seen her angry before,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve seen her use her magic to defend herself, to show off, to protect those she loves. But this…” He gestured to the latest scene of carnage—a deep, clawed gouge in the cavern wall, where some creature had been pinned and eviscerated by unseen forces. “This isn’t her defending herself. This is her hunting. This is her letting go.”

Minthara’s throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, to push back against his words. But as she looked around at the devastation, at the blood and destruction you had left in your wake, she knew there was no arguing with the evidence.

You were angry—furious, even. But more than that, you were lost.

And she wasn’t sure what would happen when she found you.

Forcing the uneasy thoughts aside, Minthara pushed her mount forward, her determination hardening. She would find you. She had to.

Minthara, Lesaonar, and their guards pushed deeper into the caverns. They had been following the trail of destruction you left behind, and now, the air itself felt different—charged with a strange, arcane energy that prickled at the skin. Minthara’s spider hissed softly, its legs skittering uneasily across the ground as if reluctant to go any further.

Ahead, something shimmered in the faint, bioluminescent glow of the fungal growths along the walls. A thick, silvery mass stretched across the cavern opening, and Minthara’s eyes narrowed as they approached. It was silk—massive sheets of spider silk, spread out like a grotesque webbed tapestry, clinging to the jagged stalactites and winding around the stone pillars.

The scent of death was thick in the air.

As they drew closer, the full horror of the scene came into view. The encampment—once a Duergar outpost by the looks of it—was transformed. Silk covered nearly every surface, from the crumbling stone walls to the corpses lying motionless in the webs. Spiders—of every size and breed—scuttled around the bodies, some feeding, others simply watching, as though they were guardians of this gruesome creation. Webs crisscrossed the camp, glistening with a faint sheen of moisture, making it look as though the whole place had been cocooned.

Minthara’s spider stopped abruptly, refusing to go any further, its massive, hairy legs digging into the ground as if to anchor itself. The other spiders in the party reacted similarly, their eyes fixed on the encampment, seemingly transfixed by the thick webs covering the camp. No amount of prodding or commands could get them to move forward.

“We dismount,” Minthara ordered, sliding off her spider with a sense of urgency, her boots crunching softly against the dirt. The others followed suit, albeit reluctantly, allowing their spiders to retreat back into the shadows.

Lesaonar took in the scene before him with a mixture of awe and disgust. He walked a few steps ahead, only to stop short, raising a hand to his mouth. His face went pale, and Minthara shot him a sharp glance. He turned away from the group and bent over, retching violently onto the stone floor.

“Gods, she really went the extra mile this time,” he gasped between breaths. “I mean, really. Did she have to be so… thorough?”

Minthara ignored his complaint, her sharp eyes scanning the camp, her senses heightened. She heard faint voices coming from deeper within the silken labyrinth—weak, desperate voices. The sounds of Duergar, still clinging to life, barely.

“Be on alert,” she commanded, her tone low but firm. “We don’t know what else might be here.”

The guards shifted nervously, gripping their weapons tightly as they began to move through the camp. Every step was deliberate, their eyes darting from one web-covered surface to another. The half-dead Duergar were scattered throughout the camp, their bodies tangled in thick webs, eyes wide with terror as they writhed in agony. They were too weak to fight, too far gone to be saved.

One of them, a Duergar warrior, was pinned to the side of a rock, his legs encased in silk, his hands twitching as he whispered in a hoarse, broken voice, “Please… kill me…”

Minthara's expression darkened, but she pressed on, stepping over the writhing bodies without a second glance. There was no room for hesitation. Not now.

Lesaonar, still recovering from his earlier sickness, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and straightened up, though his face was drawn and pale.

“I’ve seen her angry, sure,” he muttered under his breath. “But this? This is like something out of a nightmare.”

“Shut up and keep moving,” Minthara snapped, her patience thinning.

As they ventured deeper into the camp, the webbing grew denser, forming walls and corridors, almost like a labyrinth. The sticky strands clung to their armor, slowing their progress. Minthara kept her hand on the hilt of her blade, her sharp eyes scanning for any movement in the shadows. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the occasional, pitiful moans of the dying Duergar and the rustling of unseen spiders.

Then, Lesaonar grabbed Minthara by the arm, pulling her aside abruptly. His face, usually so composed, now showed genuine concern.

“Minthara,” he whispered urgently, glancing back at the others to make sure they were out of earshot. “I was joking earlier, about her turning us into driders. But now? Now I’m not so sure. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s gone past anything I’ve ever known. When we find her…”

His voice trailed off, and for once, there was no mockery or teasing in his tone. Just a deep, unsettling worry.

Minthara looked into his eyes and saw the truth of it. He was scared. And though she would never admit it aloud, so was she. The power you were wielding—the fury that had driven you to create this nightmare—was beyond anything she had ever witnessed from you before.

“She won’t hurt us,” Minthara said, her voice quiet but firm, as if saying it would make it true.

The silken labyrinth wound tighter as Minthara, Lesaonar, and their guards crept deeper into the heart of the transformed Duergar encampment. The oppressive weight of silence hung in the air, broken only by the occasional rustle of spider legs and the faint, rhythmic pulse of arcane power that emanated from somewhere ahead.

And then, they saw you.

You sat at the very center of the camp, surrounded by chaos that could only be described as a scene torn from a nightmare. The webbed bodies of Duergar hung like morbid decorations, still twitching in their final moments. Spiders scuttled across the silken floor, but none dared to come too close to you. It was as though you were the calm in the eye of a storm—perfectly relaxed, a hand resting gently on your pregnant stomach, your other hand absently flipping through a tattered, ancient book you must have found in the wreckage. Your expression was one of detached indifference, as though the death and destruction you had wrought were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Minthara’s breath caught in her throat as she approached, her eyes wide as they flicked from your serene face to the carnage surrounding you. She had never seen you like this. It wasn’t just rage or vengeance. It was something darker, something colder. And it terrified her.

“My love, you need to come home,” Minthara called out, her voice wavering slightly but still firm. “I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You didn’t look up from your book, your fingers trailing over the ancient, crumbling pages. A scoff escaped your lips, followed by a low, humorless laugh.

“Sorry? Is that what you think I want to hear?” you asked, finally lifting your gaze to meet hers. “Minthara, please. Spare me the theatrics.”

There was a dangerous gleam in your eyes, and Minthara’s heart sank as you mimicked her words from the night before, your voice dripping with scorn.

“‘Your family would die out in the ditch it deserved.' Or how about 'Without House Baenre, you are nothing.’” you mocked, your tone a cruel parody of Minthara’s. “Is that what you want to say again, Minthara? That I’m weak? That I owe my life to your house? Because I seem to be doing just fine on my own.”

"Fine? My love you have-" Minthara began but Lesaonar, standing beside her, elbowed her sharply in the ribs, signalling that this was the wrong approach. The tension in the air was palpable, and he knew that pushing you further would only make things worse.

Minthara flinched slightly but said nothing, her eyes never leaving yours. Her mind raced, searching for the right words, but before she could speak, Lesaonar took a step forward, his usual casual demeanor slipping back into place, as if trying to diffuse the situation with humor.

