#Stormfront OC

[mel-the-pirate-writeblr]

A Sculpture of Smoke (Isles of Ysamaldri)

Winter Whumperland 2022 Day 5

Whumperland Prompt Masterlist

Prompt: Frosty the Snowman: Turned into Decoration, Trapped in a Blizzard, Self-Sacrifice, Comfort: Warm Kisses

Word Count: 1.1k words

This is original sci-fi/fantasy, so I have some made-up terms/titles/places.

Isles of Ysamaldri Masterlist

This is also a bit lighter on whump, as I already had this concept in mind and it happened to fit the prompt!

🙞 🙟 🙝 🙜

The two cats waited at the Isle of Portals, by the icy tree that led to the snow-covered Weylide Isle. One looked ready for the coming trip, with her long, white fur and feathered wings. Her blue eyes eagerly waited for the portal to open so she could go to her home away from home.

The other, however, had short, black fur, no wings, and the only odd thing about her was the amethyst set into her forehead. "I hope we aren't acting as messengers for long, Frost."

The white cat, Frost, smiled at the black cat. "Smoke, you know Shimmer and Luna requested us specifically. It's for the best that we're messengers right now. Besides, I miss hanging out with you."

Smoke gave a small smile back. "This is hardly us just 'hanging out' together."

The portal flickered for a moment, before growing into the familiar oval shape, with what looked like the night sky inside. A silvery-white dragon stepped out of the inky portal.

"You two ready?" she asked.

Frost nodded. "Lead the way, Shimmer."

The three made their way into the icy castle of Weylide Isle, carefully maneuvering their way up to Shimmer's personal chambers. They passed on the message to Shimmer and Luna, and took the messages that would go to Ishcyle Isle and Revak Feykro Isle through Frost and Smoke, respectively. Frost would go on foot – or, rather, by wing – so she left through a window, soaring toward her Weylide Isle residence before setting out in the morning. Smoke, on the other hand, would go back to Revak Feykro Isle directly through the portals.

"I left it open for a set amount of time," Shimmer said. "You should have enough time to get back to the Portal Isle."

Smoke nodded. "Thank you."

Smoke made her way quietly through the freezing castle, careful to keep in the shadows where she could. Before she knew it, she made it to the portal, which was still open, just as Shimmer had promised.

"So you're who came through," a voice said from behind.

Smoke whirled around, but she couldn't see anything. Something obscured her natural night vision. She started backing up toward the portal.

"Don't do that," another voice said, near the portal. "We don't want you to go quite yet."

"What do you want?" she said. "I was invited here, and now I'm leaving."

"Who invited you?" asked the first voice.

Smoke didn't respond. That's not something I can tell you.

"See, that's the problem," the first voice said. "Move, now."

The demand didn't make sense to Smoke right away, but then someone grabbed her from behind. Instinctively, Smoke used her ability to turn her entire body into smoke – everything except her amethyst, which stayed in place on her forehead. Also instinctively, she ran forward – away from her would-be captor, but also away from the portal.

"Grab the amethyst!"

Icy panic shot through Smoke. How do you know to go for that? She had to get out. She had to get back to Shimmer and Luna, or go with Frost, and wait it out—

A hand grabbed at her head from behind. It didn't do much but disperse her smoky body, but she halted and whirled around, her form growing into the smoky silhouette of a black leopard.

"What do you want with me?" Smoke demanded, her voice airy and not quite there, like wind. They couldn't hurt her while she was in her smoke form, but she couldn't do much more than try to asphyxiate them, either.

"You'd like to know, so you can report to Dark Wings and Azure Star."

She still couldn't see them. They knew some form of magic to obscure themselves, they had to. "What do you want with my amethyst?"

"To keep you incorporeal. Now."

The air got a kind of chill in it. While Smoke could feel it, in a detached sense, she didn't pay it any mind. She was on Weylide Isle, in the castle's basement. It being chilly here was like making the observation of seeing clouds on a rainy day.

But it grew icy, and the temperature just kept dropping.

Smoke lost feeling in her tail, and one of her back legs.

In alarm, she looked back – and saw the smoke that made up her body start to solidify. "What are you doing?" she demanded, her panic rising further. She's never, ever, been in danger in this form before.

"Have you heard of something created in the human realm, aerogel? It's a kind of insulation that's extremely light." A figure, a silhouette, walked forward, out of the obscuring magic. "It's made of frozen smoke. While you might not actually be a Gemstone, it would be beneficial to get you out of the way for now, and keep you from becoming the next Amethyst."

The cold, while unpleasant, had always been oddly comforting due to Frost's familiarity to the element. It always made Smoke think of her sister.

It creeped up on her, freezing up to her neck before she knew it. This wasn't the kind of cold that reminded her of Frost, or even Shimmer. This kind of cold was deadly. It wasn't something she could fight. What I wouldn't do to have Cinder here. But she wouldn't want her daughter here, in this situation where her assailants clearly knew who she was and how best to subdue her. And though she could become incorporeal, too, that has a danger all on its own.

"You're going to be a very nice decoration and gift for a friend. But don't worry, you won't know a thing about it."

I hope they realize I'm missing when I don't report to Azure.

Smoke's head froze over.

🙞 🙟 🙝 🙜

"A gift for the headmistress," Stormfront, the heir to the Weylide Isle ice dragon throne, announced to Seaglare, the crystal dragon responsible for running the Ziixi Academy. "I was told that it's of Brivia and Weylide craftsmanship. Those with fire element specialties and those with ice came together to manipulate the smoke into a beautiful black leopard shape – the necklace, here," he lifted up the beautiful and large amethyst that hung on a necklace made of dark metal, with a sheen of blue on it. It hung on the neck of the sculpture. "This has the enchantment to keep it frozen for as long as it's on here. If it comes off, the smoke will likely dissipate within five to ten minutes, so we would recommend keeping it on."

The sculpture had no defined edges, but the shape was unmistakably feline. It wasn't so detailed as to show the eyes, or show the creatures muscles.

"It's wonderful, Prince Stormfront," Seaglare said. "I will keep it by the mantle. Come, would you care for a meal and refreshments?"

"I was hoping that you'd ask," Stormfront said.

[bewdite-spacey-coffee]

Magma party yippee

[ishomieokay]

Tbh, I don't ship Homelander and Stormfront AT ALL. But I do appreciate their relationship in the sense that it really highlighted how vulnerable and easy to manipulate Homelander is. Yes, it was hinted at before through his relationship with Stillwell. But Stormfront just made it so much more obvious that he's really just a big baby looking for someone to imprint on, lmao.

[malreau]

[OC-tober day #6: Cold weather/cozy clothes] [Full prompt list]

+ bonus

Fin again! Her style is already pretty cozy so this felt like an easy one.

[cherry-blxssxm-chaos]

hear me out what if I just spent this year rotating through old favorite things and remaking my OCs for them?

yeah? yeah

she was adopted by Feral, and tried to be an Enforcer, but stood up for her squad mates and quit when Chance and Jake were fired

also magic is involved with another fun fact about her but I'll touch on that later (I refuse to give up a cringe part of her backstory and a cringe ability I gave her)

her own jet as a SWAT Kat would probably cause legal name issues even if there's a K in her Thunder Kat instead of a C (design incoming give me time)

[neonpaperlanterns]

I'm not mad

(A/n: So I'm really not into The Boys. I tried watching it and while I think it is good I didn't actually like it. But a friend of mine asked me to write a small thing about Homelander being a pathetic bastard and I was proud of it so this will be the only thing from The Boys I ever post.)

Homelander could count on one hand the amount of times he has been nervous. He could count on one hand the amount of times he felt dread. He could count on one hand the amount of times he felt lower than a human. There were men lesser than him that were still better than him.  

He hated it. 

Hated himself.

Hated that he ever let himself listen to Stormfront.

He watched as Lydia put her shoes by the door. Watched as she set her bag on the table. She had just gotten back from work. Her gaze found his and she smiled. It was tired but it seemed happy. He wanted to believe she was happy to be here. Happy to be with him. He bit the inside of his cheek as he smiled back.

She’s been home for five minutes.

Seven minutes.

Ten minutes.

Homelander hated himself. He was disgusting. Undeserving. 

“Lydia.” He called out, his tone hesitant and small. Things had been going so well. She moved in with him, he was going to be getting his son. Everything was going perfectly and yet he was disgusting. He ruined everything he touched.

“John, are you alright?” She was close to him. Her small hands resting on his shoulders. He let his eyes slip closed as he wrapped his arms around her waist. He buried his face in her stomach. She smelled like books and lavender. His grip tightened and her fingers were running through his hair.

She was so good to him. 

He loved her so much. 

He thinks she loves him too and maybe she will forgive him.

“I slept with Stormfront.” he spoke into her abdomen. The words were mumbled but from the way her hands stopped he knew she had heard. Her hands gently pushed at his shoulders but he didn’t want to let go. Didn’t want to face what he did.

“You slept with Stormfront?” her voice sounded flat. His shoulders hunched up to his ears and he nodded. 

“John.” Her tone was even. “Let go of me.” she didn’t sound mad and that made him feel a bit hopeful. She could still forgive him. Pulling back he looked up at her. Her expression was unreadable. Her heart beat steady as she looked down at him. 

