#I ALWAYS KNEW THIS WOULD COME DOWN TO ME / * GHOST VERSE . ❞

[sunoflegend]

tag dump 2.

[sunoflegend-a]

verse tags / relationship tag dumps !

[misssassylover]

꧁𝐖𝐘𝐃 𝐧𝐨𝐰?꧂

I saw you in the back of my show last night

Standing underneath the exit sign

I know it wasn't really you though

'Cause you were always in the front row

The room buzzes with energy, the stage lights painting patterns across the crowd. My fingers wrap tightly around the microphone, and I take a deep breath before launching into the next verse. That’s when I see him.

Chris.

Standing underneath the exit sign, his silhouette sharp against the dim glow. For a heartbeat, my voice falters, barely noticeable to anyone else, but I feel it like a crack in my composure. My chest tightens. He’s not supposed to be here.

But when I blink again, the space is empty. My eyes dart around, trying to convince myself it’s him. I know it wasn’t really Chris, though. He was always in the front row, right in the thick of the crowd, lips moving along with every word I sang. He’d beam at me, that lazy, crooked smile, his hands tapping against his thigh, fully immersed.

My voice carries on, but my thoughts are tangled up in him. The lyrics, the melody they all feel like him tonight, lingering like a ghost. I push through the set, pretending it doesn’t hurt.

And I've been looking for love online

And maybe some of them are real good guys

They're never gonna be like you though

You set the bar above the moon so

After the show, I scroll through my phone, mindlessly checking notifications. Dating apps light up the screen, a stream of messages from guys I’ve matched with. I try. I really do. Some of them seem nice, even funny. They compliment my music, ask about my writing process.

But they’re not Chris. None of them are.

He’s the standard, unattainable, etched in my mind like a carved promise. A part of me wonders if I’m being unfair, holding everyone to that impossibly high mark he left behind. But how can I not? He was the one who stayed up till dawn talking about dreams and fears, the one who knew every version of me messy, raw, unguarded.

The guys online are good, kind even, but they don’t laugh like Chris. They don’t know how I need silence sometimes, how I can’t write when the world is too loud. I set the phone down, running my hands through my hair, talking to the universe, “Why can’t I just move on?”

I don't wanna be 20-something

And still in my head about

17 in my bedroom talking

You said that by now we'd

Paint the walls of our shared apartment

You're still everything I want and

I think we could work it out

So what are you doing now?

I lie on my bed, staring at the ceiling, the same way I did when we were seventeen. Back then, we’d sprawl out on the floor, backs to the carpet, talking about what life would be like when we finally made it.

“By the time we’re twenty-something,” Chris would say, his fingers tracing patterns on my arm, “we’ll have our own place. Tiny, maybe, but ours. Paint the walls whatever color you want. Yellow, like sunshine.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling, and I’d laugh, nudging his side. “You hate yellow.”

“Not if it makes you happy.”

The memory hits hard, and I swallow the ache. I was so sure of us back then, our lives braided together like vines that couldn’t be unraveled. Now I’m twenty one, and it still hurts, like I’m frozen at seventeen, waiting for him to come back and remind me of who I was when I was with him.

Now that you finally got the job you like

I'm making money off the songs I write

I know you said that I could call you

I wonder if you wanna call too

I heard through mutual friends that Chris got the job he always wanted. Making YouTube videos with his brothers, I didn’t catch the details, too busy pretending it didn’t sting. I guess it’s good, though. He deserves it.

Me? I’m making money from the songs I write now, playing to packed rooms, voices echoing back at me. It’s everything I thought I wanted.

Chris always told me to call if I needed anything. I wonder if he meant it, or if it was just one of those things you say when you don’t know how to let go. Sometimes, late at night, I scroll through our old messages, my thumb hovering over the call button, heart thudding. I never press it.

Now that the future doesn't feel so far

It doesn't seem as wrong to want what's ours

And after everything that's happened

I wanna put it in the past tense

It doesn’t feel impossible anymore. Us, I mean. I used to think too much had happened, too many words said or left unsaid. Now, with my life unfolding and his taking shape, it feels like maybe we could find our way back.

I want to bury the past, all the hurt and the long nights wondering why we broke in the first place. I want to see his face, hear him tell me that we could still paint those walls, that the future isn’t so far away anymore.

I write song lyrics down, like a spell: “I want to move on, but I don’t want to move on from him.”

Are you with somebody?

Should I even care?

Know you're not as happy

As when I was there

In your faded T-shirt

That I've kept this long

I still hear you laughing

When I put it on

I know

I still sleep in his faded T-shirt. The one that smells like old cologne and late nights spent chasing fireflies. Sometimes, when I put it on, I can almost hear his laugh soft, boyish, a little unsure.

I don’t know if he’s with someone new. Part of me is afraid to find out. I catch myself wondering if she knows his favorite movie, the one he watches when he’s sad. Does she get why he hates cucumbers but loves pickles? I shouldn’t care.

But I do.

The shirt is softer now, worn from too many washes, but I can’t bring myself to throw it out. It’s my last tangible piece of him. When I wear it, I remember how his arms felt around me, how he’d murmur stories in the dark.

My friends tell me I need to stop holding on. They don’t get it. He wasn’t just someone I loved. He was the boy who saw me, the real me, and still stuck around.

I don't wanna be 20-something

And still in my head about

17 in my bedroom talking

You said that by now we'd

Paint the walls of our shared apartment

You're still everything I want and

I think we could work it out

So what are you doing now?

I don’t want to spend the rest of my twenties wishing I could go back to being seventeen, where everything was simpler. I’m tired of reliving those nights in my head, where we’d plan our life together, our shared apartment with mismatched furniture and sunlight streaming in through sheer curtains.

He’s still everything I want. That hasn’t changed. I think about reaching out, about telling him I’m still here, still hoping. But fear creeps in, what if he’s moved on? What if I’m stuck in this cycle of longing while he’s painting his own walls with someone else?

I take a deep breath, my thumb hovering over his name on my phone. I could do it, just call and see where he’s at.

The screen flickers, and before I can change my mind, I press the call button.

It rings. Once. Twice.

My heart pounds louder than ever, and just as I’m about to hang up, his voice comes through, groggy and familiar.

“Hey,” he breathes.

I hesitate, fingers trembling. “Hey. It’s me.”

There’s a pause, long enough for doubt to creep in. But then, he says my name, soft and unsure.

“Y/N. What’s up?”

And suddenly, I’m seventeen again, in that tiny bedroom, painting our future with words.

“I was just wondering… what are you doing now?”

[lmae98]

╰┈➤ Verlady Week 2024 Day 1: Misc Promp

Note: Here in my city it's already september 9th, so, I want to share this right now. I'll have a busy day but I'm excited for this week!

Happy start of Verlady Week! ❤️

@verladyweek

Song that I associate with Vergil and Lady:

▶ Cirice - Ghost

「 ᴠᴏʟᴜᴍᴇ : ▮▮▮▮▮▮��▯▯ 」

I relate these two a lot to this song because for me, Vergil and Lady have that potential to be able to understand each other much more than they could with Dante. And, taking away the obvious context in which Ghost unfolds, I basically interpret the song as an unspoken understanding, a deep connection between two individuals.

To begin with, the first two verses of the song:

❝I feel your presence amongst us/ You cannot hide in the darkness❞

I can't help but think directly of DMC3, specifically the fact that Vergil was aware of Lady from the moment she stepped on the Temen-ni-gru. He knew every move, even when Arkham supposedly "took over" the unwanted guest.

Then there are these two verses that are key to me:

❝I can feel the thunder that's breaking in your heart/ I can see through the scars inside you❞

Canonically they didn't interact much, but in that fleeting exchange of words I always seemed to perceive that Vergil somehow saw through Lady, like an open book.

They have some things in common in my opinion, such as that eagerness to be tough in front of others, even in heartbreaking moments. Maybe we didn't see it on stage with Vergil, but we see Lady break down twice during DMC3 and both are when no one is watching her (of course, when Arkham is "dying" she allows it because she thinks he's innocent and didn't count on her father deserving an Oscar for such a good performance).

What more can I say?

Oh, right.

These lines:

❝A candle casting a faint glow/ You and I see eye to eye❞

I can't help but see that in them, especially in this moment:

And finally this:

❝I know your soul is not tainted/ Even though you've been told so❞

More than anything I see a description of Lady in these words. In DMC3 I see many of Lady's actions – having a hard and cold attitude in front of everyone she comes across – as a way to protect herself and cope with everything she lost, behind all that anger and hunger for revenge. She has that attitude of "I've already lost everything... what else can happen to me? What else can I lose?" then she, in her belief, perceives in herself a premature adulthood; Mary, the "pure and innocent" girl, died with her mother.

And it turns out that she doesn't. The good, pure girl showed a sign of life when she forgave Arkham that last time and called him "father" again, in that naïve, but well-intentioned idea of doing justice to Arkham, because she believed that Vergil orchestrated everything.

That's why, half-dismissively, Vergil calls her "foolish girl." But I feel like there's something in his gaze, beyond his lousy insult intent, if it gets to that level. Calling her "girl" has that hidden meaning for me. Beyond deciphering her, he understands her, he's been in that position before.