“Well, I have to say, sister,” Lesaonar began, his voice calm and measured, “you’ve really outdone yourself this time. The place has a… certain ambiance, you know? Very ‘undead chic’ with a touch of ‘arachnid nightmare.’ It’s quite something.”

You arched an eyebrow at him, but he pressed on, a faint smile on his lips.

“But maybe, just maybe, it’s time to take a step back. Relax a bit. You’ve certainly made your point, haven’t you?” His eyes flicked to the nearest webbed corpse, and then back to you, his expression softening. “Look, I know you’re angry. And you have every right to be. But there’s no need to keep going down this path. You’ve made it clear that you’re not someone to be trifled with. So how about we all just… take a deep breath, and figure this out together?”

You watched him for a moment, your expression unreadable. The arcane power thrumming in the air seemed to pulse with your heartbeat, and the spiders around you grew still, as if waiting for your next command.

But then Minthara stepped forward again, her voice low and raw, stripped of the cold authority she usually wore like armor.

“I was scared,” she said, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them. “I lashed out because I was scared. Of losing you. Of losing what we’ve built together—our family." Her voice wavered, but she kept going, her heart laid bare before you. “I was wrong. I hurt you. And I hate myself for it. But I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with emotion. Minthara’s eyes glistened in the faint light as she stared at you, waiting—hoping—that her words would reach you.

For the first time since they had entered the camp, your expression softened, if only slightly. The book in your hands snapped shut, and you placed it gently to the side. You stood slowly, the hand on your stomach a quiet reminder of the life growing inside you.

“Leave us,” you said softly, your voice no longer cold but carrying a weight of finality. Lesaonar blinked, glancing between you and Minthara, but he didn’t argue. He knew better.

He signalled to the guards, and with a few exchanged looks, they retreated back the way they had come, leaving you and Minthara alone in the center of the ruined camp.

When the last of their footsteps faded into the distance, you looked at her, really looked at her. And as you approached her your eyes locked with hers, the raw, open honesty in her gaze catching you off guard.

“Why did you really come here?” you asked, your voice softer now, the anger simmering beneath the surface but no longer in control. Minthara took a deep breath, stepping closer to you, though she still kept a respectful distance.

“Because I love you,” she said simply. “And I was wrong. I should have never made you feel like you were less. You are everything. To me. To this family. I-I was just foolish and scared. I thought I would lose everything to the reminiscences of the Liakyre House. That one day you would wake up and decide you no longer wanted to be a Baenre.” Your heart clenched at her words, though you tried to maintain your distance, the hurt still fresh in your chest. "I thought if I could diminish it, your past, you wouldn't ever want to go back to it."

As you looked into her eyes, you could see the truth there, the vulnerability she was rarely willing to show. For a long, tense moment, the silence stretched between you both.

Then, without warning, Minthara did something you hadn’t expected.

She dropped to her knees before you, her head bowed, her forehead resting gently against the curve of your pregnant belly. The gesture was so uncharacteristic of her, so raw and vulnerable, that for a moment, it stole the breath from your lungs.

“I beg you,” Minthara whispered, her voice trembling. “Please… come home. I can’t—" Her words faltered, and for the first time, you heard the deep, unmistakable fear in her voice. “I can’t do this without you.”

Her hands, usually so strong and steady, shook as she clutched at the fabric of your gown, her forehead pressed against the warmth of your stomach. It was as if she was clinging to you like a lifeline, terrified that if she let go, you might vanish into the void.

You looked down at her, and for a moment, a cruel part of you relished the sight—Minthara Baenre, powerful and proud, on her knees before you, begging for your forgiveness, for your return. The image stirred something inside you, a dark satisfaction that you had long denied yourself. You were no longer the one grasping at straws, trying to hold onto something fragile. Here she was, broken before you, in need of your mercy.

A faint hum escaped your lips as you gently ran your fingers through her silky white hair, feeling the soft strands slip between your fingers. You didn’t speak immediately, letting the moment stretch on, savoring it. Her submission was like a balm to your wounded pride, and for the first time since leaving, you felt a small, fleeting sense of peace.

“I suppose,” you murmured, your voice lilting with amusement, “Lythaera must be wondering where her mother is. She’s probably upset… and the staff, well, I imagine they’re in complete disarray without me.”

Minthara lifted her head ever so slightly, just enough for you to see the glimmer of hope in her eyes. She nodded, her voice barely more than a breath. “Please, we need you."

The edges of your lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. You tilted her chin up with your fingers, your touch gentle but firm, and Minthara’s eyes fluttered shut as you leaned down, pressing your lips to her forehead in a soft, lingering kiss. The tension in her body melted away beneath your touch, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no resistance between you.

You gently pulled her up from her knees, your hands sliding along her arms until she was standing before you. The faint light of the Underdark glinted off her tear-filled eyes, her face softened by the unspoken apology, the raw vulnerability that she had laid at your feet.

And then, with a suddenness that took even her by surprise, you leaned in, your lips capturing hers in a slow, tender kiss. It wasn’t the fierce, hungry kind of kiss you had shared before, born from passion or anger. This was something different—something softer, more intimate.

Minthara responded to your kiss immediately, her hands sliding around your waist, pulling you closer. For a brief moment, everything else melted away—the death, the destruction, the words spoken in anger. There was only the two of you, and the fragile, tender connection you still shared, despite everything.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against hers, your breath mingling with hers in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. Your hand came to rest on your stomach again, and her fingers gently grazed over yours.

“Come home,” Minthara whispered once more, her voice so soft, so filled with longing. “Please.”

You looked into her eyes for a long moment, the anger that had burned so fiercely inside you dimming. Perhaps it wasn’t gone, not entirely, but the fire had cooled. You had made your point, and now… now, perhaps it was time to return to where you truly belonged.

With a soft sigh, you nodded, your voice low and resolute. “I’ll come home. For Lythaera… and for you.”

A smile broke across Minthara’s face, small but filled with so much emotion that it nearly broke your heart. She kissed you again, softer this time, as if afraid to break the fragile peace that had settled between you.

And for now, you let her.

For now, you let the darkness rest.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Wowwweeee lots of angst, things were getting a bit too chummy around here. But it did mean we got a little Minthara and Lesaoanar team up for y'all (she loves him really). I also wanted to make sure the reader wasn't too domesticated, she is a chosen of lolth, and wanted to explore some of the mental health aspects of it - especially as reader is pregnant.

Hope you guys enjoyed it, please let me know your thoughts down below they quite literally feed my soul and are such great motivators for this series! Love you all! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

@h-doodles @thepotatoislost @longjohnsilverfish @spacezombiez @les-bee @i-must-say-thats-quite-gay @m-for-musings @coratheninth @morganaspet @wineredsea @gaysindistress @trappedinafantasy37 @alicelufenia @damnsupercorp @iprobneedabeard @gingeyart @surrfix

[zepskies]

Break Me Down - Prologue

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

AN: For those of you who enjoyed “Checkerboard,” here’s the requested prequel series! It’s going to be a long and bumpy road to get to that version of Soldier Boy. Technically this is an AU set post-season 3. [18+ only! This story is rated M.]

Song Inspo: For this story it's "All My Livin Time" by Radio Company! You'll notice it in some of the chapter titles.

Word Count: 2,800Warnings: Violence, character death, bondage (not in the good way).

