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irenadel · 6 months

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Due to the Dead

A Pygmalion Story

Set in the Pygmalion verse but no clear timeline because it doesn’t fit with the show dates. Whatever. I do what I want. No proofing we die like Aztec warriors. I’ll come fix it later. I just wanted it done today.

This is for @theonlymanintheskyisme because sometimes you just wanna spend these moments with the people you love. Wherever they are.

“No, that’s fine. If you can handle the tissue paper flowers I got some real ones in Little Oaxaca,” you panted tiredly into your phone, regretting the choice to walk instead of waiting for the bus. “Chocolate skulls too. Pretty good. Pan de muerto is still a no go but I got the candles. Yeah. Yeah. I’ll see you at home. Got papel picado too.”

“Should you really be eating all that Halloween candy, young lady?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, phone still tightly clutched in your hand, but bags spilling out onto the questionable pavement of Park Avenue. Or at least they would have, if the man who had so cruelly and with malice aforethought startled you, hadn’t also been possessed of superspeed. And the uncanny ability to detect when whatever he was pulling off would have been Going Too Far. He caught everything in the nick of time (you had to admire the showmanship) and even deposited the last potted marigold right into your unbelieving hands.

That did make you drop your phone.

“Well,” he said, smiling so smugly it was a wonder no one threatened to slap it away, super powers or not. “That one is entirely on you, and it better not be the phone I got you, missy.”

And you were, suddenly, irresistibly, unsurprisingly delighted to see him. Because you always were and because in the strange dance of your friendship, you’ve come to realize, holidays aren’t really a thing in Homelander’s world.

It’s one of those things you resentfully blame on Vought.

“It’s not Halloween candy,” you answered, your own smile echoing his, making it lose some of that sardonic tilt to it. “It’s for my ofrenda.”

He offered you his arm, using the other to carry the shopping bags you had been struggling with moments ago. You took it, not bothering to hide the renewed joy in your face at his visit. The street was dark and empty as it usually was whenever he came looking for you, respecting always your desire to avoid the spotlight. There was an extra pep in his step and you wanted to believe (but never trusted) that it meant he was happy to see you too.

“Is this more of your unamerican crap?” He teased you, delighted when you took the bait. He liked hearing you get outraged.

“That’s right it is!” You beamed at him. “They’re for my dead! Day of the Dead baby! Time to invite the fam back for dinner!”

He blinked. Twice.

“Come again?”

You rolled your eyes at him. “I celebrate Halloween and the Mexican holiday Day of the Dead.”

“Like in that Coco movie?” The one that had (briefly) knocked that year’s Seven movie out of the top spot at the box office.

“That’s right! We light candles to guide the dead home and we set the table for them. Anything they liked to eat or drink when they were alive. Next day, you eat it, and it’s like you share a meal with your dead loved ones again.”

He made a mock grimace at you and you elbowed him companionably right back. You’d never admit it, under threat of torture, but this was the best part of your day. When he would show up out of nowhere and be yours for however long he could spare. So, you took it in stride when he clicked his tongue at you, playful smile so pleased it had a hint of fangs to it. “That’s a little morbid even for you, don’t you think?”

“That’s just your gringo sensibilities,” you quipped back, your turn to look smug. “I got my Halloween candy from Costco ages ago. The chocolate skulls are for my dead. They’re meant to represent each person the ofrenda is for. So my grandparents. My aunt. My cousin who committed suicide in 2011–“

“It’s a family thing.”

Homelander didn’t ask it, not exactly, but you got the lilt right at the end. The little inflection that signaled interest and deep hurt. Even now you were still surprised by the whiplash of his moods. The way his whole face tensed in that moment and how he looking straight at his own reflection in an empty storefront window. His arm firmly wrapped around yours but somehow still a thousand miles away. You’ve learned he will do this when he’s deeply considering something. You thought it vanity at first, him staring at himself, now it just makes your heart ache for him.

“No,” and you rested your head on his shoulder, navigating his ridiculous pauldron, because you understood. This was important. “My ‘aunt’ was my mom’s best friend when she was studying abroad. She used to visit us when I was a kid. No blood relationship. I just loved her a whole lot.”

He said nothing, and neither did you. But you tucked the potted marigold under your arm and brought your hand to cover his. He didn’t quite recover his smile, but you saw the set of his shoulders relax.

“We’re putting the ofrenda up tomorrow and receiving trick or treaters all night if you wanna—“

It was the wrong thing to say and you knew it the moment he cut you off.

“There’s a Halloween party at Vought,” he said, letting go of your arm. A simple but effective gesture. No more fondness in his tone, just exasperation. As if you should have known better than to ask. Because ultimately, his tone said, he was too important to deal with you more than he already did.

“Yeah?” You tried for cheerful teasing but found yourself putting a little more bitterness in it than you had bargained for. “What’re you going as? Homelander?”