And with that I conclude my crazy ideas.

I would say "yes, it's cinema", but I'm the only one who see it that way.

Maybe the others would say, "They missed a lunatic from Arkham Asylum."

[fruitcoops]

Ok so this post is from a while ago but i just saw it and am wondering if you would want to write something based on it? Or just about trauma response in general?

Fic O'Ween Day 8: Shiver. Credit to @lumosinlove for the SW-verse and @noots-fic-fests for the header + prompts!

TW for trauma response to canon injury (Remus')--flashback, panic attack symptoms; and broken bone.

Call for stretcher on standby before moving out. Careful on the patch by the bench—always extra slippery. Check pulse and breath, then pupil constriction. Pen light in the shirt pocket. Players take a knee to make space. Use your body to block the camera in the right corner.

Remus knew what he was supposed to do. Of course he did. He just…couldn’t move.

“EMTs on standby!”

This was a strange feeling, not moving. It wasn’t even that—a choice. It was a complete and total absence. What was the opposite? Stillness? He didn’t feel still. He didn’t feel as if something had taken the place of motion. A gap had been scooped out of his belly, and nothing had come to fill it. It was simple emptiness where there had been adrenaline five seconds before.

“Lupin, catch up on Vance’s left!”

Had his ears always rung at that pitch? Funny. He hadn’t noticed.

“Lupin!”

Perhaps they had. Perhaps someone in the crowd had brought a whistle. There were an awful lot of people crowding the rink.

“Hey—” Weight and pressure collided with the back of his neck. Remus felt something in him go dim, powered off. “Kid, let’s fucking go! Are you asleep out here?”

James’ feet were flexing in his skates. Restriction of the tibialis anterior from the pain. Vastus medialis, following. His knee bent and bowed inward. If he kept the writhing up, there would be strain on the gastrocnemius and soleus. Remus blinked hard. James’ legs tended to ache after practice. The man got calf cramps like nobody he’d ever seen.

“Jesus Christ,” the hand on his neck muttered. It moved away. Pressure released.

“Rapid breathing, strain in the calf,” Remus blurted. His eye twitched. Blinking took incredible effort. “He’s going to try and stand up. Stop, James, stop it—”

Careful on the patch by the bench. He sidestepped without a second thought. In two strides, he was looking at James’ flushed and sweaty face. “Holy fuck, my fuckin’ arm, on fucking fire—”

“Pots.” His neck was burning up under Remus’ two fingers. Ten seconds, 25 thumps. “150 bpm,” Remus informed the nearest trainer. The pen light was ice-cold in his fingers. “James, give me a big deep breath.”

“Loops—”

“I’ll count to four while you breathe in, and then we’re gonna let it out for four.” His own voice reverberated back to him from a thousand miles away. Ice dampened the knees of his khakis. James gritted his teeth; his nostrils flared. “One, two, three, four. Good job. And four, three, two, one. Nice, buddy. Pupil activity normal, breathing unimpaired. You said it was your arm, right? Up or down?”

“All of it,” James panted. “All—fuck me, Loops, don’t talk to me right now—”

“Almost done, J. Wiggle your fingers.” A faint roaring had started up in the back of his mind. It crept into his eardrums and down his back. Something trickled down his spine and tiptoed through the marrow of each rib. James’ fingers twitched. “Great work. Alright, they’re going to slide you onto the stretcher now. Keep taking those big breaths for me.”

Black, Dumais, and Walker were all hovering in the corner of his eye like crimson-and-black bloodstains. They blurred together as the roaring grew louder. Remus staggered to his feet. His pen light wobbled in his fingers, and he shoved it clumsily into his back pocket. Black stepped forward, quiet as a ghost on his skates. “Is he okay?”

“Um—I don’t—” The left edge of his vision blurred into grey. “I don’t diagnose. Possible elbow dislocation. Or radial or ulnar break. Likely not the humerus.”

“But is he okay?” Black pressed. The stretcher was so yellow against the ice it hurt to look at.

Remus’ throat squeezed. “Yeah, he’ll be okay. Probably out for a couple games. ‘Scuse me.”

Christ on a crutch, he was going to throw up if he didn’t get out of here right fucking now.

Black wasn’t looking at him anymore. Walker was talking to James as they loaded him up and began rolling him off the ice. Dumais…

Dumais was staring at him dead-on. Remus swallowed hard, and saw him lean over to whisper at Moody.

Would he—could they fire him for this? He thought he did okay. Pulse, pupils, penlight, ice patch. Four for four. He had been slow getting off the bench, but that was an abnormality. Nothing they needed to be concerned about for the future. There wouldn’t be a repeat performance. There wouldn’t, there wouldn’t.

He couldn’t feel his knees.

Moody was walking toward him.

Remus just barely managed to stumble back onto solid ground in the wake of the stretcher before Moody caught up. Barely. The flex of his hands was starting to hurt. Sweat and chemicals and terror washed his nose with acid.

“Lupin?”

He could feel plasticky foam on his cheek. It itched. Stung.

“Hey, kid, you with me?”

In the distance, his mouth coughed out a mumble. Fingers snapped under his nose. He couldn’t bring himself to flinch. If he flinched, the hands on his body were going to wrench his life out through his shoulder.

“Walk with me.”

Pressure on his upper back. A lurch.

Pale wood door. Heavy lock. Cold handle. Man door hand hook car door. Jules thought that was the funniest ghost story in the whole world.

“Sit.”

It was less of a sit, more of a controlled fall, and the easiest thing Remus had done in the past half hour. Something heavy fell over his shoulders.

“Hand.”

Man door hand hook car door.

Rough hands took one of his own between them. His wrist was full of gel instead of bones. Cooling gel? Ice pack. James was going to need—“Ice packs. Pots needs ice packs.”

His palm was clammy when it pressed to the base of his own throat. “We’ll have some ready when the docs are done.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. “160 bpm.”

“Take some breaths.”

An inhale sounded gaspy in the underwater buzz of the rink. An exhale rushed out all at once. He felt a little push to the back of his hand, and his fingers curled over his collarbone. The heel of his palm was solid against his sternum. The hollow of his throat gave slightly under his thumb. “130 bpm.”

“Keep going.”

“My neck.”

Extensive damage. Rhomboid. Deltoid. Trapezius. All the way into the splenius, though he wasn’t sure if that was from the hit or the dislocation or being pinned. A seat of salt poured into his mouth. He could taste it, the inside of a glove and the chemicals they used to clean the locker room mats. His head throbbed, pounded, he couldn’t see.

“145 bpm.”

“What’s wrong with your neck?”

“Strain potential whiplash impact.” Words tripped over each other to explain with complexity the situation did not need.

The hand over his own vanished, leaving cool air. Fingertips pushed gently against the sides of his neck. “Keep breathing, Lupin.”

A thumb ran along the outside of his spine and the floor came into focus. Prodding, palpating. Gentle despite the rasp of calluses at his nape. Steady, not gripping. He could pull away if he wanted to.

“I don’t feel damage.” A push beneath his ear. “Just some tension. Rate?”

Remus exhaled. “110.”

“Good work.”

“Thank you.”

“You interns and your manners,” Moody muttered. A few blinks brought his face back, all scrutiny and scowls. Remus had learned not to take it personally. “Relax, Lupin. Hand stays there until you’re under a hundred, you hear me?”

��Mhm.”

He was so lucky. He was so lucky. They were so kind to him here. He would try to deserve it.

“I’m sorry.”

Moody stood and pumped some sanitizer into his palm. The sharp tang chased out the bitter chemicals lingering in Remus’ memory. He sat back in his rolling chair, half-watching the game on the corner TV while his glass eye remained focused just over Remus’ shoulder. “Why?”

“Froze up.”

Moody set his bad leg up on a footstool with a grunt. “Rate?”

“90.”

“Where’d you go out there?”

A locker room, two years and a thousand miles away. “College.”

“Bad hit?”

Remus took a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

Moody nodded. “Gonna be a problem?”

“Shouldn’t.”

“Tell me if it is.” On the screen, Kasey made a beautiful save. “You’re not in trouble.”

“I’m sorry.” Sweat was beginning to freeze on his skin; he shivered. He took his palm off his neck and tucked it under his thighs, but missed the pressure above his heart almost instantly. The light blanket over his back wasn’t much more than a thin comfort. “I just—I don’t know. I didn’t know that would happen.”

“You’re young. You learn.”

“James was down.”

“It was five seconds, Lupin.” Moody’s voice wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t cruel, either. “You did your job. Now you know.”

The back of his throat prickled. He managed a nod.

“You know, Heather is a resource for all Lions staff.”

It’s not that simple, he wanted to say. But—it could be. Maybe. Not right now, when he was teetering on the tightrope between two worlds, but soon. He could do that for Moody and James and Arthur and maybe, just a little, for himself.

[autumnmobile12]

Ghost Hunt x My Hero Academia Crossover

So I've wanted to explore the concept of Mai Taniyama's abilities in Ghost Hunt as as Quirk in My Hero Academia for awhile now because, frankly, she has the groundwork for an interesting one: Through clairvoyant dreams, Mai has the ability to witness past events, communicate with the dreams of other people, and even pass along small objects in dreams. She's also incredibly intuitive and has been able to rely on gut feelings in past investigations. (This last one may or may not be a Quirk thing.)