Prologue:

Well, this fucking sucks.

The thought rattled through your mind as you were led down a hallway, across a cold expanse of tile floor.

You couldn’t see where you were going with this stuffy bag over your head, but you knew it was tile. Your bare feet all but scraped across it as they dragged you.

Whoever held your arms in a vice grip eventually forced you to sit in a rickety wooden chair. They pulled your wrists behind the chair and bound them together with a zip tie.

You felt the slit on your dress sliding open, so you crossed your legs, for whatever good that would do you. At the very least, it would give the impression that you were sitting here casually, and not (figuratively) shitting yourself with fear. 

“What the hell is this?” a deep, familiar voice asked.

“A gift.” You knew this voice as well. Neither one instilled you with calm.

Then the bag finally came off your head. The gag did not, however. You knew your red dress was in unfortunate tatters. You knew you were bruised and scratched, and overall worse for wear.

But when your gaze found your kidnapper, you glared up at him with a stubborn tilt to your chin.

Soldier Boy stared back at you with raised brows, and instant recognition in his eyes. His lips curved into a smirk.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

Three months ago…

You watched the footage in disbelief.

Soldier Boy managed to grapple Homelander long enough to blast him right out of Vought Tower.

The two of them tangled in a big ball of nuclear light, and the resulting impact into the ground created a tremor throughout New York City. You had felt it even from the Surveillance office of Supe Affairs.

But now, an hour later, you stood at the site of the crash landing. You still couldn’t believe that Homelander’s lifeless body (complete with two suspect bullet holes to the head) was already wrapped up by the CIA.

The body would be destroyed, if Grace Mallory had anything to say about it. Though you knew that Vought would try to claim custody.

They can try, you thought. Grace had briefed you of the situation: Soldier Boy’s strange new power had taken away Homelander’s in the blast. That had allowed Billy Butcher to finish the job.

But as enormous a win as that was for the S.A. (for the world, really), Soldier Boy had unfortunately escaped in the aftermath of the crash. 

You watched Butcher’s team being treated by paramedics. They all seemed to be in good spirits, considering. Talking and laughing through their bloody cuts and bruises. Butcher seemed the most contemplative, maybe because his nine-year vendetta had finally come to a close.

But you knew, even with this victory, their troubles were far from over.

Mother’s Milk snapped back at something Frenchie said, but when he looked up and caught you staring, you looked over pointedly at the massive crater in the ground. His lips thinned into a determined line.

Soldier Boy’s still out there.

You took a break from staring at the double surveillance screens at your work desk to answer your cell phone.

“Hey, Yvette. How’s it going?” you said, smiling.

“Oh, good. Just clinging to a sinking ship,” she said wryly. “My department’s down to two people.”

Your eyes widened. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. In customer service? Is Vought insane?”

Yvette was the only friend you still talked to from your time at Vought. Though the two of you had been in different departments, they’d been on the same floor in the tower.

“Company shares have dropped into the toilet after…well, Homelander,” she explained. “Somehow I made it through the preliminary mass layoffs. But they want us to operate on a damn skeleton crew with no support.”

You bit your lip in sympathy. “You’re looking for another job, right?”

“Of course,” said Yvette. Her tone was hushed, and you heard her underlying worry. “Chris and I can barely afford Devon’s private school as it is. We won’t be able to renew for next year if I lose my job.”

You frowned. Her son Devon was in elementary school, a bright kid. But unlike his wealthy classmates, he’d gotten into the school on a partial scholarship. That alone was enough to single him out among the other families (even the kids, unfortunately).

“Do you want me to see if there’s anything for you here at the S.A.?” you asked. “I make an excellent reference.”

As in, you’d track down whatever department was hiring and talk them around until they agreed to look at Yvette’s resume, if for no other reason than to shut you up.

“That would be great,” she said with a sigh. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Of course!” you agreed.

Yvette had been one of the few people to actually support you after you left Vought. After that, she’d cemented a place in your life from “work friend” to something real, and as honest as you’d let yourself be in a long time.

When the phone on your work desk started to ring, you let out a sigh.

“Sorry, Yvette. I’m getting another call.”

“No problem. Still coming for dinner on Friday? I finally talked Chris into making his arroz con gandules. And in honor of you, I’m making pain patate. My grandma's recipe, if I might add.”

“Oooh, excellent,” you said, already mentally rubbing your hands together. Yvette was Haitian, married to a Puerto Rican man. Both were ridiculously great cooks, and had been teaching you their ways in the kitchen for the past few years.

Before you became friends with Yvette, you could barely boil an egg. Your mother, bless her, wasn’t the best cook. So you and your sister had survived mainly on boxed meals growing up...mainly on Hamburger Helper and the like, if you were honest.

But you were a quick student, according to your friend. You could even make baked macaroni from scratch now.

“I’ll definitely be there,” you said. “See ya then!”

You hung up your cell and picked up your work phone just as it was about to stop ringing.

“Surveillance department,” you answered.

You positioned the phone between your ear and your shoulder and checked on the surveillance cameras you were monitoring. Nothing was amiss (yet), but you were watching in case a telekinetic went off the rails on her next drug bust.

There had been reports of this particular supe being too careless with her arrests, even putting a teenager into a full body cast after flinging him off a second-story building.

But you were only half-shaken out of your thoughts when a woman greeted you on the line.

“Can you come up to my office please?” she said.

“Who’s this?” you asked distractedly.

“Grace Mallory.”

You paused. Oh shit.

The head boss lady of this whole operation was on your phone, and she wanted to see you.

“Uh…yes, ma’am,” you said. “Right now?”

“…Yeah. Right now,” she said dryly. And she hung up on you.

You heaved a sigh as you also hung up the phone at your desk. Your manager (and the head of S.A. Surveillance) was already working your team over time.

And for some reason, Grace Mallory wanted to have a little chit chat.

You didn’t know why she singled you out, but you had a handful of guesses. All of them were making your stomach churn.

You popped your head out of your cubicle and leaned over to the one next to yours.

“Hey Jess, I need you to cover for me for a bit,” you told your coworker. Jess didn’t have as much experience as you, but she was solid at her job and you could count on her to handle things while you were gone for a bit. The blonde smiled and bobbed her head.

“Okie! No problem, friend,” she said.

Her bubbliness grated on your psyche a bit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hate her either. It wasn’t her fault the world hadn’t kicked her in the ass yet.

You nodded and went up to Grace’s office, where she welcomed you in and asked you to sit down in the plush chair in front of her rather large mahogany desk.

It was leagues above your small, plain gray cubicle, but you supposed these were the kinds of things that came with being the head of the operation.

The S.A. was now strictly her domain, following the clusterfuck of Victoria Neuman departing the organization to join Robert Singer’s presidential campaign.

“What can I do for you, Grace?” you asked.

The other woman gave you a patient, if knowing look. “I think you know why I asked you here.”

“Can’t say that I do,” you replied, tight-lipped.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the manhunt for Soldier Boy is now this organization’s top priority,” she began. “I’d like to recruit you, beyond surveillance. I want to put you in the field.”

You were already shaking your head before she’d finished speaking. You’d been happily sitting at a desk for a year now.