A dignified sniff. “Of course!”

“Why am I surprised at this point!” And this time you did try. You caught up to him, hooked up your own arm to his and found yourself relieved at how mollified he looked by the gesture. “You’re such a nerd.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween, smartypants?”

You turned crimson and avoided looking at him.

“Work and ofrenda prep have fucked up my time. I’ve been up and down all Madison and Park Avenue and no one sells pan de muerto anymore. And if they do, they’ve run out by now. I’m probably just gonna be a sheet ghost or something.”

Homelander rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed, this time his exasperation so clearly an act, that you almost cried with relief. You really did hate hurting his feelings.

Hands on his hips like he’s posing for a poster, he looked you up and down critically, and you knew exactly what to expect. He did this whenever you complained about not having time. Or when he wanted to knock you down a peg or two. It never worked, because you enjoyed it too much.

Over his shoulder you went, bags of candy, marigolds and all, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing at all. It always took your breath away.

“Who’s the lame one now?”

You screamed back YOUUUUU as he lifted off and your answer was lost in the rush of wind and your delighted laughter.

——-

It had been such a simple thing, he’d been surprised you’d managed to fuck it up.

Homelander was supposed to swoop in, tell you about the costume gala and the exclusive one of a kind ticket he’d gotten for you (so you could meet some of the publishing execs, of course… of course). You would have been awed and grateful and there. At the masquerade. Available whenever he needed a break from everyone’s bullshit. You’d have laughed and been nervous and he’d be able to tease you and hear you make catty, and yet somehow impossibly naive and optimistic, comments about Vought…

It would have been so good.

But you had to get all sentimental on him. Show him your silly little art project, with your silly little tissue paper in different colors, and your stupid food for people who weren’t really going to come to dinner. Their pictures, which you set up fondly (people who weren’t him), taking your time and space and thoughts.

He didn’t get it. It all seemed so typically stupid of you. Insufferably sappy.

(So far removed from him. In that strange realm you inhabited where there were childhoods and parents and dead loved ones.)

In Homelander’s world, there were masquerades with professionally tailored costumes. A beautiful woman in a very tight Morticia Adams gown who had tried to chat him up. Her Halloween themed cocktail bubbling and smoking into his eyes.

(You’d said a friend of yours would lend you a bat onesie which he’d laughed at. You’d proudly presented him with a Frankestein green colored flavor powder for milk that you just had to get for the occasion.)

There was also WORK to be done! It wasn’t just fashion models in witchy corsets and perfectly arranged hats. There were senators and congressmen and investors to woo. There was Maeve, already on her third tequila sunrise with eyeballs at the bottom, to keep under careful watch. There was Starlight to control, make sure she didn’t say anything stupid.

(You’d been singing this is Halloween, this is Halloween, while handing him the tail end of the brightly colored banners he’d offered to hang from your ceiling. Loud and off-key, like some bad attempt at a Halloween carol and when he’d complained that didn’t sound very Mexican, you’d reminded him since he was here, this was officially a Mexican-American celebration now.)

Starlight was the only one who had insisted the Seven should’ve worn different costumes. You’d have liked her, he thought with a smile. Equally stupid, the both of you.

“Nice seeing you enjoying yourself for once, Homelander.”

Some nameless politician he barely recognized. No one important. But he’d seen the brief elusive twist of his mouth. He almost lasered him then and there for the intrusion. But damn it, he was trying to work. You had no right to interrupt him like this when he was at work.

He listened to the man drone on about oil imports and the need to protect global human rights, while he thought about the pumpkins you’d bought. Too little to carve, scattered around your ofrenda thingamajing. Water and salt, candles to light the way home for your dead, and to represent fire. Incense too. The paper crafts (jeez you were such a child) were meant to be the air (papel picado) and the pumpkins stood for the earth. It was supposed to be in tiers, because of the various underworlds in the afterlife.

You can add someone if you want, you’d told him and he’d felt like you had knocked the air out of him. Or at least how he imagined that would feel. It’s really a multiple day holiday. The 31st is for dead babies and then November 1st is for children. So you can come over anytime up until the night of the 2nd and we can add whoever you want.

Your roommate had been so cheerful she’d even managed to look like she didn’t hate him quite so much. (You just ran with people with terrible taste). Yeah! Get your contacts at Vought to hook us up with some pan de muerto and you can add anyone you want to the ofrenda.

You’d had to explain what that was. Sweet pastry with orange blossom water and sugar sprinkled on top. Good for dunking in milk, you’d teased him. The dead liked it. But he didn’t have to bring any, just a picture of his dead if he wanted. He’d scoffed. Had told you he wasn��t like you (sentimental, prone to losing, weak). You hadn’t pressed the issue.

(He’d never even asked her what food she liked. He didn’t have a picture… did he?)