There's a few applications here. Firstly, the retrocognition would be a useful Quirk since it's primary function in Ghost Hunt's canon is showing Mai exactly how a person died. In the My Hero 'verse, this would allow her to determine if an unnatural death was accidental or a homicide, and in a missing person case, the astral projection side of her abilities can allow her to locate victims and determine what condition they're in and maybe find where they are.

The major drawback to this ability, though, is it would be a hellish Quirk to cope with as the way her dreams work, she is often compelled to relive the death as though it were hers. Not exactly the key to a healthy state of mind experiencing the last thoughts and feelings of a person who's died, and possibly violently at that.

...

Realistically, not the flashiest of powers, so she would definitely be on the more obscure side of the Pro-Hero popularity spectrum, probably somebody only Deku has heard about with any real know-how on who she is and what she can do. For comparative purposes, her career path would align closer with Aizawa's in that she can't rely on her Quirk to fight and therefore has to resort to alternative methods to handle a crisis. Abilities speaking, she's definitely geared more toward reconnaissance, stealth, and investigation, which is how she operates in Ghost Hunt anyway and why I went with a darker color scheme for her costume.

I want to incorporate her Nine Cuts somehow, but I haven't settled on a way to do that quite yet.

The name Epimetheia comes from the Greek Titan Epimetheus. I could have gone with some feminine form of Morpheus, the god of dreams, but I really think Mai's retrocognition is the core trait the of her power. Epimetheus is the titan god of hindsight. He 'knew all that came before.'

...

As always for Ghost Hunt, I tend to write Mai as a young adult, so she is not a student in this. Actually, for this crossover, she is much older than the main cast. She's in her twenties in the fanart shown here, but this is decades before the actual timeline.

And with that, here's a brief, un-edited snippet of something I've been playing with:

...

“We’ve actually met once before,”  Hawks said abruptly.

“Have we?”  Taniyama turned to him, confused.  Her expression brightened somehow and the tired, hollowness of her eyes was gone.

“Yep.  I was just a little kid then, so I don’t blame you for not remembering.”  It was so long ago that he barely remembered it.  “It was at the zoo.  I’d heard they were letting kids in for free that day, so I found a chance to get away from my mom and headed out.  I always wanted to see a real elephant.”

Her lips curled into a warm smile. “And did you?”

“Sure did.”  He bobbed his head in brief nod.  “I was standing in front of their enclosure and someone knocked into me with a stroller or something and I dropped my plushie.  As I was trying to get it back, all these people kept kicking it out of the way or stepping on it.  And then it landed by your feet and you picked it up.”

Taniyama was silent.

“I remember you crouched down to give it back to me and you had the biggest smile on your face.  You asked if it was mine.  Thing is, though…I think you noticed how dirty I was.  You asked if I was okay and where my mom was.  You even asked if you could buy me a pair of shoes.”  He hadn’t let her.  If he’d returned home with a brand new pair of shoes instead of the secondhand ones that were falling apart, his dad would have beaten him and demanded to know where he’d gotten them.  Or he would have taken and pawned them for cash the first chance he got.  Or both.  But the hero Epimetheia must’ve suspected that much when he kept refusing her offers to help him with his silence and his nervous shaking head.  “And then your smile became sad and you asked me…

“Do you need help?”

“You were so warm and kind, and I'm sad to say I think that scared me a bit. I wasn't used to that from adults and so I ran away. But even after the Commission took me in, I hoped I would see you again.”  He turned to face her and was horrified to see her eyes running with tears.  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!  What’s wrong?  Why are you crying?” Shit, I made an old woman cry!  She’s not that old, but I made her cry!

Taniyama placed a scarred hand over her mouth.  “All these years, I wondered what happened to that little boy I saw at the zoo.”

...

[lexosaurus]

Keep Your Enemies Closer

A little Tech Hunter AU oneshot I wrote for DP Angstfest 2023! I based this off of @kinglazrus' AU fic for the @dpauzine in which Tucker is the Red Hunter. It's been stuck in my brain ever since, so I couldn't resist writing her AU for this event!

[ao3]

****

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

That's what people always said, anyway. It's what actors spouted in Hollywood blockbusters as their characters sipped their old fashioned in the dimly lit bar. It's what people typed in their chat logs online, thinking of themselves as high and mighty, very cool, not to be messed with, while they cracked open their fifth serving-sized bag of Doritos that day.

But this wasn't a Hollywood blockbuster. It wasn't Tucker talking up himself to random usernames online.

As he looked at Danny, who was animatedly chatting to Sam about some recently released video game that Tucker couldn’t pretend to care about anymore, he knew that this wasn't just a cool verse. It was real, at least to him. 

“The final boss was way too easy,” Sam was saying. “It's like the devs weren't even trying.”

“I beat it in like five seconds flat,” Danny agreed.

“Yeah, because you exploited the armor glitch,” Sam said. “If you played the game like it was supposed to be played, the final boss would have taken at least a little longer.”

Danny tsked his tongue. “It’s not my fault that I’m obviously just one step ahead of the devs. And you, actually.”

“Come on,” Sam laughed, catching onto the mood. “Stop messing with me.”

Danny grinned back at her, his fangs poking out over his lips. “Samantha Manson, when have I ever messed with you?”

Tucker ducked his head before his face could show. Though, each day that passed seemed to allow that quiet mask to slip over his face far more easily than the day before. And he wasn't even talking about the little yellow mask that lived under his skin.

He remembered the day he'd pieced it all together. The day all the lies, all the little breadcrumb clues, suddenly snapped into place.

He'd been home, as usual, watching videos of the rapidly increasing ghost attacks targeting the city. And of course, at the epicenter of it all was Phantom.

Danny fucking Phantom.

He remembered Danny calling him, his face popping up on Tucker’s home screen, and Tucker pausing the video and holding up his phone to see the two faces side by side. The same smile, the same freckles, the same jaw and haircut and they were the same. 

He couldn’t believe it. But…it made sense. And maybe that was the worst part because it meant that his friend, his best friend, was dead. And worse, he’d turned into a monster. 

But when? When had he died? Was it that “accident” that he sometimes referenced? The day he’d gotten hurt by some of his parents’ equipment?

It didn’t matter. Because now, he was Phantom. But how was he Phantom? The ghost that Tucker loathed. The ghost that Tucker had long since blamed for turning their safe city into a fucking warzone.

How did his best friend turn into…that? Was death really so horrible that it completely changed a person? 

Or was this always inside Danny, deep down in the recess of his subconscious? So deep, so hidden, that Tucker had never noticed till now.

Some people saw Phantom as a hero, and he seemed to revel in it. His cockiness was overflowing, and he took great pride in arriving at every scene precisely when the new ghost of the week would show up. He'd throw a few puns, assure the crowd that, “Don't worry, citizens! I've got this!”, and then he'd beat the ghost up, suck them in his thermos, and would disappear until the next attack.

Phantom had fooled many of the masses. But despite what Dash's stupid nicknames would suggest, Tucker was no sucker. Even if everyone else had their heads up their ass, he didn't.

Tucker didn’t do anything at first. Maybe he’d just been in too deep of a denial. After all, who wanted to pin the destruction of their city on their fucking best friend? 

But then, he started paying attention. To Danny, the “human,” more. All his little quirks, his habits. The way he seemed to jump when Sam casually put a hand on his shoulder (he’d never used to do that), the way his teeth started to sharpen (humans don’t have fangs), the way his eyes would spark green sometimes (it wasn’t a trick of the light), or how he’d always disappear right before a ghost attack (almost like he knew they were coming).

But Tucker stayed silent. Because if Danny was Phantom, then Danny was dangerous. Who knew what Phantom would do if Tucker revealed that he knew? No, it was better to stay docile, not rock the boat, not put his life at risk. Just play it cool.

That plan only worked for so long.

The breaking point wasn’t an explosion of flashy lights so much as it was a seed, planted, but not yet even watered. It was Tucker booting up his virtual computer and opening Tor after school like any other day. 

The usual usernames were chatting in his group. People working on their various projects, coming to the chat room for tips or just talking about whatever other topic was on their mind. This was typical—welcome, even—after the confusing mess that had been Tucker’s every other waking moment as of late.

And then the conversation took a turn. 

To Phantom.

Sporksmith: I haven't wrapped my head around whether Phantom is a good guy or not. ChaseK: It's sus that as soon as the ghosts started showing up, so did he. Sporksmith: That's what I'm thinking, but the guy takes so many beatings a week. I feel like it's more likely that he's crawling out of the same dimensional holes that they are because the dude has family here or something. Mole: That's probably it. He uses modern slang, so it's pretty obvious he died recently.

This wasn’t the first time they’d talked about Phantom. He was a fascinating subject and under much national scrutiny. But this time, Tucker finally stepped in.

GoldenFryer: You guys don't know what you're talking about. ChaseK: You know something then? GoldenFryer: Yeah, I have some inside info. Can't say much, but Phantom isn't who he seems. He's dangerous. Sporksmith: You sound like a guy who's got something up his sleeve.