“I don’t think I’m qualified, ma’am.”

She gave a small huff of a laugh. “I beg to differ.”

You shifted in your seat, impatient and uncomfortable, as she folded her pale hands on her desk.

“Before you joined Supe Affairs last year, you were a private investigator…on Vought’s payroll,” she said. “I promise, you will have even more resources at your disposal. And my full support.”

“You’re CIA,” you said, hiding your nervousness. “Why do you need me?”

For a moment, Grace just stared at you. Her head tilted just so, lips pursing.

“Because this is an all-hands-on-fucking-deck situation. I need every single body I can throw at this,” she said, her blue eyes unyielding. “I’ve seen your track record. Here at the S.A., your years at Vought, and before. When you worked at your father’s firm.”

Your spine tightened at the mention of your father, but you forced yourself to relax.

“You get results,” Grace continued. “And I think you’ll do well working with Butcher’s team.”

Your eyes widened.

“Billy Butcher?” you repeated. “Oh, hell no. I’m not working with that crazy bastard…with all due respect, ma’am.”

You lowered your eyes in embarrassment.

You’d only worked in Surveillance for the past year, but you’d often heard Victoria Neuman’s bitching to Hughie Campbell down the hall—especially in the break room.

“I understand your reservations, believe me,” Grace said wryly. “But he’s the one who found Soldier Boy in Siberia, after forty years of him being presumed dead.”

“In part, thanks to you,” you couldn’t help pointing out…maybe a bit too petulantly to a high-ranking CIA agent.

Grace’s lips thinned even further, but after she considered you a moment longer, she relaxed with a slight smile.  

“I think you’ll fit in just fine,” she said.

You let out a deep breath. After Hughie clued you in on Victoria Neuman being an undercover supe, you’d laid low at the S.A., waiting for the right time to quit. After Neuman left the organization, and Homelander’s death, you’d actually thought it was safe enough to stay. 

You’d left Vought for several reasons, all of them good ones…

“What if I don’t want the job?” you asked.

Grace tapped a finger on her desk. “As I understand, you have a younger sister.”

Your lips pulled into a frown, your shoulders tightening. Your family had nothing to do with this. Was this the part where the CIA agent threatened you in order to get her way?

“Why do you ask?”

Grace raised a brow.

“I know exactly what Vought was paying you for your exclusivity clause. Which was then rescinded when you began working for Supe Affairs,” she said.

“They kept approximately six months of your backpay on ongoing assignments, and even tried to sue you for breach of contract when you gave Neuman your intel on their supes. Drugs, prostitutes, the whole gambit.”

You crossed your arms and leaned back in your chair; you saw her game now.

“You tried to fight back in the courts, but the earnings that once sustained you have since dried up," she added, and with a nod, "Yes, I checked your bank statements.”

You were affronted at the breach of your privacy, but you weren’t exactly surprised.

“Our American justice system at work,” you snipped. Grace smiled.

“I’m prepared to double their fee,” she said. “As I understand it, your sister Luisa is a gifted girl. First chair violinist. Auditions for Julliard lined up for next month. Tuition increases every year.”

And that was when you faltered. You still didn’t think hunting after the world’s most wanted ex-superhero was a smart decision. Not even for money…but damn this Mallory. Damn the CIA and Vought, Neuman, Stan Edgar, and everyone in between!

Julliard was your sister’s dream. For the entirety of her senior year, you’d been wracking your brain (and your pitiful savings) trying to find a way to give it to her.

Your mom was a hospital receptionist making barely enough to support herself. As it was, you were supporting Luisa financially.

Since the two of you were kids, you’d done your best to protect your sister. To be the one she could always count on when your mom just…couldn’t.

But still. Making this deal with Grace felt a bit too much like making that deal with Vought five years ago. And look at how that had come to bite you in the ass.

“I don’t think—” you started to say.

“Up front,” Mallory said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll get double your fee, up front,” she said. “Then you’ll get triple if Soldier Boy is caught and brought back into U.S. custody, or eliminated in the field.”

Dead or alive…

You knew what this decision meant for you.

Grace Mallory was Don Corleone, making you an offer. Could you afford to refuse?

After a beat to think, you drummed your nails on the chair’s arm and looked up at Grace decisively.

“You mean when he’s caught.”

Somewhere in South America…

Soldier Boy was having a great fucking time.

Thoroughly debauched, he’d rented out an entire casino for his 101st birthday. Bottomless drinks, drugs, whores, and poker. Didn’t get much better than that, in his (literally) high opinion.

Until a bullet ripped through his champagne glass.

The fuck. He glanced up and watched the unit of military personnel line up around all four floors of the casino. If his nose was mistaken (and it never was), most of these guys were hopped up on V. It smelled like the temporary stuff.

Good fucking job, Wannabe President Singer, he thought.

The group of women that had been hanging out at his table had already fled, save for one cowering at his feet when the first shot rang out. She was a thin blonde with big Bette Davis eyes, but she was much easier on said eyes than that fucking broad had been.

Soldier Boy grabbed the girl up off the floor, like the dead weight she was, and gave her his room key.

“If you make it outta here, catch me at my place, would ya?” he told her, though his attention was on the guns surrounding him. She took the key with shaking hands and looked up at him. He spared her a glance.

“I’d go now, if I were you. Things are about to get fuckin' crispy.”

And that was when they tossed the tear gas.

The futile sniping began, tearing through his new silk suit but bouncing harmlessly off his skin. The girl screamed and cowered under the table.

Soldier Boy snapped off a roulette wheel from a nearby table and tossed it like a frisbee at the closest guns. The tear gas was just making him want to sneeze.

But he smirked and rolled his neck. Here we go...

By the end, Soldier Boy was the only one standing. And that included the casino. It was a mess of broken wood, overturned tables, and the blood and bodies of soldiers, staff, gambling patrons, and Bette Davis Eyes under the table.

Straightening his ruined blazer, he stepped out the back of the casino and disappeared into the dark.

On the only table left standing was a hand-written note, pinned down with a steak knife:

Try harder.

S. B.

AN: Well, then. 😂 I can say this is a very different story than I'm used to writing, but I couldn't not explore Soldier Boy. 😏

Let me know what you think of this little intro!

Keep Reading: PART 1

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @pallographsunspot @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26 @spnwoman @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303 @123passwort @xoxovienna @magnificentnightmarehadi @lollag0w0

[magicallydeclined]

Earthbound Enemies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some art of Earthbound enemies I drew from 2023-2024!

Mother 2 enemies

Centipede

Lucas running from Chimeras

Conducting Spirit

Ninten vs Mother 1 enemies

Most of these were already posted to instagram throughout the years, but the #2 (Centipede) is a Tumblr exclusive and makes its debut here!!! Yay!

[tricoufamily]

HUGO HATER FOUND BOO HIM OFF THE STAGE

prev | next

[ajooples]

I wanted Earthbound enemy merch so I made some

[lemonsweet]

Idea of making giygas portrayed as just a background in earthbound is still so cool to me more things should do this

[bunny-hare]

I saw this cute post by Zharizard666 where they drew Lucas and Claus as a moth and a spider respectively and I couldn't help but draw them on Hollow Knight style! They were absolutely adorable and such an inspiration!