“I’m so sorry Lydia.” he spoke softly as she moved away from him. His apology made her flinch but still she looked at him with a face he could not read. 

“Are… Are you mad at me?” He watched her lip twitch. A ghost of a sneer played across her face but it disappeared as soon as it came.

“No. I’m not mad at you.” she was walking away but his heart soared. She wasn’t mad at him. He fucked up but she wasn’t mad at him. She had forgiven him. He didn’t deserve Lydia, she was perfect. Above the rest. He loved her so much.

“That makes me happy. I love you.” he followed after, he waited for her to say she loved him back. But she didn’t. She never said it but her actions spoke so much louder than words. “I promise I’ll make it….” he trailed off as he saw her grabbing a bag. Clothes were being neatly folded and placed inside of it. 

He didn’t understand.

“Are you going somewhere?” he asked tentatively. She said nothing as she made her way to the bathroom. 

“Why are you leaving? Didn’t you say you weren’t mad at me?” he didn’t understand. Why was she packing when she wasn’t mad at him? She had forgiven him. Yes she hasn’t said she did but she wasn’t mad so she must have. 

“I’m not mad at you.” Lydia reiterated as she placed her toiletries in the bag. He was still confused and she just sighed. “I’m not mad. I’m just done with you.” Homelander felt his heart stall in his chest.

“What do you mean you’re done with me?” he felt his fists clench at his side, the leather of his gloves creaking. 

“I’m breaking up with you.” She tilted her head to the side and looked at him like he was stupid. And he must be because he could not understand what she was saying.

Lydia had forgiven him, right?

Yet clearly that wasn’t true. Panic seared through his veins as she walked past him. Her bag slung over her shoulder as she made for the front door. Running past her he plastered himself over the door. She looked unamused.

“Homelander move.” He was Homelander again? She hadn’t called him that in months. Why was he Homelander again? 

“No.” his voice came out weak. “You can’t leave. Please don’t leave.” he begged. She couldn’t leave, if she left then she would be gone forever. Her expression was flickering between anger, annoyance, and apathetic. 

“Well I’m not interested in looking at the face that begged me to move in. That begged me to build a family with him and his son. Then had the audacity to cheat on me with a woman he couldn’t stand a month ago.” she was pinching the bridge of her nose. “So move. Or get out. I don’t care. I just don’t want to see that face.” her hand aggressively gestured at his face. If he left and she stayed then at least he would know where she was. If she was here maybe they could work this out. Maybe she could forgive him. Love him.

“I’ll leave.” he said quietly. “I’ll get out.” he was nodding his head. Yes he would leave. Give her time. They could work this out.

“Okay then pack a bag and get out.” he felt like she was going to say more but held her tongue. Her arms crossed in front of chest as she moved towards the couch. She didn’t look at him as he went to get his things. Didn’t look at him as he cracked open the door. She was pointedly staring at the muted tv screen.

“I love you.” she didn’t react. “I’m sorry.” nothing, she did nothing. Feeling his heat clench in his chest he left. He would give her time. They could work this out. She would forgive him. Lydia never said it but he knew she loved him. Deep down she loved him. They could work through this.

He just knew they could.

[abbatoirablaze]

Into The Light, Master List

This series is complete! ✔️

Lamplighter was once a powerful superhero. He was part of the biggest, most well-known group; The Seven.

He had it all.

Money.

Fame.

The girls.

Until he didn't.

Until The Boys and Mallory blackmailed him.

Then under Homelander's word, he went after Mallory. He was supposed to execute her.

But he made a mistake.

One that cost him his seat at the table.

And that's how he ended up a lowly orderly at Sage Grove Mental Hospital, where Vought Industries was secretly providing people with Compound V to see the effects. He became nothing more than an abused guard dog.

That's when he met her.

But like all the good things in Lamplighter's life...it never lasts. And Vought will always find a way to make sure of that.

Chapters

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

This story will not have warnings before each chapter. It will include mentions of death, major character death, violence, aggression, depression, depictions of death, blackmail, and abuse, and overall angst.

[queenofallerdalehall]

HAPPY FRIDAY THE 13TH

Halloween 2022: American Dream/American Nightmare ( The Boys) 

Superheroes are adored. They are worshipped like Rockstars and Gods. There is nothing they can’t do. And they have vowed to keep the good people of America safe. But behind all the flashing lights, and screaming crowds and movie deals, most of them are not at all what they seem. Maybe the American Dream was an American Nightmare all along….

‘Ello Boys and girls. As you know we live in a world with superheroes. What you might not know is that Superheroes ain’t always nice….

…They are all like that?! All of them?? Pardon my French, fuck those fuckers 

I’m the American Nightmare with American Dreams Of counting the bodies while you count sheep I’m the American Nightmare Yeah, I’m living the Dream I’m slashing my way through the Golden Age of the Silver Screen

Brought to you this Fall by Vought Intl

[sehtoast]

The Sun Will Come Up

grief, hurt/comfort, ben (spidersona oc) consoling ryan, ben and homelander coparenting | Fic Directory

“I don't know!”

The boy's cry comes out in a squeak, the sob suppressed tight in his throat as if letting it go would destroy the rest of the world. 

“I don't– I'm–”

Ben sits beside him atop their choice of skyscraper. The outing was supposed to help Ryan, and he supposes it has, in a way. He's finally letting it out. All the anger and rage smothered by the weight of his grief. 

The loss of his mother. The responsibility he feels for both her death and the disfigurement of Stormfront. The former was so easily understandable, but Ben supposes only the heart of a child could hold sympathy for the latter. 

Not to mention the pain of it all thrown back in his face by Butcher. 

Ben's so incredibly thankful John found him. 

All of his pain and fury comes out in screams and balled fists that leave cracks in the concrete of the roof with each and every slam. 

Ben reaches out to pat and rub circles against Ryan's upper back, silently consoling the boy as he weeps. The sound of tears sizzling in the heat of his crimson eyes reminds Benjamin so very much of the boy's father. 

“It's m-my f-fault! Dad says it's not, b-but!” Ryan pushes through heaving breaths. “But I killed my mom! I hurt her!” 

The bug doesn't quite know how to help. No amount of telling him that it was okay, or that he somehow wasn't really responsible, would do anything more than fan the flame and make the boy eventually bury it all under layers of deniability like so many other supes. 

“I hate my powers! I never asked for ‘em!”

I didn't know it would happen! 

I couldn't control my powers! 

I couldn't stop it! 

Lines heard again and again. 

Flashes of John in the labs course through Ben's mind. Grainy images of blood splattered walls and a boy too young to understand why. 

Why? 

Ryan lurches forward with every full-body sob, eventually throwing himself at Ben to be held safe from the cruelty of the world, his grip round the web-head's abdomen damn near punishing. 

“I–” he heaves, gasping for air. Diaphragm must be spasming “W-what do I do!?” 

A marvelous question, and not one easily answered. What does he do? 

“Well…” Ben murmurs, keeping up with those comforting circular motions against the boy's back. He can feel each quiet sob, suppressed or not. The quiver of his breaths. The gaps between them when Ryan holds tight to stale oxygen. “You gotta do the hard part first, bud.”

Which was never what anyone wanted to hear. 

“You have to forgive yourself.” 

“I can't, I–” 

“I know. But listen to me.” Ben leans back, resting a hand on the boy's head to ruffle his hair. “You did it. You did. And you gotta take responsibility for it no matter what, okay?” He hates the way the boy's eyes well up at his words, but this needs to be said. “We make it up to the people we hurt by doing better for the rest.” 

Ryan stares quietly, but the tears continue rolling. 

“We gotta do better. We learn to control our powers to protect people.” Ben continues. He'll be damned if this boy learns the all too common lesson Vought teaches all of their supes. Non-super humans aren't expendable; they're not a means to an end nor toys for supes to break. “Your mom loved you, buddy. Loves you, I mean. Her love doesn't stop just ‘cuz she's not around anymore. You keep it in here,” he taps over his own heart. “You were her sunshine, and now…” Ben swallows against the lump in his throat. “Now you gotta decide if you're gonna be the sun in a different way, y'know?”

Ryan nods. “I think so…” 

“You're not a bad person. You're little, and the world is very big and, honestly, pretty terrible.” A fact the boy has already learned the hard way. “But there's good things, too. Like how your dad and I love you. We've got your back every step of the way. Promise.” 

The sudden shuffle of footsteps approaching spooks both of them, but the voice that follows is unmistakable. 

“He's right.” Utters the new arrival, swishing his cape to the side before descending to sit on Ryan's other side. Homelander's eyes are rimmed red, but the untrained eye might simply think they're wind bitten from his flight to join them.

Ben knows better. 

“You've always got us in your corner.” 

Homelander shoots the bug a worried look when all that comes is more tears, but Benjamin only nods to him.  Neither one is particularly cut from the cloth of parental instinct, but something tells him Ryan just needs to be allowed to feel it.  No words, no excuses.

The pair sit with him until the sun sets below the horizon. Until he cries himself out and falls asleep between them with his father's cape draped over his shoulders. 

The sun will set countless times in his life, but it will be up to him to choose the dawn. All they can do is hope it'll be as bright as he deserves. 

