#because I also want to see homelander burn

[storiesforallfandoms]

the bad room ~ homelander;the boys

word count: 2654

request?: no

description: in which a ghost from his past returns when he needs her the most

pairing: homelander x female!reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n, lil bit of angsty angst, mentions of death and violence, mentions of threatened suicide, mentions of what homelander and reader went through in "the bad room", the boys typical stuff, spoilers for 4x04, reader was also raised in "the bad room" but is not homelander's sister we'll say she created using another supe's dna

masterlist (one, two, three)

"John?"

The name that just moments ago made him so angry he saw the brightest of reds, brought him to a halt. It wasn't the name, but rather the voice. When he turned and saw her there, he was almost certain it was a hallucination.

"(Y/N)?"

He hadn't seen her in years. Since she somehow escaped The Bad Room before he was set free of it. Before he became Homelander. But it felt like she hadn't changed at all. Not her eyes, watching him with care and concern. Not her face, just as beautiful as he remembered. Not the fuzzy feeling in his stomach just being in her presence.

He was tempted to take her in his arms and never let her go, but then he remembered the blood soaked super suit and the thick liquid still dripping from his face and hair; the blood of the people who tortured them both.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

A wry smile twisted on Homelander's face. "Visiting home."

Her eyes flickered to the building behind them. "Did you leave anyone alive?"

"Barbara."

(Y/N)'s face darkened. "Should've killed her first, very slowly and painfully."

Homelander chuckled, humorlessly. "That's quite the thing to say about your mother."

"That woman was never a mother to me."

"She raised you."

"If that's all it takes, then Vogelbaum was your dad, right?"

Homelander scowled at her. "Point taken."

(Y/N) looked him up and down. He suddenly felt very self conscious and small, even though he stood a few inches over her. They were emotions he thought he wouldn't feel anymore; human emotions. He was supposed to have left those behind in The Bad Room. That was the whole reason he had come back to this nightmare.

But he realized he wasn't feeling this way in a negative way. Well, he definitely felt ashamed that (Y/N) had to see him like this. But he realized he felt small because he was remembering every moment he and (Y/N) had in The Bad Room. She was the only good thing about that place. They kept each other going; they kept each other sane. When she suddenly disappeared, he thought the worse. He wanted to escape himself, to burn the whole place down, to burn himself with it. But he was still young, not yet The Homelander.

He later found out she was alive and had just managed to escape. He would've been angry that she didn't take him if he wasn't so heartbroken by it.

"I live nearby," (Y/N) said, breaking the silence. "You can come over and get cleaned up."

It took him a moment, but he finally registered what she had said. "Yeah. Okay. Lead the way."

(Y/N) seemed confused. "Um...I drove here."

Now it was Homelander's turn to look confused. When he realized she was being serious, he said, "Oh...okay. Well...you drive and I'll follow your car."

"You think it's a good idea to risk people seeing Homelander flying around covered in blood?"

He knew she wasn't wrong, but he hadn't driven in a car since...well, maybe ever.

"I'll clean the seats later, and it'll be less risk for your image," she said. "John...please?"

She wanted him to come over. She wanted to spend time with him. In her space. How could he say no?

That's how Homelander found himself stood under a stream of hot water in an unfamiliar bathroom. The blood ran from his face and hair, staining the water red as it ran down the drain. He found himself looking at the products she had there - her body washes and shampoo. He tried not to think too much about the fact that there were no men's products there. Although, he would've appreciated some men's body wash at the very least. He wasn't sure if he could handle using her body wash and smelling so much like her.

Eventually the water went from red to clear, so he shut it off. He wrapped one of the towels (Y/N) had left for him around his waist. He had left his suit on the floor, but now it was gone and any blood that had dripped onto the floor was cleaned. Homelander found himself blushing at the thought of (Y/N) coming into the bathroom while he was showering without him knowing, but then the blood moved from his face to a lower area.

He walked out of the bathroom and into (Y/N)'s living room. She was sat on her couch with a glass of wine in hand. He could smell bleach trying to be masked by the smell of hand lotion, which told him that she had cleaned her car while he was in the shower.

"Does that stuff get you drunk?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Of course not," she responded. "I drink it for the taste at this point."

He noticed her looking him up and down again, and he suddenly became very aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing any clothes.

"My suit..." he started.

"The cape is in my washer, but I wasn't sure how to wash the rest of it. Especially with those shoulder pads you have."

"That's okay. I can get someone back at the tower to dry clean it for me. They won't ask any questions."

(Y/N) winced and took a sip of her wine.

"I have some clothes you can borrow," she said, placing her glass down and standing from the couch.

"I don't think any of your clothes will fit me," Homelander said, a smile tugging at his lips.

She gave him a look, but he could see she was smiling as well. "They're men's clothes."

His smile suddenly fell. "Oh."

"They're my brother's."

He should've been happy for that clarification, but it only made his brow crease more. "Brother?"

"Foster brother, but I see him as an actual brother," she explained. "He stays over whenever he's in New York so he's left some clothes here. They should fit you."

He dressed in the clothes that (Y/N) gave him, but he was filled with more questions. She had a foster brother, did that mean she had a whole foster family? It would make sense, she was still a minor when she had escaped. He guessed she couldn't just live on her own under the age of 18.

But couldn't she? She had powers. She was raised to be a Supe just as powerful as himself. She could've taken care of herself, gotten whatever she wanted.

But maybe what she wanted was a real family.

But they weren't her family. They were just posing as one.

He was still turning these thoughts over in his head as she entered her living room again. She was back on the couch with a second glass of wine. He didn't drink alcohol. He was told he couldn't before. He had an image to uphold. But who cared about that image now? He literally killed a man and got away with it.

He sat next to her. She took a sip of her own wine before looking at him. "You have questions."

That was an understatement.

But she was opening the floor for him to ask everything on his mind, and he had a lot of things he wanted to know.

The first thing out of his mouth was, "Why were you there tonight?"

She seemed almost amused by this being his first question. "Barbara called me. She said there was a breach."

"What are you, their bodyguard?"

"That's what she thinks. Or...thought, I guess."

"I didn't kill her. I left her with the bodies of the people who tortured us."

(Y/N) looked at him, almost in disbelief, before a laugh slipped from her lips. "Jesus, that's worse than death. That's what she deserves."

"Why does she still have your number? You escaped, why would you want any connections to her or-or that place?"

She sighed. "It's...complicated."

"Then uncomplicate it for me."

When (Y/N) looked at him, there was no fear in her eyes. Not like most people who get this close to him, who know what he's done and have to deal with him after the fact. Instead, he saw sadness. And with it, any ounce of anger that was growing in him evaporated.

"I didn't escape, I made a deal with Barbara and Vogulbaum. I told them either they let me go and stop trying to train me and make me into their next Supe princess, or the second they let me leave the facility and put me on camera I would reveal everything those people did to us. And then...and then I'd kill myself on live television so the world knew what Vought did to us."

Homelander watched her as she took a sip of her wine. Well, a gulp more like it. She finished the contents of her glass and reached for the bottle to get herself more. He reached for his own glass and swallowed it all in two gulps. He winced at the taste and suddenly was glad he never drank before.

(Y/N) started to refill his glass when he asked, "Why didn't you take me?"

She paused. He could hear her heart rate picking up, and he could see the tears welling in her eyes.

"They wouldn't - " she started, but choked on her tears. She cleared her throat and tried again. "They wouldn't let me. I tried to negotiate it with Barbara, but she said no, and she said even if she agreed Vogelbaum never would. She said the deal was only me, and if I didn't take it then...then that was it. I had to stay, continue all the training and...experiments. Neither one of us would ever get out if I agreed to that, so...I took their deal. They rushed me out in the middle of the night so that you wouldn't know, blindfolded me so that I wouldn't know where the facility was, and then dropped me in the middle of nowhere to fend for myself. I was hitchhiking for hours when this family drove past and found me."

"What did you tell them?" Homelander asked.

"I lied and said I had no idea what happened to me. I said bad people took me and I couldn't remember who they were or where I came from. Only that I remembered my first name, the only name that Barbara gave me. They looked into missing persons and couldn't find me anywhere here or in any other state. So - "

"They took you in," he finished. "They fostered you."

(Y/N) nodded. "They wanted to adopt me officially, but that's a whole process. They became like my family anyways. Like I said, I'm still in contact with them."

"Do they know you have powers?"

She shook her head. "I haven't used my powers since I got out of there. Not on purpose, anyways. There's always the odd slip up, but that's bound to happen."

Everything she said just resulted in more questions in his head. He wanted to ask her why she never disclosed to her "family" that she had powers, but he figured the answer to that was pretty simple: she wanted to be normal.

But she's not normal. She's never been normal. She was made to be a God, like me.

Instead of saying that, he said, "You never...called. Or came by the tower or...anything. You never tried to contact me."

"I did once, remember? When you asked me to be in The Seven."

Oh, he remembered. It was just after Lamplighter had announced his intention to leave, before they put out a nation wide search for a new member that resulted in Starlight joining the team. He asked Stillwell to wait on putting out word on a search because he had someone he wanted to ask first. Reluctantly, he turned to Vogelbaum, because he knew they must've had an idea of where (Y/N) ended up. Even when he thought she had just escaped, he knew they never would've let her truly be free of them. He asked Vogelbaum to send her a message: "Please come join The Seven. It would mean the world to me if you did."

Almost immediately, Vogelbaum called the tower to let Homelander know she had responded. "She said I'm sorry, but I can't."

He was locked in his room for days after that.

Now, he scoffed at her bringing up that memory. "That's not trying to contact me. That's responded to me trying to contact you, and having to go through Vogelbaum of all people to do it. You basically fell off the face of the Earth to me, but I was readily available to you if you ever gave enough of a fuck to reach out."

"You think I didn't care?!" (Y/N) snapped, standing from the couch. "You think I wasn't thinking of you every second after I got out of that hell hole?! That I wasn't trying for years to figure out where the hell they had you hidden so I could come save you, too? I tried everything John! I looked everywhere that I could, but I was too late. They were already parading you around on TV as the next Soldier Boy! The second they announced you'd be the leader of The Seven, I knew I was too late. They had already corrupted you too much, you were already another Supe pawn in Vought's attempts at global domination. I couldn't handle that. I couldn't try to pry you away from that when I knew you would never leave the spotlight. How could you? You're the world's greatest superhero, you had everyone at your feet. And I was just the girl who ran away from that life and stopped using her powers. How could you ever choose me over that?"

"I would've chosen you every time!" Homelander snapped back, getting to his feet as well to stand over her. "That's why I asked you to join The Seven!"

"But that's not what I wanted, John! I didn't want to be a hero. If I took you up on your offer, I would be letting Barbara and Vogelbaum and all of those other fuckers win. I just wanted to be normal! I wanted me and you to be normal!"

"But we're not fucking normal!"

Tears were running down her face as she backed away from him. He realized then that he was crying, too. So much built up emotion between the two of them was finally coming out. They both needed it, but goddamn, Homelander felt his heart breaking all over again.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea.

Suddenly, (Y/N) was throwing herself at him. Her arms were around his neck, holding onto him for dear life, and her lips were on his. He was surprised at first, but quickly wrapped his arms around her to hold her to him. He could taste the salt of their tears mixed with the wine they had been drinking. It was messy and far from the perfect kiss, but neither of them cared. It was the cultivation of years of emotions between them.

(Y/N) pulled away first. She rested her forehead against his, looking into his bright blue eyes. "I can't be your perfect Supe counterpart. I can't be a Supe, John, you have to understand that."

"I do," he said. "Whatever you need, I won't push you. I just want you back."

"You can have me," she said, her voice a whisper but he could still hear her plain as day. "You always had me."

He leaned in to kiss her again, picking her up in his arms as he did so. He never wanted to let her go again, so he wouldn't.

[themeraldee]

The Lucky Winner

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 8.5k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Pre-season 1. Voice kink. Oral sex. Unprotected sex.

Summary: You're a huge fan of Homelander but you always feel too awkward to ever meet your hero at a meet & greet or similar events. Your friends enter you into a Vought competition, where you've got a chance to win a phone call from Homelander himself.  

Author’s Note: My first Homelander fic! Also, this is the first time I’m publishing my work. Obligatory English isn’t my first language so apologies if there are any strange turns of phrase but I happily take on criticism so feel free to correct me. I want to get better! I’m also not very good with sticking to the right tense. This is very self-indulgent so read with caution. 

You can’t decide whether to hug or strangle your friends. They’re trying to be nice, you get that. But this goes against everything you’d ever do! Lovely as they are, they’ve entered you into a competition to meet your hero. To meet Homelander. The thought alone makes your head spin, your heart pound and stomach twist on itself.

‘It was just 20 bucks, what’s the worst that can happen? You win?’ Reads your friend’s message. You roll your eyes, hearing the teasing tone in your head. They know about your not-so-hidden obsession and at the end of the day they just wanted to brighten their friends day.

And sure, you are a fan. Okay, fine. You’re a big fan. Obsessed even. Every-wall-of-your-bedroom adorned-with-posters-and-promotional-materials obsessed. But you don’t want to appear like that. Last thing you’d want to come across as to your idol, you hero, is an annoying screeching fan begging for his attention.

You don’t want to be part of the crowds pawing at him, inching as close as they can just to graze his uniform with their fingertips. You don’t want to look like a feral fan. You have manners. You don’t want to be just another face, just another adoring fan begging for him to look your way. It’s hard to admit to yourself that you’ll never be more than a fan. So you don’t go to meet & greets. You don’t go to premieres. You don’t pay exorbitant fees just to meet your hero.

You’re a romantic at heart. You always imagine the first meeting to be one for the books. Maybe he saves you from a burning building flying you down, his stars and stripes billowing in the wind as he looks at you with concern etched into his handsome face, his piercing blue eyes scanning you for injuries as he talks to you with a soothing rumbling tone that sends shivers down your spine. You can clearly imagine him going, Are you okay miss?, as he descends to the ground. Or you just happen to bump into each other but he catches you with his strong arms and fast reflexes and just like that it’s love at first sight. Scenarios after scenarios. All varieties of ‘meet-cute’s play in your head on a daily basis. You spend your time getting lost in your head, dreaming of the day when it will be your turn to be the protagonist of the story. When will you be the damsel in distress? But you sigh and move on with life, because this isn’t a romance novel.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself (and others) when people ask you why you haven't tried to meet your hero. 

Oh I just don’t want to be a weird obsessive fan. Plus it’s expensive!

Meeting heroes is technically easy. Vought gives people many opportunities to see their heroes for a pretty penny. They parade their heroes around like exotic animals in a zoo on a daily basis. 

For you the reality is that you simply can’t handle seeing your hero up close and personal, let alone talk to him. How are you not meant to get flustered in front of what you considered to be perfection? How are you meant to find your words or even come up with words worthy of being uttered in his presence? You’re meant to look into his eyes, tell him how much of a fan you are and not fluster and burst into tears from the anxiety coiling in your gut as you wait your turn? 

You don’t want that. You don’t want to be just another babbling fan. You want to stand out. You want him to remember you. You want him to think about you.  But you’re also a realist and you know that at most he’ll think you just another annoying fangirl if he even grants you a passing thought. So you spare yourself those hurt feelings and you avoid meet & greets, you avoid all the fan-targeted conventions, events, promotional campaigns or competitions. 

Or you always have. Until now it seems. You again scroll up in the group chat where your friends surprised you with an entry to the newest competition Vought advertised. It was presented as a fundraiser. All proceeds are planned to be donated to Samaritan’s Embrace. A simple $20 entry that would grant you a chance to be one of five lucky winners to get a personal phone call from Homelander. 

A fat chance of that, you thought when you first saw the competition announced on both Vought’s and Homelander’s twitter accounts. With a competition that invites Homelander's country-wide fanbase, there really is no chance of you winning. You half-comfort yourself with that thought. You don’t know where you’d even start should you win. Part of you thinks that maybe ‘meeting’ him over the phone could be bearable as he wouldn’t be able to witness just how badly you’re holding it together.

But then you think back to all the videos you’ve watched. The reels and the tiktoks you’ve saved. The podcasts and interviews that at this point you play almost religiously. He's perfect in every way but you're particularly fond of his voice just rumbling in your ear when it gets nice and low as he talks in lengths about the upcoming movie or his most recent save. A while back you bought yourself a decent set of noise-cancelling headphones with great audio quality and suddenly it felt like he was right behind you just purring into your ears. Very few interviews record with good enough microphones to capture how mesmerising his voice is but those that do get saved and played on repeat sending shivers down your spine, following you to bed and invading your dreams. So no, maybe a phone call wouldn’t make the experience any easier on your poor heart. 

You calm down after the initial panic reaffirming yourself with the reality where there’s no chance that you’ll get picked anyway. You text your friends again, kindly thanking them for thinking of you as you shook your head with an amused smile. That’s that done and forgotten about.

Or so you think. Few weeks down the line the mental discourse has long left your mind. The conversation moves on and your friends don’t mention anything since. That’s why it’s no surprise when you pick up the unknown call after the third ring with ease, casually answering with, “Hello, Y/N speaking.” 

Homelander looks through the list of winners Ashley brought to his desk with a scowl on his face. He’s grumpy, having to jump through everyone’s hoops is grating on him, slowly chipping away at his showmanship armour. This is just another nail in the coffin. Now he has to make private phone calls?

He wants to be revered, loved. With people bending over backwards just to get his attention. Sure, that’s right up his alley. Get the crowds to scream his name, be grateful for his divine presence. What he isn’t a fan of is making others think they’re special. He’s the special one. Where does Vought get off thinking that he’s got the time to call and visit his fans one-on-one.

He rolls his eyes looking through the unimpressive line-up that Vought carefully curated. One of each demographic, trying to hit all the targets Vought wants him to improve his numbers with.

Each candidate has a sheet of talking points assigned to them, things to highlight, mention or even promote to each one of the fans. Normally Homelander would throw Vought’s carefully crafted response straight back to their faces but right now he’s not in the slightest interested in being clever or the fans' idea of ‘authentic’ so he’d rather rattle off a few lines from a curated list of party lines. At the end of the day he doesn’t care for this. Talking to five individual fans doesn’t help him in the grand scheme of things. This isn’t happening in public, there’s no one here to witness his generosity. Nobody to witness a god, looking down and gracing his followers with his benevolence.

Vought believes the individual approach will be worth it in the long run. That apparently fans will come running to any future events and competitions seeing as real people they might know have won in the past. All Homelander sees is at most five twitter mentions from a few nobodys.

He’s got about an hour in the calendar to get through all of these. Though he's banking on this taking a lot less time. There are many more important things he could be doing instead. 

He flips through the files again, each profile is filled out with a name, number and a photo, deciding on the least painful order. A young boy, an elderly woman, a middle aged comic enthusiast, some punk teenager and you. Homelander looks at your profile with mild interest. You’re the only one who Vought didn’t manage to find a good quality recent photo of. Clearly you don’t do social media. Yet the quality doesn’t take away from the intrigue your profile inspired. You’re easily the most interesting in the list but that’s not that hard to do. Still, Homelander puts yours at the end of the list. Saving the best for last.

“Hellooo and congratulations! This is Homelander and you’re one of the few lucky cookies who get to have a little chit chat with me.” All air gets sucked out of your lungs and the ease with which you picked up the phone is gone. Your eyes widen, breath caught in your throat only coming out in confused little stutters. This isn’t real. It can’t be!

Whether it’s a particularly vivid dream or your world is actually turning upside down you’re glad this happened at home. Your knees buckle, your ass landing straight on your bed, your legs trembling with nervous energy as you sit down.

“W-what?” You manage to blurt out, more breathy than not. Your heart is pounding like never before. You wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it over the phone, it feels loud to your ears.

“The competition? You entered, right?” His voice. His fucking voice was right in your ear and you felt like melting into a puddle of goo. Anything to spare you the embarrassing words that are surely about to come out of your mouth one way or another.

“Oh… um…” You are blowing it. There’s no other word for it. Totally embarrassing yourself. Not able to say a word, still trying to calm your heart down.

“Are you not a fan? Have I got the wrong number–?”

“N-no no! No…I mean yes. I mean sorry…fuck.” You are totally losing it. The hand holding your phone is shaking with nervous energy. 

“Hey hey hey…. Come on now. Take it easy. Now take a deep breath aaand relax.” His voice is rich and sweet like honey, just like you’ve heard on TV but here it feels intimate. Just for you. He’s not talking to anybody else. As he hears your stuttered intake of breath and a mildly calmed exhale he coos again. “That’s it. Breathe with me. Now in.” If only he knew that this is making things so much worse for you. “And out.” 

“I’m so sorry. I meant to say, I am a fan but I don’t do this.” Your voice still trembles with each word but you’re a little more composed. 

“What? Call people?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, he's clearly pleased with his little joke. 

“No.” You can’t help yourself but chuckle, your lips spreading in a wide grin. Your heart is still pounding but it’s more excitement than embarrassment. You’re actually talking to Homelander. And you have already embarrassed yourself beyond belief but he’s still here! He’s still talking to you. He doesn’t even sound upset. “I mean I don’t meet you guys. Heroes. I don’t really know how to do this. I mean I pretty much live on your doorstep and I’ve never met either one of you.” Now that he calmed you down, getting you talking, you can’t stop talking. 

“Really? Some fan you are.” Were you of a sound mind you’d hear the joke but now all you could think is that you’ve upset him. And you can’t have him think that. Sure you’ve always wanted to stand out but not in a negative way! You take it to heart and you apologize.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to offend. At all! Really! It’s just, you don’t need another person begging for an autograph that they can brag with to their friends or sell online for a quick buck.” 

He exhales a little breathy laugh that has your whole body flush hot. “Oh, aren’t you adorable.” The panic that was inflating in you like a hot air balloon finally fizzled out. Instead it’s replaced by a throbbing heat in between your legs and you place your free hand over your heart, almost trying to will your body into behaving normally. “You know if you want I can send you some, would be a shame for such a sweet fan to not have anything personalised. I’ll sign it with your name.” He offers, a nice gesture, really, but you are currently having a whole body meltdown to even appreciate it for what it was.

“O-oh,that isn’t—You don’t have to—” 

He continues nonetheless. 

“Y/N, is it? Beautiful name.” Your name rolls off his tongue perfectly, all soothing and sweet. And there you go, melting into a puddle just for him. 

“You don’t have to be nervous. I don’t bite. At least, not over the phone.” You let your hand trail down your body. He’s just talking. He’s just making jokes. He’s just trying to strike up a conversation to make such a freaked out fan of his a little calmer and there you are getting your rocks off on this. 

“Sorry. It’s hard not to be. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long while. I didn’t expect I’d ever get to talk to you. It’s kind of you to do things like this for us fans. I’m sure you’re busy. Thank you for taking the time.” You distract yourself from the throbbing that’s just calling for your hand to settle heavily in between your shaking thighs. 

“Oh no problem. Wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for all my loyal fans, right?” You should really stop moving your hand down your body. But you can’t help the effect he has on you, you’re not acting normal! 

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s the fame that makes you special. It’s you.” You breathe you all dreamy before realising this isn’t just one of your fantasies. No. You really are talking to Homelander. You cough a little, pretending like you had something stuck in your throat. 

“It is?”

“I think so. Change into civilian clothing and I’m sure you’ll still be turning heads.” You speak normally now but you bite your lip at the end, your hand now just above your pubic bone. 

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this plenty.” Oh, of course you have. Your body is screaming at you to take the plunge, to slip your hand down your panties, and make yourself feel like this is more than just a friendly fan call. But your mind is, correctly, telling you that this is beyond inappropriate. 