Wanted to make Lucas a Rosy Maple Moth (with a worm Snake Rope) and Claus a Regal Jumping Spider since they mentioned Claus being a fluffy spider!

Also a Golden Markoth-esque nail for Claus bcs it's epic.

Also, my hand slipped and ended up drawing a moth Ninten and his< uncle Giegue too

Buck Moth Ninten!

Plume Moth Giegue!

And White Palace edit bcs why the fuck not?

[rustedleopard]

Whenever anyone gets too hung up about how Mother 3 is such a miserable, depressing game, I wanna sit them down for a moment and remind them that one of the final dungeons in the game is a series of toilet rooms

[inkyquince]

I just wanna be an assimar in bg3, please please please I will pay for a dlc that adds more races. That and a 10 minute long durge and gortash sex scene.

[moonselune]

By The Silk That Binds Us Masterlist

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.1⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.2⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.3⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.4⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.5⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.6⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.7⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.8⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.9⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.10⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.11⟢

⟢By The Silk That Binds Us p.12⟢

[zepskies]

Break Me Down - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Female Reader

Summary: You’re a private investigator by trade, but now you happily sit at a desk — leading a surveillance team at Supe Affairs. After managing to end Homelander in New York, Soldier Boy escapes custody. You are recruited for the manhunt, joining Butcher’s team.

Truly, you joined the S.A. for the right reasons. But after you become his accidental hostage, Soldier Boy will break down every single one of them…

💚 Break Me Down Masterlist

Word Count: 5,200

Warnings: Some male skeeviness lol.

Part 1: The Game Begins

Two months ago…

You and M.M. continued to pour over all the records that the CIA had been able to pull on Soldier Boy.

This had been your life for the past month: locked in one hotel room after the next, up to your eyeballs in research. Or pounding the pavement in the sweltering summer of Brazil, on any whisper of Soldier Boy.

Right now it was the former. You all were piled into M.M.’s room, as it was the only one with a kitchen.

You smiled at Frenchie and thanked him when he offered you a steaming mug. At least you would finally get to experience Brazilian coffee.

You hiked a foot on the table where you and M.M. were working and sipped carefully; the mug was filled to the brim. Your companion eyed your pajama-clad leg, which only encroached an inch or two into his space.

“Excuse the fuck outta me,” said M.M. “Can you not?”

You briefly looked up from the (completely fabricated) biopic you were reading on Soldier Boy. “Hmm?”

M.M. gestured to your bare foot on the table. “Hello? What, were you raised in a fucking barn?”

With an amused smile, you lowered your leg. “I’m cramping up. We’ve been at this for six hours.”

“And counting,” Hughie said with a tired sigh. He and Annie had just come from scoping the local tourist spots and dive bars in the city. It wasn’t for pleasure though. You all had arrived in Brazil last night on a rumor that Soldier Boy had been spotted at a club a couple of days ago. 

Annie heaved a sigh as she dropped into the seat next to you. She stole your paper fan on the table and tried to dry the sweat on her face and neck. You smiled and passed her your bottled water as well.

You and Annie had been “work friendly” at Supe Affairs. Now you felt like she had accepted you the most readily into the group. She seemed genuinely interested in who you were as a person as well.

Though you tried not to give too many personal details about your life, she had a way of disarming you, getting you to open up with her genuine willingness to listen. 

You were friendly enough with Hughie and Kimiko as well, and you could also admit, you liked M.M. He was a straightforward man (and fun to tease with his anal idiosyncrasies). You got the most done with M.M. by your side. And watching him with Frenchie was pure entertainment. 

Overall, you felt respected by them, even if you knew you weren’t as close as the rest of them seemed to be. You just hadn’t been on the team long enough. 

The only one who mostly ignored you was Billy Butcher.

Butcher didn’t want you on the team. He’d made that pretty clear from the beginning.

What had his words been? Oh, yeah.

She’s a fucking amateur. Won’t last thirty seconds if, heavens for-fuckin’-bid, she encounters an A-lister like Soldier Boy. 

You knew he considered you dead weight. But as Grace had told him, her track record speaks for itself. 

No, you weren’t former SAS, like Butcher. You weren’t CIA, or any other military alphabet soup. But if there was one thing you knew how to do, it was tracking people down.

You were currently flitting through Soldier Boy’s sham career: the shitty music videos, the starlets, the ticker tape parades, and what precious little there was about his beginnings: about “Ben.” 

You did find out that his family was from Hartford, Connecticut, and stupidly rich too. You found his parents’ names to go along with that. 

And then it was a hop, skip, and a jump to him being unveiled as Soldier Boy.  

“That is curious,” you murmured. 

“Curious about the world’s most infamous granny fucker?” Butcher remarked. You slid him a wry look. 

The fact that he tried to erase his past is interesting,” you said. “The details that aren’t here are just as important as the ones that are.”

Butcher hesitated a second, an ice-cold beer poised to his lips. He tipped it toward you in acknowledgement. “On that, we actually agree.”

“What do we know about his real life? Before he became Soldier Boy,” you asked.

Butcher sat down across from you and shaded in the details he knew, mostly about a disappointed father. 

“Didn’t get enough hugs as a lad,” he surmised. 

You suspected he was understating the truth. If there weren’t that many recorded accounts, pictures, or footage of Soldier Boy’s parents and home life, then he didn’t want people to know. 

Interesting, you thought. Eventually Butcher got up to run down another lead that came in via text from Grace. Frenchie came back from the kitchen and saw how intently you were staring at your computer screen, eyes rapidly scanning. 

“Ah,” Frenchie said, gesturing between you and the departed Butcher with a hand that held three alfajores cookies. “I see the same anal tenacity that fuels Monsieur Charcutier.”

You raised a brow. “My tenacity is for the case, not Soldier Boy.”

This wasn’t a vendetta for you. This was just business.

“For money,” M.M. correctly guessed, but his eyes held no judgment. “Been there.”

You sighed, smiling a little. Yes, you were doing this for money. They didn’t need to know anything more than that. 

You liked this team well enough, but this was a job. The way you protected your family, and yourself, was by not talking about them.

That night, Frenchie’s ordered “package” arrived, courtesy of Grace. It was a healthy dose of Novichok gas—perhaps one of the only substances on Earth that could put Soldier Boy into a peaceful sleep. 

Well, you didn’t know if it was peaceful, exactly. But he’d be asleep. That was all any of you cared about.

“At least it’s in proper containment this time,” M.M. said, examining the large cannister. Annie peered at it over his shoulder. 

“I don’t know. My shitty perfume case seemed to hold it just fine,” she quipped. 

You smiled from your usual seat at your computer. Annie came over with a sandwich for both of you. It was from the café down the street, and you’d been meaning to try it. Every time you stood out on your hotel room’s balcony, you could smell fresh bread and smoked meats coming from the café. 

“Oh, yeah. How’s your sister?” Annie asked around a mouthful of sandwich. “She’s in college now, right?”

She had a good memory. Annie had heard you on the phone with your sister before you all left last month. You’d said one last goodbye, knowing it wouldn’t be safe to talk once you were locked into this mission.

While you were reluctant to answer Annie’s question, the others seemed distracted in the kitchen, fighting over who ordered chorizo and who ordered steak on their sandwich. 