[flaggermuser]

Something That's Mine

Homelander x Luna (Supe OC)

Prompt: Thunderstorm/Peace offering/Unexpected gifts

1,903 words || Thunderstorms, Enemies to Cordial, References to Child Exploitation and Financial Child Abuse, Self-Hatred ||

This takes place in the year between S2 & 3. Luna is a moon-powered supe whose powers are tied to the lunar cycle.

Special thanks to @devilander for being my beta

Divider by Firefly-Graphics

“BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING PRODUCT!”

The words echo through her penthouse as Luna stands there, her body rigid, angry tears welling up in her eyes. He just couldn’t leave her alone, could he? No, Homelander just had to keep pushing and pushing until she eventually snapped.

Screaming at Homelander is probably the worst idea in the entire world, but right now Luna fears nothing.

“The ONLY reason I was chosen is because my powers are ‘unique’ enough to draw attention away from the fucking disaster that was Stormfront.”

Her heart is hammering away in her chest, every single fibre of her being is telling her to stop but her mouth is open and the words are spilling out.

“I’m a supe whose powers are tied to the fucking moon and Vought turned that into a fucking gimmick, more so than it was before. So here I fucking am, advertising fucking diva cups and reading fucking horoscopes like that means anything other than pure bullshit.”

Her fists are clenched tight. Without her gloves, her nails are biting into the skin of her palms hard enough to draw blood that drips through her glowing fingers and onto the floor.

She knows full well he can kill her, part of her wants to bait him into doing so, to end her miserable existence.

“And people have the gall to call this a gift.” She clenches her teeth, letting out a laugh that proves she’s at her limit, almost ready to fall over the edge. “It’s a fucking curse.”

“My ENTIRE life I have been nothing but an object to be used for monetary gain. Little Moonflower, Moonbeam, even Luna, the name I chose for myself, has been corrupted by greed. I have never had anything, not one little fucking thing actually belongs to me. So I’m sorry if I seem ungrateful, but I DON’T WANT TO FUCKING BE HERE!”

The last words are screamed loud enough for the whole of Vought Tower to hear, not that Luna cares. She’s never cared.

“So fuck you. Fuck Ashley. Fuck Stan fucking Edgar. Fuck Vought and FUCK COMPOUND V!”

Homelander’s face is emotionless, he’s just standing there, staring at her. So she waits for the retaliation, for this to turn from words into violence, for him to smear her remains on every surface of the penthouse. But instead, he turns and walks away without a word.

Eventually, the adrenaline runs out and she falls to the floor, wailing while the tears fall from her tired eyes. After all these years she’s finally told someone how she feels. At last, a weight has been lifted from her shoulders only for the unending loneliness and emptiness to seep in like an infection.

She exhausts herself, falling asleep on the cold floor, curled up in the foetal position like she’s done so many times before.

Always a product, never a person.

There’s a thunderstorm over New York.

Luna sits on her designated seat at the conference table in the Seven boardroom, the rain lashing the windows while the lightning illuminates the room, bathing it in a bright white light. Even when she was a little girl, there was something about thunderstorms that always soothed her and, after the meeting she just had, she needed it more than ever.

Last night’s words didn’t go unheard.

She’d been called into an emergency meeting where she was, once again, berated by Stan Edgar for her behaviour and general attitude, warning her that if she doesn’t start to play nice with others, he’ll be forced to teach her.

Numbness seeps into her fingers and toes, flowing into her limbs, helping her to disassociate and disappear into the pit inside her mind. She can barely feel the tears that continuously cascade down her cheeks. It’s all become just a bit too much.

“I hope I’m not disturbing anything. I heard you had a meeting with Stan Edgar. He always has a habit of not telling me when he’s having important meetings with my teammates. Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

She doesn’t answer — she hates how vulnerable she is right now and in front of the last person in the world she’d never want to see her this way. She chews the inside of her cheek, visibly shaking, trying to calm herself down enough so that Homelander will go away and leave her alone.

“You know, I discovered something interesting today.”

The familiar clink of glass against the table draws her attention. She swallows hard as she stares at the label of the wax-lidded jar. It’s the same label she’s seen for years, the one with the young white-haired girl no older than six, a forced smile on her lips. 

Little Moonflower’s Moonshine.

The lavender-flavoured battery acid that her parents make, the one that bears the immortal image of her as a young child, the very first of many items that would be peddled. If he has this, not only does it prove that he’d been in her apartment, but there is a very high chance that he has read something in the very fine print.

Homelander perches on the edge of the table next to her, taking her hand and removing her glove, placing it down on top of his, toying with her fingers. His touch is gentle, his hand rubbing up and down her arm yet she keeps her eyes low. He turns her hand over, tracing patterns on her palm, mimicking how she communicates with Black Noir when she doesn’t want to talk out loud. 

“There’s an address on this label, it’s very small, but it’s there. Refers to an address near Zumbrota, Goodhue County. Have you ever heard of it?”

She swallows hard, breathing heavily through her nose. She knows exactly where he’s been — a warning she had buried at the back of her mind slowly coming to the front, one from Queen Maeve and Starlight about Homelander, how unstable he is and what being involved with him could mean for her and her family, even though they are estranged.

“Found this dilapidated old farmhouse, the remains of a still to create that poison.” He vaguely gestures to the jar. “It seems as if the occupants left, not sure if it’s in a hurry or maybe, they just received a large sum of money to move.”

She doesn’t react, almost as if she already knew her childhood home had been abandoned. It would only be a matter of time, after all, Luna being brought into the Seven no doubt earned her family a substantial amount.

“I asked around and found a forwarding address, some fancy house on Oak Meadow Lane in Rochester. So I decided to visit, and I met this great couple and their son, Phoenix. They even invited me in for apple pie and ice cream. Then they started talking about their little miracle daughter, the one saved by Compound V.”

Her jaw tightens and she rips her hand away from him, getting up from her seat and walking towards the window. The story of how she came to be injected with Compound V is painful, one retold to her constantly as she was growing up, one that shaped her understanding of what she truly was — a product.

“It's funny, they've made all this money on their daughter's image yet they don't seem to understand copyright laws.”

She hugs herself, fingers digging into her arms as she continues to stare out of the window. She watches the reflection as he stands, slowly moving closer with his hands behind his back. He stops only a few feet away.

“So I took the liberty of talking to the legal department and, would you believe it, they're going to sue this family. But not only that, they're going to make them repay every last cent to their daughter.”

A weird feeling washes over her, somewhere between relief and shock. There's only one question she wants to ask but at the same time, she doesn't want to know the answer. She knows what she's supposed to say, she just can't bring herself to say it, not to him.

“You know, if you'd come to me sooner, this would have happened a lot earlier. After all, you're on my team and I protect my teammates. But I can't help if I don't know what's going on so maybe, next time something happens, you come and see me first.”

The words stick in her throat so she chooses to remain silent, watching as he walks away. She knows that he didn’t do this out of the kindness of his heart, that this will come with a price.

A Full Moon.

Luna sits in the chair in the make-up room, vacantly staring at her reflection. The full moon means that not only she is at her most powerful, but she's also due to do the same Vought-mandated bullshit she has to do every time.

After the events of yesterday, she has no option but to follow through, despite how desperately she wants to tell Ashley to go fuck herself. So instead, she stares at her reflection in the mirror, mentally preparing herself to sit on that couch with a fake smile on her lips.

She's halfway through a daydream when the make-up room is suddenly deserted, a black box appearing in front of her face, held by a familiar red gloved hand.

“What’s that?”

Homelander shakes the box a little, trying to make it more enticing; however, after his little visit to her family, she’s half expecting to find a finger. When she doesn't reach for the box, he decides to do the honours, lifting its lid slowly. Her eyes widen with surprise as she looks at the contents.

Lying on a bed of satin is a crescent moon pendant, delicately carved from moonstone, attached to a twenty-carat white gold chain.

“The Romans revered moonstone,” he explains, obviously very pleased with himself. “They believed that it originated from solidified rays of moonlight. They attributed it to their deity, a divine incarnation of the moon, the goddess Luna. Because that’s what you are, a goddess.”

It’s by far the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen, and the most expensive gift she’s ever received. He removes the pendant, allowing the box to fall to the floor and fiddles with the intricate clasp as he puts it around her neck, the pendant lying flat against her chest.

Once the clasp is secure, his hands stroke down the back of her neck and rest on her shoulders, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“For the one who's as enchanting as the moon, it’s only right that you have a necklace to match your celestial beauty. It looks beautiful on you, just like I knew it would.”

Her fingers tentatively run over the smooth precious stone, tracing the crescent moon as her eyes dart between it and his face in the reflection of the mirror. There’s so many things she wants to say, so many unanswered questions that need to be asked but she finds herself almost tongue-tied.

“Thank you,” she chokes out the words, almost unsure of herself.

He squeezes her shoulders before turning her around in her chair, taking a step back and offering his hand. “Now, I believe the woman of the hour is needed in the studio for her monthly bullshit.”

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 6 )

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: Homelander spends the morning after their first date musing on what a life with Layla will look like. Unfortunately for both of them, he's quick to voice his fantasy, which clashes hard with her grounded sense of reality.

additional chapter tags: somnophilia, cunnilingus, attempted sexual coercion, accidental injury, gaslighting, physical restraint.