“Ah no! I just mean that you’re perfect at what you do. There’s nobody like you. Noone could take your spot. So it’s more than just fans.” You’re surprised you’re still carrying on. You feel like your brain is turning into mush with each word he’s saying. 

“What can I say? I take my job very seriously.” He goes on to talk about being a leader of the Seven, you guess he’s just trying to fill space seeing as you’re such a blubbering mess. Even with all his efforts at making this normal, your brain turns all the innocent words into the filthiest dirty talk.

“Look, I’d love to talk to you some more but I’m afraid I’ll have to end it there. I’m late for a talk show interview.” You retract your hand as if it got burnt and instead you grab onto the comforter you’re sitting on, stopping yourself from doing anything impulsive. 

“O-of course.” Your heart rate is elevated again, something about the thought of him leaving and you never getting the chance to speak to him again makes you want to scream. 

“Tell you what, I don’t want to be unfair to you. You hardly got your prize. I’ll call you later. You free in the evening?” 

“Y-yes.”

“Perfect.” 

Perfect. You’re fucking perfect. Homelander can’t stop the way his lips stretch into a predatory grin. You are exactly what a fan should be like. Swooning over him. Grateful that he’s even bothering to grace you with his presence. You were practically kneeling, bent over before him on the floor, kissing his feet as he gave you a taste of his divine presence. He has half a mind to take care of the uncomfortable hard-on pressing into his rigid suit. He couldn’t help himself when you were being such a sweet little thing. He feels no remorse at having rubbed himself through his suit as you were there on the other side of the phone, undeniably shaking in excitement, all flustered and tense and most certainly aroused. But no, he wants to wait his turn. He needs the real thing. He’s not planning on letting you go that easy.

Originally he was pissed that most of his time on the phone was taken up by the elderly woman who was talking his ear off. Now he’s thinking about sending her a gift basket. He has a real excuse to see you. 

When Homelander wants something he’s like a hunter, doing everything he can to lure his prey into his trap. In this case he abuses his powers to get the Crime Analytics team to dig up your address and in the meanwhile he sits through a mind-numbingly boring interview at a low-tier talk show he really shouldn’t need to waste his time on. 

The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that you might be watching. You seem like a big fan. You surely wouldn’t dare miss out on his live appearances. The thought alone gives him enough drive to not laser through the talk show host everytime she asks a stupid question and instead he imagines he’s speaking straight to you.

When the show is over he takes off before his team can steer him towards another boring chore. No, he has more pressing matters to attend to. Like any good predator he observes. He waits until it’s the right time to strike. That’s why he’s perched at the top of the building that’s opposite yours. He’s got a clear line of sight to your apartment but he’s careful in making sure you can’t see him. 

He watches, his grin reappearing every damn time he sees you reach your phone, checking if your ringer is on for the tenth time. You are an easy target, he can swoop in anytime and sweep you off your feet but he wants it to be perfect. With sick fascination he keeps watching you, your behaviours and patterns as you pace around your room trying to preoccupy your mind with mindless thoughts. He knows that nothing you do can now fill the void that he left behind. What else can replace the purr of his voice in your ear, soothing and exciting you at the same time. Nothing. There’s nobody like him. You said it yourself.

An hour of self-indulgent watching later he decides to end your misery. You just look so upset and disappointed and he knows you’ll just melt in his presence. He needs to be close to you. He got a little sprinkle of what you're like over the phone and now he’s got a craving for the real thing. He needs to feel you, smell you, hear your poor heart trying to keep up with the excitement right in his ear.

So with a quick drop he descends.

The day has gone by torturously slow for you. You spend every minute checking your phone in case your ringer randomly fails you and you won’t catch the second call from Homelander. Just thinking that makes your thighs quiver. The thought of having him purr into your ear any longer wets your panties all over again. But over the coming hours your enthusiasm deflates. It’s getting late and your chances of ever getting a call back are low. 

You emerge from the bathroom, fresh and clean, in your pyjamas ready to sleep today’s rollercoaster of emotions away. Or you would be if it wasn’t for a knock at your balcony door interrupting your thoughts and making you flinch in surprise. The flash of red and blue still so vibrant and colourful against the midnight sky has your breath catching in your throat. What the fuck?!

You open the balcony door in shock, and if you had the strength to do so you would have ripped it off its hinges with pure eagerness. There he is in all his patriotic glory. Homelander. A wide grin on his face, posture ramrod straight as he clasps his gloved hands behind his back, puffing his chest out.

“H-Homelander?!” Your voice quivers at the proximity, your heart picks up speed again and you feel your entire body flush both in embarrassment and excitement. Your first thought goes to how you currently look rather than questioning his motives or how he even found where you live in the first place. 

Trying to regain your composure you shake your head, blinking as if he was just a figment of your imagination. Maybe your devout obsession with him is finally damaging your mental state, making you hallucinate.

“Good evening, Y/N.” God, how does he do that! The way your name slips off his tongue so easily, with such familiarity makes you clench and part your lips with a gasp. Any sort of composure you’ve regained crumbling to dust. Now you are just awkwardly gawking, in awe at the unreal figure in front of you, in the flesh. Homelander doesn’t wait to be invited in, strutting into your modest apartment like it belongs to him, the confident strides of his red boots loud and heavy against the creaky floor of your apartment. He takes up the living space confidently, somehow making you feel like you don't belong in your own space. His presence took priority, anything else secondary—you included. 

“How did you—” Your question of how he found where you live doesn’t even get fully asked, let alone answered. He cuts in, not actually caring about your justified worry over having your address handed out willy-nilly. 

“Our call was a bit too short to my liking. You don’t mind a little late-night visit, do you?” You feel disarmed. His voice turns gravelly, lowering with each word. His tone teasing as if he was telling you a secret, so unlike his television persona where he’s all American apple pie values and open arms with clear intentions. Here, he grinned widely—all teeth with his sharp canines bared to you like the predator he is. Like you’re his next meal. “Ohohoo, would you look at this. Maybe you are my biggest fan, huh?” 

You are distracted by his voice, his presence, just him that you fail to notice his eyes wandering around your apartment. Your face flushes red in embarrassment as you see him assessing your safe space, or what felt like your safe space before this ambush, all with an amused grin on his face. 

“These are all limited edition. Must have cost you a small fortune.” Holding a breath you watch him take his gloves off one by one, placing the leather on your table with a soft thwack. It feels forbidden, not meant for your eyes. The public doesn’t get to see Homelander as anything other than perfect. His image manicured, perfected to the tiniest details. Seeing his surprisingly elegant bare hands, this up close feels intimate yet threatening like he’s unsheathed his sword, revealing one of the many hidden weapons he can use against you. 

You watch as he brushes his fingers against limited edition action figurines, box sets, posters and trinkets featuring his likeness or the logo emblem Vought associates with him. If it was anyone else you’d tell them to keep their paws away from your most prized possessions but it's Homelander. Who else gets the right to touch special limited edition merchandise of his own likeness? 

You watch as he paces the room with an unreadable expression. The embarrassment you feel transforms into an apology, heavy on your tongue as you force your mouth open, letting your shame out into the world. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.

“I-I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” He turns his head over his shoulder with a curious expression. A swoop of his blonde hair handsomely falling into his face. He puts down one of the figurines he picked up earlier as he scouted the area. 

“All this stuff.” You wave your hand around, the grand display of what can only be described as the Church of Homelander, a shrine dedicated to his divine existence. You see how it looks, how it makes you look like a rabid fan. Though you’re anything but. “I know it’s a little strange. I don’t want to make you feel like a museum piece. Or-or-or a circus animal! I just admire you. A lot.”

“You do?” 

“I do.” Your breath catches in your throat as he turns around fully, facing you head on, one slow step inching towards you at a time. You gulp, feeling like you’re left in the dark regarding his intentions as you hopelessly struggle to read him. On the opposite spectrum you’re there, an open book, your heart on your sleeve, your every thought written so clearly on your face you may as well give him your diary to flip through. “More than anything.” Breathlessly you add, meeting his eyes as a challenge. You’re devout, as loyal as it gets. You’d do anything for him if he asked.

Homelander rises to your mental challenge with a grin so sharp you feel the metaphorical bite coming before he even opens his mouth as he steps closer. He’s so close now. Any ordinary man could feel the thud of your heartbeat, but to his keen senses it’s a war drum and he’s marching to a battle he’s already won. His bare, elegant hands make their way to your jaw caressing it with a surprising gentleness. You flinch. Even though you watched it happen with wide eyes, you didn’t expect his hands to leave you unmarred. You almost expect your skin to sizzle, unworthy of his divine touch.  

Homelander’s grin disappears, his tongue gliding along his teeth as if he’s cleaning them before he devours his next meal. All that leaves you is a little whimper before he pulls you in, his hands thrumming with incomprehensible strength as he kisses you. He kisses the air out of your lungs as if you could survive without it like he can. As if you could meet him in the middle. But dammit you do your best to. He’s a passionate kisser, incapable of sticking to soft kisses. No, he devours. He licks your lips open, his tongue gliding along yours. You brace your hands against his chest, already feeling weak in the knees. The heat of his breath and the wetness of his tongue in your mouth is nothing compared to how hot and wet you feel in your panties.

It doesn’t help that he’s vocal. You kiss him harder anytime he growls or moans into your lips, his voice vibrating against your lips just possessing you more. And soon it turns into a game of who can dish it out harder. Each devoted kiss makes him hum and purr which in turn melts you into a pile of goo, making you kiss him harder. Your lips feel hot, swollen from the ferocious kissing. You’re nearing the limit of what your lungs can manage without resurfacing for air.

Homelander pulls away but he doesn’t give you any time to recover. As if you could. How do you recover from that? Instead he’s adamant about making your heartbeat hit record heights. His hands glide down your body, featherlight touches that make your skin break out into goosebumps as he settles on your hips, trailing the waistband of your pants. His pink wet lips spread into another predatory smile and before you know it he leans closer to your ear, practically purring, “Tell me, if I take these off will I find you wearing Homelander panties too?” 

Flustered squeak escapes you as he laughs wholeheartedly at your embarrassment. You know he knows. He’s teasing you for a reason. “They’re comfortable.” You eventually grumble, pouting like a child getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I bet they are.” He sinks down to one knee, his hands taking the waistband of your pants with him as he pulls them down over your thighs, letting the fabric pool by your ankles. He pats your ankle, prompting you to step out of them. You comply, kicking the fabric away earning a little word of praise from him. “Attagirl.” You’re visibly trembling as he kneels in front of you, his eyes locked on the sight of your blue panties with his emblem and name right across the middle in gold, all accentuated by a red trim. It would be far from sexy in any other circumstance but he purrs at the sight. All pleased like the cat that got the cream. “Got my name across your pussy all day long?” 

Before you could react like any other person would, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. You yelp, losing your balance trying to grab onto his head or shoulders for support but he puts his arm on your back, sliding it right under your top keeping you straight and secure whether you want it or not. You’re not leaving until he says so. “Might as well fucking taste it seeing as it’s already mine, don’t you think?” He gives you a hungry look licking his lips before hoisting your other leg over his shoulder, standing up with ease. He walks you back against a wall as he eagerly inhales the scent of you, his head perfectly in between your warm thighs. 

“Woah!” You stabilise yourself, finally having more surface to lean against. The fabric of your top glides along the surface of the glossy posters he has you pressed against. Making you the centerpiece, surrounding you with his likeness. You finally process what the fuck is happening as you feel his nose pressing into the soaked fabric of your panties. “Homelander! Y-you….ohh…” You whimper, your hands automatically finding comfort and safety in between his golden locks. 

“Fuck you smell good.” Homelander growls, his hands now on your ass, holding you in place as he sticks his tongue out, pressing it wetly over your soaked panties. The taste of you already coating all his taste buds.

“O-oh fffuuck. OH god…yes…yes please.” You don’t stop yourself from moaning freely, the time for embarrassment long gone as Homelander lifts one hand from your ass, impatiently pulling the fabric of your Homelander panties to the side, his tongue already slipping in for a taste before his hand even makes it back to squeeze your ass. “Taste just as fucking good.” His voice strained, uttering filth in between your thighs.

His thick tongue pushes through the slit of your weeping pussy, lapping up what you’ve so graciously prepared just for him. And as you watch a mop of blonde hair greedily slurp at your wetness like he’s parched, you think back to the fantasies that drove you to orgasm after orgasm as the imaginary Homelander ate your pussy. 

Well, for one the real thing is a lot more enthusiastic than you ever imagined him to be. He is sucking on your clit in rhythm that has you throb harder, making your toes curl. “Ohhh, Homelander!” You reward him with a loud moan of his name, like a prayer on your lips. And you repeat it with each masterful lick around your clit that has you squirming in his hold, legs quivering around his head, fingers tugging at his hair.

The second thing you never considered was how much his powers would come into play. Here he is with a deathly strong iron grip around your ass, easily holding you up on his shoulders against the wall while pushing you as close into his face as he can. The thought of not being able to escape his grip exhilarates you as much as it terrifies you. His lack of need for air makes him a perfect devout lover. Because this is pure devotion except it seems he forgot who was meant to worship who.

You’d be embarrassed by the obscene sounds you two are making if it didn’t feel so good. You moan for him prettily as he licks up all the wetness he’s coaxing out of you. You breath hitches as you feel your orgasm building. He's consistent, giving you just the right pressure. Homelander looks up at you, eyes glassy and blown back with lust before he swiftly repositions you, needing just one arm to make you feel weightless yet secure in his hold as he takes his free hand plunging two fingers into you revelling in the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.

“Oh there there there! Ahhh!” You guide him, his fingers pumping into you and with his tongue still working magic on your clit you whimper out, “oh fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna–.” You fall apart in his arms, cumming on Homelander’s tongue like you’ve imagined many times over. With you thrashing around you rip the poster right behind you unaware of the mess you’re leaving behind. He licks you through the waves crashing through you. He’s smug, you can feel the smirk against your pussy as he gives it one more kiss before easily slipping you off his shoulders, preening with satisfaction. “Mhmm you did so good.” His voice purred and even in your post-orgasm haze you flush with fresh heat at the praise.

He gives you time to compose yourself but you don’t want it. You want him. You need him. Your legs feel like jelly so you immediately sink to your knees, nuzzling your face into his crotch. Too eager to wait. Homelander cooed at your enthusiasm, “Look at that. Didn’t even have to tell you.” He chuckles, voice thick with lust, his lips and chin still glistening from the way he feasted on you.

Wobbly and out of your mind, you reach for his belt, unable to figure out how to unclasp it, your dexterity not quite there either to be able to wiggle the hem of his pants underneath it and pull them down.

You look up at him with the face of a kitten that’s not getting what it wants. Pouting and pleading for help. 

“Christ, let me help you with that.” Homelander unclasps his belt, letting it hit the floor with a loud and heavy clang and the thought of it denting the cheap flooring doesn’t even graze your mind. He unzips his pants and the hiss alone makes your mouth water. He pushes his pants a little lower and you stare wide eyed at where his thematically red briefs are tented, his cock throbbing and leaking pre-cum into the thin fabric.

Okay, this you can do. Your hands slide up his thighs, getting a little feel of the bare skin of his thighs. Unmarred, smooth and hot. Your hand briefly squeezes around his cock through his briefs, forcing Homelander to hiss through his teeth. You pull down his briefs, bunching them down with the thick fabric of his suit. 

You try not to stare and drool but you’ve imagined his cock in your dreams and fantasies so many times that seeing it in real life just kind of blows your fucking mind. It’s perfect. A bit longer than average but especially nice and thick. You lick your lips in anticipation. His hand rests on the back of your head, giving your hair a tug.

“You gonna keep staring or will you put those pretty lips to work?” His gruff tone tears you from the haze. 

You blush, being caught staring. Wanting to please your hero you apologize, “sorry, it’s just so perfect. You’re perfect.” You breathe out in pure adoration. 

“Come on then, be a good girl and open up for your hero. I want my cock wet before I slide it into that needy pussy.” He looks down at you with a sharp smile, his other hand rests on your jaw before moving up squeezing the hollow of your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. Not that he has to, you’re more than willing to deliver. You open wider, making his hand withdraw as you take matter into your own hands. Literally. You grip the base of his cock, feeling how hefty and hot it feels. It hits you in that moment that you’re holding Homelander’s cock. Fuck. You’re gonna be dreaming of this moment for years to come.

You look up, giving him one more doe-eyed look before you stick your tongue out easing the swollen red head in between your lips. The salty, musky taste of his pre-cum on your tongue makes you whimper, your eyebrows furrow with concentration as you focus on banking the memory of his taste in your head. Eagerly you get right into it. Down and dirty. You focus on him, coating him with an ungodly amount of saliva until anytime you pop off him you’re followed by strings of it connecting you two. His grunts and heavy breaths just urge you to do better. So you take him deeper, slurping around the saliva you've made for him, bobbing your head up and down.

You nearly lose your rhythm when he lets out such a needy wanton moan, making your pussy throb.

“Thaaat’s it, come on—fuck!—deeper, yeah yeaahh you got it sweetheart. God fuck that’s fucking it.” He’s nearly whimpering, so lost in the sensation. And you're eating it up. Each whimper and word goes straight to your pussy and at this point you wouldn't be surprised if you were making a puddle on the floor.

His hand forces your head down deeper and you gag, choking around him as for a second your nose bumps the neat thatch of hair above his cock. He's not easily dissuaded and he pushes again, a little softer this time. You almost feel the tremble of his hands, he's so close to unravelling. Just for you. The swell of pride pushes you forward and you take him deeper. He takes the chance to push both hands into your hair as he starts fucking your face.

“Take it. Take it.” He grunts, his voice more and more broken with every thrust. You're just about to push his thighs back, attempting to fight against his unyielding force but his hips stutter and he groans, letting out broken moans as he spills on your tongue.

As if on command you swallow and he pulls out, wiping the residual dribbles of cum on your lips. Now that he’s done you realise just how fucking badly your jaw aches. You whimper at the ache of your jaw and the ache between your legs. 

You’re still kneeling on the floor, a picture of pure devotion, with your mouth messy and lips swollen. He grumbles at the picture in front of him. He pulls you up by your hair, kissing the taste of himself out of your lips. You can still taste your pussy on his lips and tongue as he shoves it into your mouth. “Bed?” He's somehow more than ready to continue and mentally you add his extraordinary refractory period to the list of his many talents. 

You nod a broken, “y-yeah, this way,” the taste of him still heavy on your tongue as you lead him to your bedroom.

He lets out a little chuckle at the state of your bedroom, just as decorated with his brand as was the rest of your apartment. “Fuck me, you really are my biggest fan.” 

You’re about to apologize, again, and he can read you like an open book already shushing you. “Shh, don’t say it. C’mere, take this off instead. Want to see you.” He tugs at your top, wanting you to take it off. Like unwrapping a present. You let out a few breathless ‘okay’s and pull the top over your head baring your entire body to him, save for the panties that were still uncomfortably pushed to the side. He clearly wants you to keep them on and you’re not sure whether that’s his narcissism or possessiveness talking. You don’t dare comment on the fact that he’s still fully dressed. You’re not gonna start demanding things from the Homelander now are you? 

With a step closer he purrs, pushing you to the bed intensely watching as your tits bounce when your back hits the comforter. He follows as he lays over the top of you but he doesn't look at you. He picks up the grimacing Homelander plushie he sees on your pillow— the one that's predominantly advertised to kids. He holds it up for you to see with a raised eyebrow, the look almost condescending. “What? They make no other official plushies!” You defend yourself. 

“Is there anything you don't have?” 

You don't know what possessed you to answer, “yeah, you,” but Homelander eats it right up as he grins at you.

“Cheeky slut. Well you're about to. On your side.” He says sliding off you to rest on his side looking you up and down hungrily. You’re clearly surprised at his choice of position and he grumbles with annoyance as you take forever to move the way he wants you to. His impatience gets the best of him and he effortlessly manipulates you to your side, slotting right behind you. Homelander grips your inner thigh lifting your leg a little higher, as he nestles his cock right against your wet cunt.

You sigh with partial relief, feeling him solid against you feels good. Feeling him inside you would feel even better. “Jesus, you're still so fucking wet.” 

“It's all your fault.” You whimper trying to wiggle in his unyielding hold. He just tuts at you gripping you tighter, cusping on pain.

He pulls you close, his cock sliding in between your slit, immediately getting the top of his cock wet. His lips trail up your jaw until he reaches your ear. He growls, low and sexy, nipping at the sensitive skin of your ear. Your heart skips a beat, your pussy throbs as the sound of him just ripples through you. 

“Maybe it is. You know, I've been thinking. You're such a nervous little thing.” He grinds his hips into you, dragging his cock back and forth, teasing you. His voice got quiet, dropping a register lower. All slow and drawled out he continues rumbling in your ear clearly aware of what it's doing to you. “You were beside yourself when I called you. So there I am thinking nobody gets that nervous, not unless they’re trying to hide how fucking turned on they are.” He keeps fucking talking and talking, making you shiver to the point where you feel goosebumps rise all over you. Your breath ragged, your eyes fluttering shut.

You're starting to understand why he was particular about this position. After all, he could read you like a book from the get go.

“At first I thought it was just me because you're such a big fan.” He coos in a condescending tone. He licks the outer edge of your ear and you shriek, thrashing in his uncompromising hold. “But no no nooo. It's not that. Because everytime I spoke, your heartbeat sped up. You know, I was worried about you there for a minute. Then there was your pussy. You get so wet the air is thick with it. I can't even fucking breathe without tasting your sweet cunt.” You let out a broken sound, close to a sob, you pussy throbbing so hard he must feel it even without being inside you. You didn't even consider that his senses can easily sniff your secret out.

He’s still rubbing his cock in between your folds, sliding the whole length of it up and down. It’s slick and loud and so good and holy shit your clit is burning from the way his head catches on it with every thrust. You're so close and your body is on fire. You so desperately want to cum with something inside you but he’s cruel. He's not gonna give it to you just yet. “And look at that, you're still getting wetter. They do say it's always the unassuming ones.” He chuckles into your ear, low and vibrating against you.

“Is that it? Do you get off to the sound of my voice? Do you watch videos of me, listening to interviews while you finger your little pussy?” He's going harder, the wet sound of your pussy slicking his way in between your slit is deafening, embarrassingly loud. “Tell me.” The little command growls in your ear and you force your lips open.

“Y-yes! Yes….I-I find your voice sexy.” You admit to your little shameful secret. You admit that one of the reasons you never met him was because you didn't want to get sopping wet in a crowd full of screaming fans. “Don't stop, please.” You moan out, quiet and broken, your embarrassment making way to pure pleasure. Now that it's out in the open, what is there to hide?

“Do you even care what I say? Huh? I could be reading out the fucking phone book and your pussy would still get wet. Greedy little thing. What’s it gonna be? You gonna cum to my voice or are you gonna be difficult?” You're burning hot, your body so so tense, the leg he's hitched up a little trembling against his strong grip. His cock is still hitting your clit in the perfect fucking way and you're so so so close. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop! Oh fuck, Homelander—don’t—ahhh!” The dam bursts, a wave of pleasure sweeping over you as you scream. Homelander pulls back and with one deft stroke he slides his cock inside you. He doesn't move. He growls at the feeling of your cunt just pulsing against him. He's so thick inside you, stretching you wide, filling every crevice. 

He whimpers and you feel how tense he is holding off the orgasm threatening to burst inside him.

Just as you think this must be the end of it, your mind just a buzzing noise, he pulls out moving back and he pushes you on your back. 