Still, you lowered your voice, even as a proud smile graced your lips. “She got into Julliard.”

Annie grinned and set her food down to give a little clap. 

“She starts in the fall, so a few months,” you added.

“Aww, you’re glowing with pride,” Annie teased. And you laughed, but it was true. You wouldn’t hide that you were very proud of your little sister’s accomplishments. 

“She’s worked hard, and she deserves it,” you said. Though your eyes dimmed. “I just wish I could help her celebrate…she’s on my case for taking this job.”       

Quite simply, she worried about you. You were good at your job, but you were still human. She’d seen you come home banged up and bruised more often than you cared to admit…

Annie gave you a knowing look. “If you don’t want to be here, you don’t have to. I’m sure you can get other jobs—”

“Getting into school is just the beginning,” you said. “She’s got four years to go. Then her master’s. Hell, her doctorate if she wants.”

“There are scholarships…”

“It’s not enough,” you said with a sigh. It’s never enough.

“All right, lads,” Butcher said. He wiped his mouth with a napkin as he read off his phone. “The new Strongest Cunt in the World has been spotted. Suit up.” 

“Where’re we going?” you asked, closing up your laptop. 

Butcher shot you a wink. “Colombia.”

While on the private plane, you were the only one still awake as you continued to watch the archival footage with your Airpods in. Reel after motherfucking reel of Soldier Boy. 

You really were starting to get sick of his smug face. He was clearly a good actor, if nothing else. 

Then you came across the Russia files. 

Part of you didn’t want to watch. You knew exactly what they were, and you didn’t want to see anything that would make you sympathize with him in your mind…

And yet, your father’s training was ingrained in you—like fingerprints on your skin. Like a vice grip around your throat. 

Everything is relevant, always. Even if it isn’t.

…That, and maybe your own insatiable curiosity won out. 

So you steeled yourself with a breath, and you hit the play button. 

Gradually, your eyes widened. 

You had seen awful things—as a private investigator at your father’s firm, and at Vought. 

You had filled your quota of blood and death. And you had already seen the footage of Soldier Boy blasting a tower full of people in New York with the nuclear power now housed in his chest. 

You also knew what he did to M.M.’s family. But after watching several minutes of Soldier Boy's torture, hearing his struggle, his outbursts of rage, the ragged gasps for breath, the clawing, traumatized sounds...

It was like stereo between your ears, and it was...too familiar. Too much.

So you finally turned it off, closing your laptop with an unsettled breath of your own. 

And you were unable to sleep that night.

When you all finally arrived in Colombia, you and the team surveyed the wreckage in the casino.

It was a fucking blood bath.

As you stepped carefully through the wreckage of bodies and gambling chips, you looked for clues. Anything that might tell you about what Soldier Boy was doing here (though you could guess), and however unlikely, where he might go next. 

You were disheartened to find the body of a young woman. Her big blue eyes were vacant, her blonde hair caked with blood from a head shot. On further inspection, you found a small room key in her hand. 

With a sigh and a gloved hand, you took the key. You also closed the girl’s eyes. 

You kept looking while the others had fanned out in the opposite direction. When you came across a small table that wasn’t turned over or splintered into fragments, you raised a brow. There was a napkin pinned to the top with a steak knife. 

You yanked it out and examined the flimsy napkin. Noticing that you’d found something, Butcher came over to your side. He was much taller than you, fairly looming over your shoulder. You angled the note toward him. 

Try harder.

S.B.

It was more than just a taunt. 

It was the beginning of a game. And it made you smile. 

“What the hell’re you smiling about?” Butcher asked. 

“I like it when they’re cocky,” you replied. Butcher shot you a sideways glance, one that said you were maybe more deranged than even him.

“All supes are cocky bastards.”

You eyed him with a teasing grin. “On that, we actually agree.”

True to Grace’s word, she provided you all with the full extent of the CIA’s resources. While Butcher tracked down the hotel of the room key you found, you and M.M. were able to tap into any and all local street cameras and map out the likely points Soldier Boy had hit in this city—and where he could be going next.  

According to the hotel manager, Soldier Boy had paid for a month’s stay, but hadn’t checked out after coming back for some of his belongings. The security cameras had caught him leaving his hotel room with a few men—armed ex-military types, and possibly his new entourage. 

But the trail ended there. 

Over the next two months, Soldier Boy continued to be one step ahead of you in the chase. 

Though his movements were calculated (disappearing like a coil of smoke whenever you caught his scent), he seemed to be taking an extended vacation surrounding strip clubs, casinos, and other likely destinations for sex, drugs, and money. 

And he’d evaded capture after hitting at least three banks on his way out of the U.S. alone.

At the current crap motel of the week, you shared the couch with Kimiko and Hughie while you surveyed traffic cameras.

“What’s the likelihood that he’s even still in Colombia? In South America, even?” Hughie asked. It was a good goddamn question.

“We have agents covering every major port and air hanger,” M.M. said. “If he wants to escape the continent, he’s gonna have to fight his way out, or rent a dingy and float his motherfuckin’ ass across the Atlantic.” 

“I wouldn’t put anything past him,” you remarked. “What connections does he have?”

It wasn’t the first time you’d asked that question, but it was the first time you got a straightforward answer. 

“Who knows,” said M.M. “He’s an ancient fuck.”

“Who killed all his old friends,” Hughie supplied.

“Well, his team, to be fair. I don’t think he ever had friends,” Annie said. “...Plus his old girlfriend.”

“What a spectacular bonfire that was,” Butcher dryly quipped. 

Nice, you thought, heavy on the sarcasm. 

You sighed. Clearly, you all would have to be prepared for anything.

When you weren’t pouring through surveillance, you took to the streets with Annie, playing the part of American tourists. 

“Soldier Boy don’t know who the fuck you are,” Butcher had reasoned. He’d then pointed at Annie.

“Her fame as Starlight can get you two into whatever bar, club, or fuckhole that might’ve let him in. She’ll park it at a table, attracting attention. Meanwhile, you’ll circle around and look for him.”

It was actually a sound plan, and you could be a decent actor yourself. This wasn’t the first time you’d adopted a role to find your target, and on this mission, it probably wouldn’t be the last.    

Well, a week later, the plan worked. You and Annie encountered a woman at a bar who waited tables at a nearby club, in Medellin. She’d served Soldier Boy just last night. 

Medellin was considered the party city of Colombia, and for good reason. 

Butcher had cleverly found your “disguise” for tonight, though you hadn’t liked the smirk on his bearded face when he gave you the shopping bag. 

It turned out to be a semi-legal black leather dress, along with thigh-high boots possessing a sharp heel. Annie’s dress was just as short, and gold. With her blonde hair and shimmering makeup contrasting your black dress and smokey makeup, the two of you looked like night and day. Light and dark. 

While Hughie manned surveillance in a rented van, parked outside the club, the rest of the team had found strategic points to cover in the club: M.M. was at the bar. Frenchie and Kimiko had found a table to watch the area in front of the stage, while Butcher was somewhere clinging to the shadows. 

You followed Annie into the club. Once they’d recognized her as Starlight, they’d let her right in, and you by association. You didn’t envy her fame, but you could admit, it had some perks.