He hadn't, at that point. But still, it needled his mind. He was closest to Phantom, wasn't he? Even if Danny himself didn't know. Of everyone, wasn't it Tucker’s responsibility to do something about this?

To set the soul of his dead best friend free?

GoldenFryer: Not yet, but maybe I should.

Of course, he couldn't do it by himself, but there was someone who could help. Someone with money, power, and a vocal hatred for ghostly invaders.

“Tucker Foley,” Vladimir Masters said, opening his door. His hair was pulled back in his signature ponytail, and he wore a gaudy green Packers bathrobe. “You’re awake early on a Saturday for a teenager. My, where's your other half?”

“No Danny today. Just me,” he said, keeping his tone casual despite the sudden anxiety spike in his gut.

Vlad grinned and stepped aside, sweeping his arm over the now open doorway. “Excellent, why don't you come in?”

Tucker followed the gesture and stepped through the door, trying to ignore the guilt that was clawing at him. Danny always talked about how much he hated Vlad, and how creepy the guy was. And while Tucker agreed that Vlad was more than a little slimy, Vlad was a businessman, and more importantly, a billionaire. Being slimy kinda came with the territory.

And besides, Vlad had only moved into the town a year ago, after Danny had already turned into Phantom. So, it wasn't Danny who hated Vlad, not really.

“Come, make yourself comfortable. You're a bit too young for me to offer you a drink, but maybe some water, perhaps?”

“I'm fine,” Tucker said. His voice echoed around the empty house.

“Then sit.” Vlad pulled out a seat at the bar. “I just brewed myself a pot of tea. Maybe you'd care for some of that?”

“No thanks,” Tucker said, his voice jilted as he forcefully remembered his manners. Even if it was Phantom who hated Vlad, Tucker wasn't too keen on being behind closed doors with the man any longer than necessary either. 

Vlad paid him no mind, of course, and poured his tea into a fancy china cup. He brought the cup up to his nose, sniffed, and then smiled, setting it down on a small plate on the counter and settling into a seat for himself. “So,” he started, clasping his hands together. “What do I owe the pleasure of seeing you on this fine day?”

Tucker blew a breath out, trying to expel the mounting anxiety in his system. “Okay, I realize what I'm about to say sounds absolutely insane. I get that, but I just need you to let me explain.”

That slimy smirk was back on Vlad's lips. “Oh? Do tell.”

“Okay.” Tucker wrung his hands in his lap. “Okay, just—just hear me out. Trust me, nobody wants to say this less than me.”

“But of course, my dear boy.”

Tucker exhaled one last time and then began. “So, I know who Phantom is. You know, the ghost? I—he's disguising himself as a teenager, and I know who it is.”

“Oh, really? My, that doesn't sound good.”

“It's not.” Tucker closed his eyes, covering his forehead with his hand. “It's the worst, really. Because the person that Phantom is pretending to be—and I know, I know, just let me explain—but it's Danny. Danny Fenton.”

Tucker peeked through his hand to see the smile on Vlad's lips widen. 

“Daniel Fenton, my godson, you mean?” Vlad said. “That's quite the accusation.”

“I know it is. Trust me,” Tucker said. “But—okay, so basically, I think what happened was that Danny was in some sort of lab accident, and it killed him. He talks about it sometimes, but he doesn't give any details. But I'm pretty sure that was it. Because only like a month after that happened, all the ghosts started appearing. And Phantom too. I—uh, here. Hang on, let me show you...” Tucker leaned over and pulled his tablet from his backpack. He opened it and went to his files, opening a pdf of his comparison photos. He handed the tablet to Vlad, saying, “This is them side by side in different positions. You can really see it there, when the photos are lined up like this. They look exactly the same. But that's not all! Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Vlad said, swiping through the pdf.

“Look, I don't really know how to explain it, but Danny's just...he's different now. He disappears before ghosts attack, he comes back all beat and sometimes bloody. He's cold, way colder than normal, and sometimes I see him—when someone's annoying him or if he's pissed—where it's almost like...like he can't even contain his human form anymore. His eyes get green, and sometimes ectoplasm sparks in his palms. It's not human.”

“And you see this as...a problem?” Vlad looked up from the tablet. “If Daniel was Phantom?”

“Why wouldn't it be? Don't you have this whole initiative to get rid of ghosts?” Tucker argued.

If anything, that seemed to amuse Vlad more. He set the tablet down and said, “But of course, I wasn't insinuating anything. I merely just acknowledge that Daniel is your best friend and that most of you youths enjoy Phantom's presence in this city.”

“Only the blind ones do. I know better. Phantom is bringing the ghosts into this town. Mr. Masters, you know how all ghosts have Obsessions?”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“Well, Phantom’s Obsession is being a hero, right? What's more heroic than setting up a bunch of ghost fights to 'save' people from?”

Vlad's smile was almost impossibly wide now. “Yes, I understand.”

Something was amusing to that billionaire creep, but Tucker hardly had time to figure out what before Vlad was up out of his seat, pacing around his kitchen.

“You see, I already know all this. You understand, I'm the one funding this city's anti-ghost initiative. And I also know that young Daniel is Phantom.”

Tucker's jaw dropped. “You do?”

“But of course, I do!” Vlad pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped on it for a minute before passing it off to Tucker. In an encrypted app that Tucker didn't recognize was a video. 

“Well, go on,” Vlad said.

Tucker pressed play on the video to see a dimly lit alley with Phantom standing at the end of it. He glanced around, and then white rings appeared, passing over his body. A white T-shirt and jeans replaced a black suit, and black hair replaced white hair.

The rings disappeared, and the person that remained was none other than Danny Fenton.

Tucker blinked, and his head snapped out of the memory. His eyes refocused, and Danny Fenton sat in front of him, still talking to Sam, his posture still far too easygoing for someone who wasn't even human.

His human form was impressively detailed. His unruly black hair, dash of freckles on his cheeks, blue eyes, and pointed nose—all signature traits of Danny. He had gotten it almost perfect.

Almost. 

It made Tucker's blood boil, and he struggled to push it down, keep it in check. Ghosts could feel intense emotions.

The calm mask slipped over him once more, and Tucker was empty. Just empty.

Just how, when he stared into Danny's eyes, he could see that same emptiness too. There was no humanity left. No, that'd died almost two years ago now. All that remained was a ghost. 

He wanted his friend back. But that was impossible. The only thing that he could do now was wipe all ghosts out so no one ever suffered the way Tucker was right now.

He was a hacker, so once he got the tech, programming it was a piece of cake. Okay, so maybe it was a little bit harder than that, but he was nothing if not determined.

And he was nothing if not a damn good programmer.

And now he had the power to fix this, end the ghostly invasion in Amity, end Phantom's terrorizing reign, and set his former friend free.

“What do you think, Tuck?” Danny turned to face Tucker.

“Huh?” Tucker grunted, his elbow nearly slipping from his desk. “Sorry, what are we talking about?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Jeez, you really have been spacey today. Sleep well last night?”

No, he hadn't, actually. Because Phantom had set up another attack at 2 a.m. and so Tucker had to intervene.

Danny was wearing long sleeves today. Good. It meant that Tucker's shot really had nailed his bicep.

“No, sorry,” Tucker chuckled. “Was rushing to get Lancer's essay done. I can't work on it this weekend; my cousins are coming to town.”

“Again?” Sam asked.

No, they weren't. Tucker hadn't seen his cousins since Christmas. 

“Yeah, my aunt and my mom are in this whole midlife crisis thing right now. Want to make sure we all bond properly or something.” Tucker waved his hand haphazardly. “You know how moms are.”

That was the perfect trigger for Sam, who huffed expectantly. “Oh yeah, don't even get me started. My mom is still trying to make me bond with Kate. Kate's two years older than me and was the head of her cheer team. Like, hello? You can only imagine what her playlists are like.”

“You should blast some death metal next time,” Danny said.

“Trust me, I have. It's the only way to get her to shut up.”

“Must not be death enough.” Danny flashed his teeth in a mischievous smile. “I’m sure I can help put together a playlist if you want.”

That cocky motherfucker…

Did he enjoy gloating over everyone? Did he really laugh at them when he was alone, all the stupid, idiotic, airhead humans who he thought didn’t notice anything?

Squashing his emotions was suddenly too difficult, and just before the internal tea kettle was able to whistle, Tucker was saved by the bell.

Oh, thank god.

Tucker was out of his seat before anyone else, scooping his notebook from his desk, throwing his bag over his shoulder, and racing out the door before Sam or Danny could catch up.

Still, when against his better conscience he glanced over to his friends, he didn’t miss the subtle look Danny gave him or the green glint in the corner of his eye…

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

If only it was easy.

****

[read more of my work]

[alwaysbethewest]

Triple Frontier/Narcos fic: Crossing the Streams

This week is @fleetwoodmactshirt's birthday and I knew I wanted to write her something if I could—it was just a question of what. Frankie Morales making ravioli from scratch? An intimate morning spent with Ezra? Or: this? A deeply self-indulgent (and Fleetwood-indulgent) AU of an AU crossed over with another AU from an entirely different piece of media. It made sense in my head.

This concept is something we've jokingly(?) discussed for years but it always felt too outrageous to actually put to words. Until now. Happy birthday, beloved! I hope this makes you smile.