With Layla fast asleep in his arms, Homelander is left to his own devices for the rest of the night. He could sleep, he supposes, but he doesn’t need to. He can go days without. Currently, he finds he simply doesn’t have the desire to be unconscious right now. He wants to savor every moment of this.

She’s here. In his home. In his arms. He inhales deeply, floods his senses with their mingled scents. The lingering warm vanilla of her perfume, the woodsy spice of his cologne, and the heady smell of sex. Amidst it all, he also picks up the distinctive rubbery smell of latex: the condom. Before last night, he can’t recall the last time he used one. He only had the box because it had been packaged with the lube.

He never cared to use them. Didn’t think he needed to until…

Homelander drifts in and out of his thoughts, stubbornly pulling back every time he feels a bristle of anger or grief. In one fell swoop he lost his girlfriend, the mother of his child, and his son. Stormfront may have survived Ryan’s rage, but he knows now that she was gone from him from that moment onward. She only cared about her agenda, not him. Left him alone for his fucking birthday.

Fake or not, what kind of girlfriend kills herself right before your birthday?

By far, the worst part of it all was Ryan. In targeting Becca, Stormfront had alienated he and Ryan from each other, pushed him into the hands of William fucking Butcher. Now he had no idea where his own son was, or if the kid even wanted anything to do with him. 

He never should have let Stormfront interfere. Homelander could have made things work. He was making things work, regardless of Becca’s misgivings, because Ryan needed his mother.

He still needs a mother.

Homelander refocuses on Layla’s sleeping face. She’s even sweeter asleep than she is awake, features soft, unguarded. She’s relentlessly patient, something that had initially frustrated him. He hadn’t been able to rattle her disposition at all during their first session, though he had certainly tried. She’s kind, she cooks, she even sings. Sure, she drinks a little excessively, and her “profession” is a can of worms to deal with all on its own, but overall…

He can’t help but smile faintly, stroking her cheek the same way he had that very first night he visited her in her home.

With a couple of minor adjustments, she would make a hell of a mother.

It’s a nicer thought to fixate on than any of the others. It carries him through the next several hours, taking him away from the sorrow of heartsickness and the losses he has unfairly endured again and again and again. Instead, he imagines what a home shared between the three of them would look like. A large kitchen, naturally, one that would blow her little condo’s setup out of the water. An oversized bath for the two of them to lounge in. She would have everything she could possibly need at her fingertips.

Ryan would have his own room. Big, with bright windows and posters on every wall. Baseball, dad’s movies, shelves for his trophies. Trophies that he earned himself, not just cheap little statues to create the illusion of a childhood. He would have everything that Homelander should have had.

Eventually, Layla stirs. He loosens his hold to let her adjust, watching as she rolls onto her back, the blanket sliding down with her movements. His gaze drifts down, and he’s possessed by a wicked little thrill at not only the sight of her bare breasts, but the bruises that mottle her flesh. He marked her thoroughly with his lips and his teeth last night, a myriad of them blossoming from her chest all the way up to her neck.

“Oops,” he whispers, playful and without remorse. That changes, however, when she adjusts her legs and visibly winces in her sleep before settling back down. Watching her for a moment longer, he follows the trail of bruises back down, adjusts his vision to look through the blanket covering her. Her hips are darkly marked as well, veins erupted beneath the skin in the shape of his hands. Her thighs, too. He can only imagine the state of her hips and pelvis, her cervix. He had been rough with her by human standards, but she had wanted it. Fuck, had she ever wanted it.

He should still apologize, and he knows exactly how he wants to do just that. He dips down to press a kiss to one of the marks atop her right breast, and then another between them. He kisses her nipple, savors the feel of her goosebumps beneath his tongue as he drags his tongue over it. Though she shivers under his touch, she doesn’t wake. He grows bolder, sucking her nipple into his mouth, eyes falling shut.

This feels like thievery, like snatching the proverbial forbidden fruit straight from the tree. It thrills him as much as it unnerves him to take from her without permission. Throughout his life, indulgence has been the most heinous cardinal sin. Deprivation has always been his virtue. He was never given enough of anything, lest he become a gluttonous beast with no carrot to chase, and no stick strong enough to beat him.

Denying him didn’t weaken his appetite. Instead, it turned his hunger boundless. He’s never had enough. He doesn't know if he ever will, or if it’s even possible. After a lifetime of unending yearning, he wouldn’t know what satiation would feel like even if he had it.

He keeps himself weightless to prevent the bed from dipping too much with his movements, lightly hovering as he slips down beneath the blanket, kissing his way down her sternum.

Her legs are splayed well enough for him to gently shoulder between them, arms slipping under her thighs, hands grazing lightly over the bruises shaped just like them. She smells divine, like seasalt vanilla ice cream, the smell of sweat and sex and her favorite moisturizer lingering on her skin, which is soft in his hands. She cares for her body the way a craftsman does their tools, keeping them polished and pristine.

It drives him wild to see her undone, blemished, ravished. It’s proof that she has given him something rare, that her rules don’t apply to him anymore. These marks belong solely to him, even if she doesn’t. 

Yet.

Settling his weight between her legs, he uses two fingers to spread the lips of her pussy apart, closing his eyes as he leans in, dragging his tongue from cunt to clit. There aren’t words for how she tastes because there isn’t anything else like it. Good pussy is a meal in a league all its own, and hers is some of the finest he’s ever indulged on. 

He gives a rumbling sigh against her, moving his tongue in leisurely figure-eights. He could—would—do this for hours if she could withstand it. He closes his lips on her clit and sucks gently, rubbing at it with the tip of his tongue. The pattern of her breaths change, her heart jumps, but she isn’t awake yet. She makes an exquisite noise in her sleep that goes straight to his cock, which has begun to harden against his soft bedding. He makes a matching sound low in the back of his throat, nuzzling into her cunt while he grinds his growing hard-on down against the bed.

Layla’s legs move, closing in on either side of him. He can hear her waking up, feel it in her pulse. A noise of confusion first, disoriented, followed shortly by the sweetest of breathy moans.

“Oh, darling,” she breathes, tangling her fingers gently in his hair. Her grip is weak with sleep, nails scraping deliciously along his scalp. It sends shivers trilling up and down his spine like a xylophone. He relishes just how pleased she sounds with him, how she pets his hair while her clit flutters against his tongue.

Last night's frenzied urgency is absent here. The drags of his tongue are languid, the slight roll of her hips loose and without much rhythm. It’s slow, intimate. He loses himself in it enough that her orgasm sneaks up on him, the smell and taste of oxytocin hitting him in a rush.

Homelander moans against her, plunging his tongue into her to feel the quiver of her velvety walls. He hurriedly shoves his hand down between himself and the mattress, lifting his hips just enough to jerk his cock. It’s a treat to come like this, with her hands in his hair and his mouth on her pussy. He sucks at her clit, milks her of her aftershocks while he pumps himself to release, luxuriating in the sharp little gasps she’s giving, how her fingers tighten in his hair.

He comes with a low groan, the sheets below him soaking up the brunt of the mess. She tugs his hair, and he obligingly crawls up her body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She looks radiant beneath him, dazed with both sleep and pleasure, her eyes soft, lips set in a gentle curve. It feeds something carnal in him to have done this to her, that she would look at him like this–with love–because of what he has done for her. She has no idea that this is just the beginning. Will she ever be able to fathom the lengths he’ll go for her if she’ll just give him what he needs?

“Good morning,” he purrs, his own voice a low, pleasure-soaked rumble.

“Very good morning,” she says through a giggle, cupping either side of his face. She kisses him lazily, meeting his tongue with her own, licking the flavor of herself from his mouth. He sinks his weight down atop her, slipping his arms underneath her, happy to kiss her until she breaks to breathe. “Insatiable,” she accuses, carding her fingers through his hair.

He beams down at her, gently bumping his nose against hers. He kisses her again simply because he can. Because he’s allowed to. “You would be too if you were me.”

Layla laughs softly. The sound of it warms him to his core. He watches her blink the remaining sleep from her eyes, smearing what’s left of her makeup as she rubs her face, stifling a waking yawn into her hand. He tucks her hair behind her ear, endeared by the way she leans into his endeared by the way she leans into his palm. He's so enraptured by the eager way she touches him, he forgot how good it can be when someone seeks his touch.

People flinch from him far more often.

They kiss again and again and again. It feels like an exploration, each of them mapping out the feel and pattern of the other. She tilts her head one way, and he goes the other, following her in this dance that he would prefer never ended. As always, she’s the first to break for reprieve. He allows it, nuzzling into the crook of her neck instead. He follows the line of her neck all the way up to her ear with his lips and gentle, grazing teeth. He barely resists the urge to bite. Intimacy is the only vice he’s ever struggled to not grip in his teeth and swallow whole. 

“How did you sleep?” She asks, running her fingers through her hair, down his neck, his back. He sighs his pleasure.

“Great,” he lies smoothly. No sense in getting into the nitty-gritty of things. He did have a great night.

“Good,” she says, stretching her arms out across his back until they each give a satisfying little pop. He shifts, lifting himself onto one arm so that he can once again admire not just her, but his handiwork. He brushes his fingers over the bruises that are smattered across her chest.

“You hurt?” He asks quietly. He wants to be proud of them, he wants to love them unconditionally, but first he needs to know they haven’t cost him something in her eyes.