You never expected him to be so active in bed but he's already in between your legs, his hands clamping down on the clammy flesh of the back of your thighs and he spreads you open. He's on his knees, his hands slide and curl from the back of your thighs to the top as he pulls you in, slowly sliding his cock into you in one push. 

He doesn't wait for anything. He just fucks you. Hard and fast, really getting himself off more than you. Surrounded by posters and merch all carrying his likeness while he plunges into you again and again. Your hair is plastered to your forehead as you watch your hero utterly ruin you. You're sweaty, absolutely spent and tired while he's pushing into you without breaking a sweat. 

This round isn't for you yet it's gonna be a memory you'll frequent the most. The look on his face, pure lust and torture as he's fucking you with as much strength as he allows himself. 

With how he's got your hips propped up he's managing to hit all your best spots as your overstimulated nerves light up, giving him one last finish, your pussy’s quivers pushing him over the edge as well. 

Then there's a little hot spurt of him inside you but you're surprised when he pulls out shooting most of his load with a few strokes of his fist all over your panties and stomach. 

“Ahh fuck. Look at that, finally got your first autograph.” He snorts, amused, admiring the sight in front of him. His cum has already soaked into your panties, the ‘Homelander’ text changing into a darker colour as both his cum and your slick from the previous round drench the fabric. 

You flush hot red and you shake your head, amused by his antics. “That's disgusting.” But strangely, you're charmed. 

“I should take a picture. You look great like this.” 

He notes as he slides off your bed pulling his briefs over his finally softening cock, tucking himself back into his suit.

“Stay?” You say softly, offering him the space for his benefit more than yours. Even though you'd like him to stay for a cuddle you know you'll be out of it in a minute.

“Can't do I'm afraid, duty calls.” 

You nod, understanding. “Thank you, I really feel like a winner.” You snorted, thinking back to how the day even started.

He looks at you almost fondly, but your orgasm-hazy brain might just not be working anymore. 

“Until next time.” He says as a goodbye and you end up tucking yourself into bed. The last thing you hear is the click of his belt he picked up from the living room, the creak of the leather gloves he slides back on and the sonic boom of him flying away.

And you know that when you wake up if it wasn't for your ruined panties, your throbbing cunt or even the ripped poster in the living room you wouldn't believe any of it was real.

You sure hope there will be a next time.

[Part 2]

Taglist (you can add yourself to be notified anytime I publish a new Homelander story)

[rouguang]

i find diluc’s grief to be so realistic because when your family is torn apart and the closest confidant you have seemingly has lied to you your whole life and the very organization you used to believe stood for honor and protecting the people turns out to be slimy and wants to cover up their own mistakes which means there will be no answers or justice for your father... like of course he was so full of anger and pain for so long. the injustice and betrayal of everything he ever knew and believed in was more than he could handle. but it’s also so touching to me that now he is trying to see the good in life again and the beauty of his homeland. the hawk he carries is like a symbol of him finally looking up at the sky again, lifted up by the wind after so long burning alone

[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part IX)

Summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader

Word count: 2.3k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings for this chapter: some spoilers and references to S4 and Gen V, mentions of sex, mentions of kindaping, so much lying from these fuckers!!

Notes: idk who's still interested on this crap because my original drafts went to hell once S4 dropped (but also my fault i was waiting for that lol), anyway I'll try to be consistent with this is giving me nightmares i swear. thank you if you're still here 😭

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And if it wasn’t much worse, there he was still, lying down on the other side of the mattress, sleeping and snoring like a stray dog you just took in to protect him from the dangers of the night. Who would have thought? But you wanted this. You fell for it eventually. And you didn’t give a single shit about it, not yet. It was great, you had to admit that. In the end, Ben was right, he could fuck pretty good and could bark about that with good reasons.

Part IX: Nobody’s Business

Rolling on your side of the bed, your eyes fluttered open. There was a warmth coming from the mattress, one that you were not used to every time you woke up. That side always came up empty, but then your mind replayed the memories of last night's events. The small and soft light emanating from the window forced you to sit up abruptly, covering your breasts with the bed sheets. The clock told you it was almost 9 a.m.

But duties are duties, you told yourself, sitting down and reaching your phone on the nightstand. There were six missed calls from an unknown number; you were pretty sure who that was. With a scoff, you got on your feet and full in your naked glory, stepped out of the room, just taking your dress from the floor to put it on as best as you could while you heard the line from the other side.

“Oi, I’ve been calling you, answer the damn phone,” the British voice on the other side spit.

You grimaced, pulling the phone away as he yelled at you before speaking. “I had important things last night. Sorry for having a life,” you lied gracefully, making your way to the kitchen to boil some water for a tea. “Besides, since do you care? I barely fucking know you, so tell me what is it before I hung up.”

Butcher sighed from the other side of the line. “I need the kid back.”

“Ryan?”

“Yeah, and I need something for it. I don’t wanna force him, but tough times require even tougher methods…”

There was a silence coming from you, trying to process his words. Soldier Boy wanted the kid, Butcher wanted the kid, and Homelander of course wanted his fucking kid. You didn’t know who was the best for Ryan. Homelander was out of the league immediately, but maybe Butcher was the only sane motherfucker between them to take care of him. After all, he was his dead wife’s son.

“What do you want me to do? You’re not gonna kidnap him, right?” you asked, unsure of what would happen if you agreed to help Butcher on it.

“No, but don’t play innocent. Can imagine you have plenty of analgesics to take down an army, doctor.”

You pictured that fucked up smirk on his face at his words, and followed his game to see if you could get somewhere.

“And what do I get in exchange? I’m not giving anything for free.”

“Novichok. Put him to deep slumber and can test the strongest drug you have on Soldier Boy without getting killed,” he whispered over the phone, as if someone was hearing his words.

“Alright, deal,” you accepted, taking off a cup to pour your tea. “Send me the address and we can meet today. Just don’t mess with me, I don’t have enough arguments to trust you right now.”

“And I can respect that. Should be receiving it soon, darling.”

With those final words, Butcher hung up the call.

Your head felt spinning, as if something had crushed you so bad. Your body hurted, and you were sore. Probably you regretted it. Not because it wasn’t good, it was something else. What had happened between Ben and you wasn’t supposed to be. It just simply couldn’t. He was a killing machine you were just reaping, eventually discarding him when you took what you needed. However, the right time to test the Anti V prototype had yet to come. Sipping from your hot tea, you heard hard steps from the stairs, and for some reason, you were not prepared to face him the morning after.

“Ah, preparing my breakfast already, doll,” Ben said cheerfully, much to your liking, and approaching you as you faced your back to him.

His arms wrapped around your waist, and as much as you wanted to enjoy his touch, you pushed him away and turned on your feet to see his confused grin.

“First of all, good morning. And second, no. You can make yourself a sandwich,” you replied.

A smile appeared on your lips as his own slowly faded away.

“So, nothing for me, even if I made you feel so good with my cock?”

“God, you’re so gross…”

Ben snorted, leaning to give soft kisses on the skin of your neck as he whispered. “I don’t remember you complaining about it last night.”

As an impulse, you shut your eyes. His touch and lips over your sensitive skin were too intoxicated for you to react quickly and stop him. Ben took the cup of tea from your hand, putting it on the countertop; the place he fucked you so good the night before. He would kill to go again, with you beneath him, yearning and crying for his dick. Or maybe he’d fuck you in the couch before taking you to your bed, exactly like he did after you did it in the kitchen…

“Stop,” you said, pushing him away softly.

He did as you asked rapidly, licking his lips, and watching your lustful gaze intently. You wanted it as much as he did, but it wasn’t the right time.

“I’m still sore,” you continued. “And I have some stuff to do right now. I have to go.”

He nodded. “Right.”

To your surprise, Ben gave you some space and you stepped up, not before taking the cup and your phone between your hands again. You stopped, standing by his side for a moment.

“Maybe later?” you said, watching his face attentively.

That sleazy smirk curved on his lips. “Later.”

You walked away then, feeling his eyes over your figure. God, you were so fucking regretting offering yourself to him already for some reason.

You sat down on the dining table as he settled down a saucer and two cups of tea with a bowl of biscuits.

“It’s not necessary–”

“Nonsense, take it,” Butcher said, taking a seat in front of you.

He served you and him the tea with an elegance only a British man could ever have, not that you expected him to have that inside. Butcher was a soldier once, now an undercover agent whom you had no idea what to expect, besides the few things Grace had told you about him, but she wasn’t there. This meeting was hidden from everyone. Butcher crossed his arms on his chest, looking at you with an expression you could not decode. You were barely knowing him after all.

“I’m not trying to poison you,” he joked, taking his own cup to taste the tea.

“Well, thanks for your kindness,” you took the cup and sipped the warm drink. It was surprisingly good. “So, weren’t you after Victoria?” you asked, following the previous conversation you had with him before sitting down.

“Yeah, cunt’s indestructible,” he remarks. “Can’t do anything now, planning on just retiring and just leaving it all...”

“There’s a fucking outburst right now between Homelander’s cult and Starlight fanatics, Victoria is almost there along with Robert Singer at the White House. Why you wanna give up on that?”

“I’m not part of the team anymore,” Butcher confessed, taking you aback.

“Is that the reason you want Ryan back?”

He nodded and you sensed vulnerability coming from him. The tough facade, the immoral plans, the thirst for revenge for the fucker who screw up his life and made his wife’s a living hell… Even your own thirst for payback and burning Vought to the ground wasn’t as big as his own grief. After all, you were just another piece on the chessboard. Butcher saw you as one, and you did the same with him and Ben. You were just taking in things that would help you to reach your own, selfish goals. One can’t compete with that.

He coughed in the middle of the silence you shared, and you noticed there was a black liquid coming off one of his ears you have never seen.

“Are you okay?” you worriedly asked.

Butcher looked like he noticed your eyes staring at the side of his face and wiped up the substance with his finger, cleaning it up with a napkin.

“You stopped taking the temp V?” you insisted on his silence.

“Yeah, I fucking did, and then had it again. The true V this time, didn’t help. Just accelerated my own death,” Butcher seemed like he didn’t give a shit as he told you.

“Fuck, are you crazy?!” you exclaimed.

“Thought it’d save me, alright?!” he ranted. “Thought it could. So I could say I had more time with Ryan, but I don’t. That’s why you’re here. Do you have what I asked or not?”

Grumbling, with your jaw tight, you took from your jacket a small packet of white powder and tossed it on top of the table.

“A sedative. Will keep him asleep for days if you’re not careful,” you announced. “Give me the gas now.”

Butcher stood up abruptly, and searched for something in one of the kitchen cabinets. He took out a grey cylindrical vessel, similar to a fire extinguisher, and left it on the floor by your feet.

“There you have it,” he said, before taking his seat back.

You didn’t say ‘thank you’, neither did he, but Butcher dared to speak out again.

“Can you come when Ryan is here?”

“Excuse me? I don’t know the kid, I don’t see why I should be here.”

“Another secret is good enough for ya,” he insisted. His face was just as plain as yours.

You didn’t know what else to expect from him at this point, but you followed him up.

“And?”

“There’s something down Godolkin. A virus, created to exterminate supes,” he explained, leaning forward and whispering as if someone else could hear outside the walls. “If your cure ain’t working, maybe you could use some help from there.”

Ben emptied the last drawer in your room. There was fucking nothing. The only pleasure he took in from sniffing into your stuff was checking your underwear, from the most comfy cotton panties to the lingerie he’d love to see on you while he fucked your brains out. And then, nothing. Emptiness. No secrets, no files. Nothing.

Not caring of putting your stuff in place, he just tossed them into the drawer. If you were to indulge back there, you would certainly notice the mess. But he didn’t care if you did. He fucked you good, but that didn’t mean he trusted you. That’s why he spent the last hours of the day checking the whole place after you left him all alone and by himself. The past few days, he had spent checking everywhere to find a clue or something that could give you away easily.

Tired, Ben went down to the living room and checked between the bookshelves, only to find dust and old books he didn’t give a shit about. He scoffed to himself, and walked to the back of the room, where the aisle ended. The carpet felt different, as if another floor was down there. He knocked on the floor with his fist. He was right; there was another floor down the living room.

“What are you fucking hiding in here?” he mumbled to himself, his mind pulling the tricks of any stuff you could probably have down there.

He pulled the carpet away and found a small metal knob, unlocked. He opened it just to reveal stairs and he went down carefully. A heavy metal door stood in front of him, an electronic panel with numbers by the side. The walls were also made of the same material, and he tensed. It wasn’t a good sign. Before, he noticed you would sneak out of your room some nights. There was no other place you should be visiting but here.

He thought of breaking the door, but it wasn’t that subtle. There was a code to get inside, probably he could get it. It had to be something important for you, right? Shouldn’t be so difficult.

But he knew better than to continue playing this fucking game of hiding the thruth from him. Anger seized him in a second, thinking of endless possibilities this could be a hidden lab. You were a doctor after all, he knew what those cocksuckers were capable of. You were no exception.

He clenched his fists tightly, and heard in the distance the sound of your car. Ben quickly climbed the stairs and covered the door to the basement. The click of the door announced you were home and he made his way to the kitchen to take out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Once you stepped up, he poured the liquor. You left a couple of bags full with groceries on the kitchen counter as Ben gave you a dirty smile and offered the whiskey to you. It was his way of disguising what he really felt.

A quick fuck should do, he thought.

“So, later, right?” he said, taking a sip from his glass.

Immediately, you knew what those words meant.

“You’ve been waiting so long I see,” you smirked.

He pulled you closer with a single hand before claiming your lips in a harsh kiss. He smiled when you moaned against his tongue and he pulled away, this time his lips claiming the sensitive spot on your neck.

“And can’t wait any longer, sugar.”

this fic tags:

@k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @thesilmarillionblog @deans-spinster-witch @girlsforpjm @delaynew

[love-and-deepspace-fanfic]

Please pardon my rambling as I feel veey emotional after Rafayel’s recent release of “Summertime with You” so here’s a bit of my genuine and heartfelt reflection accompanied by the line:

"DO YOU REALLY THINK AN INFERNO UNDERNEATH THE WAVES CAN’T BE TURBULENT?"

This phrase carries multiple meanings, but to capture the essence of the sentiment, especially since LnD enjoy poetic language, I'll translate it in a way that aligns with the context:

"Do you believe that a fire raging beneath the waves could ever be calm?"

This line perfectly resonates with Rafayel's emotions, especially in his recent moments and those depicted in "Summertime."

The surface of the sea, before a storm, often appears peaceful—just like Rafayel’s demeanor when he's with us the one he loves.

From the serenity of staying indoors in the air-conditioned comfort, to the playful water fights, to his embarrassing expression when crab hunting with you, only to grow wilted and needing your support... Everything seemed ordinary, tranquil, and calm—just like the Rafayel we once knew, the side of himself he chose to show us.

But then, that quiet flame within him started to burn uncontrollably. And that fire represents his innermost feelings—his relentless longing for his family, his homeland, and the beloved bride he loves and yearns for.

This fire should have always been blazing, but he buried it deep within, so deep that no one could see it, except for those closest to him. And as we began to realize this, as we discovered what truly tormented him, it made him wondered: would we accept him? Would we after embracing that past, the past that only he once knew and experienced, are willing to be trapped as there will be no way back—to face with only one choice: to stay by his side forever?

For someone who respects others' opinions, our willingness to do so is what Rafayel anxiously longs for the most. And this anticipation made him want to hide his feelings. But that very fire also consumed him, stirred him, until we recently had chosen to dive deep into the ocean to discover that fire burning beneath, to touch the fire within bim and bring him comfort. That phrase above symbolizes the heartfelt intention he has long kept hidden...

He remains silent, not because he is ignorant, but because he has not yet had the opportunity to let his emotions surge. He fears that fire might consume us, hurt us, if we’re not willing. But the moment we take the initiative to ask, to come closer, to mark him, to understand him more and sink with him, he accepts... If we desire it, he will reveal the true power of that flame within, the flame that burns fiercely and uncontrollably, just for us...

And what happens after the storm? Of course, the skies clear, the waves gentle, and the breeze softly strokes our hair. Just like his feelings during the "Swan’s Oath," not just in the game, but even in real life, he believes that both he and we will live happily ever after in the way we both desire.

[noforkingclue]

Can Iake a request for homelander? I was thinking about how he sees humans as below him yet was created by humans. Maybe something fluffy (as fluffy as it can be with homelander lmao) where gets a crush on a human Vought employee because their funny and honest but also really blunt whenever he talks to her. Or if you think this one is better maybe homelander meeting a supe who's powers are like sirens from Greek mythology,(hypnotic voice, attractive aura, etc. ) Basically they can draw in people in a similar way that tomie from junji ito can, but isn't interested in entertaining men

Homelander: I want you to be part of the 7

Reader: how would that even work, am I just supposed to sex appeal them to death?🙄

So I chose the first one. I find the dynamic of Homelander and a human so fucking interesting.

Hope you like the fic :)

Title: Filth

Warnings: Homelander

Your voice was irritating.

Everywhere he went in Vought Tower, Homelander could hear it. Whether it was you providing update reports to fucking Ashley or laughing about something with those cunts you call friends. He thought that he could even hear your voice long after you had left the building.

He stormed through the building. Useless humans darted out of the way, not wanting to be trampled down while he was on his warpath. Why couldn’t he get you out of his head? You were just another useless human. Weak, pathetic, just another weak fucking insect. Something to crush under the sole of his boot.

But he didn’t want to.

You made some meaningless comment to your equally meaningless colleagues which somehow earnt you a round of laughter. Homelander’s eye twitched at the grating noise. It's all so human. One of those colleagues touched your arm and you leant into the touch. That did it.

Homelander turned around and marched towards you. Humans scuttled out of the way but not you. You didn’t shrink away. Instead you smiled brightly at him and Homelander glared at the colleagues around you. If he had his way, he would’ve burned holes into their head and fuck you over their mutilated bodies. Watch as the blood would soak into your clothes, as pieces of flesh and bone get tangled in your hair, watch as-

“Hello,” your bright voice snapped him out of his thoughts, “is there anything I can help you with, sir?”

Yes. He wanted you down on your knees. Looking up at him with those beautiful eyes. Covered in the blood of those humans who dared touch what was his. Instead he just beckoned you to follow him. He marched away, not bothering to see if you were following him. He could hear your footsteps and the steady beat of your heart. That was refreshing. You, unlike so much of the filth that surrounded you, weren’t afraid of him.

When the two of you were finally alone in a random office you were roughly shoved up against the wall. Homelander leant down, brushing his nose against yours, as he pressed his fingers roughly against your neck. He felt your heartbeat skip slightly as you swallowed thickly.

“I don’t frighten you.” he said

“Do you want me to be frightened?” you asked

His grip around your neck tightened and you winced slightly. Still, your heartbeat remained steady.

“I could kill you,” Homelander continued, “snap that pathetic neck of yours. Burn your eyes out. Rip your heart out of your chest.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“You’re still not frightened.”

“I’m not afraid of dying,” you said, with a soft smile, “it is one thing that must happen to us all.”

Homelander’s grip tightened and this time you did wince. He smiled at the action although there was no warmth behind it. He leant in close, brushing his nose against yours.

“You smell like them.” he practically snarled

You frowned but Homelander’s grip on you prevented you from speaking.

“Like filth,” he continued, “and I’m going to fucking change that. I don’t want to hear another fucking word out of your mouth.”

[darling-i-read-it]

Party Outfit

Homelander x supe!fem!reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: the reader basically dies, grief, maybe some ooc homelander, canon type violence (death/gore is descriptive), I think that’s it but please let me know if there are more! 

Author’s Note: I gotta admit, I struggled with this one a bit! I wasn’t sure how to start and it isn’t my best work so I may come back to it again later but I didn’t want to make you wait! I hope you enjoy it regardless love! Homelander is such a tricky dude. Love him though. He’s so crazy. I love that in a man. 

Requested by anon: May I request a slow burn homelander x superhero! Reader, who has basically super healing powers like wolverine, so she’s probably the third strongest compared to homelander and Maeve. Homelander and reader are friends, because reader is one of the few people who took the time to care about him enough to look past the mask, and isn’t afraid of him. Something happens in a fight with a new supervillain, who’s power weakens everyone else’s around them. Reader saves homelander from a kill shot, but is killed themselves, and homelander just shatters and breaks down sobbing and clutching their body, after killing the villain. The Seven don’t know what to do to make him let go of the reader’s body, when she suddenly coughs and gasps back to life, shocking everyone and especially herself. It seems reader’s healing ability is stronger than anyone ever thought.                                                        I feel like homelander would be the clingiest person after all of that, lol.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director/creator

(not my gif)

“Are you ready?” 

Your voice sounded suddenly very close. Homelander turned around and jumped a bit at the sight of you. You were standing just beside him in your ‘party’ outfit. Vought thought it was better if you had two costumes, one of ads and one for actual fighting. It allowed them to continue the belief that they were all in on feminism while also marketing off your more ‘easy on the eyes’ outfits. Homelander only had one. Sometimes he wanted to have two, just to get some sort of diversity. Plus, you looked oh so nice in your party outfit. 

“Yup!” he exclaimed. You smiled briefly, taking a deep breath. After he and Maeve had broken up in the public, everyone had been hoping the two of you would finally call it and start dating. It would be perfect. The two most powerful supes in The Seven, a sublime situation for marriage and kids. The perfect American dream with the perfect American boy. 

You knew Homelander though. You knew that wasn’t exactly who he was. 

You also knew that he was your friend. 

“Is the President gonna be there?” you questioned, adjusting your corset. You looked at yourself in the mirror of Homelander’s apartment. His practical penthouse had become like a second home to you. You even helped him decorate it with some things he liked. You had to veto the baby bottles on the fire mantle and he agreed, it was in poor taste. 

“Likely,” he admitted. 

“Well then I’ll hide behind you. That okay?” 

“Always.” 

“Did they tell you about that new guy causing a fuss? The guy they sent The Deep after?” He rolled his eyes. 

“I’m sure a lot of killing happened then and no octopuses were assaulted.” You scoffed. “No. What guy?” Usually he tried to stay in the loop but there was a lot going on. A lot being, so many superheroes and not nearly enough Homelander in his opinion. 

“Apparently he can weaken everyone else's power around him,” you observed. You stayed beside him, adjusting his cape. He looked down at it, observing you. 

“Well he hasn’t met me yet.” You hummed, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. You put your hand on his arm. 

“The car will be here soon. Ashley still thinks I’m in my room and if she sees me in here then our engagement is gonna be all over the papers,” you joked. He nodded, taking your hand off his arm and squeezing it. 

“Prepare for the President to ask to see your power.” 

“He can catch it on the news,” you grumbled. “See you downstairs.” He nodded once and let you go. He watched himself in the mirror, allowing himself to think about you a bit longer than your presence required. You knew him more than anyone else in the world. He wondered if it would be so bad to spend the rest of his life with you. He could’ve done it with Maeve, he could have made it look good. But with you, he might be able to be happy. Be himself, whatever that was. 

He turned, adjusting the cape as he walked out the door. He had a banquet to attend. 

-

“It’s better if just you two go. I’d send Maeve but I know you’ll just end up fighting and it’ll be on the news and we can’t handle another goddamn media break!” Ashley was standing in front of you in her office. You had never actually seen her sit down at the desk, she was always so stressed. Homelander stood beside you.

“That was one spat,” you argued. “We’re over it now. I like Maeve.”

“I don’t wanna risk anything,” Ashley said. “After the…incident with The Deep, I expect full obliteration of this guy.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Homelander stepped in. “We’ve got him.” 