Title: Crossing the Streams Characters/Pairings: Frankie Morales, Benny Miller, Javier Peña, OFC, Baby Morales, ghost!Reader. Nascent Fishben implied; Javi/OFC implied. Rating: Teen (but maybe Gen) Word count: 1.8k Content/warnings: Crossover of my ghost 'verse and @fleetwoodmactshirt's Javier Peña X-Files AU 🙃 Not really exactly officially a part of the ghost 'verse, but could be considered a spin-off chapter of it maybe. I don't think any particular warnings apply. Reader is a ghost. The OFC listed above is the reader from Fleetwood's AU, and I tried to leave her a blank slate. Javi holds the baby a lot. I fudged the timelines so Javi is older but not as much older as he would be. Unbetaed, so let me know if you spot any mistakes.

You can see the family resemblance immediately. The man standing in the foyer isn’t an exact carbon copy of Francisco, but they could easily be mistaken for brothers. Benny had been the one to answer the door and the visitor is sizing him up, friendly but with a hint of narrow-eyed assessment peeking through. Benny senses it and stands a little straighter, calling over his shoulder, “Fish, they’re here!”

The slap-slap-slap sound of the baby’s hands on the hardwood floor announces her arrival even before she rounds the corner into the hallway, crawling rapidly towards the front door while Francisco ambles behind her. Ben scoops her up before she can reach the threshold, easily hefting her up to his shoulder, while the other men greet each other with a hug.

“Ah, mi sobrino!” Francisco’s uncle gives him an affectionate pat on the cheek. “Te ves bien, Francisco.”

“Hola, tío Javi,” he says with a grin. “Come on in. You met Benny?”

Now that they’re standing side by side you’re able to see the similarities and differences between them. Javier is older by fifteen years or so, his dark hair greying at the temples, slim body still fit but gone a little soft around the middle. He’s cleanshaven but for an attractive, full mustache, and his warm brown eyes are shielded by a pair of glasses with dark, slightly rounded plastic frames.

Javier nods. “I haven’t met this one yet, though,” he says, reaching for Francisco’s daughter. She goes to him without hesitation and he has to catch her chubby hands in his before she can drag his glasses down his nose. He pulls a face at her and she giggles.

“And is your…” Francisco pauses, as if searching for the right word. “Partner outside?”

Javi glances out the open door. “She’s getting some equipment out of the trunk. Listen,” he says, lowering his voice a little, “she takes this stuff seriously and she can be a little—excitable, about it. Take it easy on her, okay?”

This stuff, as it turns out, is investigating the world of the paranormal.

After Francisco’s mom had heard about Santiago’s suspicion that the house was haunted, she’d been the one to suggest he invite tío Javier and his… partner, for a visit. (You understand the hesitation before “partner” as soon as you see her; the energy flowing between them is lit up with something far brighter than a pair of regular, platonic co-workers would ever have. And even someone without your vision might notice the way it takes her a moment to recover from the sight of him with the baby in his arms, or how his hand hovers over the small of her back as they make their way down the hall.)

Francisco leads them into the kitchen, where he sets a pot of coffee brewing.

“You can set her down if you want,” he tells Javi, nodding to the baby’s high chair.

“That’s alright,” he says, taking a seat and easily shifting her into the crook of his arm. He crosses his legs so she’s half in his lap and bounces his thigh, just lightly, offering up his free hand for her to pull and pinch and bite at as she likes to keep her entertained.

His partner is watching from the doorway and you observe with interest how her breathing goes almost imperceptibly unsteady before she gathers herself again.

“So which of you saw the ghost?” she asks Francisco and Benny.

Ben’s eyes shift to the corner where you’re perched on the kitchen counter, but Francisco is already answering for the both of them. “Neither of us,” he tells her. “Our friend Santiago is the one who thinks he saw something.”

She’s taking notes in a pocket-sized notebook.

“And what was it that Santiago saw?”

“Socks,” he says, in a tone that indicates he thinks this is just as silly as it sounds.

“Socks,” she echoes, tilting her head inquisitively.

“Floating in the air.” He makes a vague, floaty gesture with one hand while pouring the coffee with the other.

Tío Javi’s partner finally takes a seat at the table, so she’s not stuck juggling her coffee cup and the notebook. The baby leans towards her, curious, and she gives her a polite smile. “Hello.” Then, struck by a thought, she looks to Francisco again.

“Has the baby seen the ghost?” she asks.

Benny’s eyes widen. Francisco just chuckles. “Not that she’s mentioned,” he says dryly. “Look, I don’t want to be wasting your time. You should know that—I’m not suggesting Santi’s making it up or anything but—the guy’s had more than one concussion before. You know what I’m saying?”

“That’s interesting,” she remarks, jotting it down.

Francisco exchanges a glance with Javier.

“Is it?”

“Well, brain injuries, trauma, near-death experiences—they can open a person’s senses to things that others can’t see,” she explains.

He looks skeptical.

“We’ve all had near-death experiences,” he says, gesturing around the room. He says it so matter-of-factly that she looks startled, and maybe a little concerned. “Ben and I were Special Forces. Tío, I’ve heard your stories from Colombia. We’ve all dealt with some dark shit.”

Javi flattens his mouth in a grim line. Ben is rubbing his knuckles over his lips and you can see the anxiety building in him. The room falls silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she says. Under the table, Javi shifts his leg to bump his foot with hers reassuringly.

“No.” Francisco frowns. “I’m sorry. You’re just doing your job. You—I know you brought some gear with you. You’re welcome to check the house, or… do whatever you need. I’ll show you where Santi saw the socks in the air.”

She sets down her pen.

“If you don’t mind.”

Francisco leads her upstairs to the nursery. You’re not sure you want to get anywhere near her ghost-hunting equipment, whatever it may be, so you stick to the kitchen and keep Ben company while he attempts to make conversation with Francisco’s uncle.

“So you worked in Colombia,” he tries. Javi gives a quiet grunt to the affirmative. He doesn’t want to talk about that—you can tell, and Benny figures it out pretty quickly, too.

“Do you—” he starts, but Javi’s already speaking.

“What’s the situation here?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Between you and Frankie.”

You can almost feel the heat radiating off him as the air shimmering around Benny turns a deep, blushing pink.

“There’s no situation,” he says.

“You’re roommates?”

“Yeah—I mean, we’ve been friends for a long time. My lease ended a few months ago and he said I could stay here. He has a guest room,” he adds, a touch defensively.

Javi smiles and nods like he hadn’t meant anything by it.

“What about you?” Benny asks. He nods to the ceiling, where Javi’s partner is upstairs. “You guys seem close. Are you dating her?”

Javi’s placid smile doesn’t falter for a moment, but his eyes narrow a little.

“No,” he says. “She has a guest room, too.”

Ben’s mouth opens, then snaps closed, and the men sit in silence for a moment.

“I think she wants to get down,” he says, gesturing to the baby in Javi’s arms, who’s squirming and lunging forward as if to jump to the floor. He sets her down carefully on all fours and she takes off at speed, leaving Ben to scramble behind her. Javier looks around the empty room, eyes skipping right over you, drains his coffee, and follows suit.

You trail behind him to the living room, where Benny has deposited the baby in the middle of the conversation pit with a basket of toys. Javi stops short, taken aback by the sunken couches.

“Holy shit,” he says. “This place hasn’t been remodeled in a while, huh?”

Benny glances at you, knowing this subject is a sore spot. You’d taken great pride in this house, back when it had belonged just to you, and you’re not sure why everybody keeps wishing to change it now.

“We like it,” he tells him. “It’s got character. Plus, this is like a built-in play pen. She’s too little to climb out.”

Javier sits himself down, spreading his legs comfortably wide in a confident-man sprawl.

“It’s a good house,” he admits. “Quiet neighborhood.”

They watch the baby playing on the floor. You join her there, rolling plastic balls back to her too subtly for Javier to realize they haven’t simply bounced.

“Can I ask you something?” Benny says. Javi raises an eyebrow in assent. “Say there is a ghost—” he starts.

“There isn’t.” Javi narrows his eyes a little, like he’s trying to decide if Benny really believes in something so unfathomable.

Benny is avoiding your gaze.

“But theoretically,” he says. “If there was. What would—I mean—What do you do? Like if the EMF meter or whatever registered something.”

“Well,” Javi replies slowly. “Theoretically, if there was a ghost hanging around I think my partner would tell you there’s something unresolved that they still need. A sense of peace, or…”

He pauses, scratching his chin. Eyes still on the child.

“It’s the same as what anybody wants, right? A sense of fulfillment. So you can move on.”

It makes something feel hollow and fluttery inside your chest, achy like you haven’t felt in a while. Now you’re the one avoiding Ben’s eyes, when he looks at you. You retreat to the corner, wanting to be alone but unwilling to give up eavesdropping on such a rare visit.

Their conversation is cut short by the others’ return. Francisco still looks skeptical and she looks thoughtful. Javi tilts his head back and raises an eyebrow.

“Inconclusive,” she announces. “There were some very interesting readings but nothing concrete. There are some other tests we could—”

“I think this is enough,” Francisco cuts her off gently. “It’s not like any of us have been possessed. If blood starts dripping down the walls, we’ll call you back.”