“Mm-mm, mostly just sore,” she says, twisting and curling his short hair between her fingers. “Very bruised, inside and out,” she says, to which he has the decency to look sheepish. “Do you have ibuprofen?”

“Uhh.” He racked his brain, trying to think of where he might have something as utterly mundane and useless to him as painkillers, but he came up empty. “Nnnnope. It’s, ah… Never come up,” he says, to which Layla chuckles.

“No, of course it wouldn’t. it’s alright, I think I have some in my… purse,” she says, pausing as she looks around. Her clothes are scattered from one end of the room to the other, but her purse is– “Shit, I left it on the balcony.”

“I’ll have it brought up,” he says, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the lips before he lifts up, a slight pep in his step as he makes his way over to his phone: a landline. He’s always had trouble keeping track of a cell phone. “Could I have some water, too?” She calls out after him. “Roger!” He affirms cheerily. He whistles softly, making a pit stop by his fridge on the way to his phone. It’s lucky she only asked for water, as it’s the only thing his fridge is stocked with. He snatches one of the bottles neatly lined up inside, and tosses it absently while he calls to have her things retrieved. Once that’s settled, he makes his way back to his bedroom. She’s sitting up now, his dark comforter draped loosely over her lap. She’s fixing her makeup in the mirror to her right, swiping her fingers beneath her eyes. He watches her lick the pads of her ring fingers to wipe away the dark smudges at the corners, endeared. It’s such a simple, domestic little moment. 

She stops when she notices him staring, and smiles at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging slightly. His tone is soft. “Admiring the view.”

“You’re sweet,” she says, running her fingers through her dark hair to tame it. “Corny, but sweet.” “Always gatta humble me, huh?” He says as he advances, offering her the water bottle. She takes it, eagerly twisting off the cap to take a sip. He slides back in next to her, watching the way her throat works as she swallows. Everything she does is captivating in a way he never would have cared to notice before. Things he would normally find annoying she somehow makes delightful.

“If humbling is what you need, I will gladly provide it,” she says, her smile turning sly. 

Of that, he has no doubt. “What I need-” he begins, leaning in close. “-is more kisses.”

“Mmmm. Lucky for you, I’ve got a fresh batch,” she says, kissing him once, twice, thrice in quick little pecks.

“Christ, woman, don’t waste them,” he growls playfully, taking hold of her face and catching her in one slow, firm kiss.

She laughs against his lips. It’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt.

They luxuriate with one another a while longer. Homelander makes a call to the kitchens when Layla inquires about food, but he still isn’t ready to let her out of his bed. Everything is too perfect, too good to let go of. He has the decency to wrap a sheet around his waist when he grabs their breakfast–and her belongings–from the door, but he’s quick to abandon it to climb right back in with her, serving her meal on a silver platter.

“We’re going to have to get up eventually,” she says, taking a bite of the toast. He knows that. They will. He intends to invite her to his birthday celebration tonight, after all. It’ll be better if he doesn’t show up alone. The world is nowhere near forgetting about his most recent failed romantic endeavor.

He resists the urge to lick away the bit of jam that catches on her bottom lip, to interrupt her from her meal, to selfishly claim her every second for himself, to kiss her until she forgets all about that stupid piece of toast, and cares only to satiate her hunger on the taste of him. “...Hello?”

Homelander blinks, realizing he had gone radio silent staring at her mouth. He meets her gaze, and smiles. “What?”

Layla quirks a brow. “We’re going to have to get up eventually,” she repeats, taking another bite of her meal. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

“I ate,” he says, his grin sharpening wolfishly.

“Very funny,” she says wryly, though she can’t hide genuine amusement. She looks good like this. Domestic, even. He really could keep her this way, pampered and cared for. He can offer her more than money, more than mind-melting sex. He has real power in this world. He has so much more to offer her than anyone else could ever hope to. He could give her a real life. A family.

“I have a son,” he says, gauging her response carefully.

She shoots him a look of surprise, lowering the mostly-eaten toast to her plate. “You do?”

“Yeah. He’s, uh… We’re living apart right now,” he says, the words falling awkwardly from his tongue. “Things are complicated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says gently. Normally, he finds those kinds of condolences sound empty. Rehearsed. Layla always sounds genuine to his ears, the furrow of her brow carrying sincere concern. He wants to lean into it, coax more of that earnest care from her. “Is he with his mother?”

“No, no, she’s gone,” he says dismissively. “That’s a whole mess. I haven’t really had the chance to, uh, to talk to him about that.”

There’s a dash of befuddlement seeping into Layla’s sympathetic expression. “Was… Who was his mother, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No one,” he says, tone sharper than he meant to let it be. Things would be so different if she’d just let him raise his own son. “I mean, not… Not anyone you’d know, not anyone significant.”

“She is significant, though,” she corrects him, lips curving into a slight frown. He doesn’t like the turn this is taking: this was supposed to be a pleasant revelation. “She’s your son’s mother.”

“Yeah, yes, sure, she was. She’s dead now,” he says, trying to move on from that. “But what I meant was that she wasn’t, you know, in the news or anything,” he says, skating around any potential inferences she might make, lest she assume he’s referring to Stormfront or any other woman he’s publicly associated with.

Her frown deepens. He wants to choke back everything he’s just said and start over. He wants to go back to her sweet, pacifying sympathy. Not this uncomfortable, critical look she’s evaluating him with. It makes his skin crawl.

“Right,” she says. He hates that tone, the one that tells him he’s anything but right. It tells him she has much more to say than that, and that he wouldn’t like any of it. He bounces his fist on his thigh, agitation creeping up. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. “You haven’t talked to your son about it? Was it recent?”

“Pretty recent,” he says, irritated now. “But that’s really not… that’s not the point. I have a son,” he says again, splaying his hands expectantly, as if he can restart the conversation with that. This is her chance to give a more enthused response.

She doesn’t. “Why haven’t you talked to him?”

“Jesus Christ, I just told you that it’s complicated,” he snaps, though he regrets the slip instantly. Her expression smooths out, cooling to detached nonchalance. Panic begins to set in alongside his frustration. “Don’t–don’t look at me like that,” he spits, exhaling roughly. He pushes his hands through his hair, and tries desperately to recalibrate, holding his hands out to her. “You were supposed to be excited.”

“Excited,” she repeats, tone even. He can’t stand how apathetic she’s turned.

“Yes, excited. I want you to meet my son,” he says, trying once more to extend this olive branch to her.

That gets a response. Her cool indifference falters, brows furrowing. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she says, some of that gentleness sinking back into her voice, but he doesn’t care for the sound of it this time around. Or maybe it’s less her tone, and more the words. He’s not sure yet.

“What do you mean appropriate?” He asks, features pulling into a tight, unhappy pinch.

“You–” she begins, pausing to let out a breath. She closes her eyes briefly, and then takes his hands into her own, pulling them down into her lap, bringing their faces closer to one another, leveling him with direct eye contact. “You need to talk to your son. That much is clear,” she says, squeezing his hands. He squeezes hers back.

“That has to happen first. As for me, I’m…” She hesitates, licking her lips. “Your son is grieving. I’m the last thing he needs right now. What he needs is you.I don’t know what complicated entails, but your priority cannot be introducing a strange woman to your child right now.”

“You’re not a strange woman,” he says with  a defensive edge to his tone. “You’re my–we’re–”

“We’re not anything right now,” she interrupts softly. “We’re barely a notion. One date doesn’t mean–”

“No, no. Stop it,” he demands, voice dropping low. He tightens his grip on her hands. “Don’t blow me off. You like me. There’s something here.”

“Yes, but–” She tries to twist her hands out of his grasp. “Let go of my hands, please.”

“No.” “You’re hurting me, John–” “Don’t! Do not fucking ’John’ me.”

“Why? Why not?!” She snaps, louder than he had been. It startles him enough that his grip on her hands eases. He blinks several times. He’s never heard her shout. Almost didn’t think she was capable of it. “You gave me that name! So why not?!”

“Because it’s not a fucking name!” He yells back, escalating right along with her. “It’s nothing! It means nothing! It’s-it’s a fucking–a goddamn placeholder. It was just more convenient than a string of numbers, alright? I don’t want to hear it right now.”

Her heart is thundering in his ears. Her bones feel brittle in his firm grasp. He could snap them without a thought. He immediately loosens his hold. Her expression is fractured by anger, fear, and perhaps worst of all, pity. It’s cloying, a far cry from her usual benevolent sympathy. He wants nothing to do with it. 

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she says, tone level, but not indulgent. He badly misses that quality.

“Then don’t,” he says ardently. “Can’t you just stop thinking about everything so much?”

Layla’s eyes fall shut. She takes in a slow, calming breath, holding it a beat before she exhales. It gives him hope that they’ll recover from this. She tentatively pulls her hands away, and this time, he lets her. However, he feels a bubble of anxiety in his gut when she slips out of bed, and begins picking up her clothes. “What are you doing?” He asks apprehensively, standing.

She pulls her dress on, smoothing her hands down the front of it. “You’re right. I do like you,” she says, stuffing her undergarments into her purse. “But I can’t talk to you right now. Not here.”

He scoffs nervously. “You’re leaving?”

“I need some time to process,” she says, confirming his fear. 

His anxiety spikes. Everything was perfect. How did this happen? “Don’t be fucking childish,” he says, advancing on her. “Talk to me.”