You both knew that the best chance of a win was the two of you. You were the strongest of The Seven. Homelander could pack the punch and you could be the shield. You worked together well. 

“Any advice on how to dim his light a little?” you questioned. She shook her head. 

“Didn’t exactly get the best information from the guy who fought him before,” she grumbled. “But it was near water and we all know who lost the fight. Be careful. If either of you die…I mean it would make for a great swing of the media’s likeness of us but I would rather not have to deal with the funeral proceedings.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Thanks Ashley.”

“I’m also sending Noir and Starlight 30 minutes after you land. Just in case.” 

“That’s insulting,” Homelander said. He had his hands folded behind his back, ever the good soldier. “We don’t need them.”

“Then they’ll just be your extraction. Now go.” Neither of you moved. She made a waving gesture with her hands. “Go. Go!” 

-

“I can’t stand the show outfit,” you muttered. You adjusted your neck in your soldier outfit, which wasn’t exactly comfortable either. It was too tight in the wrong places but at least it provided you more protection from oncomers. Homelander was walking in front of you, scanning the area with disinterested eyes. Another job. At least he was with you. 

“It’s easy on the eyes.”

“And this one isn’t?” He shrugged. “I like your outfit. It’s bold. It’s iconic.” He smiled a bit, awkwardly, at the compliment. “I need a cape.”

“It’s a nuisance.” You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“You love that cape.” The cape was his thing though and you knew he didn’t want you to stumble onto his territory. “But I digress. Do you want to get dinner after this?” 

He always had food by himself, on the road, going from one meeting or killing to another. Dinners with you were sacred and special to him. You always asked and you watched a silly movie he pretended to hate and he could tell you about his day and you listened. He couldn’t remember any other person who listened like you. 

“As long as there are no noodles.” He always got them stuck in his throat. It was embarrassing. 

“No noodles. Duly noted. We could always-” Your sentence was cut short by you keeling over. You clutched your stomach. It felt like you were being drained, like all of the sudden you were far more tired than you had been in years. It reminded you of being run ragged, like you had run a marathon you weren’t prepared for. 

“What? What is it?” Homelander grabbed your elbow, holding you up. It was like you hadn’t even seen him, let alone felt him touch you. You stood up straight, giving him a pained look. 

“He’s here.” 

Homelander turned around, searching the warehouse the two of you had entered. It was abandoned by city records and vast. Not many hiding places. Homelander’s eyes turned red with anger and concentration. 

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” He called. He let you go, not being able to focus on your pain. You stood up straight, trying to allow your body to adjust. You tried to keep up with him but he was walking with purpose. You looked around, a blur of pain around your eyes. You had never felt so weak. 

“John,” you murmured. He didn’t turn around. 

“What? Scared?” 

There was a crack behind you. You turned on your heels, watching, waiting. The pain was getting bearable as your body started to adjust to it. Perks of fast feeling. High pain tolerance. 

Homelander shot his lasers at an abandoned car. It exploded into fire. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

“I don’t see anything!” he exclaimed. He turned to you. Just as he turned around, you saw someone come from behind the car, a gun in hand. Your eyes went wide. “You see-” 

You shoved him aside, taking the bullet intended for his head. 

It hit yours. 

It was like slow motion. He was stumbling and then you were down, a bullet between your eyes. The blood started to trickle down your forehead as you fell over onto the ground. He watched you fall backwards, eyes open in surprise. There was nothing going on behind them. 

He rushed forward to grab you before you hit the ground. 

On the bottom level of the warehouse, Starlight and Noir walked in. Ashley had sent them in only 10 minutes after the two of you. She was nervous, understandably so. Didn’t want to lose all four of you if you were separated and she knew that sending them afterwards was better for Homelander’s ego. 

“Do you hear that?” Starlight asked. She slowed to a stop as she listened closely. Some kind of whimpering. “It’s above us.” 

Noir looked up. Starlight started forward quickly, being followed by her Noir. 

When they reached the top floor they found a decapitated body at the feet of the stairs. A man with a gun was dead, two red dots between his chest burned through the skin. He still had his spinal cord dangling from his neck, clearly removed with force. 

In the middle of the room Starlight could see Homelander’s cape, sprawled on the ground. She could see your limp legs from behind him. He was shaking.

Annie had never seen him cry before. 

Noir approached before she even thought to. She wanted to call Maeve and ask her to come down in case Homelander decided to lash out but realized there was no time. If he hadn’t taken you somewhere…there was no pulse. 

She shared a glance with Noir. This was unsafe. 

“What happened?” Starlight asked quietly. There were tears streaming down his red cheeks. She wasn’t going to get a coherent answer. “We need to get help,” she said, even though she didn’t mean it. She just needed to say something. 

She had never seen The Homelander so broken. She thought about all the times before she saw him on the TV screen when she was growing up. Even now that she knew what he was, she held onto that shred of hope that he was like he had been on TV. She had never seen that in person, genuinely, until that very moment. When his shoulders shook and he was holding his only friend in his arms, wondering if she was really gone, if she was going to leave him alone. 

Annie never felt for Homelander until then. 

She shared a glance with Noir. He gave her nothing, he never did. 

“It should’ve been me,” he whispered. As Annie slowly approached she saw the bullet between your eyes. Your expressionless face was haunting. Annie saw dead people but she never saw those she cared about. She was reminded of Hughie. Homelander was holding his Hughie. “It was meant to be me.” 

Annie could give him no solace. She worried he would level the city for you. Maeve would try to remove him completely but she wasn’t strong enough for that. She would just have to let him stand there until your body got cold or he came to his senses that you weren’t going to wake up. 

Then you woke up. 

It was subtle, a slight breath. He hardly noticed it over his own drama but Starlight saw it. Her eyes went wide. Then you coughed, the bullet falling onto the other side of your head. Your head had healed itself, just like that. You squinted up at Homelander, unable to remember what had happened and why he was holding you. 

Your movement startled him. He tried to find a clear vision in his eyeline, something to blur away the tears. You brought your hand up and wiped them away. 

“I’m okay,” you said, voice dry. “I’m alright.” 

“But-but you-” he stumbled. 

“I’m okay.” It hurt, sure. You could feel the remnant of pain in your head, like your nerves hadn’t quite got the memo you were alive. You sat up and he threw his arms around you. The superstrength almost suffocated you but you were content with putting your arms around him too. 

You saw the big bad dead on the  other side of the room, between Annie and Noir. You shared a look with them. Annie was wiping tears from her eyes. You must have been dead for longer than you thought. 

“I’m okay,” you said again, this time for the two of them. Annie nodded. Homelander needed a moment. She gestured for Noir to follow her out. They collected the remaining body parts of the villain and left. 

Homelander let you go just enough to see your face. 

“I thought you were dead.” 

He cleared his throat, attempting to regain his composure. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily big guy,” you whispered. He wanted to cry some more, now that the floodgates were open. But he took a deep breath, allowing himself to even. You were still in his arms and that’s where you wanted to remain for the moment. It was safe here. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine,” he promised. He stood up, much to your dismay. He helped you stand, which took some wobbling. It was like you had just been born again. 

“Can you fly us out of here? I don’t know if I can walk,” you admitted. He nodded, quickly. 

“Of course. Hop on.” You made a sly smile and he rolled his eyes. You let him pick you up and carry you away, through the sunlit sky. 

-

Vought confirmed that you were okay. They triple checked your vitals but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You had sacrificed yourself for Homelander and you had lived. It was a curious thought, one not many people understood. They wanted to test your limits further but you vetoed it for the moment. You would rather not die over and over for the sake of science. 

Homelander decided he wanted to be on every mission you were on here on out. He would make up for that mistake time and time again. 

Sitting in his apartment, a place you were used to and practically lived in, was homey. Your ‘recovery’ was spent here. He had brought you some blankets from your room. The kindness from him was uncharacteristic but welcomed. 

He vowed if he couldn’t protect himself from Vought he would protect you. 

He would protect you and your silly movie nights and matching banquet outfits. 

He would have his life with you, Vought or not.

[nyxshadowhawk]

I Read The Silmarillion So You Don't Have To, Part Seven

Previous part.

Chapter 18: Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin In which everything goes to hell. Again.

Remember the Siege of Angband? Yeah, that’s still going on. It’s been roughly two hundred years since Morgoth’s last attack (the first appearance of Glaurung the Dragon), and in all that time, the Elves haven’t made much progress. Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, considers launching another assault on Angband; his people are strong, and now they have the Men on their side. What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

Fingolfin by Insant

The other Noldor are less enthused by this idea. For once, things are pretty great. Why risk the peace and prosperity that the Elves currently have for the chance at defeating Morgoth, when there’s bound to be massive loss of life either way? Only the Elven lords who live in the far north — on Morgoth’s doorstep — agree with Fingolfin, since they can’t ignore Morgoth as easily. They’re shot down by everyone else, so, there’s peace for a little while longer.

That’s when Morgoth makes his move.

Morgoth has been steadily gathering his forces throughout all of that time, and he’s also grown more and more spiteful. He doesn’t just want to defeat the Noldor, he wants to defile their homeland. But his hatred has also made him impatient.

One winter, on a dark night, without any warning, rivers of lava suddenly come pouring down the Thangorodrim, which belch poisonous gases into the air, rendering the whole plain of Ard-galen a barren wasteland overnight. Also, unlike with natural volcanoes, the damage is permanent — Ard-galen becomes known as Angfauglith, which means “Gasping Dust.” Instant Mordor, Just Add Lava. Many poor Elves are swallowed up by the lava before they can react.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Glaurung returns, accompanied by Balrogs and entire armies of Orcs — more Orcs than the Noldor have ever previously seen. The ensuing battle lasts all winter, as Morgoth’s forces return fire on the Noldor. It becomes known as Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame.

Battle of Sudden Flame by Jovan Delic

There are many casualties. Angrod and Aegnor, the brothers of Finrod and Galadriel, both die in the battle. Finrod himself gets cut off in the Fen of Serech, and almost dies, but he’s rescued at the last minute by a Man named Barahir. Finrod escapes with his life, barely, and manages to make it back to his palace in Nargothrond. Finrod pledges undying friendship to Barahir, promises to help him and his family in return if they should ever need him, and gives him his ring as a token of his promise. It’s a ring shaped like two intertwined snakes, set with green stones, and it becomes known as the Ring of Barahir.

Finrod in the Fen of Serech by pansen1802

Incredibly, Fingolfin and co. manage to hang on to their land of Hithlum, but not without heavy losses. Hador Lórindol, one of the Kings of Men who was Fingolfin’s thane, dies in the battle. In the East, Fëanor’s sons aren’t doing great, either — Celegorm and Curufin are both defeated, but not killed; they retreat all the way to Nargothrond and hide there with Finrod. Caranthir’s land is ravaged, too.

Maedhros, however, “burned like a white fire.” He’s been dying to get his revenge on Morgoth for having strung him up on Thangorodrim, and personally slaughters so many Orcs that they start to run in fear of him. He manages to hang on to his fortress, and many people rally to him, including his brother Maglor.

Finrod, Fingon, and Maedhros by star热爱生活呀巴扎嘿

Overall, the battle is really bad. Fingolfin stares out over the ruined lands, sees his family scattered, and realizes the Noldor are done for. He’s filled with rage and despair, but he isn’t ready to give up yet. There’s only one thing to do. He mounts his horse, Rochallor, and rides straight to the gates of Angband. Those who see him think he must be Oromë, the Vala of the hunt, because he burns with fury and his eyes glow. He blows his warhorn, bangs on the gates of Angband, and challenges Morgoth himself to a duel.

That may be the ballsiest move of any Elf so far (and yes, I’m counting Fëanor going up against an army of Balrogs).

Fingolfin’s Challenge by Jenny Dolfen

Now, throughout all this, Morgoth has spent most of his time hiding in his fortress. Sure, he’s a Vala, and technically the most powerful being in Middle-earth, but he doesn’t fight his own battles. Fingolfin calls him a coward who’d rather send out all of his evil minions to fight for him than come and face him like a man. Morgoth can’t ignore that. So, to the surprise of everyone, Morgoth actually comes. And we get this badass description, which I’m going to transcribe, because I can’t do Tolkien justice:

Therefore Morgoth came, climbing slowly from his subterranean throne, and the rumour of his feet was like thunder underground. And he issued forth clad in black armour; and he stood before the King like a tower, iron-crowned, and his vast shield, sable-blazoned, cast a shadow over him like a stormcloud. But Fingolfin gleamed beneath it as a star; for his mail was overlaid with silver, and his blue shield was set with crystals; and he drew his sword Ringil, that glittered like ice.

Oh, it is on!

Fingolfin vs. Morgoth by Marchesi

The Fall of Fingolfin by Wavesheep

The battle is epic. Morgoth tries to smash Fingolfin with his hammer, called Grond (GROND! GROND! GROND! GROND!), but Fingolfin is too quick. Every time GROND hits the earth, it creates a volcanic cleft in the earth. The battle is compared to a thunderstorm, with the strikes of Morgoth’s hammer being the thunder and Fingolfin darting around being the lightning. Fingolfin actually manages to wound Morgoth, seven times! Each time, Morgoth howls so loud that all of the Orcs cringe in fear.

Fingolfin can’t keep it up forever, though. He’s mortal, and he’s going up against something near to a god. Three times, Morgoth crushes him with his shield, and three times Fingolfin is able to pick himself back up again. He doesn’t have much space to move anymore, because the ground around him is full of holes. He stumbles and falls, and Morgoth presses his foot to Fingolfin’s neck. It’s like getting an entire hill dropped on top of him. Fingolfin isn’t going to go peacefully, though — with his last bit of strength, he cuts deep into Morgoth’s foot.

Fingolfin dies, and thus passes the strongest and most valiant of the Elven kings. The Elves are so sad to lose him that they don’t even sing about the battle. The Orcs don’t gloat about it, either, even though Morgoth won — it was kind of a Pyrrhic victory, because it’s embarrassing that a mere mortal was able to do so much damage to Morgoth. The reason why we know what happened, despite the lack of songs about it, is because Thorondor (the King of the Eagles) brings the news to Gondolin and Hithlum.

Thorondor also saves Fingolfin’s body from being desecrated by Morgoth. Morgoth goes to throw Fingolfin’s corpse to the wolves, but Thorondor swoops down and claws him in the face. Thorondor brings Fingolfin’s body to Gondolin, and Turgon builds a cairn for his father in the surrounding hills. For a while, Fingolfin’s tomb acts almost like a charm that keeps the Orcs away. (But not forever though. Because, in case you forgot, Gondolin is doomed.)

Morgoth’s wounds are permanent. His seven initial wounds never heal, he now limps everywhere he goes because Fingolfin damaged his foot, and his face is also scarred where Thorondor got him.

All of Hithlum mourns Fingolfin’s death. Fingon, in his grief, becomes the sole High King of the Noldor.

Fingon by Moimq

There’s an interesting note here: Fingon sends “his young son Ereinion (who was later named Gil-galad) […] to the Havens.” This is an outright inconsistency. In other sources, Gil-galad is the grandson of Angrod, Finrod’s brother. So, it’s legitimately unclear who Gil-galad’s father was. Oh well. Distant legendary past, oral tradition and all that. I’m sure the songs disagree on whose parents are whose all the time.

And, the “Havens” referred to here aren’t the Grey Havens, either. They’re two cities in the southwest of Beleriand. But they’re ruled by the same Elf, Círdan, who would rule the Grey Havens later.

Morgoth is now in control of most of northern Beleriand. Barahir, the Man who helped save Finrod, keeps fighting for some time, alongside his wife Emeldir. But Morgoth destroys their land little by little. That land becomes so dark and evil that even Orcs avoid it, and it gets a new name: Taur-nu-Fuin, “The Forest under Nightshade” (which is cool as hell). This forest is like a proto-Mirkwood. Its trees become tangled with claw-like roots and branches, and it becomes full of angry spirits that can drive travelers mad.

The situation gets so dire that Emeldir leads her people away. They end up in the Forest of Brethil, which is where Haleth, another badass warrior-queen of Men, led her people in a similar moment of desperation. All of Barahir’s men are killed fighting Morgoth except for a small handful (whose names are all listed, of course). The Elves don’t come to help them, so they become desperate, hunted outcasts who live in the wilderness. One of these outcasts is Beren, Barahir’s son, who’s about to become very important.

The Elves managed to maintain control over Minas Tirith, the tower that guards the pass separating Morgoth’s lands in the north from the rest of Beleriand. This tower is maintained by Orodreth, Angrod’s son and Finrod’s nephew. But after two years pass, the tower is besieged by Morgoth’s lieutenant, Sauron.

Sauron by Wavesheep

(Oh yeah I’ve been waiting to dip into my self-indulgent collection of Sauron pictures.)

At this point, the Elves call Sauron “Gorthaur the Cruel.” He has become…

a sorcerer of dreadful power, master of shadows and of phantoms, foul in wisdom, cruel in strength, misshaping what he touched, twisting what he ruled; his dominion was torment.

He’s basically like Morgoth 2.0, and there’s very little left of him that is still Mairon, the Maia smith that he once was. Still, Sauron and Morgoth aren’t interchangeable; while Sauron is certainly very evil, he doesn’t think the same way that Morgoth does. If you’re familiar with the D&D alignment chart, Morgoth is pure Chaotic Evil — he doesn’t have a motive beyond fucking things up as much as possible. Sauron is more Lawful Evil, more like an evil dictator. Morgoth wants to watch the world burn (and just did, a moment ago); Sauron wants to rule over the ashes.

Sauron’s assault on Minas Tirith is successful. (If Sauron had a nickel for every time he besieged a tower called Minas Tirith, he’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice.) He conjures a cloud of pure terror that causes Orodreth and his men to panic, and flee to Narthothrond. Then, much like Sauron would corrupt Minas Ithil and Osgiliath eons later, he transforms Minas Tirith into an evil watchtower. Tol Sirion, the island where it’s located, becomes known as Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves.

Lord of Werewolves by Dracontessa

After that, things only get worse. The Orcs spread across Beleriand, kidnapping Elves and desecrating all the land around Doriath. Morgoth sends out a bunch of spies to sow discord in every kingdom, hoping to win a psychological battle. Because of the Curse, most of the Noldor believe the sugary lies. The dirtiest trick that Morgoth pulls is setting free some of the Elves that he took captive, while keeping them under his control. This causes the Noldor to distrust even their own families.

With Men, Morgoth tries a different tactic. He attempts to turn them against the Elves by pointing out that the Men are inferior to Elves, and that the Noldor are inherently untrustworthy and untrusting. He promises the Men that if they come and join him, “the rightful Lord of Middle-earth,” then they’ll have honor and rewards and yada, yada. The Men don’t fall for this, which makes Morgoth even more spiteful towards them.

The Three Great Houses of Men are in complete disarray at this point. The house of Bëor —Barahir and his people — is basically destroyed, with the remainder barely surviving in the wilderness. The House of Hador are all stuck in Hithlum, and Hador himself is dead. The only remaining Men in the rest of Beleriand are the house of Haleth — the Haladin — who live in the Forest of Brethil. They’re one of the last lines of defense between Nargothrond and Morgoth’s onslaught. Hador’s grandsons, Húrin and Huor, are camped out in the Forest of Brethil with the Haladin. Halmir, the current leader of the Haladin, sends for backup, and a small army of Sindar Elves from Doriath come to help defend the forest. With the Elves’ help, the Men drive back the Orcs.

Húrin and Huor are some of our major players among the Men. They’re brothers, and they’re currently teenagers. Back before the battle, their father married Halmir’s daughter, so they’re members of the Haladin on their mom’s side. During the battle, they are separated from the rest of their company, but Ulmo protects them with a magical mist from the River Sirion, and then Thorondor rescues them when they wander near his mountains. Thorondor sends two eagles to pick them up, and the eagles bring them to Gondolin. Húrin and Huor become the first Men to ever see the secret Elven city of Gondolin.

By Mysilvergreen

King Turgon receives them well. He’d gotten a prophetic dream from Ulmo, telling him he’ll need the Men’s help when things get bad, so he takes them in as his honored guests. Húrin and Huor live in the mystical Elven city for a year, and they learn a lot from Turgon in that time. Turgon wants to keep them in Gondolin, not just because of his proclaimation that no one can ever leave it, but also because he genuinely loves them. Eventually, though, they want to go home.

Remember how well that went the last time, with Aredhel?

Húrin reminds Turgon that Men don’t live very long, so he and his brother can’t just wait until things cool off, especially with their family thinking they’re dead. Also, they were carried into the city by eagles, so they have no idea where the entrance is and probably couldn’t find it again on their own. Turgon thinks that this is reasonable, and agrees to let them go, so long as Thorondor is willing to let them leave the way they came, by eagle-taxi.

But Maeglin — remember him? He’s the edgy Elf — Maeglin is happy that Húrin and Huor are leaving, because they’ve been soaking up all the king’s attention. Maeglin snidely tells Húrin that Turgon wasn’t so lenient in the past, like that time he threw Maeglin’s father off the walls.

To pacify Maeglin, Húrin and Huor swear an oath not to reveal anything about Gondolin. As you’ve probably gathered by now, oaths are serious business. I almost guarantee that this is going to bite them in the ass.

When Húrin and Huor return home, their family is overjoyed to see them, because they all thought that the brothers had died in the wilderness. Their father, Galdor, asks where they’ve been, and why they look like princes instead of like they’ve been living in the wilderness for a year. Húrin tells him that the only reason they were allowed to return at all was if they swore not to speak about it, so… don’t ask.

Meanwhile, King Turgon learns that the Siege of Angband is officially over, and Morgoth killed Fingolfin. Turgon doesn’t want to involve himself in the war, at least not yet — Gondolin is a secret safe haven for now, and he wants it to stay that way for as long as possible. It’s like the Wakanda of Elven cities.

However, Turgon also realizes that this is the beginning of the end for the Noldor, unless they can find some outside source of help. He sends secret bands of Gondolin Elves to sail to Valinor. That’s a truly desperate move, since the Noldor are exiles, and Valinor has wanted nothing to do with Middle-earth for centuries. Unfortunately, none of Turgon’s emissaries make it; the western sea has become much more dangerous ever since Valinor cut itself off. The sea is full of enchantments and illusions, and Valinor itself is hidden. There’s no way to get to it. With every failed mission, Gondolin’s doom inches closer and closer.

Guess who hears about it? Morgoth. Morgoth is very interested to know what happened to Finrod and Turgon, because Elven kings don’t just vanish off the face of the earth. He knows they must be somewhere, probably plotting a new scheme to take him down. He knows what Nargothrond is, but not where it is, and he knows nothing about Gondolin. In the Battle of Sudden Flame, he made the mistake of underestimating the strength of the Elves and Men. Although he won the battle, they managed to hit him back just as badly. He’s not about to make that mistake again.

Morgoth attacks Hithlum again. King Fingon is outnumbered, but rescued at the last minute by ships full of warriors sent by Círdan. The Elves win the battle, but King Galdor, Húrin and Huor’s father, dies in the same spot where his own father fell during the Battle of Sudden Flame. Húrin becomes the new patriarch of his house, and serves as Fingon’s thane. He marries Morwen Eledhwen, a woman of the house of Bëor, who fled the Forest under Nightshade for the Forest of Brethil alongside Queen Emeldir.

Húrin by Steamey

The House of Bëor is by this point reduced to only one man, Emeldir and Barahir’s son, Beren.

Chapter 19: Of Beren and Lúthien, Part One In which we hear the greatest love story ever told.