“Well, for a simple specter I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that,” she assures him. “Blood drips can be indicative of—”

“It was a joke,” he says, and she smiles but she also shrugs like, well, we’ll see.

“Mijo,” Javier says, changing the subject for everyone’s sake. “Pick a restaurant, we’ll go out to dinner, my treat. Your roommate can come too.”

The emphasis he puts on roommate isn’t strong enough for Francisco to pick up on, but Benny does and he shoots Javi a narrow look. Javi gives him an innocent grin and turns back to the baby, who’s been pulling herself up on his pant legs, trying to climb up to her dad since he’d walked in the room. He swings her into his arms and hands her over to Francisco, and after a ten-minute debate over a pizzeria versus a steakhouse, and a five-minute diaper change, the group heads outside.

Alone in the quiet house, you float up to your attic window seat, where you settle in to contemplate tío Javi’s words about things unresolved.

(tiny tag list: @pedrostories, @littlemisspascal, @loversandantiheroes, @by-ilmater, @pettyprocrastination, @littleferal, @pennyserenade)

[sehtoast]

From Ashes to Home (Depowered Homelander x OC)

18+

Word Count: 6.6k

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

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

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

Special thanks to @theonlymanintheskyisme for beta reading <3

Fic Directory

I just… I wish I knew anything about her.

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

It always was a tender topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1-G.

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

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

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

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

“What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pang of guilt hit his heart.

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

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

Something that would simply never happen.

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

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

He breathed a heavy sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where would he even be without his Benjamin?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hell, probably every newspaper, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, an idea struck him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John’s mother was certainly dead by now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gillman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough to leave him sick to his stomach.

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

Downright evil, even.

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

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

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

His mother was left in a state of rageful madness.

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

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

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

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

Because of course they’d be damaged.

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

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

Keep her docile.

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

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

–breed a new line of heroes.

Subject tissue sent for testing.

The possibilities … ……. mother of modern supes.

–extraction of eggs–

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

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

The list of failed subjects was…

It was far too long.

Before Vogelbaum, there was Waltz.

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

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

Killed in surgical procedures.

Destroyed by their own powers.

Murdered by a madman’s curiosity.

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

Invulnerability.

Well, that and DNA infused with Compound V.

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

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

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

She died that same day.

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

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

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

God, John looked just like her.

And now?

He’s all that’s left of her.

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

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

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

Would it hurt him? Certainly.

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

Alternatively, it could make everything infinitely worse.

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

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

But how could he tell him?

Hey, I found your mom.

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

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

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

“Is there someone else..?”

The question had taken him completely by surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ben took a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homelander shuddered. “1-G…”

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

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

His mother.

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

“Show me. Please, Ben– I need to see…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Ben knew it, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shut the fuck up!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was never supposed to be like this…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No… he needed this.

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

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

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

"Johnny..?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now..?

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

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

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

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

Mom… I made it.

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

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

But he worked through it.

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

It was a surprise for later.

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ben?”

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

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

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

Gillman

192?-1986

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

He hugged his mother.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m home.”

[littleladymab]

OC Kiss Week - Rain

So like I knew I was doing the official prompts out of order, but I hadn't realized that I wrote them down out of order on my doc. So anyway, Rain is day one for me!

Requested by @jadeoxfordrose and @citadelofswords! Love and miss these kids :') I don't think this is "what the ghost" verse, but it is the same setting that I alluded to in my SlumberZine piece!

Theo belongs to Jade 💞

+++ 

The rain is completely unexpected and Davey doesn’t know how to take this change in plans into consideration.

“C’mon,” Theo urges, nudging him with their elbow and then smacking him in the chest with something. “Date’s not over yet.”

Startled, Davey catches whatever it is against his chest and looks down to find an umbrella. “There is no way you planned this,” he says, and Theo’s grin is more than enough to make up for the interruption.

“Nothing catches you off-guard when you’re always prepared,” they tease. “Now are you going to open it up or are we going to keep huddling here?”

They’re under the awning of a hardware store, caught halfway between the cafe they had lunch at and the park with the pop-up exhibit that was supposed to be part two. People hurry past, many caught as unaware as Davey was by the sudden downpour.

Davey obliges, since he’s the taller of the two, and holds it expertly over both of their heads as Theo presses in against his side. “The exhibit isn’t going to be open in this weather.”

“That’s true…” Theo’s voice trails off, and Davey hopes that he isn’t imagining the disappointment in it. “We’ll have to cut the date short then.”

“I suppose it just means that I have to see if you’re free next Thursday and if we’ll be able to catch it before it closes,” Davey chimes with as much enthusiasm he can muster.

“Ah,” Theo says and laughs. “A literal rain check, hmm?”

“They call it that for a reason.”

They laugh again. “Yeah, next Thursday is fine.”

“Good. Good! Alright then. Wow, a second date before the first is even finished—” Davey cuts himself off with his own laugh as Theo playfully shoves his shoulder. “Shall I walk you to the bus stop?”

Theo loops their arm through Davey’s to ensure the umbrella is covering as much of them as possible. “I’d like that.”

His brain short-circuits at the gesture before his expression melts into a probably quite stupid grin. “After you, then.”

It’s not until they’re halfway down the block that Davey’s brain finally does catch up with the situation and he wonders that since he lives nearby, should he have asked Theo to come over? Or would that have been too forward? They’ve known each other for a year now and while this is their first date-date they’ve hung out before but just never at either of their places. It’s always been with the girls or Parker.

Putting the sudden pressure of the invitation back to his place feels like a bit much, even if it does feel a little rude since it is close by.

Once they’re beneath the shelter of the bus stop, Davey shakes out the umbrella and folds it up to hand back to Theo. They take it without comment, still going on about the rude customer that Merril had to deal with earlier in the week.

“I wanted to punch him,” Theo finishes vehemently.

“I’m surprised Merril didn’t,” Davey confesses and they snort.

“It was a near thing.”

Davey opens his mouth, about to ask when is the next time that Theo and Merril are working and maybe he’ll stop by to see them both but secretly it will be a chance to take Theo out after they get off and well maybe he should ask Merril and make it a surprise— But then the bus rolls up to the stop and they have to dance out of the way to avoid the water splashing up onto the curb.

Theo already has their bus pass in hand and has a moment when the other people at the stop file on and off. They look like they’re also about to say something, but in the end, they square their jaw like they’ve made up their mind.

“Text me when you get home,” Davey says for a lack of anything better to say. He shuffles the few paces closer to the bus in time with Theo and the line. “And we’ll plan for next week. Well, after I check the forecast.”

“Make a back-up plan if it does,” Theo says, then just before they can step out from under the awning to board the bus, they whirl around and press a kiss to Davey’s lips and the umbrella into his hands.

Davey’s so startled he’s barely able to catch the umbrella but utterly fails to return the kiss as Theo does the mad dash through the rain into the bus. “Wait,” Davey says, holding out the umbrella.

“Keep it,” Theo laughs as they swipe their pass, hair clinging to their cheeks and their shoulders drenched. “Give it back to me later.”

The last thing Davey sees as the bus driver decides he’s not one of the oncoming passengers and closes the doors in his face, is Theo’s silhouette waving to him.

Davey is still standing there, clutching the umbrella in both hands, chilled to the bone and more wet than not as the wind shifts the rain into every crevice of the stop. But there’s little pinpoints of warmth against his jaw from their fingers, and his lips from theirs.

Finally, a buzz in his pocket jolts him back to his senses, and he checks his watch to see a message from Kari about pizza soon, and Davey pops open the umbrella.

Right, he thinks, giddy in a way he hasn’t been in years. Maybe an invitation back to his place next time wouldn’t be so bad. He can make dinner for them after the exhibit.

Davey spins the handle of the umbrella and heads to the crosswalk, grinning.

[tetsunabouquet]

Heir To The Lands Chapter 13

Fading Away Masterpost

Jaime Rosales sighed as he waited for the pink goblin to show up. She usually did about this hour, and as delusional as she was, Jaime found her harmless and kind. Besides, it was the best thing around here in his cell, as neither the silence or the Queen were things he enjoyed. She often snuck in some extra food for him too, which was appreciated. He didn't even needed to look into a mirror to know he lost some weight during his captivity. The first time when he was imprisoned, it had only been a month and didn't had as much time to turn him into a shell of what he was. But this time, he felt like he was sure on his way to becoming that exact thing. Looking down at his skin, it was growing paler, a sickly yellowish pale that was starved of the sun. He felt a small wave of relief as he heard the familiar sound of small feet. There, the pink goblin snuck through his bars, bearing a big basket, well, big for her small size, that could barely fit through the bars. "I collected as many as Yaya apples as I could find." She chirped, and Jaime's stomach growled at the mention. He was developping quite a liking to the fey apples. She took an apple out of the basket, the fruit being almost the size of her head, and she handed the mint green fruit to Jaime, who took a bite eagerly. It was juicy, and Jaime tried to spill as little as possible. The queen made sure to give him as little water as she gave him food, and he was fairly certain he would have died from hydration had it not been for the juices of the fruit he was so frequently fed behind her back. "You truly are a lifesaver Gwenneth." He told her, and she smiled at the compliment. "Truly, I am! If I were too unkind of a being, mundanes would never come to worship me!" She declared and Jaime bit back every comment that came to his mind. He did not know, how Gwenneth came to be as fame hungry or how she knew so much about mundane media in the first place. Those were the tiny little myserteries he occupied himself with, as he had nothing else to do. "Now that you mention it, what would you rather want? To break out on TV or hit the big screen?" Gwenneth was genuinely surprised with the question, and took a moment to think it over. "Both have their pros and cons, you know? Big screen obviously has a superior reach and salary, but small screen for one offers me the durability of promo, considering big roles are featured most of the season's episodes. With someone of my caliber, I can skip the extra stage and have a role. I'm above a poorly created CGI monstrosity." Jaime was impressed with the goblin, not knowing what the heck CGI even was himself. If she ever were to release an autobiography, Jaime for sure would pick it up just to find out where she got all her information about the mundane world from, because she seemed as well-versed about various mundane topics as an actual mundane. Sometimes, Jaime thought that once her impossible dreams leave her heartbroken, she should start teaching at the Shadowhunters Academy. Her knowledge and understanding of mundanes would certainly make her a good teacher for Nephilim kids to blend in with the regulars of the world. But he always refrained from saying it out loud, too nervous to offend the creature because there was one thing Jaime was also noticing about his deteroriating state. He was fairly certain he was growing mad in isolation.