“I’m upset,” she says plainly. “I don’t feel comfortable here right now. I want to go home. We can talk once we’ve both calmed down.”

“I am calm,” he shoots back, frustrated. “You’re the one making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t stop gathering her things. He watches her sit and slip her shoes on. 

“Is that really all you’re gonna to say?”

“Yes.”

That single word shoots a lance of pure fury through him like no other, but this seething anger comes with a sense of helplessness. He doesn’t know what to do. “Don’t leave.” He tries to make it sound like a command instead of the plea that it is.

“I promise it’s better that I do,” she says, standing up. “Before either of us say or do something we can’t take back.”

“No,” he says, firm and simple. No.

She doesn’t look swayed. If anything, she looks tired. Exasperated, like he’s nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “You don’t get to say no to me here. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Homelander lunges. He catches her face between his hands, and kisses her with everything he’s got.It’s a desperate move. Maybe she'll taste that in the way he presses his lips to hers, feel how much he wants her. How much he needs her. She takes hold of his wrists, makes a muffled noise of protest, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t let go.

“Stop,” she manages to get out, pressing hard against his chest now. “Jo–Homelander,” she stresses, but he’s certain he can turn this around. If he can just remind her of how good things were a minute ago, how good he can make her feel, how good he can be for her, then she’ll stop this. She’ll stay.

The harder she pushes against him, the tighter he holds her. She twists, but he doesn’t want her to speak anymore. The more they’ve said, the worse things have gotten. He kisses her like he means to suffocate her, fingers digging in behind her jaw, mouth stifling hers. He can hardly feel her lips anymore, she’s drawn them into a thin line, gritting her teeth behind them. He steps closer, feels her bump into the bed behind her. If he can just–

Something shifts, and Layla makes a distinctly pained noise. The sharpness of it snaps Homelander out of it, has him letting her go like he’s been burned by the touch of her. Both of her hands go to her mouth, where she’s been hurt. She touches the inside of her bottom lip, and her fingers come away bloody. He’s split the skin against her bottom teeth. Her eyes are horribly glassy, and when she looks at him, she looks…

Disappointed.

Stricken, he reaches for her. “I’m sor–”

She sidesteps his touch, dipping to snatch her purse up from where she had dropped it. She hurriedly throws her coat on, covering up all the marks he had been so proud of just this morning. 

“Layla! Layla! Would you just–would you just stop? Please!” He follows her to the door. She’s practically running from him. He catches her wrist, easily stopping her in her tracks. He could keep her here if he wanted to. It would be so easy.  “Please don’t leave me. It’s…” He holds her wrist in a loose but unopening grip, gesturing helplessly with his free hand. “It’s my birthday,” he whispers, strained.

It’s not. He doesn’t know when his birthday is. Everything he’s ever known has been a sham. His life is a fucking joke.

Tears roll freely down her cheeks. He can smell the salt in them, smell her blood, see traces of it between her lips.The copper tang of it makes his stomach churn in a way blood never has.

“Happy birthday, Homelander,” she whispers back, pulling out of his grasp, and turning towards the door.

His hand falls limply to his side. The door to his penthouse opens, it closes, and just like that, he’s all alone. His eyes prickle hotly with tears, a tremble running through his core. He stands there a long while, feeling naked and vulnerable well beyond his nudity.

Something has just been taken from him. He had it, and now it’s gone. That contentedness. It had been bundled warmly in his arms this morning, only to be ripped away with such abrupt violence, it left him shivering cold.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pushing his hands into his hair, squeezing it until his scalp starts to ache. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” He roars, catching a nearby vase in his hand. He hurls it across the room with such force that it explodes in every direction upon impact, and a particularly large piece cracks into the center of the mirror hanging on his wall, fracturing it into a web-like pattern.

Homelander stares numbly at his ugly, fragmented reflection.

Just us now.

He closes his eyes, sick of his own tear-stricken face.

I hate you. Chapter Seven.

[mommy-mortis]

Really rough draft and extremely self indulgent idea I had of my OC "Helping" Homelander during that movie premiere scene by taking his mind off of it

H: "Fuck... Mary... Please"

OC: (whispering)"Shushhh, Homelander, you don't want to ruin the movie for everyone else, do you?"

H: (Trying to whisper)"Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm going to..."

OC: (whispering) "Shhh... It's okay sweetheart go ahead..."

H: (Trying to whisper)"Thank you... Mommy... I...ughh...fuck..I..."

H: (softly panting)

OC: (whispering while wiping cum off hand) "You know Homelander, no matter what, I'm sorry about what you had to go through... you know with, Stormfront..."

H:(coming down from orgasm) "...Who?"

[ishomieokay]

Hey! I love your profile, it's like the first time I have seen a homelander blog who isn't romanticising him or his actions. Just wanna ask something- would homelander even date someone who isn't white lol, like my oc is a Japanese woman who is a supe in her mid 30s and got into the Seven for diversity ( a woman and Asian, they hitting two things with just one rock)

Is it out of character for homelander for dating a woc women? he is racist af. But like would he if he had to boost his rating ( similar to his fake relationship with starlight), I don't wanna make their relationship romantic, but more like an one sided obsession from him. Sorry if this ask is cringe 🥲

There's absolutely nothing cringe about your ask, anon! Looking for rep in fandom spaces is totally normal and one of the reasons why I created this blog 🤗

Ok, so, let me tell you something about Homelander. If you ever look for the word cognitive dissonance in the dictionary, you will find a photo of him. His thoughts, beliefs and actions are inconsistent af and make no sense.

Take Madelyn for example. Homelander believes that humans are "mud people" and "toys for his amusement". For him, Supes are different race (they aren't) and are inheritly superior. Still, he was OBSESSED with Madelyn and ended up killing her bc he literally couldn't handle the idea of her *not truly loving him*.

Something similar happened with Stormfront. He despised that woman. He hated her. He wanted to laser her into a pile of ashes. But as soon as she expressed admiration for him all of that hatred and jealousy were forgotten.

Because his need for love and attention is so great, he imprints onto anyone who gives it to him. Even if it's someone he initially hated/looked down on.

Starlight is another good example. She is literally his nemesis. Butcher who? Starlight is the face of the nation wide movement that opposes Homelander, not to mention she almost stole the Seven from him. BUT, it's strongly hinted at that Homelander started developing feelings for her (however briefly) during their fake relationship. That's how fucked up he is 😭

Mind you, this doesn't happen all the time. For example, The Deep and Firecracker literally idolize him and he doesn't give a flying fuck about them. The circumstances have to be very specific.

So, in short. Homelander could definetly fall in love/become obsessed with a member of a minority. As long as something about them appeals to his inner child, who is just looking for love and approval. The way Madelyn did.

So, that's why I unashamedly ship him with my hispanic OC and you shouldn't be afraid to do the same, anon! Have fun!

[malreau]

still trying to nail down Finch's wardrobe, having some fun doing vintage fashion studies with her

ref pic

[slasher-smasher]

Beyond the Bad Room - I Love Our Little Game

Ayyyooo Ch3!!! I had so much fun with this. This is an on-going multi-chap fic of Homelander x my OC Cassidy Bishop.

You can find my other Homelander fics and previous chapters here

For easier reading here is my AO3

Thank you so much for being wonderful and patient with my horrendous grammar when you already have so much on your plate @hdiabolical 💕😊

The idea for the perfume and the name are from here. Thank our local perfume scientist @blindmagdalena and @sehtoast for her name.

Warnings: Stalker Homelander, emotional cheating, Homelander going overboard with the "saving" as usual. Voyeur Homelander being naughty. Cheating on Homelander's side since he is still "with" SF.

Words: 5,018

Chapter Summary: As Homelander's perfectly crafted world crumbles around him, there is only one thing, more like person, that keeps him from snaping and blowing up the world. A look at what he was up to during the year gap between the end of season 2 and beginning of season 3.

Chapter 3

The aftermath of the disastrous encounter with Stormfront and that fucker Butcher has left Homelander in a downward spiral. From the peak of happiness, finally finding love and having his son by his side to create the family he always longed for, all for it to go up in flames as he was linked to a closet Nazi. His once sky-high points plummeted, tainted by this association. And to top it all off, his own people at Vaught were secretly working with a terrorist without his knowledge, while his own flesh and blood rejected him. Homelander's world was crumbling down around him, threatening to consume him whole.

There was a distinct, hollow feeling in his chest whenever thoughts of a particular woman appeared.

He tried to push her out of his mind, but the memory of her lingered like an open wound. He knew he should focus on Stormfront and her recovery, yet he couldn't stop wondering about Cassidy. Was she moving on without him?

After every excruciating interview in which he is forced to justify his love for a woman, he couldn’t help but want to see her. It's like a magnetic pull towards, even though every fiber of his being wants to run in the opposite direction. Vought refused to scrap the filming and instead twisted it to capitalize on his pain and vulnerability caused by his relationship with Stormfront. He stands there, forcing a fake smile while his inner turmoil rages, all for the world's entertainment. The urge to burn the entire set down consumes him, but so does the thought of seeing Cassidy again.

But Homelander knew he couldn't afford to let his anger consume him. He was the face of The Seven, the symbol of strength and invincibility. Any more signs of weakness or instability could jeopardize everything he had worked so hard to build as fucked as it already is.