This is the first of what Tolkien called “The Great Tales,” some of the oldest stories in the Legendarium, all of which were ultimately unfinished. To put into perspective just what a big deal this story is, Tolkien and his wife Edith have the names “Beren” and “Lúthien” written on their respective headstones. The version here in the Silmarillion is the most complete, but it’s also an abridged version. This is how Tolkien introduces it:

Among the tales of sorrow and of ruin that come down to us from the darkness of those days there are yet some in which amid weeping there is joy and under the shadow of death light that endures. And of these histories most fair still in the ears of the Elves is the tale of Beren and Lúthien.

Most of my retelling here is paraphrased from the Silmarillion, but I’ve included some details that appear only in the Lay of Leithian, Tolkien’s unfinished poetic telling of the story. It’s really worth going and reading the Lay of Leithian; it’s extremely vivid and evocative, it perfectly imitates the medieval poetic form.

The story doesn’t actually start with Beren. It starts with an account of what happened to Barahir and his remaining men after they fled the Forest under Nightshade. They ended up camping out beside a lake called Tarn Aeluin, which is beautiful and reflects the stars. It was supposedly blessed by Queen Melian, and her magic repels the evil creatures that took over the rest of the forest. Barahir and co. are well hidden there, but Morgoth commands Sauron to find them.

One of Barahir’s people is a man named Gorlim, who has a wife, Eilinel. They love each other even despite the war, but when Gorlim returned home one day after a battle, he found his house empty and Eilinel gone. He still follows his people and hides out near the lake, but he holds out hope that maybe his wife isn’t dead. He periodically leaves the secret safe haven and returns to the empty house, hoping that his wife will be there. One time, he sees the lights on and hears her voice, but it’s a trap — Sauron found him. Sauron tortures Gorlim to force him to reveal the location of Barahir’s secret camp, but Gorlim holds out. That is, until Sauron tells him to name his price. Gorlim asks to see his wife again.

Then Sauron smiled, saying, “That is a small price for so great a treachery. So shall it surely be. Say on!”

Poor Gorlim reveals the location of Barahir’s camp. Then, with a mocking laugh, Sauron reveals that Eilinel is dead, and that he cast an illusion to ensnare him. “Oh, but don’t worry, I’ll still send you to her,” he says, and then kills him. They don’t call him Gorthaur the Cruel for nothing.

By @ayaosguqin

See, this is one of the things that makes Sauron different from Morgoth. Morgoth is spiteful and enjoys sewing discord and causing destruction for the sake of it, but we haven’t seen this kind of calculated sadism from him yet. (There’s not much that’s subtle about busting in with a giant spider and killing trees.) Sauron, having been a Maia of Aulë, has an appreciation for subtlety and craftsmanship. Sauron likes to stick the knife in and twist it. And as The Lord of the Rings makes clear, he’s a master of psychological warfare.

Now that Sauron knows where the secret camp is, his forces attack the men at Tarn Aeluin. They massacre everyone, save Beren. Beren is out on a spy mission when the Orcs attack, and he has a dream in which Gorlim’s ghost appears to him to tell him what happened. Beren rides back, but it’s already too late. He finds his father and everyone else dead.

Beren builds a cairn for his father and swears vengeance. He hunts down all the Orcs, slaughtering them by himself. He sneaks near their camp, where they’re gloating and holding up his father’s hand as a trophy. On the severed hand is a ring, the ring that Finrod Felagund gave to Barahir. Beren swoops in, steals the hand with the ring, and runs off before the Orcs have a chance to react.

Beren lives by himself in the wilderness for some time. He befriends the animals, and becomes a vegetarian as a result. He manages to perform many heroic deeds just in that time, so that he becomes famous. He’s already such a legend that Morgoth puts a price on his head, just as high as that of King Fingon himself, but the Orcs are so afraid of Beren that they avoid him instead of hunting him. Morgoth resolves to send an entire army after Beren, and not just any army — an army of werewolves, captained by Sauron himself.

The werewolves are enough to chase Beren away from the land where he buried his father. He heads south, towards Doriath. He resolves to pass through Queen Melian’s magic wall, for some reason. (Maybe because it’s the only guaranteed safe place?) He travels along sheer mountain cliffs, and through the spider-infested wastes that had been twisted by a combination of Sauron’s magic and Melian’s magic. That land was basically the Mordor of its day, and no one knows how Beren got through it; whatever he experienced there was terrifying enough that he never spoke of it again. When he arrives at the magic wall, he passes right through like it isn’t even there. This event had been predicted by Melian herself: ‘because the power of that Man’s destiny will overcome her own. People will sing about that event until the distant future, when Middle-earth is unrecognizable.’

He finds himself in the north of Doriath, a forest called Neldoreth. He’s exhausted and harrowed, having spent years traveling through a cursed land. But everything in Neldoreth is beautiful, it’s summertime, and Beren sees a beautiful Elf maiden dancing on the grass. It’s Lúthien, the daughter of King Thingol and Queen Melian themselves. Lúthien is the most beautiful person alive. (Like, metaphysically.) Being the child of a Maia, she is more or less a demigoddess.

Encounter of Beren and Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

Beren is instantly smitten. In fact, he’s literally enchanted by her — just watching her casts a spell on him. When she suddenly vanishes, he literally can’t speak. He wanders the woods like an animal, searching for her. He doesn’t know her name, so he calls her Tinúviel, which means “Nightingale” in Sindarin. A whole year passes, and he sees her in the beauty of nature around him, like she’s a ghost and he’s fondly recalling her memory. A whole winter later, she reappears, and sings a song so beautiful that it brings spring back to the woods:

Keen, heart-piercing was her song as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the walls of the world; and the song of Lúthien released the bonds of winter, and the frozen waters spoke, and flowers sprang from the cold earth where her feet had passed.

When he hears her song, Beren can suddenly speak again. He calls out to her, using the name “Tinúviel.” Luckily for him, Lúthien falls just as in love with him upon seeing him. The narrator says that “doom fell upon her” as soon as she loved him back, which could mean either that she met her destiny or that she is going to die for her love. Probably both.

Beren goes to embrace her, but she vanishes again as soon as day breaks. Beren immediately feels a mixture of ecstasy and anguish. He falls into a coma, and has nightmares about groping through the dark to find the

vanished light. (I’m starting to note parallels between Lúthien and the Two Trees, and also the Silmarils.) But Beren’s anguish is nothing to Lúthien’s. Now that she’s fallen in love with a mortal, her fate is inextricably intertwined with his. She’s no longer free.

Lúthien returns to Beren and wakes him from his coma. They walk through the woods together, blissfully in love, throughout that spring and summer. Presumably they talk and actually get to know each other in that time.

A sudden in love by breath-art and aglargon

There’s another person who loves Lúthien, an Elven bard named Daeron. He spies on Beren and Lúthien in the woods. Jealous that Lúthien loves Beren instead of him, he goes and tattles to Thingol about their relationship. (In the Lay of Leithian, Daeron — in his envy — is able to cast a spell of silence upon Beleriand, so that there is no music or even birdsong.) Thingol is immediately furious, because he’s extremely overprotective of his daughter, and he hates Men. He confronts Lúthien about her new boyfriend, but she refuses to say anything until Thingol promises that he won’t hurt or imprison Beren. Lúthien personally leads him before her father’s throne.

Beren and Luthien in the Court of Thingol by Donato Giancola

Thingol demands to know who Beren is, but he’s so intimidating that Beren is stunned into silence. Lúthien answers for him. Thingol tells Lúthien to back off and let Beren speak for himself. What’s Beren’s excuse for entering the forbidden realm of Doriath? Beren’s response is very poetic and eloquent, but basically boils down to “I want to fuck your daughter.”

There’s pin-drop silence in the hall as the assembled Elves wait for Thingol to smite Beren. Thingol immediately regrets his promise not to harm him. Thingol’s response is to fold his hands, smile coldly, and say,

(I mean, it’s not these exact words, but it’s close enough.)

Thingol accuses Beren of being a spy and a thrall of Morgoth, at which Beren takes offense. Beren isn’t afraid of death, but he won’t allow himself to be insulted by any Elf, even a king. His father was a lord of Men and he deserves to be treated like a prince! He has a ring given to his father by Finrod himself, for Eru’s sake! He holds up the ring, and all the Elves see it. This is the Ring of Barahir, which will eventually get passed down to Aragorn. The jewels set in it were originally cut by the Noldor in Valinor itself.

Melian whispers to her husband that he won’t be the one to kill Beren. Beren has a lot more stuff he’s destined to do, but his destiny is still intertwined with Thingol’s. Whatever Thingol does next will seal his own fate, too. Thingol proceeds to choose the stupidest thing possible.

Beren wants to marry the Faerie King’s daughter. So, as is common in fairy tales, Thingol sets him an impossible task that he must complete to earn Lúthien’s hand: He must steal a Silmaril from the crown of Morgoth. Thingol feels like this the nearest thing to a fair price for his daughter. Of course, like most mythological kings, he’s hoping that Beren will die in the attempt.

You can just hear Melian’s facepalm through the page.

As is hopefully clear by now, the Silmarils are like a bomb waiting to go off. Everything about them is fraught — from the fact that they contain the last light of the Trees, to Morgoth’s obsession with them, to the Curse laid on all Fëanor’s sons for their unbreakable oath to get them back, etc. etc. Thingol’s choice to get involved in that shitshow was a dumb fucking idea. It’s not really his place to say or do anything concerning the Silmarils, and he effectively dooms his own kingdom by involving himself with them. In fact, by doing so, Thingol subjects himself to the same Curse that affects all the Noldor — you know, the reason he banished them from his kingdom and banned their language in the first place.

But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s get back to Beren, who responds to this by literally laughing it off and calling it easy:

“For little price,” he said, “do Elven-kings sell their daughters: for gems, and things made by craft. But if this be your will, Thingol, then I will perform it. And when we meet again my hand shall hold a Silmaril from the Iron Crown; for you have not looked the last on Beren son of Barahir.”

I like the parallelism here: Both Beren and Sauron call something that’s extraordinarily valuable to someone else a “little price” or “small price.” Obviously, we’re supposed to side with Beren in this instance, but I wonder if his pride will be his fall.

Having received his main quest, Beren leaves Menegroth.

Menegroth by David Gresit

Melian tells Thingol what an idiot he is for involving himself in the Main Plot and forsaking his kingdom’s safety in isolation. She can’t protect him from whatever happens next. Thingol is pretty confident that Beren’s going to die, which proves that he’s not Genre Savvy enough to make good decisions from here on out. He should really listen to his wife.

Lúthien doesn’t quite enter “but Daddy, I love him!” territory, but she does stop singing. All of Doriath is eerily silent.

Beren travels west, towards the River Sirion, and then to Nargothrond. Being alone and with no resources, he doesn’t have any other option but to go to Finrod for help. He wisely holds up the Ring of Barahir as he enters Finrod’s territory, because it was originally Finrod’s ring, and his Elf snipers would know not to shoot. Knowing that he was being watched by an army’s worth of hidden Elves, he randomly yells out “I am Beren son of Barahir! Take me to your King!” in the middle of a field in the hopes that someone will hear him and decide not to kill him. After doing this several times, he’s apprehended by the archers and taken to Finrod.

Finrod receives Beren warmly. Privately, Beren tells Finrod about his father’s death and about meeting Lúthien. He cries more over remembering Lúthien than remembering his father. Remember, Finrod promised to help Barahir or any member of his family in need, because they had saved him. So, he has no choice but to help Beren retrieve a Silmaril, even though he knows it will not go well.

Finrod by yidanyuan

He tells Beren, ‘Well, it’s obvious that Thingol wants you dead, but if anyone so much as mentions the Silmarils, the sons of Fëanor are on them like a pack of wolves. Celegorm and Curufin are powerful lords in my court, and I can’t risk antagonizing them. If they find out you want a Silmaril, they’ll kill you. But I made a promise to your father, so I have to help you. In short, we’re all screwed.’

For some reason, Finrod decides that the best thing to do is to be as transparent as possible. So, he summons his court and stands before his people. He tells them all about the promise he made to Barahir, and how he is therefore obligated to help Beren. He asks his lords for help. Celegorm’s response is predictable. He repeats the Oath of Fëanor, reaffirming that the sons of Fëanor will hunt down anything alive that dares to seek a Silmaril. He goes on a tirade as impassioned as the one that Fëanor originally gave to the Noldor back in Valinor. (Like father, like son, I guess.) Then Curufin speaks, more quietly. What he says boils down to: ‘Nice kingdom you’ve got here, Finrod. Would really be a shame if something happened to it.’

Celegorm and Curufin, by Julia Reizen

Curufin’s speech scares the Elves of Nargothrond so much that they avoid open war for decades, preferring guerilla warfare with arrows, poisoned darts, and magic. According to Tolkien, this is less valorous than open combat, and diminishes their whole society.

Say what you will about Fëanor and his brood, they’re damn good at public speaking.

The Elves of Nargothrond begin to murmur amongst themselves that Finrod can’t tell them what to do as though he’s a Vala (even though he’s… y’know… the king), and all of them refuse to help him. The Curse is in full effect: Celegorm and Curufin realize that this is a golden opportunity to send Finrod alone to his death, and take over Nargothrond for themselves.

Finrod reads the room. He takes off his crown, and throws it at his feet, renouncing his rulership of the kingdom that he built. He looks directly at Celegorm and Curufin and tells them that while they may be faithless bastards who will break their oath of loyalty to him, he will not break his own promise to Barahir. He addresses the rest of the room — there’s got to be at least a few people who haven’t been affected by the Curse, and who will follow him, so that he isn’t pathetically driven out of his own kingdom. Right? A grand total of ten people stand up for him. One of them, Edrahil, picks up Finrod’s crown, and says that it should be given to a steward instead of being left for Celegorm and Curufin to snatch. Whatever happens, he says, Finrod is still the true king of Nargothrond. #IStandWithFinrod.

Finrod chooses Orodreth, his nephew (or youngest brother; sources differ), as his steward. Celegorm and Curufin just smile and withdraw from the room, which isn’t creepy at all.

Finrod and Beren leave Nargothrond with their ten loyalists. They travel north, come upon a band of Orcs, and kill them all. Finrod uses a magical illusion to disguise his company as Orcs, and they sneak through the mountain pass towards Angband. Sauron finds them anyway, and intercepts them. Sauron and Finrod engage in — of all things — a singing competition. It’s very similar in principle to “the oldest game” from Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, in that it’s a battle between dueling concepts that are instantaneously manifested as the singers describe them. Sauron sings about treachery, betrayal, uncovering secrets, piercing through things, and sorcery. Finrod answers with a song about resistance against evil, keeping secrets, maintaining trust, standing strong, and gaining freedom.

Finrod and Sauron by rami-fon-verg

There is something simple, almost childish, about this back-and-forth. I feel like I’ve seen several different children’s shows in which a good character and an evil character sing at each other instead of fighting, with the evil character extoling the virtues of power and the good character singing about the importance of love. (The one that comes to mind is Barbie and the Diamond Castle, in which the two heroines and the villain play good/evil music at each other, and the good music overpowers the evil music, resulting in the villain’s defeat.) I wouldn’t be surprised if several anime have a scene like this, as well. And yet, it is primordially powerful, like Gaiman’s “oldest game.” In Tolkien’s universe, singing was what created the world in the first place, and singing is therefore a direct and powerful means of manifestation.

By Wavesheep

Unfortunately, it does not end the way it would if this were a Barbie movie or an anime. Finrod is a great singer, but Sauron is better — he is a Maia, one of the Ainur, meaning he was there when the original Music of creation was sung. It’s impressive that Finrod manages to hold out as long as he does, but in the end — much like Fingolfin and Fëanor before him — he loses.

To tell this part of the story, Tolkien randomly switches to verse; he quotes a section from the Lay of Leithian. Medieval texts actually do this; lots of them will randomly switch between prose and verse. Texts that do this are called “prosimetric.” For example, in the Volsung Saga (which reads very much like The Silmarillion), when Sigurd meets Brynhild, the text abruptly switches into verse as she lists all the different types of runes and their uses. There’s several other instances in that text when it randomly switches between prose and verse. It prefaces the verse parts with something like, “So saith the song of Sigurd,” referencing poetic versions of the same story that otherwise don’t survive. Tolkien evokes that same structure here, right down to saying “as it is told in the Lay of Leithian.”

The Lord of the Rings is prosimetric, too, but most of the songs are diegetic, meaning they’re actually being sung by characters in-universe. That’s not what’s going on here. The verse part describes the singing contest between Sauron and Finrod, it’s not the actual songs that they’re singing. But it’s really clever of Tolkien to switch to verse to describe this scene, because it sets the vibe! It’s like you’re listening to a distant echo of their songs, passed down through generations of oral storytelling. It wouldn’t be nearly as evocative if he just described the scene flatly in prose.

Thank you for indulging me in that tangent! Moving on: Sauron throws Finrod and co. into a dark pit, and threatens to kill them if they don’t tell them who they are and why they’re there. Periodically, he sends a werewolf to eat one of them (which, I’ll bet you anything, is a direct reference to the Volsung Saga). Still, none of them talk.

Meanwhile, back in Doriath, Lúthien intuitively senses that something is wrong, and asks her mother what has happened to Beren. Melian tells her that Beren is in Sauron’s dungeon. Lúthien resolves to go and rescue him by herself. She goes to ask Daeron for his help, but Daeron refuses to risk his own neck for Beren’s sake. He’s been afflicted with full-on incel syndrome, so out of spite, he snitches to Thingol a second time. (Thingol is so grateful that Daeron keeps tabs on his daughter for him, that he names Daeron a prince. Make of that what you will.) Thingol can’t imagine anything worse than letting his daughter waste away in a dark pit, so he builds a house in a giant beech tree, called Hírilorn. Because the best way to keep your daughter safe from one prison is to put her in another! Logic!

Well, it’s a common trope in myths and fairy tales: The king is overprotective of his daughter and puts her in a tower, or a box with a hole in the roof, or some such. Lúthien, however, is proactive. She doesn’t wait for someone to rescue her from her treehouse. Instead, she tricks her guards and Daeron into sending her a golden bowl of wine, a silver bowl of water, a spinning wheel, and a loom. Then she sings a spell that mentions all the tallest and longest things in the world, which causes her hair to grow extremely long. She mixes the wine with the water, then sings a song of day over the golden bowl, and a song of night over the silver bowl. Finally, she sings a song of sleep. The singing enchants her hair, filling it with corresponding ideas that shape the way Lúthien wants it to behave. (Similar to Sauron and Finrod’s magic songs, singing about an idea causes it to manifest.) She weaves a robe out of her hair, a robe that’s described as being misty and shadowy, like it’s woven from clouds at night. Lúthien weaves a rope out of what’s leftover, and puts a sleeping spell on it. Then she just throws it down onto the guards at the foot of the tree, and they go to sleep, allowing her to climb down the rope and escape.

Lúthien prepares her escape from Hírilorn by Anke Katrin Eißmann

As she leaves Doriath, she comes upon Celegorm and Curufin, of all people. They’re out hunting, hoping to learn something about what happened to Finrod (and probably plotting behind his back the whole time). Among their hunting dogs is a particularly large wolfhound called Huan, who actually came with them from Valinor. Oromë himself, the Vala of the hunt, gave the dog to Celegorm long ago. Huan loyally followed Celegorm into exile, and therefore became automatically subject to the Curse. He’s foretold to die, but only after he faces the biggest and baddest of big bad wolves.

Spoiler alert, the dog’s gonna die!

Huan finds Lúthien, because he’s immune to her enchantments, and brings her to Celegorm. Once she learns that Celegorm and Curufin are enemies of Morgoth, Lúthien decides that she trusts them, and reveals herself to them. Celegorm (or, in the Lay, Curufin) instantly falls in love with her, because… of course he does. He offers to help Lúthien, making a point not to say that he already knows about the quest. Lúthien goes with them to Nargothrond.

Celegorm and Curufin find Lúthien by Elena Kukanova

As soon as they get there, Celegorm and Curufin show their true colors. They imprison Lúthien, take away her magic cloak, and forbid her to speak to anyone else but them. Lúthien escaped one trap, and fell right into another. Now that the brothers know from Lúthien that Finrod and Beren are in Sauron’s prison, they figure that it’s easiest to just let them die. Nargothrond is as good as theirs. And now that they have Lúthien, they have leverage over Thingol — they can force him to give Lúthien’s hand in marriage to Celegorm. That would make Celegorm and Curufin the most powerful princes of the Noldor! [Insert evil laugh here.]

Huan, however, is the Goodest Boy and is too pure-hearted to follow Celegorm (even though Celegorm is his beloved master whom he’s been serving for literally centuries). Huan also fell in love with Lúthien upon seeing her for the first time, but in a decidedly less creepy way. He comes to her prison every night to keep her company, and Lúthien tells him all about Beren.

Huan decides to help Lúthien break out. He brings her magic cloak to her, and speaks to her (he’s only allowed to talk three times before he dies). He shows her a secret passage out of Nargothrond, and they escape together. Huan even swallows his pride enough to allow Lúthien to ride on his back.

Lúthien riding on Huan by Meraclitus

I mean, if you’re gonna be a damsel in distress, a dog is a pretty awesome thing to be rescued by.

(Stopping there, because I'm running up against the max number of images. More to come!)

[all-alone-he-turns-to-stone]

10 Seconds to Remember

Soldier Boy Masterlist

Summary: When Payback gave him to the Russian like he was only a lab rat to be tortured and tested on, it wasn’t the worst they did. They also killed the love of his life right in front of his eyes. Now that he’s back, Soldier Boy is more than ready for revenge. Everything goes according to plan until he meets you again.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x GN!Reader

Word Count: 4137

Warning: lots of angst, slight graphic violence, feels, memory loss

Rating: everyone

A/n: So it’s been a while, i’ve been so busy!! With Comiccon coming and my panel to write and plan, and work being hell... Anyway, this was requested by an anon, I don’t know if they are still around cause it’s been more than a year, but here you go!

It’d been a couple of weeks since he was freed, but it still felt like he was there.

Only weeks since he was freed from his personal hell, left Russia and joined The Boys.

And they had a deal. He would kill Homelander for them if they helped him find his old team that betrayed him. They put him there in the first place, they gave him to the Russians like some sort of rat they could experience on. But that wasn’t the worst Payback did.

He could still hear them. The screams. They were haunting his nights, they haunted him when he was frozen for so many years in that box, and now that he was awake… It was even worse.

He couldn’t even remember who those screams belonged to. He remembered the pain he felt when he saw it happen. He remembered the red filling his sight when the hands destroyed the only person he ever loved. He remembered the bones breaking like fragile branches.

He remembered now. The screams were his as he was forced to watch you be tortured.

You couldn’t possibly speak when it happened, not with all the blood flowing through your mouth as Black Noir hit you in the guts. You couldn’t even make a sound when Crimson Countess broke your bones one by one. All you could do was look at him and hope he wouldn't get the same faith.

It was with the last remaining forces that you did it. As life slowly got ripped apart from you, your lips parted and formed silent words. 

Close your eyes, count to ten.

That was before he was sent to Russia. His team killed you before they attacked him and placed a mask over his mouth that sent him into a deep sleep. He always thought it was to anger him that they killed you first. Because even he, Soldier Boy, was unable to think correctly under a strong wave of rage. And it worked.

Turned out, seeing the love of his life getting brutally killed in front of him was traumatizing enough to leave a mark.