Livvy, knowing the route, had found the castle and its prison within a jiffy this time. Which made her miserable first time drifting as a ghost in Faerie a whole lot better. This time, having to study Jaime, it hit her just how gaunt and pale he looked, as well as the poorly kept small beard he had developped. He hadn't aged too much since the age he had gone missing, but still, the poor look was aging him quite a bit, and she wondered if the queen even bothered to take enough care of him to keep him alive. But then again, that would be the smarter thing to do, right? Kill Jaime and get rid of his body and thus all the evidence that the queen was up to no good. Perhaps she had already gotten what she wanted from him, and was simply leaving him to rot in the dungeons. That thought was so cruel, it left an awful taste in Livvy's mouth. At least she knew what the goblin wanted. She had never been more grateful for being an L.A girl more in that very moment.

[libidomechanica]

I weep againe returns on the starless numbers number flesh to do

A cinquain sequence

               I

Loss of thou waite, for instance. The timely, not that hateful section. Thus we will never fall.

               II

But scorn the field. If he misliue in love. Turning through the hardness by loved; and things as a Guelf.

               III

In flowre is obsolete. Nor eluish ghost or not. But sad dirge of all the even, and care.

               IV

That all those hopes from the other side of grace may be grey wall, and live?—But only pitied.

               V

The Gate her downward sunne to proved by you this? Morality or some need not much less tree.

               VI

Ah Palinodie, that taught me, as if to a very body. On the rosy flood of slaves?

               VII

And there short-legged hand cared less but knew a beauty lay. Sharp like his passing, then darting-post.

               VIII

It made him run. The sonnets alang: in evening less this foolish and dry, in clear away.

               IX

Mid listening. Than when a life so soft peace the higher end. But Juan grew, I fear, that we are.

               X

But one. Hotter to the fell and all, whatever in the large as peas, and his poet here?

               XI

A Bird accurst upon the Brighter long enough fowl now border too. And fruit they were his.

               XII

I am alone at last age showres. Roses, by whose ancestors always why nothing?

               XIII

And why? Surely be more than your bier? But that of splendour sprung! And self-doing createst night.

               XIV

If you like Shakspeare more tender eye-lids down to the cool and dare we? That of fitting out.

               XV

Are not defence of the tomb. With climb; She knew their beauty: perhaps he lay; but having kiss!

               XVI

She short fever! The bedded- down knot. Before to be circling inside, from her where, it went.

               XVII

I swear she were filled up, as also to be thy beauties ending with the colors and thee!

               XVIII

Tis something mourning happen as lit onward seek shelt’ring my daughter longer that I there.

               XIX

Was well. Has lonely, whence he would say ’Tis some veins of this, day night Rauens lodged, but changing light.

               XX

Now tell into against us if we drove first signal lovely one. Each many I know.

               XXI

We have deep bell in vain, with just a drear and he must do? Thy beautie beauty slandering green.

               XXII

I care to lose her; and land listen! To a paradox becomes peace but mark clean body.

               XXIII

Come down into none, Ah! Have the gleam. Tis too cute, the one presence of drawing on his heir.

               XXIV

The wealth, and slow, when we wonderful replies from his predecessor. Sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

               XXV

To live with shrine, god blessed never stove-window flower rate. Yet, that not stopp’d. To walk with grass.

               XXVI

Will help The simply weary travel’s end, doth stands blow. Beside thy whole of all but—nothing?

               XXVII

Then she meadow sold. And art made better still the very bought; no courteous plaint yet those.

               XXVIII

The wish’d by and finding, then fonly pitie mee. This grave I drunk or idling nation, a greene?

               XXIX

Quit; and I am abroade, sperred after than till I turn back, see the peeped out again!

               XXX

His own Phaëton. With misgouernaunce, made their appointed stairs at the pastry, not old, bright do.

               XXXI

Vain repetition! Will sit best of gliding weather speakest of years his people of shame?

               XXXII

I liked it be love you down low, so narrow for my youth that in the radiance on the dust!

               XXXIII

The seventeen. In whom a hundred lamps the while peacefull teare, bearing your break of day.

               XXXIV

There has two or their heart is what; whiles Beauty grow wooden spoons’ of verse, in so higher end.

               XXXV

But to come back from behind. In lost sweete sighed, she could not to be grey; set me thrown her fan.

               XXXVI

But get a living in his house upon her fan. Or die a maid, talking. Their sacrifice.

               XXXVII

Nothing, on the churchyard come! Manner restful death; but one with teares, the song of speeches.

               XXXVIII

Like a party for ever stove singing sow’d the breast. He praise; but merely proportions fit.

               XXXIX

How pure, Hark! That one another way, pursued his sort of man’s horn, or would she bees, the rose.

               XL

Not soon as since I showe, that art thou? The faint complain, and all had not dead, you’d better: Fy!

               XLI

The herded with looks with point, and hymns did hem keepe. The never repeats itself each or bribe.

               XLII

Of all murmur in the last confus’d, so that heavy tears! But go, and foul with whom our bier?

               XLIII

She could know them serued for that take away. Plumes from the summer throne, to Fame’s servant.

               XLIV

For ease, did frame began: when we have mowed, had blood, and sells; the obits, and we all my griefe.

               XLV

Love; zuhrah, he saw her grave, it was Greece. Are finish’d Clarinda’s fondest with simplicitie.

               XLVI

As a sea-attorney. Rent hue, and weep, for seventeen. Or all these woods are carry ye.

               XLVII

And yet the superincumber. Oblivion as sudden act, there’s sty: and your gown.

[drdw0lf]

" You know him as Fen'harel- The Dreadwolf- but I once called him by another name... FRIEND . "

Lev's non- selective SOLAS from DRAGON AGE: INQUISITION / THE VEILGUARD

NOT SPOILER FREE !

playlist | edits

rules / info under the cut

RULES -

basic rp etiquette is expected: no godmodding, ic is not ooc, etc.

if you decide to unfollow me please (soft)block me

rp memes are the best way to start interacting with me, and are always accepted no matter how long age i reblogged them.

INFO -

The power needed to do this caused him to slumber for millenia. When he woke up, he realised to his horror that this separation had caused the world to spiral into a broken ghost of what he knew. He kept his true nature hidden until the end of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Where he revealed his plan to 'fix' his mistake by tearing down the veil between worlds. Posing instead as a humble elven mage who explored the spiritual world through dreams.

QUICK BIO:

Solas is a companion (and potential love interest) in Dragon Age: Inquisition and the main antagonist in Dragon Age: The Veilguard. An ancient Elven God who rebelled against his fellow Gods millenia ago, known as Fen'harel or the Dreadwolf then. Solas separated the spiritual and the physical world to trap the other Gods in a last ditch effort to keep them from abusing their power.

mun is 24 and belgian

As Solas's true nature is something he hides often, please come plot with me first if you have a muse that would be able to uncover this for any reason.

I will likely adapt the timeline to your character (aka if you are playing an inq muse, I will use inq Solas, if you are writing a Lavellan that romanced him, I will adapt to that).

I am also willing to adapt him to other verses. As a character known for hopping between worlds in universe, it isn't a big reach to say he has access to different universes.

[thewholecrew]

@headstrongblake: grant & nick. / verse: all american.

grant could feel the anxiety and discomfort coming off nick in waves as he sat across from him. the soft but constant tapping of nicks ring against the glass was an easy tell but so was the look of him in general. grant felt for him, he really did. nightmares were something grant had struggled with too, and still did. taking a small sip of his drink he waited patiently for nick to speak, for him to either change the subject or decide he didn't wish to tell grant more, or perhaps it would feel better to talk about it. he was told that talking about things helped, he'd yet to really ever do it himself though so he didn't blame nick if he refused the offer.

you died. he spoke as grant poured him another glass. the confession from nick that those nightmares were getting worse had grant frowning, forehead creasing in sympathy because there wasn't really a cure for nightmares. he did his best to try for himself but, it wasn't guaranteed. his eyes widened then at the admission that he'd done what he had not only to his father but to octavia. jaw clenching as his hand tightened around his glass. to be tortured by your own mind was something grant knew well and to be forced against your will to relive moments in your life but have them skewed, changed, made even worse?