It took no more than a second to decide.

“Excuse me, senator Brown.” He clapped the old man’s back, making him let out a small umphhh of protest. Homelander smiled wider. He could already feel his mood improving. “I’ve an important meeting to attend. No, no, sir. Thank you for your time tonight.”

He didn’t even bother to respond to Maeve’s frown of surprise or Starlight’s questioning looks. Let them deal with his absence for now. He owed them no explanations or concerns. He called Ashley not to give her any warning but to put in an order. They should know a good bakery, right? Anything for Homelander, right? And if that wasn’t right, then he’d be making it wrong for everyone else.

He just needed to pick up a couple of things from his suite.

——-

“Is this it?” He’d asked climbing through your room’s window because the living room one was papered over in papel picado. He hated the worried edge to his voice but felt his ruffled feathers soothed both by your look of surprise and then your arms thrown around his neck.

“You made it! Thank you! You didn’t have to but, boy, am I glad to see you!”

He basked in it. One arm holding up the tray, the other snaking around your waist, feeling glad, feeling strange, feeling welcome. You didn’t look so bad in your bat onesie.

“Brought a costume too. See?”

Bared his teeth at you, exposing the fake fangs he’d gotten last minute. You’d assured him his own were more than enough to give vampire if he just let you get him a Bela Lugosi cape. He already had the widow’s peak.

“Let’s go decorate and spread rabies together,” you’d said, taking his hand leading him to the living room. Your roommate had been delighted at the pan de muerto and he’d felt so unwarrantedly pleased with himself that you’d laughed.

He’d missed that.

Homelander was, of course, placed on treat giving duty and only got a little upset when an snotty eight year old told him point blank his Homelander costume was lame. You’d made him promise not to laser anyone.

“I could slice the bread with my lasers. Nice and toasted,” he’d suggested with a shit eating grin, the moment you handed him a glass of Frankenstein green milk.

“We don’t eat it tonight! It’s until the 3rd of November. So you’re just gonna have to stay over and watch scary movies with me in the meantime.”

He couldn’t help smiling. Not even when your roommate put on Nightmare Before Christmas and he complained this was clearly disloyalty to Vought. Betrayal for Disney. He even smiled through your rendition of oh somewhere deep inside of these bones, an emptiness began to grow and felt it (not at all, never, would not have admitted it if you asked) like a lump in his chest when you looked directly at him and mock gestured through the rest of the song.

It was good. It was good and warm and safe here. And he thought it nothing to hand you the picture, the one he’d picked up from his suite, from a too painful, forgotten place underneath his bed.

Stormfront in her wedding gown.

You said nothing for a moment. Couldn’t begin to explain to him what he was asking of you. The deep roots of this holiday and the pools of blood it had waded through to get to you. Through a dead people and countless enslaved others. That it hadn’t started with the Nazis but there they were, clear as day, the far point where every nation that conquered another could arrive.

But you could almost hear yourself telling him. For your dead. So you know your loved ones are still with you. My cousin who killed herself, she liked chocolate and that’s why we use these kinds of skulls.

You had no heart to deny him his dead. And he could see it in your face, a shame shared between the both of you perhaps, that you would have considered saying no. That he knew you could have because in spite of his bluster and confident security in your feelings for him… still he knew that he was asking a lot.

You took the picture from his hands and because the sigh he heaved was as much hurt as relief, you took him in your arms too. You held him because the dead were meant to bring joy and comfort and it was a hard lesson to learn. You held him because his dead could not.

“If she ends up scorching the place and scaring off the fam it’s on you!” You heard your roommate shout from the kitchen, having caught a glimpse of the ofrenda’s new resident. You laughed together, and if his laughter had the hidden hint of a sob, well, it was only natural.

Tonight was for mourning and celebrating and being together. And that’s what you would do.

#homelander #homelander x reader #homelander fanfiction #the boys tv #day of the dead #cultural clash #homelander has a friend #i like to think Vought and Disney have a mutual rivalry #i am exausted but am experiencing feelings #pygmalion homelander #my writing

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english-history-trip · 11 months

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Ever see a depiction of St. George and the Dragon? It's pretty fair to say if you've seen one, you've seen them all: Georgie on a horse stabbing a flailing dragon creature, princess piously kneeling in the background, vague landscape alluding to the homeland of the artist's patron.

The most varied part is the dragons. No one had a real definition for the thing, it seemed. For your pleasure and entertainment, I have ranked some medieval depictions based on how impressive George's feat seems once you see the dragon.