Weeks had gone by and so far, Soldier Boy had managed to get revenge on the Countess and the TNT Twins. He thought it would relieve some of his pain, to kill those who took away his love and betrayed him. But the more he slaughtered and let himself go to his rage, the more anger was added inside of him. Like a boiling tornado, it kept expanding inside of his chest, burning painfully. And when it exploded…

It destroyed everything around him.

Finding Mindstorm was harder and longer than planned, so of course, Soldier Boy was getting frustrated. It was not going like he wanted. There was no time to lose there, he thought Butcher and the other nerd could help him for fuck sake. Stuck in too much anger, he decided it was enough and left the house he was supposed to stay in to wander into the city.

There were not many clothes he could wear out without attracting attention, so he had to borrow some from the bearded guy. Even then, everything ran small, so he was left with only one choice… It wasn’t too bad, but still, Soldier Boy cringed more than once at the Hawaiian shirt he had to wear as he walked through the quiet roads of the city. He was still complaining about it when he suddenly stopped dead in tracks. 

Stuck in the middle of the road, he stayed motionless. Some people complained he was blocking the path, but he didn’t move. Something here… seemed familiar. A scent, a feeling, the sight of something from the corner of his eyes…

Soldier Boy blinked. Once, twice, then closed his eyes and pressed his fingers on his lids hard enough to see colors appearing. He counted to 10 and breathed slowly. And when he opened them, it was like he was back in time.

People were walking around him, all wearing more formal clothes. Old, beautiful cars were parked on either side of the road. And to his right, a shop. There was a big bay window up front so he could easily see inside. It was filled with even older things, books, mostly. And in the middle of all that history and paper, there was you.

Soldier Boy blinked again, getting back to the present. Impatient people were complaining to him. Ugly cars took all the place on the damaged road. It wasn’t the same anymore, not after all the years he lost. Time had ruined everything, ate the vegetation, destroyed life itself. But when he turned his head to look at where you used to work…

His breath caught in his throat. It had to be a dream. Soldier Boy turned his body completely towards the shop, and without him controlling his limbs, walked inside. The bell chimed when he opened the door, announcing a new customer.

And with the brightest smile, the person behind the counter welcomed him.

“Hello! Welcome. Please, take a look around. I’m here if you have any questions!”

If he wasn’t so steady and strong, Ben would have fallen to his knees. He could feel his legs shaking as he walked closer to the counter where you were.

It was like time had no reach to the shop. It was the same as what he remembered. The outside was ruined by time and human choices, but the inside…

It felt warm. Cozy. Comfortable. The smell of old paper reigned there, it was almost overwhelming, but he knew it didn’t bother you. There were so many books on the shelves, piled on the tables and stacked in boxes that it was impossible to count them all. Behind the glass at the entrance, old newspaper, comic books, furniture and typewriters. Even the cash register was old school.

And then, there was you.

“Y/n…?”

If he had doubts this was real, Soldier Boy had the confirmation when you turned your head to the sound of your name. And when he saw what you were wearing around your neck, the last doubt left his mind.

“Yes? How do you know my name?”

Pain.

Simply.

His visions got blurred, his head spinning.

Hope pressed down heavily in his guts when you said those words. Gravity pushed down on his whole body, he felt crushed under it, like every single one of his bones were breaking, unable to support him anymore.

And inside of him, his heart was shattering in a thousand pieces.

You clearly didn’t remember him… If it was really you.

He had so many questions, so many thoughts running through his head. Doubts. He wanted to scream at you to tell the truth. What was going on? What happened? How was this possible? 

Was it really you?

But nothing.

His mouth opened, but only silence could be heard. It was the first time Soldier Boy felt inevitably weak. He felt desperately human. Ben felt powerless.

“Can I help you?” You worried, walking around the counter to stop right next to him. Green eyes followed your movements to finally dive into your gaze. God, he always loved your eyes. They were so pretty and filled with raw emotions, you could never hide how you were truly feeling. And right now, your brows slightly raised as you kept staring at him told him how worried and anxious you were. But it was when you gently placed your hand on his shoulder that he truly broke.

“You don’t remember me?” He asked and hated how his voice shook with every word he uttered.

Worry turned into confusion in your eyes. “Sorry… I get a lot of customers, even though recently I have quite a really good memory.” You shrugged and smiled. The way your lips curled up, trying to cheer him up, comfort him, it sent another painful memory in Ben’s guts. “I don’t think I saw you before. What’s your name?”

Ben slowly took a step back, even if all he wanted was to get impossibly closer to you. Take you in his arms and squeeze you until you remember him. It had to be you. There was no doubt in his mind. At first, he thought that maybe you were one of Y/n’s grandchildren and just happened to look exactly like the one he lost. But there were too many similarities. How you styled your hair was the same. The way you spoke. The little moles were even at the same spots. And your eyes. They couldn’t lie. You were an open book.

And there was the pendant around your neck.

“Ben,” he said simply. If he thought hearing his name would bring back some sense into you, another sharp pain pierced his chest when you only nodded and politely smiled. “It’s Ben, don’t you remember? Ben, Soldier Boy!” 

It had to happen one way or another. There were simply too many emotions running through him, it was bound to spiral out of control. Pain caused sadness and in sadness, Soldier Boy always turned to anger. That was the reason he avoided anything that could remind him of you. So of course, when no matter what he did, you still couldn’t remember him, he turned to anger. 

This was all a set up. And he was out of patience.

Two steps and he was right in front of you, both his hands on your shoulders. His voice raised when he spoke the next words, shaking you under his strong hold. Asking questions one after the other that would make everyone looking at the scene think he was losing his mind. 

It took only one sound from you to stop him. As quickly as anger exploded inside of him, the fire died. The smallest whimper of pain reached his ears and he was back behind the wheel. 

He was hurting you.

“Fuck, shit,” he muttered, taking a step back, immediately releasing you. Your head was down, your gaze avoiding his. But even if you were not looking at him, he knew, he could feel the pain and the tears running down your cheeks like the water was on his skin. “Hey, hey, Y/n, please, don’t cry, I- I’m sorry,” he tried to get closer again, he couldn’t let you cry, he couldn’t support it, but the moment he tried to approach you, you flinched.

“Please, leave…”

Your voice was barely a whisper. Shaking. Scared. You were so scared. Of him.

His heart broke even more. Never before did he hurt you. He could kill thousands of people in the war. Torture the enemy for information. But see you in pain? See you cry? Be the reason behind your tears?

“It’s okay, Y/n, please. It’s okay. Close your eyes.”

It got out on its own. He didn’t know why, but it felt like the right thing to say. The last thing you told him, not even with words, before you died. 

It was always a comfort for him somehow, when he felt like it was the end… When he felt like he was losing control. He closed his eyes and counted.

“What?”

He thought you wouldn’t listen to him anymore, not after what he did. But to his surprise, you were receptive to his words.

“Close your eyes. Count to 10.”

When Ben did this, it always had the same effect. When he opened his eyes after counting to 10, he remembered. Remembered your words, your face, how to breathe, and immediately felt better. Calmer. Even back in Russia, even after the torture, if he closed his eyes and counted to 10, hell seemed a bit more bearable.

Ben didn’t think you would do it. But you did, closed your eyes and counted to 10 slowly, taking a deep breath to every number you murmured.

When you opened your eyes, it was like an entirely different person was in front of him. You had the same bright beautiful eyes, but now, they were shining with something new. Something different. Something he hoped he would see the moment he saw you in the shop.

“Oh my god…”

You recognized him.

“Ben!”

It didn’t even take a second for you to jump in his arms and hug him like tomorrow would never come. You held him tight, close to you, your feet not even touching the floor, and Ben held you as tight as possible. The embrace was strong, but he controlled his strength. He refused to hurt you again.

“Thank God,” Ben muttered, half laughing half crying. It was the one and only time he would ever allow himself to cry. No tears were shed when he lost you, or all those years he got tortured. But now that he had you again, he could let himself go to his emotions. “I thought I lost you.”

“I thought I lost you too, I-” Even if all he wanted was to keep you close to him, you stepped back to look at him. Both hands on his cheeks, you detailed his features. “You haven’t changed, haven’t aged-”

“You neither,” Ben frowned as he caressed your face as well. “Y/n… You have to tell me, is it really you? This isn’t a dream or a trick, right?” Just thinking about it had his hands clenched and you could feel him tense.

“It’s…” You smiled, tears flowing down your cheeks as well. “Quite the long story actually, I uhm…” Looking around, noticing there was no customer inside, you quickly walked to the door to lock it and turn the sign to closed. Then, you walked back to Ben, took his hand and dragged him to the back of the store to the break room where there was a couch. 

Ben sat down next to you, not letting go of your hand. “I have all the time in the world,” he said. He had to know. Now. “I thought you were dead, Y/n…”

You sighed. “I was.” Ben tensed once again so you placed your other hand on his. “They killed me. Or thought I was dead. But I wasn’t. It was Black Noir’s idea.” Like a movie was playing behind your lids, you closed your eyes and started shaking slightly. “58 minutes later, when everyone was gone, including you, he brought me to Vought to the last floor. Begged Stan Edgar to do something. Though… Black Noir wasn’t talking, something was wrong with his face. It was burnt and bleeding.” Opening your eyes, you looked at him and smiled again. “Looks like you got him good…”

“How…” Ben sniffled and tilted his head, frowning. He knew that part, he lived it. He remembered it. But with that much detail? “How do you remember so clearly…”

He watched you reach out to your necklace and held it tightly. The rest was harder to say, he could feel it. “They gave me Compound V.” You stopped for a couple of seconds to let the words go through his brain and glanced to watch his reaction. Ben was not moving, like he had doubts that was how you made it without aging. He wasn’t surprised and was waiting for you to continue. “It saved me, but I was in a coma for 10 years. When I woke up, they did a bunch of tests on me and concluded that besides not aging, I had no powers so they let me go.” At that, you chuckled sarcastically. “They were wrong.”

Ben nodded, encouraging you to continue. You removed your necklace and placed it in the palm of his hand. 

“This is…” He started as you incited him to open the pendant. A picture of you in black and white on the left side was smiling at him. On the right side, a picture of him with his suit and helmet on.

“I wandered a lot, went almost everywhere. I couldn’t stay too long at one place after all, it's kind of weird to see your neighbor not aging. But in the end, I… Finished my journey back here.” You looked at the place with a sad smile. “It was familiar, and I felt safe, so I stayed. I started to read more and more and ended up noticing something… Weird. I could clearly remember everything that I read, heard or saw. I had the perfect memory. Could learn languages in one sitting. Don’t know how to cook? No problem. Give me 20 minutes. My brain has an insane facility to learn anything… That was the power Compound V gave me.”

“But if you have a good memory, why didn’t you remember me?”

Everything you said so far made sense. The way you remembered everything so clearly. Why you haven't aged. The necklace he gave you back then, necklace you still had. But there were still so many questions left…

Sadness filled up your eyes even more and you sighed. “I have a super memory, but I have a normal brain capacity… I started forgetting more and more memories of my past. I thought it was normal, but I was only in denial. The morning I woke up and forgot you was the day I knew something was wrong.” You offered him a sad smile. “I could never forget my love…” You took back the pendant and closed it. “I went to Vought and they declared it was not their problem. Side effects of a superpower are not unknown after all, and there was nothing to do. The memories I made everyday would end up burying the oldest ones I have. After that day, I decided to wear the necklace all the time and write in a journal what I did during those days. But then, I forgot I had a journal. And I forgot you.”

Ben clenched his jaw and closed his eyes. His hatred for Vought only grew then. They gave you those powers, and when you asked for help, they shrugged it off, not our problem? Anger was building up inside of him, he could feel his insides heating up painfully, rage was overtaking him. But then, a soft touch. Warmth on his skin. Calm voice speaking words.

“Open your eyes,” you asked and he obeyed immediately. Green eyes got lost in yours as he remembered that the last thing you told him was to close his eyes. Like somehow, everything had come full circle. “You’re there now. If you stay, I won’t ever forget you.” A bright smile was now on your lips, it was so warm, all he wanted to do was snuggle against you and live through your smile. “And I sure won’t forget that ugly Hawaiian shirt,” you laughed.

God, he missed your laugh.

Ben wanted to say yes. God, he was about to say yes, stay with you here forever, but you mentioned the shirt he was wearing. Butcher’s. And the whole reason for his presence came back to him.

“I have something to do before,” he said, taking your hands in his to kiss it softly. 

Panic quickly rose on your face. “Wait, no, please, stay?” You seemed pressed, like time was running out.

“It’ll be quick, I promise. I’ll be back before you notice I'm gone.” Ben smiled to reassure you and then got back on his feet. He could do it. Finish what he started, kill the remaining member of his team and then Homelander, and be back here before dinner. He could do it. 

Soldier Boy was so sure of himself when he said his goodbye, kissing you softly on the lips, that he didn’t notice the sheer terror on your face. But it was too late, he was already gone. 

-

Only 3 days had passed.

It was so short.

It happened so fast.

When he came back to the headquarters, they had found Mindstorm’s location. The fight was not easy, the skinny guy tried to save him, but at the end, Soldier Boy had his head. Then, it was Black Noir. The moment he entered the Seven’s tower, he knew something had happened. 

Black Noir was already dead.

Too bad.

Then, there was Homelander. That turned out to be harder than planned, but with Butcher’s new power and Maeve’s help, they did it. They exploded a whole floor in the process, but they got him.

Homelander was no more.

A lot happened in those three days, but for him, it happened so fast it was like he left for 3 hours. 

Once everything was settled, Soldier Boy ran back to your store. He didn’t even bother changing, he bursted through the door in full uniform, ignoring everyone staring at him and asking him for pictures and autographs. 

Scanning through the shop, he searched for you. You were not behind the counter, so he checked in every corner of the book store. Then, he headed to the back, the place where you told him everything that had happened to you. 

“Y/n!” 

As he opened the door, he knew you would be there. Turning your head towards him, you smiled.

“Y/n, I’m back, like I promised. I’m there. I did it.”

Your smile grew bigger on your lips, your eyes shining with so much light, it felt warm inside of him again.

He felt alive.

“Oh my god, is it really true?”

Soldier Boy nodded, a smile as bright as yours on his lips. “Yeah! Like I said.”

“Is it really you, you’re Soldier Boy!”

Wait.

Wait no.

No.

His smile stayed on. But inside, he was screaming.

“No, I mean yes,” he stepped closer to you, watching your face filled with joy. But even if everything told him the real reason why you were so in awe and happy to see him, he refused to believe it. “Y/n… I…Close your eyes.”

Giggling, you put your book on the couch, stood up and did as he said.

“Count to ten.”

Please.

It had to work.

Counting out loud, your smile stayed on.

“Now, open your eyes.”

It worked last time. It worked. You remembered him after all these years. Even if your memory was very bad right now, that your power was eating your past, it'd only been 3 days. 

Your beautiful eyes met his sad gaze again.

He knew without you saying a word.

There was no glint. No shine. Nothing except the excitement of meeting a hero… for the first time. And around your neck, the pendant was missing.

You even forgot to put it on.

“So, do I win something?” 

The earth itself couldn’t support his weight and he had to sit down. Ben sat down on the couch, placing his face against his hands. Trying to hide. Trying to go back in time. Now, he could see it. Could remember it. The panic you had when he told you he was leaving. You were scared, scared to forget him. 

Ben looked down. Defeated. His hands gripped his hair hard and he cursed himself. Why did he leave? Why?! Now it was too late!

As he stared at the floor, something caught his eyes. Reaching down, he cupped the object in his palm and stared.

The pendant.

“Is everything okay?”

Your voice was the same.

You were the same.

The one he lost.

The one that forgot him.

And now, it was too late.

“I saw you on TV, you’re the new leader of the Seven, right? It must be so hard working for Vought.”

Even if you didn’t remember him, you were still so kind. Considerate. You had a hero in front of you and were more concerned about his well being than a fucking picture or an autograph.

“Yeah. Working for Vought is not easy,” he replied, staring absentmindedly at the necklace.

You sat down next to him. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Having a job you don’t like really sucks. I hope that, as the new leader, you’ll be able to find yourself a reason to keep going. And maybe help a lot of people, who knows?”

To that, Soldier Boy could only nod.

“I am the new leader, yeah. And changes need to be done.”

Just like that, the hero got up and left. Something slipped from his gloved hand and fell on the floor. As you picked it up, you tried to catch up to him, but he was already gone. “Damn it,” you muttered and looked at the pendant. Curious, you opened it and looked at the two pictures inside of it. You slowly caressed the picture to the left. “It was probably very important to him… Someone he really loved.”

You kept the pendant and placed it around your neck. Maybe one day, the hero would come back and you could give it back to him.

Forever taglist: @nitnat6245​ @b3autyfuldisast3r-blog​ @eevvvaa​ @fictional-affairs​ @wickedinspirations​ @awkward-and-indecisive​  @peachyaliien​ @katbratsupernaturalwhore​  

Soldier Boy Taglist: @akshi8278​

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

(Sorry if this is too weird for you. You can just ignore it if you like.)

So...what's it like to drink the Ghoul's piss? I'm wondering about taste, smell, temperature, and side-effects.

*blush*

(*Homelander voice* Go ahead...let's light this candle, huh??)

Friend, when I said this blog is kink-friendly and I don't judge, I meant that this blog is kink-friendly and I don't judge. I've yet to get a single ask/question/request that's made me uncomfortable, or even made me look at it funny, and this certainly isn't the point where I'm gonna start. With that said...

The taste? Oh babe, lemme tell you, it's not good. Don't get me wrong, I don't think anyone in the Fallout universe would have inoffensive-tasting piss (chronic dehydration is too widespread and frankly these people have fucked-up diets, plus constant radiation exposure for most of them). But I fully believe that ghoul metabolic processes are streamlined to utilize any beneficial resources with maximum efficiency (chiefly, calories and water; this would fall in line with characters like The Ghoul being put into situations where they survive for years and years with no food or water). To be blunt, I don't think his kidneys are producing a ton of urine, save for the bare minimum of biological waste that comes from them simply operating.

Long story short, I think the man maybe pisses once every few days if he's had enough water, and it would be dark and STRONG, both in smell and taste.

I also have a headcanon that ghouls run noticeably hotter than regular humans due to the sheer amount of energy that gamma radiation produces. The radiation alone may not produce much measurable physical heat, but I think a human body plied with it down to the cell level would basically work as a space heater. I don't think most ghouls worry about thermoregulation in the heat.

You know what that means, though? Incredibly hot piss. Like, steaming hot even when it's not cold outside. Hot enough to make you gasp when it hits your skin, startling without actually burning you.

In terms of side-effects from contact or ingesting, I'm envisioning the same sort of deal as with ghoul cum (which I elaborated on in an almost-equally unhinged post here); it's incredibly radioactive and will make you very ill if you fuck around too much. Getting a little on you probably wouldn't be any worse than trudging through your average puddle of nuclear waste, but if you're intending to have it inside you in any way, especially swallowing it, you need to be careful. Prep with Rad-X (which reduces the amount of radiation that "sticks" to you, up to a certain point), finish up with Radaway (which removes already-accumulated radiation) if you're determined to be a piss queen or a ghoul cum dumpster. No judgement! I just want to make sure you know you're in for some pretty severe nausea, open sores/burns (especially in your mouth), bleeding from the nose, and bruising if you're not careful. We love nasty fun around here, but we also love safety.

Also, you didn't ask about this, but based on what you DID ask, I'll assume you'd also be interested in knowing what his reaction to you bringing up such things would be.

And honestly? I think you'd get essentially the same reaction from Prewar!Coop and The Ghoul.

I think he'd be hesitant. Not because he finds it too gross or off-putting or anything, but he'd worry that it'll be disrespectful to you in a way that he, as a man, shouldn't engage in (moreso Prewar!Coop), and because he's worried it could be harmful to you (moreso The Ghoul). Don't get me wrong; I think he'd certainly be intrigued, and I think you being both bold and vulnerable enough to ask for such a thing would make his head spin in the best possible way. What a display of trust! As I've said before, I think this man had (and has) lots of weird kinks himself, he just hasn't had the opportunities to explore them that he needs. Many of those kinks he doesn't even realize he has.

But even though you can see that intrigue in his pretty eyes, see the forming bulge in his pants, you may have to be persistent if you really wanna try it out. He's very firm about not doing anything that'll really harm you, and he isn't initially convinced this won't.

If I'm quite honest? Prewar!Cooper would be even more turned on by it than The Ghoul once he came around to the idea. I think it would arouse him so much to see his favorite pretty little plaything so enamored with him that they'll do anything to please him, for him to make them feel good, including debase themselves completely. I think that you being so into him that you want him to piss on you, in you, would both stroke his ego and feed his most primal, possessive urges.

Best bet to get him started? Hop in the shower with him, get him all worked up as per usual, and then drop to your knees and start blowing him. Once you get him worked up enough that he could very nearly cum, pull back and keep stroking him slowly while you beg for it. Provided you've timed things right, there's no way he'd be able to say no...just give him a second. It's difficult to piss with a massive, throbbing erection. Maybe if you played with the head (with your tongue) while he tried, that would help. Who says you have to pull away when he finally starts if you don't want to?

Hope you're ready for an engagement ring after that.

The Ghoul mostly finds appeal in how filthy it is, in seeing this clean, gorgeous young thing having to dirty themselves to survive. Eventually, fully embracing the filth because they're part of the Wasteland now, coming to enjoy filth to some degree. I think that aspect of it would really get him going. Remember that scene where he watches Lucy drink the contaminated water that ultimately makes her sick? I saw a post on here when I first started the blog (I can't find it now!) about him offering Lucy an alternative to that when she was begging for some of his water...it really awakened something in me. Enough said.

I think he'd enjoy it as much as you, when it came down to it, but I think he would also make you beg for it, loudly and fervently, every single time you want it. From the very first time, it's gonna rile him up like no other that his pristine little companion is begging him to dirty them in such a disgusting way. I don't think he'd be too keen on letting you swallow it, honestly, much like I don't think he'd be too keen on letting you swallow his cum because of the radiation. But I think if you ask pretty enough, nasty enough, he'd be more than happy to piss on you or in your other holes. Only if he knows you're set up with plenty of Radaway, though.

People don't really get "engaged", or even married anymore, per se, but if you think you're getting away from this man after you let him do that to you, you're sorely mistaken.

[wileycap]

ATLA Headcanon (this is very much spoilers and I'm pretty sure this isn't a super original thought):

Ozai was always thought of as kind of a useless coward in the Fire Nation, before he grabbed power. He was the spare prince next to the Dragon of the West, and this motivates him in everything that he does.

It makes a lot of sense and provides some depth of character to him - which, let me be clear, I don't think he needs: within the story, he works perfectly fine as just a cruel, narcissistic monster. Any detour into his motivations would have distracted from the overall story.

But think about it. Why does he hate Zuko so much? Because Zuko reminds him of his own (perceived) failures, as the disappointing son, and as a narcissist, he can not bear thinking about anything that makes him less than perfect. He wants to get rid of Zuko because he sees himself in Zuko, and this is only compounded by Zuko and Azula's dynamic resembling the dynamic between him and Iroh. Of course, in this case, it's the younger sibling that is the favoured, more capable child. Ozai wants to see himself in Azula, but actually sees himself in Zuko.

Now, I know that the more overt explanation is that he cares about his legacy, and wants Azula to succeed him because she's the stronger heir, but I don't think that matters to Ozai that much. It certainly matters a little bit, because the greater glory of his heir reflects well on him, and obviously he wants that. But I don't think Ozai is actually all that concerned with what happens after he dies. To that, Zhao, whom Ozai promotes and clearly favours to some degree, expresses open disdain at Iroh's spirituality - it's reasonable to think that this sort of attitude thrives under Ozai, or it might just be the Fire Nation in general.