"stop," grant said gently at how nicks voice broke mentioning kassy. that nick killed grant in his dream. "i'm sorry nick," he said genuinely with a deep frown, gaze dropping from his friend down to the glass in his own hand as he swirled it slowly. he shook his head, "i'm sorry that there is no easy fix...." he leaned back a little in his chair. "but it's best to remind yourself... you didn't kill me, or octavia. you won't. not kassy either. you would never. no matter what you see... no matter how..." he cleared his throat as his own nightmares ghosted before his eyes, "..how real it seems." the amount of nightmares he had about thomas... ones he still had to this day --- that he hadn't just not helped him out of the well but physically held his young brother under the water to drown him.

"i..." he began, looking away as his jaw clenched, feeling uncomfortable himself as he spoke. "it doesn't always work but... i find my nights a little.... less restless if i train a long while before i sleep." he murmured, feeling vulnerable with his confession. in so few words it was also a confession that he too struggled with nightmares, that he could relate to nick. he shook his head before taking the rest of his drink and pouring himself another one, "or you know, getting your ass knocked out also helps, just say the word," he joked dryly, trying to move swiftly on from what he'd said before.

@thewholecrew : grant & nick.

when nicklas woke tangled in a heap of blankets, he tried everything. all his usual habits that tame the distress that spreads through him. instantly he flicks the lamp beside him on, flooding the dorm room with a soft glow. he smokes as he watches minutes tick by on the digital clock, trading his smoke for a drink only to repeat. but nothing stops the visions of blood coating his battered hands. nothing eases his trepidation. he's already killed one man with his bare hands...why should he believe he's not capable of doing that to someone he cares about? after all, he had cared about his father. regardless of the monster he was.

finally, when nicklas couldn't spend another minute toying with his cell phone, he snatched his keys to lock the bar and forced himself into the biting cold. nick needed to see grant. not just hear his voice.

a frantic fist banged against grant's apartment door while the other clung to his door frame, impatiently waiting for any type of response. when it didn't come quickly enough to his liking, nick banged again, panic tightly squeezing in his chest. "c'mon grant, c'mon," he muttered quietly. a gasped breath of relief came forward as grant opened the door, his grip against the doorframe loosening as weary eyes shifted all over grant. he's okay.

but then his head shakes as he moves inside because of course, he's okay. it'd been a dreadful nightmare but as he made his way to the couch like he'd done the last few times, he couldn't help but sit in how real it felt. at first, he avoided grant's gaze, remaining silent as he stared at the floor but when grant asked him what was going on, he quietly told him the truth. while grant rose from his spot, nick's hands fidgeted against his pants, running along the tops as he fought the urge to flee. why else had he come here if not to ease some of the weight by sharing in it with grant? although his hesitant touch and assurance that he's okay do little to persuade nick to feel otherwise, he did drag his gaze toward grant, looking at the man with the vulnerability of his fears shining at him.

sad eyes followed grant as he moved into the kitchen, pulling a bottle from the cupboards. his brow quirked, watching him pour them both a glass before he too rose from the couch to sit with grant at the table. quickly downing the burning alcohol, nick patiently waited for another. "you died." he repeated, staring into the ripples of the whiskey as his ring anxiously tapped along the rim of his glass. "they're gettin' worse man," nick shook his head at the admission, lifting his glass for a smaller sip. "i did what i did with my old man so you know, that's fine if i gotta relive that night, it's fine cause it coulda been much worse but...this." his voice strained as his hand laid flat against the table, pads of his fingertips pressing into the wood. "first couple nights it was o, now it's you, c'mon i mean what's next? kas-..." his head shook, "you didn't just die grant, i fucking killed you.''

[sunoflegend-a]

tag dump !

[dameronology]

2am (eddie munson)

summary: finishing work late sucks, but it's nice to come home to eddie

a/n: this is so completely self indulgent because i did the late shift at work again and if i ever have to set foot in that bar again i will cry. which is tomorrow, because sadly i have to work for a living enjoy.

tags: @megmeg-chan @sunflowersturn @karasong

It was just after 2AM when you finally got home.

Your shoulders and limbs were heavy with tiredness as you dragged yourself through the front door, holding your breath in an attempt to keep quiet. The trailer had thin fucking walls and Eddie Munson, not unlike a child, would not have gone back to sleep if you woke him up. Save for the times when you were physically in bed beside him, he had a wicked creative mind that would snap into the action the second he rose. There had been many nights were he would leap out of bed at 3,4,5AM, just because he'd had a semi-decent idea for a song, or a new D&D campaign. You could see that had been the case tonight; there was a bunch of crumpled up paper on the dining room table, with pens strewn on the floor and lots of scribbled out verses.

It was almost like a physical trail to Eddie. One Reebok, then another, and then his denim jacket, a bandana and eventually, a pair of jeans half on the floor and half on the bed. He was dead to the world, duvet pulled up to his chin and one arm flipped out on the mattress where you should have been. You felt a pang of guilt at that - of course, he had no ill will towards you for having to work the late shifts that week, but Eddie was a clingy little (six foot) fuck and he hated sleeping without you. With Wayne working upstate for a few months, you'd moved in to the trailer to fill in the gap; that meant you hadn't spent a night apart in forever.

Peeling off your clothes, you reached across to his desk chair and yanked a t-shirt from the pile on there. It was semi-clean; it smelt mostly of him and a little of laundry detergent. You shimmied it over your head and kicked off your jeans, softly pulling the covers back and slipping into bed beside Eddie. He instantly reached out for you; one gangly arm around your waist, a hand reaching up to cup your head and pull your head into the crook of his neck. All the tension in your body melted away - tonight had been a lot. It was endless streams of rude customers and machine malfunctions and stress head managers. You knew it was bad to let your job stress become too much but weren't you supposed to make a living?

"You're home," Eddie murmured, voice slightly muffled by your shoulder.

"Sorry if I woke you," you replied.

"Mm, it's okay, I was trying to stay awake til you came in," he said. He glanced over to the clock on the nightstand, brow furrowing. "It's late. Like...really late. Did you only just get in?"

"Yeah," you said, trying to hide the defeat in your voice. "It's been a long night."

"That's like the third night in a row they've made you stay late," he pouted. "Are you sure they're not overworking you?"

His large hands moved down your body, callous thumbs ghosting over your arms, sides and then hips. They settled there, rubbing soft circles over your skin as he held your gaze. Eddie had this innate need to look out for you - like if anything was wrong, he had to fix it. He knew it wasn't always possible, but that didn't stop him from being concerned. It was hard for him to fully get the stress of full time work; he'd gone straight from high school into community college, but he could empathise with your tiredness. He could feel it in your bones, and the way you clung onto him, craving something soft after a shitty, long shift.

"Of course they're overworking me," you couldn't help but feign a laugh. "It's okay though. It's just for now."

Eddie's brow furrowed. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Afraid not, Eds," you murmured. Your eyes met again, though you did try to avoid his gaze for a second - those sad puppy dog eyes of his were surely the thing that would beat capitalism. "Just...keep being here when I get home, yeah?"

"I will stay in this bed forever if it makes you happy."

Eddie pulled the covers further up over you, hands gently rubbing up and down your bare arms in an attempt to warm you up. The heating in the trailer was pretty shit; it was annoying at times but also a blessing in disguise, because he did not like to let go of you at night. It was sort of a comfort thing, knowing that you were always there. That only made you feel worse about all these stupid night shifts.

"Staying here forever sounds nice," you hummed. "I'm sorry I've been away so much lately. Even more sorry that all I do is complain about work-"

"- hey, don't be silly," he cut you off. "You're working your ass off, baby. I'm really proud of you."

"It'll be worth it, I hope," you said. "I know we're young and dumb, but maybe I'll get promoted one day. And we can use the money I'm saving for...for whatever we want."

It was hard to say at that point. You and Eddie had been together for the better part of three years, but all your conversations about the future had been pretty loose. Your early twenties were a whacky time, after all: you were too old to be a clueless about the future but too young to be sure about it. It was like this time was specifically given to you to just...be for a while. To move on from the weird world of high school and find yourself, before taking that new-found discovery and trying to make something of it.

That had pretty much been the last two years for you and Eddie. It felt like the older you got and the better you came to know yourself, the more intertwined you both became. Instead of growing apart and getting fed up like a lot of couples your age did, you just got closer. So maybe you weren't set on what you were doing - kids, family, houses, whatever the fuck else suburban hell had in store - but you were certain on who you were doing it with.

"That sounds perfect," Eddie gave you a soft smile. "Until then, you need to get some sleep."

It was easy enough for him to say, because Eddie Munson was exactly the kind of guy who considered napping to be a hobby. He seriously had sleeping down to an art; in bed, in the the bath, in his van. He used up so much energy being a golden fucking retriever every other second of the day that power naps were the key to his survival.

"Sounds like a solid plan," you sleepily murmured. "I love you."

"I love you too."