Paolo Uccello, 1456

This is a terrifying beast. The hell is that. Uccello was one of the first experimenters with perspective, so the thing also looks surreal, like it's taking place on Mars, or a Windows 95 screensaver. I would not want to fight that, I would not want to be tied to that. (Sometimes the princess is tied to the dragon for some reason.) 10/10

Horse thoughts: Maybe if I look at the ground it will be gone when I look up

Unknown artist, c. 1505

This is a rare change of form for the dragon; it's the only one I've seen actually flying (or at least falling with style). It doesn't look particularly deterred by the spear through its throat, either. Also, George looks appropriately nervous. On the other hand, it hasn't got teeth, it seems to be fuzzy rather than having scaly armor, and George is bolstered by his army of Henry VII and his children, most of whom definitely didn't actually die in infancy. Still, wouldn't want to fight it, wouldn't want my pet sheep near it. (Sometimes the princess has a pet sheep for some reason.) 9/10

Horse thoughts: I am so glad I wore my mightiest feather helmet for this

Raphael, 1505

We are coming to Dragons With Problems. This guy looks about comparable in size to George, and does have wings, but doesn't seem to be using these things to his advantage (and has he only got one wing?) And how does he deal with the neck? He does have a comically small head, but holding it up with such a twisty neck seems complicated at best. But most egregiously, he is doing the shitty superheroine pose where he is somehow simultaneously showcasing his chest and his butt, with its unnecessarily defined butthole (more on this later) (regrettably). 8/10 bc it's Raphael

Horse thoughts: AM I THE BESTEST BOI? AM I DOING SUCH A GOOD JOB? WE R DRAGON SLAYING BUDDIEZ

The Beauchamp Hours, c. 1401

We had a spirited debate about this one at work. Again, the dragon has gotten smaller, and this one hasn't got even one wing. He's basically a crocodile. So the debate became: would you want to fight a crocodile if you had a horse and a pointy stick? Would the horse trample the animal, who can't get on its hind legs, or freak out and throw its rider? Would the pointy stick be enough to pierce the croc's thick hide? In this case, George seems to be controlling his horse and putting his pointy stick in the dragon's weak spot, so we can be impressed by his skill and strategy. However, his hat is dumb. 7/10

Horse thoughts: Dehhhh

Book of Hours, c. 1480

Here we have the same kind of croco-dragon, but George's focus on his strategy has gone out the window. He's flailing around, not even looking at his target, he's about to lose his pointy stick, he hasn't got a hand on the reins, and his sword seems to only be poking the invisible dragon over his shoulder. All he's got going for him is that his hat is slightly less dumb. 6/10

Horse thoughts: Yay, new friend! Come play with me, new fr- what is happening

Final dragons put behind this Read More for your safety:

Rogier van der Weyden, c. 1432

I'm thinking this guy is at least semi-aquatic. Webbed feet, wings that seem more like fins, bipedal but top-heavy, jaws that seem more for scooping than biting. Maybe she's crawled up here from the nearby body of water to lay her eggs, and this is all a big misunderstanding. Moreover, George's dagged sleeves seem entirely impractical for the situation. 5/10

Horse thoughts: i got my hed stuk in a jar and now it is this way forever

Unknown artist, c. 15th century

I hate this. I hate everything about it. Why has it got human eyes and teeth. Why is its nose melting. Why has it got a dick on its face and balls under its chin. The fin/wings are back but they look even more useless. Also, George is shifty as hell, schlumped over in his saddle with his bowler hat thing over his eyes. The baby dragon at the bottom eating some hapless would-be rescuer is kind of metal. 4/10 at least the thing is gonna die

Horse thoughts: I Have Smoked So Much Crack

Book of Hours, c. 1450

Remember what I said about the buttholes? First, sorry. Second, yeah, we're back to that. I'll admit this one is less about the danger from the dragon itself than the very specific choices the artist has made. They didn't need to do that. It's a lizard. They don't even have. And it's like they had an orifice budget and they skipped an exit wound for the spear to focus. Elsewhere. It's so detailed. And George had an even dumber hat. 2/10 take it away

Horse thoughts: I Have Smoked So Much Weed

Book of Hours, c. 1415

This is just bullying. There isn't even a princess. That is clearly an infant. Look at that smug look on George's face as he swings his sword that's bigger than the whole little guy. This is the equivalent of when DJT Jr. hunted those sleeping endangered sheep. 1/10

Horse thoughts: ....yikes

And this is the previous one, but now the baby dragon is cute. He's chubby. He's got toe beans. He's Puff the Magic Dragon. His eyes have already gone white, implying that George is just kicking its corpse around for funsies. What's the difference between the dragon and the lamb in the background? That the dragon is dead, like our innocence. This George is truly deserving of the dumbest hat of all. 0/10 plus one more butthole for the road

Horse thoughts: Perhaps it is we who are the buttholes.

#art history #nonsense #hot takes #I am doing a St. George painting and have been wading through reference material #manuscript #fuck me I didn't notice van der Weyden managed to sneak a butthole in his too #the definitive list #when knighthood was in flower

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