I think Ozai operates under a belief that the world will end with him, and doesn't believe in an afterlife. I don't necessarily mean that he is actually cognisant of this belief - I mean that he is only concerned with himself, so to him, once he stops existing, everything of value will have left the world. If he'd still been in power once he was at the age where death becomes a real concern instead of an abstract possibility, he probably would have sought some form of immortality.

He is very quick to cast Azula aside with a meaningless title, after all. He doesn't value Azula, he just hates the reminder that is Zuko. Zuko also resembles him physically - and to that point, his method of punishing Zuko before getting rid of him is to disfigure him. To further distance himself from Zuko.

In Zuko Alone, Azula refers to Iroh as "his royal tea-loving kookiness" - and we have to remember that Azula probably parrots Ozai's words. Why is this significant? Because at the time, Iroh has just broken through the Outer Wall of Ba Sing Se, a tremendous military accomplishment. He's living up to the Fire Nation's greatest values of military power and glory in battle. And still Ozai disparages him to Azula.

Because Ozai is a wounded narcissist who's always been jealous of his brother. I'm intentionally paraphrasing Zuko's words from The Avatar State here, because it's very likely that those words are also originally Ozai's. An attempt to drive a wedge between his successful older brother and his son.

Ozai's plan to literally burn down the Earth Kingdom is, aside from being monstrous, a terrible strategic decision. What, does the think that the ashes are going to pay him taxes? What's the end goal? At that point, the Fire Nation has effectively won the war. Sure, they are likely still facing resistance, and the Earth Kingdom might be able to rally in the future and challenge them for hegemony. But, considering other conquering military states in our history, a large chunk of their economy probably relies on war. On levying taxes on subjugated territories in order to prop up the economy of the homeland. So, he's intentionally handicapping his own nation by literally burning down a massive source of income.

In the context of erasing his own profound narcissistic injury, however, that makes perfect sense. Who's going to remember Iroh's glorious victories in the Earth Kingdom when there is no Earth Kingdom?

So, there you have it. Ozai is the disappointing child in the shadow of his heroic older brother, the cowardly prince who never went to war in a nation that idolizes war and war heroics above all else, and he spends the rest of his life covering that wound up with blood and fire.

And I do think it's a very beautiful sort of karma that he ends up without his firebending after a short reign and without any meaningful triumphs or accomplishments to his name. Because fuck that guy.

[irenadel]

Pygmalion.

Chapter 4. She rose to his requirement, dropped the playthings of her life.

This chapter gutted me so once more, no beta we die like suicidal teenagers, set after the fateful murder/suicide of “The Only Man In The Sky" The slow burn up and turned the fuck on. We have smut, I repeat we have smut. It's not the smut we need maybe, but it's the smut I deserve. Homelander still needs a friend tho.

Chapter 1. That she, dear she, might take some pleasure of my pain Chapter 2. We sat grown quiet at the name of love Chapter 3. He touched me, so I live to know that such a day, permitted so

He knew you could feel your phone vibrating (the newest, most expensive thing you owned since a harried Vought assistant had delivered it to your door), both because he could hear your heart speeding up in anticipation and because, through the flimsy barrier of your store’s concrete roof and thin ceiling tiles, he could see your hand fly to your back pocket. He was also able to catch a glimpse of the brief pull of your exasperated smile.

He needs you to stop fucking smiling and hurry it up, he thinks almost fondly.

Unfortunately, that quick grin costs you. Whatever goddamn idiot you are trying to service seems to think you are laughing at him (you should, he thinks, rolling his eyes, bored already) and that sets your customer off. And for a second, Homelander is almost pleased by that cocksucker screaming at you. It serves you right. Because you’ve been WASTING your time (his time) and kindness (HIS kindness, HIS rightful property) on the fucking undeserving mud. He’s had to hear you speak to this pathetic, daft old man in the same cheerful, soothing voice you use for HIM. You’ve been smiling at this idiot with that stupid, sickly-sweet (wonderful) smile of yours (his! his by right!) and he, for one, is fucking fed up with it.

It catches him off-guard when you start to cry. The anger comes first, surprising in its suddenness because he’s become so unused to anger when you’re around. But goddamn it, you cry so easily! It’s frankly embarrassing. He feels it hot and indignant and nauseous in the pit of his belly, like he imagines being sick must be like. Cannot decide who this anger is for: you, your stupid job or that idiot trying to apologize. He wants to break something about this, he is going to BREAK that asshole as soon as you stop your sniveling—

“Hey!” Your manager (insignificant, pathetic and completely outside of Homelander’s scope of possibilities) steps in between you and the half-irate, half-apologetic customer (“I was just telling her I didn’t need a fucking online profile! She doesn’t have to get so fucking worked up!”). His authority is immediate and definite and Homelander feels the alien white-hot burn of envy. “You can leave, sir. Customers who speak like that to my people are not welcome here. Goodbye.”

He hugs you and calls you something in Spanish that makes Homelander bristle in outrage. Sends you to your overdue lunch and you are so pathetically grateful it makes him ill.

It’s not right. It is, in fact, obscenely wrong. He feels strangely and absurdly robbed and considers flying off to leave you fending for yourself. It would serve you right if he did. You would have certainly earned it, missy—

Except you don’t quite make it to the roof. You stop on the last couple of stairs, settle your stupid little packed lunch and sit down, face hiding between your knees. You don’t cry anymore, Homelander would have known if you did, you just take deep, gulping breaths… 

He feels stupid for a moment… Then he decides he’ll be damned if he lets you rob him of your tears as you had robbed him of your gratitude.

He breaks the roof’s lock and crushes its alarm mechanism before you have time to even turn his way, let alone protest, and takes advantage of your shock (seriously misplaced, you should know better by now) to sweep his cape out of the way and settle theatrically by your side.

“So… what’s for lunch?” He tries, offering you his best camera-worthy grin and you take the bait for a second before bursting into tears again. You’re such a pain, Homelander thinks, pleased as you, at long last, fall into his arms and let him be your hero. What would you do without him?

Probably bore someone else with your little complaints.

It turns out that what’s for lunch is leftover Thai from Lumlum on 49th between 9th and 10th for him and a salad with shredded chicken and (in his opinion) an excess of bell peppers for you. Homelander is equal parts annoyed and flattered by the leftovers, carefully curated from your dinner last night with the only one among your pathetic friends who can actually afford to eat out. It’s not too spicy, I could stand it and I’m shit at spicy curries, you tell him confidently and he relents solely because he enjoys your endless attempts to get him to eat new things.

You’re still weepy, but Homelander is pleased to see that the city sun, his own marvelous self, and the well-worn routine of your lunch hour has finally made you relax enough to fill the empty spaces with your chatter.

You’ve been doing this since you started going back to work full time at the end of your semester. You bring enough lunch for two and he, Homelander, lets you bask in his presence for one glorious hour of your ordinary life. He sees it as a sort of charity work, given how much it perks you up, no doubt massively improving your day.

Sometimes you talk. Well, most of the time. You talk a lot. It was… unsettling, the way you would get him to spill whatever it was that bothered him. He would start with complaints about Ashley and the incompetent board at Vought and then he would be telling you about Stan Edgar, or god forbid, Vogelbaum. (Or at least a version of Vogelbaum… one you could understand.)

You always had something interesting to say.

“… I get it… sometimes you wish they’d done something that left scars then you’d feel like it was real. Like it counted.”

And then he’d be paralyzed with sympathy and longing. Like he’d almost reached something, some important bit of understanding that had eluded him. Like there was a physical thing between you, tying the two of you together. You’d have found a better way to say it.

Today, you sounded more tired than outraged. He did not like the defeat in your voice.

“… it’s not that I want it to stop… it’s just that it grinds you down, and I don’t know if it’ll ever get better… if it’ll ever stop being so hard and I’m so sick of trying.”

Something like alarm bells pulse through his veins and in a panic-stricken moment he grabs for your wrists (leaving bruises you will later ignore, because by now you have ignored every other warning sign), holds you away from him like you could burn him (hurt him, by means he has only just begun to understand). You don’t seem to grasp the depths of it, just a bare glimpse of the animal fear that had gripped him for a second, and try, immediately, to diffuse it as best as you can.

“Jesus don’t look at me like that, I don’t mean that, I mean… you know?” But there’s that tired look of defeat on you again, like even complaining takes too much effort, as you gesture at your own body (soft, so soft and comfortable in his arms he suddenly wishes he’d had thought to hold you again instead). “Eat right, exercise, work, study, don’t forget to create shit to stay sane… And it feels like none of it truly matters. Like I’m fighting all the time, just fighting against the weight of my own unimportance… my deep, profound smallness… ideas like everyone else, dreams like everyone else, nothing new, nothing relevant… just waves and waves of remembering how fucking unremarkable I truly am…”

He finds it so surprising he laughs at you. Doesn’t even let you process the hurt before he’s barreling on.

“You’re such a silly goose! Of course you feel like that!” And he’s become so used to the comfort of your understanding and lack of judgment that he doesn’t even think to cushion the blow. “You’re all just so insignificant. Just mud really. It’s so hard to find any of you that matter.”

And he’s not looking at your face, because he’s too busy looking at his hands on your arms and wondering how the soft give of your flesh would feel without his gloves. He’s not thinking of your face, or the bitter grimace of betrayal in it, and that is what saves you both, that there is no premeditation to what he says to you next. It comes out raw and true.

“But you matter. You matter to me. That makes you more important than anyone else.”

***

“Please tell me that you’re fucking him,” your roommate says wheeling her chair into the elevator, finally, at long last repaired and miraculously functional for the last couple of weeks. Management seemed to have gotten competent at something. “Sex makes it normal. Sex is nuts and still pretty dumb but understandable at least!”

You walk in behind her and spend the rest of the way to your apartment trying to explain how it isn’t like that with you and Homelander. You’re friends. You have lunch together every day because it’s nice. You talk about your life and his idiot politics because it’s fun to rile him up. You’ve shown him your drawings cause he asked (cause he’s the first guy in a long time who has shown any interest in them, watched you watercolor intently while he rambles on about himself and whatever petty drama is going on in the Seven, winced when you use too much pigment and clicked his tongue in surprise when you recover by using tissue paper, like it’s a soccer match or something).

Not like that at all… but somehow so much better.

You throw your stuff on your ratty old couch and turn on American Hero both because your roommate likes it and because if you don’t, Homelander will be sulking about it the whole week. God knows how long you spent coaching his atrocious Spanish accent and you intend to spend even more time making fun of his bad attempt to welcome Supersonic into the Seven. (Try not to think about his promise to you. Try not to make it personal and sappy and meaningful that his stupid Mexican ass in his stupid Puerto Rican costume got chosen.)

“God, wish they’d let Queen Maeve host American Hero at some point. She’d be killer at it… You know,” your roommate says from the kitchen while she’s making popcorn. “Sex would be better than you being friendzoned by fucking Homelander.”

“That’s not what—”

“Oh come on! Even you’ve got to be wondering when he’s officially gonna ask you out!”

You say nothing because you’ve got nothing to say. Because you’ve wondered about it and you hate that you have. And you also know how unfair it is. Because his ex-girlfriend (the fucking nazi) just killed herself a few weeks ago. And he was here having a panic attack about it. Because you’re not sure you want it yourself. He still scares you sometimes and you don’t know if that’s the kind of thing you could live with. He’s hurt you before… it gets easy to forget but somehow you haven’t quite managed to. Sometimes he will tell you something that makes you google whether you’re a mandatory reporter in the state of New York. Sometimes he will tell you something that makes your heart ache for him, your alarm bell blair, makes you want to ask him are you happy? Do you want to live like this? You don’t have to… But that’s not the sort of thing a girl who just met him can ask. Especially a girl who is still unsure of what you are to each other or whether she can be anything to him at all.

After all, watching Starlight on TV, blonde and perfect, you wonder how she can stand the terror of being looked at all the time. And that’s what him asking you out would mean. Being looked at all the goddamn time. And no matter how much weight you lose or how many times you go to work or university in roller skates instead of taking the bus, how many YWCA yoga classes you take… you know you’re not the kind of girl people like to look at all the time. Beautiful, angry men who fall out of the sky don’t date frizzy-haired, over-educated, pudgy nobodies. And if they do, people tend not to like it.

Still, he said you mattered. He said it with no hesitation. He meant it.

“I think… we’re taking it slow,” you admit to your roommate and to yourself as you take the bowl of popcorn from her. She looks surprised for a second and then smiles at you and you find yourself smiling back as you settle down to watch the end.

“I get it but,” she says in mock exasperation. “It’s glacial and I want my Queen Maeve VIP passes now.”

You both burst out laughing so hard that you almost miss it. His shit-eating grin that you can never admit you love so much. His dumb red gloved hand that you’ve held in your own before, sneaking around Starlight’s shoulder. She’s my girl now. Come again, you want to ask. Because you don’t quite understand. Because you must have heard wrong. Can’t keep it a secret anymore.

In love.

Your roommate stares at you and it’s not the almost immediate fury and shout of fucking Homelight my ass! that gets you. It’s not the immediate speculation from the voice over, or Homelander kissing Starlight on the lips while your roommate screams motherfucker! at the screen. All of that you could have withstood, maybe not with grace or civility but at least without falling apart. But it’s that brief yet still too long moment of utter pity on your roommate’s face when she looks at you, that makes you stand up without a word and lock yourself in your room, while she knocks on your door and says things you don’t understand about you being a thousand times better than him. Being well rid of him. Fuck him. You’ll be fine

I used to think love could give me significance, back when I dated, you had told him once and he had made a face like he’d swallowed a lemon and told you unequivocally, what bullshit that was. Love does nothing. Love fixes nothing. You either matter or you don’t. You’re important or you’re a nobody.

And yet, it seemed just a few short days ago he’d said you mattered. Homelander had looked directly at you, no trace of guile in his stupid face, just fond exasperation. As if you had been silly to ask, silly to doubt it for a second. You matter to me.

Not enough. Apparently not enough.

***

He should’ve known it from the very first shitty excuse. He’d been focusing on the important things, hadn’t had time for whatever fucking bullshit had made you start acting so weird. He just didn’t have any time for this. He’d needed you there for him through this difficult time and suddenly you were…

Gone. Unavailable. Busy.

First it had been ridiculous errands that couldn’t have been important in any way. He’d gotten Ashley to install fucking washing machines in your building and left a Vought credit card with you in spite of your fucking tiresome protests because he was sick of you being at the goddamn library consulting books you could just fucking buy, wasting your time talking to god knows who, stupid excuses like you were drawing at the library with friends. Who fucking goes to the library to draw? (And who the fuck would go hang out with friends when they had Homelander as an option?)

Then, it was missing lunch at work. Lots of customers. Something about summer and people having more time to browse while shopping and needing to make more sales because you were saving up for the semester.

He’d put his foot down with that. He’d fucking had enough. Because you’d said it without looking at him, your pulse racing, your palms sweating and he had known, known instantly that you were lying. Like everyone lied to him. Struggled to hide the hurt it caused him and cornered you in the back of the store instead, slammed his hand right besides your face making the concrete crack and told you (because he could, because he should, because what he had said to Starlight had been true, if all he could have from you was fear then fear it would be) that you could figure it out with that fucking asshole manager of yours or he would figure it out for you.

And his stomach burned when he’d seen you fight to hold back tears while you nodded stupidly at him. Because you hadn’t held back tears in front of him in ages. Because he’d suddenly wanted to grab you and shake you until you’d cry and let him hold you through it the way it was supposed to work.

You never missed lunch again.

And suddenly it’s not enough. Because you’re not there. You look out into the sky when you should be looking at him. You sound distracted and irritable when you should be fucking glad. You were always so fucking glad to see him. And he wants to toss you aside, fine by him if you want to be like this. You can rot for all he cares.

Except your silences taste like tears. Like the moist, fragile quality of your brown eyes looking at him when you think he doesn’t notice. It’s nothing like the acrid taste of Madelyn’s nervous deception, or the adrenaline spiked rush of Stormfront’s passionate delusions. It’s sharp and bitter and full of sleepless nights.

He knows because he’s gone to your room when you are not there. To catch the smell of the sour-sweet cortisol of your insomnia. Had considered breaking your things in a rage, uprooting your plants, throwing your books into the harbor. (Can’t bring himself to lay hands on you again and this would be the next best thing) But all he manages is to lose himself in the telltale aroma of salt on your pillows. Where you’d laid together. Where you’d said he was your hero. He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with you. Suspects it’s these friends you keep having to see, their offensive scent all over your unmade bed. Confusing and alien, too many fucking people in your life that have no business taking up what should be HIS time. Sometimes your goddamn roommate, sometimes some unknown man, or a girl, caked cheap makeup and peroxide and hair spray. Not your smell, oatmeal soap and clean sweat…

He burrows into the pillows and thinks of tearing your sheets to pieces. Would serve you right. He should incinerate the whole bed and everything in it and—

Oh. Oh.

He pushes himself off the bed like it burns him, because he hadn’t expected this, has no framework to place it in. It doesn’t belong here, with you. Because underneath all the extraneous scents, and the other more familiar ones, the dust, the damp earth of your plants and the parchmenty sharpness of your books, there’s the thick, tangy smell of your sex. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I mean you’re a red-blooded Ame— woman. It’s only natural you should— He shifts uncomfortably on your bed, over-conscious of the knowledge that you’d rubbed one out in the same bed where you sometimes lay down to watch a movie (one of his movies) with him.

He doesn’t move towards it, not really. Just lays back down on your bed and breathes deeply. He tries to think of nothing, indulging in not even the slightest movement. Almost smiles before the intrusion of the sudden, furious thought that your fun might have been not entirely solitary makes him clench his fists so hard the leather of his gloves creaks ominously. You fucking invite so many fucking assholes to this bed it might be hiding in the smell of one of them. (It would explain it, would clear up everything, a reason for your distance that would be simple to fix) He should put a stop to it. No more friends. No more library. No more conversational French meetups. No more Central Park or roller skating to occupy your time. Just your job. Just the important part. Just him.

And he is suddenly, surprisingly, furiously hard, still breathing deeply of you. Cheap shampoo, corner-store deodorant, cotton panties and thick, potent female arousal… but no bitter scent of male cum anywhere in the cacophony of your bed’s smells.

Not yet anyway.

You must have been thinking about him when you did this. Of course. Of course. Your crush was painfully transparent, even if he hadn’t had the telltale spike of your heartbeat every time you saw him. So stupid of you. So silly and earnest, to want the impossible fantasy of your hero. He was almost sorry for you, because it must have been so difficult to see him day in and day out, not knowing what to say or do, wanting him…

And he finds himself facedown on your unmade bed, hands grabbing handfuls of your sheets, because it’s either that or touch himself, and he will be damned if he capitulates in this, like he’s done with everything else around you. He’s so hard it hurts. Erection sandwiched painfully between his body and the soft give of your mattress. A sudden, crystal clear image pops up in his head: your soft, thick thighs and one of your sweet little hands between them. And he’s grinding against the bed, almost without meaning too, almost without permission from his brain, because his face is shoved against what had been the wet spot of your bed and he holds his jaw shut so tightly it’s nearly painful, lest he be tempted to sneak a taste.

The smell is enough, more than enough, as he lets his hips go, imagining you whispering Homelander, Homelander against your bed. You’d sob like he’d heard you sob before, maybe cry a little, but happily this time. Ecstatic transported like that day at the lake. You, soaked in his arms, soaked in more ways than one, smiling at him.

He’s cumming, long and drawn out, with each snap of his hips against your mattress, pounding against it, eyes scrunched shut as if in pain, barely a gasp behind clenched teeth, erection pressed so hard against the bed it almost hurts. He’ll think about it later. It’s enough for the moment, enough to dissipate it all.

He very nearly forgives you.

He’s still laying on your bed when you come back home, still breathing heavily, head blissfully blank, the squelching mess of his own cum inside his suit making him feel so dirty and ashamed he’s already beginning to sport a brand new stiffy. He should’ve heard you come in all the way from the elevator landing. He had, if he was honest with himself. But had also found himself stuck in defiant paralysis, half of him ready to bolt, half of him willing to be caught sprawled on your bed, hand shoved down his pants, just to make you responsible for whatever this was. There was something terribly appealing about you, inattentive, absentee traitor that you were, having to get home and watch him jerk off where you had. Not being able to look away. Not being able to lie about it. Not being able to leave him.

But he does neither.

And when he hears you open your bedroom’s door and call to someone behind you “I’ll be right there! Let me just leave my things!” he is immediately overcome by a raging irritation that does nothing to alleviate the embarrassment of his still lingering arousal. Some fucking library you had to go to! The fucking sort of library that answers “Sure!” in a sweet baritone…

Two things register first. You’re wearing the Homelander branded varsity jacket he got you and your hair is green. Not even fucking blue or red, fucking deep emerald green, clashing gloriously with the colors on your jacket, freshly dyed apparently, lovingly curled for once instead of your usual frizzy mess. He hates it on sight. Hates it because you did not consult him on it. Because you hadn’t thought about him at all when deciding to do something so stupid looking. You had probably been thinking about whoever was on the other side of your ratty, disgusting apartment. Oh he’s going to let him and you know. Oh you’ve gotten yourself in so much trouble…

Except you also look so miserable and exhausted he could swear you’re about to drop.

“… hey,” you say uncertainly. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

He doesn’t want to think of this, of the fluttering of your tired pulse, and the dryness of your tightly-held lips. He refuses to feel sorry for you. You should be the one begging his forgiveness.

“Weeeell,” he barrels on with a strained, too-wide smile. “You did fucking tell me to drop whenever. Maybe you shoulda thought to put a schedule to that, huh? Maybe when you’re not entertaining. Who’s your fucking friend?”

He hates that you step back. He hates that you don’t even look scared, not really. He smells the tears before they drop from your eyes, before you hang your head in unbearable pain, holding your own sweet arms to your stomach like that can keep your insides from spilling out.

“I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. Please leave.”

And that does hit him like a gut punch, like the physical blow he has never experienced. He reaches for the comforting rage and finds nothing but gaping emptiness. Because nothing you say or do ever sounds right to him. You never give him the right cue cards, the well known scripts… you never let him do what he knows. Homelander may have expected rejection but not this open, wounded mourning. Not you grabbing hold of a wall to lower yourself on the floor while you can’t stop looking at him like he’s the one that has dismissed you. Like you can’t stand to tear your eyes off him now that he’s here.

Fuck you. And your easy tears. And that look of betrayal that should have belonged to him.

“You? YOU?! You can’t do THIS anymore?! And what is THIS exactly, missy? Huh? What kind of fucking performing monkey do you think I am to you? Think that you can have me here whenever you want and out the door when it’s not to your fucking convenience? Oh no, no you don’t. You don’t get to tell me when to fucking go–”

And it takes the bottom out from under him when you choke back “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Because your pulse is racing and you are afraid. He can see it in the tension of your shoulders and every time you flinch when he shouts. But when you bury your face in your hands, it’s more of those awful, gulping tears and more I’m sorries that he somehow believes you mean.

“I can’t be your friend anymore. I just can’t.”

He had not known this would hurt as it did. He thought he’d known the worst of it when Ryan had walked away from him. When Stormfront had left him when he most needed her. When Madelyn had lied to him. He didn’t know how the truth could hurt so much worse. The truth that all the others had neglected to speak to him, at least you have the guts to say it to his face. He’d always thought he’d have enough pride to face it head on, hadn’t known he would have to bite back bile and the thin, reedy pleading boy he somehow still harbored inside him. Please. I’ll be better. I’ll be good. Please don’t do this.