Inside, the club was dark and loud, and packed with people and streams of colorful light bouncing off the walls. This isn’t going to be easy. 

Both of you scoped the area subtly before joining M.M. at the bar. 

Well, you two found your own opening further down. Sitting next to him would be too obvious.   

You subtly pressed a finger to the communicator in your ear while Annie ordered drinks. 

“It’s gonna be hard to find my own ass in here,” you said to the team. You scanned the place and noticed an entire second and third floor. “This place is huge.” 

“Then get crackin’, love,” Butcher’s voice reached you. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, but you did take the vodka martini Annie offered you. 

“Ah, you beat me to it,” a man said, his richly accented voice hovering near your ear. You turned your head and had to lean back a bit. You were met with blue eyes, tan skin, and an attractive smile. The man tipped an imaginary hat, letting his shoulder-length dark hair dip into his eyes. 

“Good evening, mi vida,” he said. “I was gonna buy you a drink, but I see you’ve got one. Mind if I finish my beer with you?”

Inwardly you wanted to sigh, but you gave a flirtatious smile to keep up appearances. “Sure.”

“Where are you from?” he asked, and with a more teasing smile. “I’m having a hard time placing your accent.” 

You affected a giggle. “Oh, really? You mean I don’t have a massive, neon sign over my head that says, ‘American Tourist?’”

“Well, maybe not neon,” he joked. “I’m Antonio.”

“I’m Jess,” you lied, shaking his hand. He turned it over and pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. Annie raised a brow behind you, but she sipped her drink.

Antonio must’ve been a local. His dark blue buttoned-down shirt, jeans, and boots were more casual than the obvious tourists with their flashing finery. And by his accent, you could guess that he was at least Latino. Colombian, most likely.

You were able to subtly dodge the question of exactly where you were from. And the two of you flirted for a few minutes while you continued to survey the people passing by, scanning the gaps between bodies.

When Antonio finally asked you to dance, you agreed. It would get you further into the club with a better excuse than walking around aimlessly. You turned to Annie.

“Catch you later?” you asked. She tossed you a wink.

“Yeah, girl. Have fun!”

You smiled and let Antonio lead you to the dance floor. You discreetly used every movement to your advantage, looking beyond your dancing partner to continue your search. If Soldier Boy was here, you would find him.

“He’s not here,” said Antonio. It actually managed to jerk you out of your focus.

“Who?” you asked, feigning confusion.

“Whoever you’re looking for that isn’t me,” he said, injecting a fair bit of charm into his voice. 

You actually felt your face warming up at that. The way he was looking at you now, there was very little doubt as to what he wanted. His grip on your hips tightened. 

Part of you was getting impatient with this part of the game, but at the very least, he was a good dancer. He pulled you effortlessly through the cumbia, Colombian salsa dancing, even if he was starting to sweat on you. 

Now, you could almost swear someone was watching. Though it might’ve been the sweat dripping down your spine, you felt that strange prickle on the back of your neck.

Well, besides Annie. You knew she was keeping an eye on you from the bar, as were Frenchie and Kimiko as they joined a poker game in the far corner, away from the dance floor.

Your gaze continued to flit through every corner of the room between spins and the movements of your feet and your hips. 

When Antonio’s hands started get a bit too familiar with the curve of your ass, you took his hands and used them to spin yourself. He brought you back in tight. A bit too tight.

“Come on, baby…” he whispered in your ear.

And you felt his hand slide up the inside of your thigh. He even had the audacity to try and slip past the lacey front of your underwear.

That’s when your patience snapped. 

You grabbed his wrist and “accidentally” drove your heel into his foot. With precision you felt it land between two vertebrae. 

The girlish yelp he made brought a flicker of a smile to your lips, but you covered it with a doe-eyed look and many bumbling apologies. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

He all but shoved you as he limped away, cursing you in Spanish. You’d taken four years of it in high school, and you still only caught half of it.  

Hiding your smile, you walked away and pressed a discreet finger to the comm in your ear. 

“The stage front is clear. Scoping the back.”

“Wait for me,” Annie said. She was still sitting at the bar. “I think you broke that guy’s foot.”

“He had tenacity,” Frenchie remarked.

“All balls and no brains, as usual,” you muttered. “Stay there and look shiny, Annie. He’s less likely to recognize me, but he might come out to play if he spots a familiar face at the bar.”

“She’s right,” Butcher said to Annie. “Stay where you are.”    

You made your way to the bathroom and scoped the hall. There in the privacy of the shadows, you adjusted the gun holster on your thigh. It was a miracle Antonio hadn’t felt it. 

Not that a gun would do much against Soldier Boy, but you didn’t feel right without it. 

Then you kept moving and dodged various couples making out (and more) on your way upstairs.

“Going up,” you informed the team quietly. The second floor was a series of rooms, none of which you wanted to pop in on without an invitation.

After you made it to the end of the hall, you turned a corner and noticed a door hung open a crack. Sliding it open, you found a wall of music there to greet you.

And that wasn’t all.

Inside was a room of people drinking and drugging and generally doing things to one another. You didn’t want to go in, but you wouldn’t put it past Soldier Boy to get caught up in a mass orgy. 

You walked through the room, only taking in what you needed to with your eyes. 

Focusing on the far wall, you saw a leather chair by the window, with a still smoking cigar laid to rest in an ash tray on a small table. Your head tilting with interest, you went over to the table and found another hand-written note. 

Once again, you sighed. “He’s not here, guys. He bounced.”

Once you all regrouped with Hughie outside the club, you handed the note to Butcher with a grimace.

“You have a love letter,” you said. And Hughie too.

With a wry brow raise, Butcher looked down at the scrap of paper.

Butcher, you’ll die first. Then the cum-guzzler. 

S.B.

That night at the hotel, after you'd showered and peeled off that ridiculous dress, you poured over the Soldier Boy files again.

You hadn’t touched the Russia ones since that first night, but you knew you were missing far too much. In order to anticipate his moves, you needed to understand how he thought.

You couldn’t do that if you didn’t even have the full picture of who he was. And the movies, the silly music videos, even the exploded skyscraper and Homelander’s death—none of it told the full story of Ben. 

It didn’t tell you what he wanted. What he cared about. Why he was playing cat and mouse instead of just taking his stand, like his soldier persona would’ve demanded of his pride.

Or maybe that pride's just like everything else: a well-crafted costume.

A knock at your door jolted you out of your thoughts. 

You got up to your feet, briefly looking down to make sure you were decently dressed (you supposed pajama shorts, a bra, and a tank top would suffice). You grabbed your gun and checked the peephole before you answered the door with a smile.

It was M.M. with a mug of tea for you. “I knew you’d still be up, killin’ those files. It’s almost morning, you know.”

You accepted the mug with a warmer smile.  

“Aw, you do care,” you quipped. He rolled his eyes. 

You laughed a little. “Seriously, thank you.”

He pointed at you.

“Go to sleep,” he said. You raised two fingers to your temple in salute. 

“Sir. Yes, sir!” you joked. Really, you appreciated his concern. After hearing many a story about his daughter Jennine, and seeing how the rest of the team respected him, you knew that he was a good man. 

And thanks to him and Annie, you were actually starting to feel like part of this team.