As he walked off the set, his mind drifted back to Cassidy. He missed her warmth, her witty remarks that always made him laugh. Despite everything that had happened, he couldn't shake the feeling that she was the one who truly understood him. As much as he is trying to break her out of it, Stormfront only wants to talk about the upcoming army of the "pure race".

His willpower crumbled, and he couldn't fight the urge any longer. He had to see her, just for a moment. A quick visit, she wouldn't even notice him. And even if she did, she wouldn't push him away. She still cared for him, right? Their argument was insignificant compared to the bond they shared. It couldn't be ruined by a mere disagreement, could it?

No one dared to bother him nowadays so he was able to just shoot off into the sky. It would be a little difficult to watch her since it's in the middle of the day but he could make it work. It wouldn't be the first time.

Homelander flew across the city, the wind rushing past him as he soared through the sky. The buildings below him blurred in his peripheral vision, but his focus remained steady on his destination: Cassidy's workplace.

As he approached the bustling hospital, he veered sharply and landed with a soft thud on the rooftop. He took a moment to compose himself, adjusting his cape and running a hand through his tousled blond hair. His heart pounded in his chest, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation coursing through his veins. He focused his eyes to the floor, using his powers to peel away the structure of the building like layers on an onion. Scanning around till he found her typing something on a computer while talking with someone who looks like a nurse.

Homelander could feel a knot forming in his stomach. She looked weary, her shoulders hunched and her eyes drooping with fatigue. Was she simply worn out from a tough week, or was there something deeper going on after their argument? The thought of her struggling without him made his heart race with excitement and relief.

He lost track of time as he watched her from afar, content with simply observing her going about her day. Her discomfort in social situations with her coworkers made him smile. She was a confident doctor, but with regular people she was as shy as a clam hiding in its shell.

He repeated his new routine of watching her for the next couple of months between his appointments and filming. It gave him a small sense of structure and it felt like he was a part of her life again. Even if she wasn't aware of it. Though that small contentment was becoming not enough as the days went on.

It was the end of May when he began his nightly watch outside her apartment. Seeing her relaxed and in her element was a stark contrast to how she acted at work. There, she seemed guarded and professional, but here she could be herself without hiding. He loved watching her draw in her sketchbook while listening to what she considered music —some low hum or phonographic audio. His favorite moments were when she would dance around with carefree abandon or bake in the cozy kitchen. He may not have a sweet tooth due to his sensitive taste, but the warm scent of chocolate and strawberries gave him a feeling of domesticity that made him long to be inside with her, wiping flour and other ingredients from her cheeks as she unknowingly touched her face in concentration.

Homelander often found himself yearning for the moments of intimacy and coziness that he shared with Cassidy. However, those moments seemed to be disrupted every time her annoying boyfriend, Ian, came home and ruined the picture-perfect image in his head. He despised seeing Cassidy in someone else's arms or cuddled up on the couch watching a movie. Fortunately, Ian was not always around. Homelander couldn't help but wonder why he was gone so often, especially since he was just an investigative journalist. Was it necessary for him to be away from home for such extended periods of time? He could tell that this was causing a strain between them. And did he feel secretly amused that their seemingly perfect relationship was not as flawless as it appeared? Abso-fucking-lutlely.

One evening in July, Homelander was feeling particularly overwhelmed and frustrated with having to rehearse a scene with Stormfront's replacement for the filming. When he shared his frustrations with Stormfront, she simply reassured him that it wouldn't matter once Vought created their army of supes. According to her, this would eliminate any criticism or ridicule they faced from the public. The fact that he doesn't seem to be making any progress with the Nazi thing just added to the fire. Not even her handjob seemed to help him decompress. Which is why Homelander finds himself watching Cassidy from the shadows outside as usual but this time Ian is once again home and tonight was different. No movie was playing. No cuddling on the couch. The living room was dark and empty. If he didn't have his vision he would have thought no one was home but his power granted him the view that made him swallow hard and wet his dry lips.

His heart pounded in his chest as he watched Cassidy and Ian in the dimly lit bedroom. They stood close to each other, their bodies almost touching, their eyes locked in an intense gaze. The air was thick with anticipation, and Homelander could feel the electricity between them, even from outside.

Cassidy reached out a trembling hand and gently caressed Ian's cheek, her touch sending shivers down both their spines. Their lips connected in a passionate kiss, trying to ignite a fire within them that had been smoldering for far too long. It was as if time stood still, the world fading away into insignificance.

His heart twisted with envy as he observed their intimacy. He yearned to be the one to ignite that fire within Cassidy, to feel her lips pressed against his own.

As the kiss deepened, Cassidy's hand slid down Ian's chest, coming to rest on the hem of his shirt. In one swift motion, she pulled it over his head, revealing a muscled physique that only fueled Homelander's envy. He loathed the way Ian's hands roamed Cassidy's body, tracing curves that he longed to squeeze in his hands. Ian then began to undress Cassidy with a tenderness and care that made him grit his teeth. Each touch was deliberate, each movement calculated to elicit a response from her. As he peeled away her clothes, Homelander's heart pounded in his chest, a mix of longing and lust coursed through his veins. Her cute little tummy is revealed, looking soft and lovely. Cassidy stood before Ian, naked and exposed. This was the first time he has seen her at her most vulnerable.

Homelander couldn't help but imagine himself in Ian's place. He pictured capturing her lips in another heated kiss and leading her to the center of the bed. With a sense of urgency, he quickly undid his belt and pushed down his pants and underclothes. Pulling his gloves off and biting down on them to keep quiet, he pumped once at his hardening cock while he let out a muffled moan. Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, Homelander turned his attention back to the unsuspecting couple through the wall, slipping further into his fantasy.

He would position her on her back. Her eyes would be closed, yet he would sense her growing excitement, an anticipation that matched his own. He’d lower himself onto her,  kissing her neck, his lips trailing down to her collarbone, leaving a trail of fire with each touch. With his hands roaming her body, he would whisper sweet nothings into her ear, his voice an intoxicating mix of love and possession. Feeling her soft skin beneath his touch, her warmth enveloping him as they became one. His hand continued to stroke his cock, matching the rhythm of their bodies on the bed. He heard their breaths become heavier, their moans mingling in the air as they climbed the peak of their passion. Homelander's heart raced in rhythm with their own, his cock now throbbing with a need that seemed to mirror their own.

He could feel the cum building up in the head of his dick, ready to burst out and paint his hand, but he wanted to savor this moment, this glimpse into the passion and intimacy he craved with Cassidy.

As the couple's passion reached its zenith, Homelander could feel his own release approaching. With a final, desperate tug, he squeezed his eyes shut, imagining himself as the one who had claimed Cassidy, who had made her his.

He bit down harder on the gloves, letting out a ragged groan as his orgasm hit him like a tidal wave. Spurts of his release filled the palm of his hand, the image of Cassidy throwing her head back in pleasure burned behind his eyelids. As his body shook with the intensity of the pleasure, he found that it was leagues better than what he usually gets from Stormfront. His body immediately relaxed and mind went fuzzy.

With a last look at Cassidy who was already slipping off to sleep and a sneer at Ian who was typing quickly into his phone—what the fuck was so important after making love to a woman like her—he quickly used the neighbors cloth Fourth of July door cover to wipe off the evidence of his release and returned to the tower.

Homelander relished the rare and elusive "release nights", as he dubbed them in his mind. Thanks to Ian's absence, their relationship had grown more distant, but he was perfectly content with that. He didn't want to share her with anyone else. She belonged to him, body and soul, from the moment she entered the metal doors of the Bad Room until now. And she always would be, whether she realized it or not.

 For once, he doesn’t feel like he is obligated to save those helpless, mud people. He felt a sense of duty to protect her, his feelings for Cas made it more personal. She held a special place in his heart. When she started running in November to combat the "weight gain" from Thanksgiving—fucking ridiculous—he vowed to burn down all the lifestyle magazines for putting silly thoughts in her head. He spent his nights flying above her, keeping a watchful eye as she ran through the dark, quiet park. A small part of him wanted to swoop down and confront her, wanting to know if she was asking to be mugged or worse, hurt. But the majority of him couldn't help, but admire the way her breasts bounced hypnotically with each step.

He is aware he should reveal himself to her, ending the illusion of their separation and freeing her from the restlessness he knows is fueled by her yearning for him, just as he longs for her. However, the game they are playing brings too much enjoyment and serves as a welcomed distraction from the chaos in his life. He needs something big to sweep her off her feet.

It was as if the thought of criminal activity summoned two creeps from whatever shithole they spawned from. As Cassidy reached the end of her run, Homelander watched as two unsavory men appeared from the shadows, their eyes locked onto her like a predator on its prey. His heart leapt into his throat as the realization hit him—this was his moment to finally reveal himself, to protect her from these dangerous men. A grin stretched across his face in anticipation of the hunt.

Cassidy slowed down towards the tunnel that connected to the parking lot where her car was parked, completely unaware of the danger that awaited her. The street lamps flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The scum were closing in, their intentions clear as day.

Homelander's heart pounded in his chest as he prepared to reveal himself to Cassidy. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the chance to show her that he was her protector, her savior.