“I can’t stand it…” You get formal when you’re in pain, like you forget the casual ease of your adopted language and country. Like you want as much distance between the two of you. “I can’t stand looking at you. I’ve tried… I’ve tried so hard…”

And he’s the one who can’t look at you, nauseous and adrift, hands almost curling into fists, almost reaching for your shoulders so he can shake some sense into you, so he can tear you in two before he lets you keep hurting him like this. And he does, he does grab a handful of each fleshy shoulder, fights his own grimace of pain and the part of himself that has every right to demand he bang your head against your bedroom wall until you’ll stop talking, stop leaving, just stop.

You don’t know. He wants so badly to tell you, to show you how close to destruction you are, how little you matter, how easy you would be to snuff out. But whatever it is that is going through your silly little head, it makes you reach back to him, touch his face once and then recoil like he could burn you (he can and he will), like he disgusts you, like he—

“I can’t stand having to look at you and not have you. Please leave. I can’t be your friend when I feel like this about you.”

[missmarveledsblog]

You're not wrong but don't make it right. ( billy butcher x reader) Part 4

summary : butcher is fighting with what to do and doc wakes up only she isn't so happy to see the brit and MM is there to offer words of clarity , redemption arcs ensue and someone comes out of hiding .

warning : angst ( again sorry ) slow burn ( sorry also ) billy butcher , homelander and frenchie ( all warning ) mentions of past childhood abuse ,

Reblog to be added to taglist ♥️

The irony of it all as she laid out on the bed , he done his best to push her away and now he couldn’t  leave her side . the whole thing was like a battle of push and pull in his head , like a merry go round of confusion both had a shitty outcome .  He knows that he had to make it right that was easy but what after would he tell her why he was the cunt he was or would he just put it down to something else fragile masculinity or whatever bollock starlight would ramble on about .  He went over  possibilities in his head of what he could say  , she could forgive him or she could kick him in the balls to  which frankly after what he said was a likely  outcome .  it wasn’t suppose to happen , it shouldn’t of happened and yet it did turning his brain to a mumble mess of fucking emotions he didn’t know what to fucking do with  but he did know he was going to make it right. 

“ i told you i know you best of us all” the voice called making him laugh of course he did , MM was there more times than he deserved and cunt had to be right all time. 

“ yeah yeah want a poxy trophy maybe  a gold star  either way that doesn’t help me out now does it?” he kept his eyes on her like a magnet she pulled him to her even unconscious he couldn’t pull away . 

“ simple  be a man and  actually be happy , you may be a prick but you deserve happiness” he took a seat beside his friend. 

“ yeah i doubt that will help , mate  i wouldn’t be surprise if she wakes up and slips me one of those juliet’s she got “ butcher scoffed. 

“ i wouldn’t waste them on you” a croak of a voice called , her throat felt dry and scratchy an after taste of juliet made her stomach turn and twist. She felt the aches and twinges in her body least nothing felt broken  , which honestly was lucky considering she went through a wall only making her grateful for dodgy landlords and their equally crappy build apartments . 

“ well if you can make something like that love i can’t image what other things you could come up with” he chuckled . 

“ it’s good to see you alive doc , not gonna lie you had us there” MM handed her the bottle of water. 

“ i’ve been hit harder than that dickfaced supe , plus when i seen frenchie picked up my call he’d get to me in time” she smiled weakening , groaning as she sat up . 

“ yeah your brother had us there in no time at all , funny that your brother” butcher said a smirk on his face. 

“ yeah only funny part is how we both have the same daddy issues wonder if  you think he should of hit serge harder too” she snipped . watching as a flicker of something she would of took as regret, remorse maybe but he was a prick incapable of feeling anything but his own ego and cockiness . 

“ i mean i guess i’m hopeless cause homelander couldn’t smack some manners into me either huh?” she added . 

“ look i was wrong fer what i said , if i could take…” 

“ take it back you would , please butcher we all know you don’t care who you hurt , only what they can give you , what they can do for you let me guess juliet is the reason your saying  sorry because my little concoction could benefit you so spare me your false sympathies and do my a favor just one thing and fuck off” she turned her head away from the man.

“Not the case love but i will give you space” he sighed heading out the room knowing he no idea how to go about this and maybe with bit of time and space he could figure it out . 

“ you know he’s genuinely pissed at himself for what he’s said even drank himself into a stupor “. 

“ oh don’t defend him the man goes into a drunken mess when hughie says hello to him , he cold hearted bastard that looks out himself and fuck anyone that cares because he will just show them why it’s a mistake” she scoffed. 

“ he’s scared , you scare him , you make him think of something that he doesn't think he deserves it , he only ever felt this  once before and it ended badly” mm explained softly . 

“ what a doctor played a game to far or something “ she rolled her eyes pissed she was even in the base in first place  but most likely down to her brother. 

“ she got killed and it wasn’t a doctor  it was his wife” . 

“ your trying to say billy butcher is in love with me  ,  You taking shit from my brother stash because you sound fucking crazy right now  , in love with me  please ever since i walked into all your lives the man has done everything in his power to belittle , taunt and mock me “ she laughed dryly. 

“ petite fille you’re awake” frenchie smiled brightly . 

“ just think of it all , give him a chance he might surprise you” mm walked out the door. 

“ what was that about “ frenchie looked at her confused. 

“ a mind melt” she huffed closing her eyes trying to make sense of it all . 

…………..

He wan’t surprised she was pissed , he was expecting it  and he deserved it . He could of laughed at himself walking out of the flower shop with a dozen roses in his hand already knowing she probably hit him with them another reason he told the florist to make sure she got all the thorns off of the stems. 

 “ ah william good to see you “ that voice one that hand him clutching the bouquet so hard he almost snapped the stems. 

“ you know i’m happy to get hemorrhoid than i am to see you  what the fuck do you want demented ken doll” butcher turned seeing homelander looking like a fucking twat in his base ball cap and ‘ normal clothes’. 

“ wanted to extend my sympathies of your doc friend although i’ve only met her for a brief time , nice gal , got a mouth on her” he smiled  smug prick still thought she was dead . 

“ oh we heard it and mate she was right down to the button huh, big man with all that muscle and powers attacking a woman , did it get little man going?” butcher smirked only for a beam to hit the psychotic blonde . 

“ what you do to doc you sniffling little waste of sperm ?” .

“ what the fuck are you doing ere?” butcher eyes widened at sight of a man he thought was dead , one he could of sworn blown up a year ago . 

“ where’s doc?” soldier boy growled chest glowing. 

“ calm fuck down i’ll bring you to her , not here” butcher huffed wondering why soldier boy came out of hiding and why the fuck was he so concerned of the doc.

part five

[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part IV)

Series summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.8k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings on this chapter: Reader's parents are fucking irresponsible and disgusting people, mentions of a dead parent, Homelander!!!! (he's a fucking warning), sexual assault (touching, kissing, etc.) and some after thoughts, you know the usual questionable stuff on TB universe, Ben's point of view and presence=red flag.

Notes: more about reader's past in here! And just want to add that this is how i imagine her suit on this chapter. I'm also using a lot of inspo from Sue Storm of the Fantastic Four because I love her, so yeah. And thanks so much for reading it means a lot to me! ^^

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @blacknoirr @deans-spinster-witch

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | | Part VIII

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part IV: Countdown

2009

"Spectrum, turn around, please," the lady on the other side of the camera ordered.

You did as she told, turning slowly and showing a complete view of your suit. Made of unstable molecules, the suit was your best creation at the time. It was all white with black details, and finally you had something covering your whole body that'd turn invisible when you commanded. Your boots were the same, specially built to disappear and blend with your powers when needed.

"Great, show us what you can do," the woman said.

You nodded, your heart beating so hard on your chest. You didn't want to fuck it up. Not for your mother. She was the main reason why you were there in the first place. You took a deep breath, with eyes closed you raised your palms at your chest level and created a force field around your figure. The force fields you learnt to make over the years of self training were like gigantic bubbles that allowed you to float around if you said so, and they protected you or anyone or anything they were covering.

The camera, the couch, the table, and any single thing you found in the room were now surrounded by the fields, lifting them up a couple of feet from the surface. And once you thought it was enough, they landed slowly on their place, the fields vanished just like the one around yourself. Though the lady on the other side didn't seem amused or surprised.

"I also turn invisible," you said for the first time after your personal presentation was over.

"Go on," she plainly answered.

And within seconds, you slowly disappeared from her sight. The fabric of the suit faded away.

"I created this special costume to turn invisible without, you know, being naked," you commented.

Still, there was no clear answer on the face of the woman. She was just busy taking notes and filming your audition with the steady camera on the table. She said nothing, her eyes glued to her writing. Disappointed, you made yourself visible again.

"That's impressive!"

You gasped. It was that voice you heard so many times on TV. His steps came closer and he stopped by your side with a smile on his face.

"Homelander," the woman called with a wide, fake grin. "You weren't supposed to be in here."

"Just passing by, wanted to say hi. I'm really amazed by you, darling."

You tried to smile the best you could. But you were so tense and flustered now that he was in front of you. Your childhood hero, coming to see you at your audition. Even before you got a clear response from Vought. It felt like a dream. Any child had dreamt of it at some point.

You grew up with him and the Seven. He was one of the reasons you forgot every single problem and responsibility your dysfunctional, selfish family put you through from a young age. To them, you were just a doll to play with and show off. The perfect daughter. But seeing the Seven was totally different. You wanted to be like them. Too sad this part was also linked to your mother and her self-centered shit. If only...

"Thank you," you barely answered with a soft voice, looking down on your boots.

"I've been out there, hesitating if I should come in, since you created those force fields. Wow!" he praised, making you chuckle. "You left the door open on purpose, didn't you two?"

All you could do was chuckle again, you felt your cheeks burning at his banter. He smiled along with you before turning his eyes to the lady.

"Hey, Greta. Can you leave us alone for a moment?"

"But I have to-"

Homelander chuckled, cutting her words. "Absolutely no, I can continue for you. Remember?"

Greta, as he called her, swallowed thickly and her eyes switched between you and the supe. "Sure, sir."

She lifted herself up from the chair, took her things and went out. You noticed the camera was still in place, that meant it was still rolling.

Once the door closed. "So..." he began, walking a circle around you. "How'd you create this... costume of yours?"

"Well, I like science," you nervously smiled, playing with your glove-covered hands. He passed by your face this time and paced around one more time. "It took me a while to figure out how but I did something with the molecules, created my own patent of the matter and did this complete costume."

Homelander stopped at your back. He hummed. "Smart. Tell me..."

His pause made you answer what he was looking for. "Spectrum."

"Spectrum, why do you want to be part of the Seven so bad?"

Homelander dragged your alias with a dark voice, one that replaced the long warm and welcoming tone he had with you at first. You licked your lips, anxious and out of words. Once behind your figure, he angled himself so close to one of your ears that you felt his hot breath on your skin.

"So? I know you have something to say, dear."

"I- I just want to help others... Do what you guys do..."

The next thing you felt was the supe's strong body pressing on your ass. You gasped loudly as his hands grabbed the sides of your hips forcing you to fall back against his chest.

"Go on," Homelander whispered.

One of his hands roamed over your stomach slowly, right under your breasts, and you were absolutely caged on his grip. You took deep breaths, closing your eyes as he touched you over the suit.

"I- I know science, I told you. Also I can help the team w-with new inventions of my own... Create technology t-to fight very bad threats," you stuttered.

"Mmmh, yeah, I like the sound of that," Homelander chuckled against your neck, his lips tracing soft and unwanted kisses on your skin.

"Please- ah!"

He harshly pushed you against his groin. Your breath caught in your throat at the feel of his crotch. This wasn't what you thought it was. This was not what your mother signed you up for.

"Tell me, did your father know how much of a fucking slut you are?" Homelander hissed, his hand cupping your covered breast.

Something inside you emerged at his question. His touch was disgusting and it was making you sick and the mention of your father, your dead father, made it even worse.

"What do you know about him?" you asked in a dark whisper, still planning your next move.

Deep inside, you were scared of Homelander, it was a new face he had yet to show to the world.

"Just the basics, honey," he said plainly, forcing you to walk with a grip on your arm. The supe sat on the couch and pushed you to his lap. "He was quite the rich man, Edgar knew you'd be a great deal to the company, well, your money of course."

You let out a gasp. "What?"

"Honey, he was one of our most valuable shareholders," he playfully answered, his hands cupping your cheeks.

And it clicked. Your mother supported your dream just because she'd still be getting profits from Vought. The firm was now under her name, and she needed something more to strengthen the relationship between Vought and your father's inheritance. The fucking witch. And then, your father. He was the one financing this piece of shit sitting between your legs. Were all supes like this behind their masks? If so, fucking crap. Everything you believed in was bullshit. A circus. And they clowned you so well. And above all, the sickening man that had been touching you without your permission the past endless minutes...

"Oh, poor thing, you didn't know," Homelander's intense blue eyes widened when he immediately noticed your confused, blank face.

Your eyes filled with tears and still, you refused to cry in front of the asshole you once admired.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you here with us," he smirked. His fingers on your neck, feeling your pulse. You closed your eyes so hard, your nose wrinkled and you held back a sob when his hand added pressure around your collar. He leaned closer, his lips finding yours in a sloppy kiss as you tried to resist his touch. "So fucking useful," Homelander whispered against your lips. He gave you that mischievous grin of his. You shivered. "I can't wait to ruin you. Every single inch of you."

The same past memory of Homelander haunted you the next day. The way you found out about your father's business with Vought and how the supes showed their real faces was the main reason you were here now.

You remembered you had to hit Homelander as hard as you could to escape from him and use your force field to protect yourself before running away and leaving the tower, fully invisible. Not that it was a great help since Homelander had a lot of abilities with his vision, and he could hear the beating of your heart miles away, but for you, it was worth the try. It was a surprise he didn't follow you that day. Instead, Vought got a new deal with your mother for the budget and you hated that. You cut all communication with what was left of your family after that day, knowing it could've been so much worse.

Homelander and Vought, however, were after you now. And he was a difficult face to forget. Not only because he was faking everything from the public but because Vought was after your father's money. And deciding to step away from all the illegal stuff they did, you left for college. Science was always a part of you and it's what got you here, under Grace Mallory and the CIA, doing different jobs you were not so proud of, but now, you were looking for a cure. It was all that mattered those days, until you found out that your mother had been experimented on during her pregnancy. A fucking lie. That's what your life was. That's why she cheered you to go to that stupid audition and fell into the hands of that monster at twenty-three years old.

The thought of your father supporting the horrid things Vought and the Seven did for decades was unbearable, and since Homelander's visit the night before caused those memories and nightmares to be back. It took a great effort to get out of bed and come to work that day. You'd make sure to compensate yourself for it later. But now, you were in a hurry to your daily session with Soldier Boy. You saved your phone in the pocket of your trousers after checking the time as you walked down the aisle, grabbing tightly the report of your patient with your other hand. Well, thirty minutes late wasn't nothing.

"Doctor!" you heard a female voice running towards you in the halls that made you turn on your heels. It was your young assistant.

"Hey, Bianca. What's wrong?" you asked as you noticed she was a little out of breath.

"We ran another test. The supe survived," she blurted, handing you a tablet that you didn't take. Sometimes the change in the results was minimal.

"That's great. Any significant improvements?"

"Well, just minimal effects. Right now some fever, fatigue, dehydration, and uhm, low pulse."

You sighed after another illusion. "Right. I don't think those are minimal effects, Bianca. Please check our patient and see how the powers are working. Run blood tests, all tests you can and then you can provide me the results. I'm a little busy right now."

She nodded with a shy smile, looking around subtly. "Sure."

You smiled back as best as you could. "Anything else?"

"No, it's just- I see you go this way a lot," Bianca pointed to the direction you were heading with her gaze. "That's Soldier Boy, isn't he?"

Your brows furrowed. "Why you ask?"

"Nothing, well, my grandpa used to talk about him all the time," she giggled. "I was just curious, sorry."

"No problem. I get it. But I really have to go, please make sure those results are on my desk by the end of the day," you ordered kindly.

"I will."

"Thanks, Bianca."

With that, you gave a last smile and began your walk again away from her, slower than before. For some reason something was off since you entered the building. It felt different. Totally weird. For the record, since Homelander threatened to have your head off, you paid twice the attention to your surroundings and the people around. You didn't know if there was something big planning right now in front of your nose. You just walked a couple of feet when you felt someone following behind, that was probably watching over you. In a swift movement, you turned on your heels but no one was there. The aisle was empty.

Bianca was already gone and almost no one would wander on this wing of the building, for obvious reasons. With caution you resumed your steps, telling yourself that you were not going insane.

"Robert Singer and I have been hard at work bridging the divide between the human and Superhuman communities. I've seen that divide firsthand in my three years running the FBSA—"

Ben scoffed, taking the TV controller to turn the screen off. "Bullshit."

He stood in the middle of the room with nothing but a towel hanging down his hips after taking a shower, taking the last smoke of his blunt. He grew tired of waiting for you, so he just took a shower and now, everything on the fucking channels was the stupid campaign by Victoria Neuman being supported by Vought and the fucking brat he was supposed to call his son.

With a deep breath, he finished the weed and threw the remains on the ashtray over the new coffee table. His mind started to wander away, realizing he had been a little calm the last couple of days after he almost blew up the fucking place to the ground. Inside, Ben knew your words and actions were a lot of help for the small sense of serenity that started to grow within his chest after that moment. Absolutely that was something he wouldn't admit, ever. But if he was to say, he was actually relieved.

Taking a look around, his place was not that big of a mess. You were certainly used to his clothes around the floor and the sofas, so it wasn't really important. What he found annoying though was you pushing him to read the stupid books and write down his feelings. He wasn't going to do that. If you were there to medicate him, so be it. He wondered why you took so long to do it. Probably he should be stoned enough to not feel anything. That was fucking better.

Just as he started to go over his mental plan to get the hell out of your prison, the door opened. He smirked at your sight. As always, an useless armed man standing behind your figure. You dispatched the guard and stepped inside Soldier Boy's place, the door closing with a loud sound.

You stopped your tracks just a few steps away from him. He noticed your eyes tracing his half bare body in a quick motion, before turning to his face with an arrogant smirk on your lips.

"See something you like, sweetheart?" Ben teased.

With a light chuckle, you held your head high. "Don't be delusional, it's just basic instinct."

"Believe me, I fucking know that," he snarked, taking over your figure with his green eyes the same way you did before. "Basic instinct."

You rolled your eyes. "So," you sat down in your usual place to start the session, making a pile of three of his shirts in the empty space. "Make yourself decent and then we can continue."

Ben took some sweatpants and a shirt from the floor and started to dress himself in front of you, without much care. He smirked as you turned away your gaze to focus on the report lying on your lap.

"You're late," he remarked, taking his own seat once he was done with his clothes.

"Yeah, I had some things to do," you mumbled going through the pages. "But I see we can start now."

He took a deep breath, staring into the distance. "Don't make it boring."

You grimaced, looking back at him. "Can't promise that."

Ben sensed a playfulness coming from you. Could it be that, after recieving your comforting words, he was seeing another side of you? Like the side that would actually trust him, because you still arrived. You were sitting in front of him. You were with him, in the same fucking room where the sun was far from getting. Yeah, you were there but he was too full of ego to bring his walls down again. He wanted to convince himself he wasn't vulnerable. He knew he was more than that. He was Soldier Boy, the man who had to stop Homelander and his fucking kid.

He smirked. "Well, sugar, I can ask you to try."

[themeraldee]

Hi hello please do write more about dark!reader x homelander pleeease and my life is yours

I do plan on making this post into a full fledged fic at some point! I do love the dynamic of one being more rotten than the other and together they're just descending into madness they will never return from. Also writing dark characters is pretty damn fun. So a selfish, dark reader who will stop at nothing to get to Homelander is something that hasn't left my mind in a while!

Homelander wants to be loved right. Well it's one thing to be adored by a crowd of nameless figures who only revere him because of the values Vought want him to represent but when has he ever had anyone truly want him and love him unconditionally? Someone who would go above and beyond, morality be damned, just for him?

I do love some good old obsessive toxic romance.

There's so much potential for it to be such a tragic romance, too. So obsessed with love and this feeling of euphoria they get with him, the reader gets sloppy. Too obvious, garnering too much attention to their crime scenes just to get noticed. Reader's likeness goes public after they've been caught on some CCTV camera and suddenly it's not like Homelander can genuinely make this person officially his anymore. They can't go out on dates, be seen in public, even sneaking around is risky. They're a known criminal/serial killer at this point. No matter how much he loves them associating himself with a known criminal is a sure-fire way to end his life as he knows it. So does he choose to let the world burn just to be with them or is his persona, his image, his entire life's work more important?

I'd say keep your eyes peeled but I have no clue when I'm gonna pick this up seeing as part 3 of the lucky winner is taking me seventy years to write 😩

[selenestarmoon]

Honestly, the people who say Ryan is irredeemable are the same people who said the League of Villains from My Hero Academia were evil because of circumstances beyond their control and because they didn't react in an "acceptable" way to their traumas.

All the members of The League ended up being villains because of the injustices and dehumanization by everyone, because they were born with quirks they didn't ask for and also because of the unhealthy expectations that were imposed on them within their respective families and that they didn't receive any help: literally all of them hate themselves and see themselves as monsters that hurt people because everyone else is constantly telling them that they are monsters to the point that they genuinely came to believe that the only option they had was to die because they believed that otherwise they would be in prison all their lives and would have no future. And that is exactly what is happening with Ryan.

You have to remember that Ryan is a 12-YEAR-OLD BOY whose biological father spends very little time with him and the few times they spend time together that father ends up ruining those moments, he accidentally killed his mother because he couldn't control his powers and his other father figure loves him but at the same time he's testing if Ryan is trustworthy. Also, Ryan has horrible things revealed about his biological father and on top of that he is asked to kill that biological father who is the only living relative left to him and who has powers like him and on top of that he was threatened with sedation and locking him up, it was obvious that Ryan was not going to react well, that's too much for a kid to process.

Everyone sees Ryan as an object, and even Butcher and Homelander who genuinely love Ryan also dehumanize him; Butcher sees him as a weapon that can defeat Homelander, Homelander treats Ryan as his possession and can't stand anyone else having his son's attention.

And what about the little smile that Ryan lets out after seeing how the crowd cheered Homelander after seeing him kill someone? Like I said, Ryan is a kid and kids are blank slates and if the kid witnesses violence being perceived as something positive obviously the child will think that it is good to be violent. It's like when in Berserk, Farnese participated in a burning of heretics and burned people when she was a kid and instead of being told that what she did was wrong, people cheered her on which made Farnese internalize that burning people was something good.

And despite that, Ryan is still HORRIFIED by the idea of killing people. When he accidentally killed both Becca and Koy, Ryan felt horrible about it, he clearly doesn't want to kill Homelander or anyone else and the reason he doesn't react to Grace's death is because he was in a situation of high stress so he couldn't process what he did to Grace. Everyone is horrified by Ryan's accidental deaths but no one teaches him how to use and control his powers nor does anyone help him deal with guilt in a healthy way and the only person who does all this is Homelander but he does it in the worst way possible.

If everyone keeps treating Ryan in a dehumanizing way he will end up in two ways: either he becomes like Homelander or he decides to commit suicide to redeem himself because he believes he is a monster who hurts others and has no future.

All Ryan wants is to have a family and live like a normal boy his age and, honestly, I feel pity for him.