After you wished him goodnight (or good morning, at this rate), you closed the door to your hotel room, followed closely by your laptop. 

You took out your phone, silently contemplating what time it would be in New York right now.

Well, it would be very early in the morning. Still, you thought it was worth a try, since you had the time.

You dialed your sister, Luisa. While it rang, you remembered just how thin these hotel walls were. So you stepped out to the rickety balcony. Jeez, hope it holds my weight throughout this call.

When your sister eventually answered, she murmured your name sleepily in confusion.

“Hey, sorry for waking you up,” you said, feeling bad. 

“It’s okay.” She yawned. “I should be up soon anyway. Got 8 am classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“Ech. Screw that shit,” you teased. 

“You’re the one sweating balls in South America.”

“I’d rather be drowning in my own sweat than listening to some old bag drone on for eight hours,” you volleyed back, and leaned against the balcony’s railing, even as it creaked suspiciously with your weight. 

“You, my friend, are uninspired. You mean to tell me mosquitoes and drug cartels are better than Mozart?” your sister asked incredulously. Her sleepy voice was starting to lose some of its gravel as you two fell into familiar bickering. 

“Wow, way to type cast. Not all of South America is about drug-running,” you pointed out. 

“Aren’t there, like, entire shows about people shoving cocaine up their ass to get from Colombia to Miami?” Luisa asked. 

“…Yes, but that’s not the point,” you said with a giggle. “And good guess. I’m actually in Medellin right now.”

“Are you supposed to tell me that?”

“Not really, no, but I don’t think you’ll sell me out to the cartels,” you joked. Or to the Russians, your mind added. That thought made your lips twist sourly. 

“Anyway, are you okay? How’s school, really?”

“It’s good, sis. You know I’m good. I’m worried about you,” she countered, and you could hear the concern in her voice.

“You know me. I’m always good,” you replied with good humor. The silence on the other line told you that you hadn’t been quite convincing enough. 

“When do you think you’ll come home?” she asked.

For what seemed like the hundredth time that night (or morning), you sighed. “That’s hard to say.”

The answering silence told you even more about your sister’s thoughts, and you felt guilty for it. 

“I’m happy just knowing you’re doing so well. With school, starting your adult life, doing your thing,” you added.  

“You need to start thinking about yourself,” she told you.

“What do you mean, Lou? I’m fine.”

It was Louisa’s turn to sigh.

“You know, I was so proud of you when you decided to leave Vought," she said. "When you finally got out from under Dad. When you started working at Supe Affairs…you seemed happy, like you were finally proud of yourself too.”

Emotion started to burn behind your eyes. Part of it was probably sleep deprivation, but you heard the sincerity in your sister’s voice.

She just knew you so well. And she wasn’t lying there—what she’d said was all true of you. However, after the joke that was Victoria Neuman running Supe Affairs, you didn’t know what you could trust anymore. 

Maybe not even your own judgment. 

“But I really wish that you’d consider more than just your work,” Luisa said. “Like a hobby. Take a painting class. Go to karaoke, like we used to do in grade school after Choir practice. You have such a beautiful voice! Like Grandma’s was.”

“I’ll leave the performing to you, Lou,” you said with a chuckle. She was serious, however.

“Work isn’t everything,” she reminded you. Now her voice was firm. “You should go out with your friends. Go out with Annie! Rub shoulders with her celebrity friends.”  

“Right.” You huffed a laugh. You’d been around plenty of famous supes while at Vought. You’d ran down the leads and tracked down the criminals, just for the supes to swoop in and “save the day.” You did the grunt work, and they claimed the credit. 

You’d had enough of “celebrities” to last you a lifetime. 

“Maybe then you’ll—and let me not shock you here—meet someone,” Louisa said. “And finally put an end to that goddamn dry spell. What's it been, like three years?” 

“All right, all right.” You held up a hand of surrender, even if she couldn’t see it. You were grateful she couldn’t catch you blushing. “That’s enough about my non-life, thanks.” 

You shook your head. Embarrassment actually clawed inside your belly. 

Yes, it had been a while since you’d actually been with anyone, relationship or otherwise. You just didn’t have time to have a life, you’d reasoned. Working at Vought had been grueling, and your hours at the S.A., while better, were still demanding.

…Still, you could appreciate that your work-life balance left much to be desired. And that was on you. 

Case in point, you were on this job.

You tipped your face heavenward, letting the sunrise spill some warmth on your face. 

“But…I hear you, okay?” you replied with your eyes closed. 

“You do?” she asked suspiciously.

“Yeah. When I get back, I…I’ll work on it, okay?” you said. “I love you.”

“Love you too, sis. I should probably get going, but…please be safe.”

“Always,” you promised.

After you hung up, you finally opened your eyes. 

That prickly feeling was back, almost like you were being watched.

You scanned around, but your human eyes didn’t find anything out of the ordinary in the sunshine pouring in between the rows of buildings. 

In fact, you didn’t see a damn thing that wasn’t supposed to be there.

So you clutched your phone to your chest, letting out a deep breath. Then you headed back inside.

But mere feet above you, if you had only looked up to the roof, you would’ve seen a hunter lazily eyeing his prey.

AN: Ok! So a little bit slow in this chapter, but it’s all important setup.

In the next chapter, the reader meets Soldier Boy:

You laid a hand on his chest, fingers spreading between the open buttons, and felt his warm skin. 

He glanced up at you with another challenging tilt to his head. What are you gonna do now?

You met that challenge, boldly leaning down to press a kiss against his lips.

Keep Reading: PART 2

Series Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List:

@deans-spinster-witch @this-is-me19 @waynes-multiverse @pallographsunspot @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @spalady26 @spnwoman @wirdbeimaufhebengebunden @syrma-sensei @muhahaha303 @123passwort @xoxovienna @magnificentnightmarehadi @lollag0w0 @globetrotter28 @nancymcl @ashbatz @yvonneeeee @fckinel

[eegasleega-will-change-this-l8r]

This thing left such an impression on me when I started MOTHER 3

Like

There was nothing like this in the other games Giygas had always just driven animals to attack you through his psychic influence, and it just dissipated and they became friendly again once you beat them

This is something completely different

God, like, M3 really pulls the rug out from under you in its first chapter You're gonna be having a cute little adventure with this sweet family!! :D Death Here's your peaceful, idyllic hometown!! <3 Fire and ruin Here's the quirky cartoony enemies you'll be fighting X3 This is a corpse with an engine stuffed inside to make it murder you

"The Spiteful Crow became tame!"

"The Reconstructed Caribou stopped moving!"

God And the theme too, it's just djdajkjdkb

The whole thing just immediately tells you the absolute evil you're up against, everything is so much more horrible than it was in the first two games

[scamperin-shroom]

A little meme I did for my AU. Hooray for character development 🥳

[nostalgia-tblr]

If I could do Fics With A Plot I'd probably attempt An AU Where Lauffey Dies And Odin Goes "Oh Hey, Frost Dudes, I Had Your Heir All Along :D He's Urs Now :D" Except Because This Is A Shit Plan It Does Not Go At All Well. Because it does bother me. Because I worry too much about fictional monarchies having the 'wrong' rules. D:

[lasloser-mc-useless]

Various affronts to nature.