With a cocky smile, he softly landed behind them, his powerful frame towering over the unsuspecting duo. The two men froze in terror at the sight of the man before them, their eyes widening in disbelief. Homelander allowed the men to take a good, long look at his face, letting them know exactly who they were dealing with.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice deep and menacing. "Looks like you've picked the wrong time to mess with the wrong girl. Good for me. Bad for you, buckos."

He could taste the fear in the air, a palpable energy that was intoxicating. Homelander allowed a wicked grin to spread across his face, savoring the moment before bringing it crashing down upon them. In a second, he grabbed the first man by the neck, his fingers digging into the soft, fleshy skin. The man's eyes bulged as he struggled to breathe, it was no use though. Homelander squeezed harder and harder. The man's sclera became bloodshot as he stared into the burning inferno that radiated from Homelanders eyes.

With a wet pop, the man's head exploded as viscera covered Homeladers chest and face.

In the split second before the first man's life was snuffed out, the second man took his chance to run. He didn't get far. Homelander was already upon him, covering the distance between them in a matter of moments. The man stumbled and fell, landing hard on his face, the fresh pavement tearing at his skin. Homelander stood over him, his eyes burning with a fierce glee that sent shivers down the man's spine.

"You know," Homelander growled, his voice low and threatening. "You should have thought about the consequences of your actions before you decided to mess with someone like her. But then again, I guess that's too big of a concept for someone like you to understand."

Ripping the man's head back by his hair, Homelander brought him crashing down onto the unforgiving concrete with a deafening crack. The man's tortured screams reverberated through the tunnel as he gasped for breath, his shattered ribs impaled deeper into his lungs by his merciless fist. His contorted body writhed and spasmed, eyes bulging from their sockets as blood bubbled up from his crushed chest cavity and filled his mouth with a sickly sweet metallic taste.

A wave of satisfaction washed over Homelander as the last of the two thugs lay motionless on the ground. He couldn't help but relish the thrill of the kill, the rush of adrenaline that coursed through his veins. It was a feeling like no other, a feeling that made him feel truly alive. As he stood there, surveying the carnage he had wrought with his hands on his hips, he remembered the whole reason this show happened as he swiftly turned around and expected Cassidy standing there, yet he was met with the deserted tunnel. She must have slipped away when he was distracted.

"Well, fuck me," he groaned into the silence.

When December rolled around and with the very embarrassing display of lack of control and awareness behind him—though was still a bit sore about the whole thing if he was being honest with himself—he felt desperate for her more than ever. More reckless.

As Homelander prowled through Cassidy's apartment while she was at work, he found himself drawn to the most mundane objects as if they possessed an inviting allure. He only got to see a little of inside her apartment while he was here last. He knew the layout from his time watching her outside. He picked up a small photo album filled with memories of her time in England and a few of her and Ian, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the pages. The scent of her lingered in the air, a comforting familiarity that sent shivers down his spine.

In her closet, he found a collection of her clothes, all meticulously hung and organized. He lifted one of her sweaters, hesitating for a moment before bringing it closer to his face. The fabric was soft and silky, and the smell of her clung to it like a second skin.

He couldn't help but run his fingers over the sleeves, imagining her wearing it; she did like sweaters that would swallow her whole. He brought the material closer to his nose, inhaling deeply as if he wanted the smell to permeate his being and stay with him forever. He always did love her scent. That got him thinking. He realized that he needed something that was uniquely his own, something that would remind him of Cassidy every time he used it. He decided to take a small part of Cassidy with him.

He looked around her bedroom and spotted a few small bottles on her vanity desk. After sniffing each one to pick out his favorite, he decided on the one that was labeled Blindmagdalena by Amesberg. He took the small bottle with him along with a cute blue panty with a red bow. As he walked out of the apartment, he took one last look back, a wistful smile resting on his lips.

The weeks passed by in a blur, Christmas fast approaching. Homelander found himself making another ritual of returning to Cassidy's apartment when she was out, always careful to leave no trace of his presence. He would sit on her couch, watch her TV, and breathe in her scent from the clothes she had left behind. He salivated when he spotted any of her underclothes. He would envision her in each and every one of her rooms. Her bedroom, in particular, became his favorite place to visit. He would run his fingers over the scattered pillows and lay on the bed, burying his face in her pillows, imagining her warmth still lingering in the linens.

As he sat there one night, lost in thought, he heard the soft creak of the front door. Cassidy was back home. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprung off the couch and hid in the shadowy corner of her bedroom. He knew he had to stay calm, to keep his cool. If Cassidy caught him, he would have a lot of explaining to do.

Cassidy walked through the door, her cheeks flushed from the cold outside. She set down her bag and let out a sigh of relief. Cursing her sensitivity to anything cold, she stripped off her coat and hung it on the rack, then went still as she caught the faint trace of John's scent lingering in the air. Her heart rate quickened. She must be going loony lately, thinking she could smell him in her apartment for the past month. Absolutely nutters. With a shake of her head, Cassidy retrieved some clean panties, sweatpants that she liked to sleep in and a tank top then proceeded to head to her shower. The plan to wash away the day under hot water and her favorite soap appealed to her greatly.

When the door to the bathroom shut Homelander stepped out from his hiding place. The sound of water running from the shower could be heard soon after. As Cassidy began to undress, Homelander's heart raced with anticipation. He could hear the soft rustle of her clothes as she removed them one by one. The sound of her breathing grew slower and deeper, a testament to the relaxation that the warm water provided. Homelander listened intently, savoring the sensual rhythm of her movements. He stood there frozen for a while, processing what was happening.

Homelander felt the urge to join her in the bathroom. He slowly approached the door, his heart pounding in his chest, willing himself to stay calm. He turned the knob gently, not wanting to make a sound. The door creaked open, revealing a partial view of Cassidy through the shower glass door.

She was under the spray of hot water, her body glistening with droplets of water. Her brown hair cascaded down her back, wet and wild. Her eyes were closed as she let the water run down her face, washing away the stresses of the day. The fragrant steam curled up and filled the bathroom, and Homelander breathed it in deeply, as if trying to capture her essence within him. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lost in the scent that was now deeply entwined with her.

He continued to stand there, opening his eyes to trail over her exposed body, taking in every curve and line. Her skin, pale from the lack of sun, didn't make her look sickly but more delicate like a doll, soft as if it was begging to be touched. Homelander fought the urge to reach out and feel her smooth flesh, to run his fingers along the delicate curvature of her shoulders and back.

He saw the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the delicate rise and fall of her breasts, her pink nipples pebbling even with all the warm steam. He saw the way her stomach curved just slightly, making him want to press his hand against the pillowy tissue. Too fucking cute.

He watched the water cascade down her legs, tracing the lines of her hips, the curve of her ass, the softness of her inner thighs. Each droplet seemed to carry with it the essence of her, and Homelander yearned to catch them with his tongue. The sight of Cassidy's naked body in the shower drove him to the brink of insanity.

Cassidy's hands roamed over her body, caressing her skin with tender care. She brushed her fingers through her wet hair, removing some of the tangles. As she soaped her body, Homelander could see the suds cascading down her skin, making her glisten. He watched as her hands gently touched her breasts, teasing her nipples, sending a thrill of desire coursing through him.

He could see the tenderness in her touch, the longing for something more that she so desperately craved.

He wished he could touch her, to feel her skin against his own, to taste the flavor of her skin.

But Cassidy's rhythmic movements grew more frenzied, and her moans grew louder, until he realized what was happening. She was touching herself, her fingers sliding between her legs, teasing her clitoris, and thrusting inside herself. Homelander felt a shock of lust and awe, watching her pleasure herself in his presence. He knew he was about to witness something intimate and personal, something that only her lover should be allowed to witness. He wanted to press his body against hers, to feel her warmth, to be inside her.

He couldn't risk being seen, so he pressed his back against the wall by the shower and quickly freed his cock into the humid air.

With each passing second, Cassidy's moans grew louder, filling the small bathroom with an electric charge that made Homelander's heart pound in his chest. He couldn't help but watch, a pleasurable agony washing over him as he witnessed the most intimate of acts. He noticed the way her fingers moved, how they dipped inside her, coated in the slick of her arousal. The sight of it drove him wild, and he could feel himself leaking, the wetness spreading down his thighs. His hand gripped his swollen, throbbing shaft with a sense of desperation, seeking any sort of relief. The angry redness pulsed against his skin, a painful reminder of his unfulfilled desires.

Cassidy's eyes fluttered open as she climaxed, her voice hoarse with pleasure. Homelander watched, his breath ragged, as she collapsed against the shower wall, her body trembling. She was more beautiful than he had ever imagined, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his knees before her altar and lap at her juices before the water washed away. It was the small sigh she let out—he almost missed it over the loud spray of the water—after her peak that threw him over the edge and into oblivion.

He felt like he was struggling to regain his breath after experiencing what was so far the most intense orgasm he has had. The sound of the shower cutting off shocked his sluggish brain back to reality. Cassidy slowly opened the shower door, revealing her wet, glistening body. A shiver ran through her as the cool air hit her skin, making her hurry to dry off. She reached out to grasp the towel and wrapped it around her shivering body.

Homelander bit his lip to prevent a groan from leaving his mouth as she hid away her body and quickly slid out of the bathroom before she stepped out of the shower. He couldn't stop replaying the word she had sighed out in his mind as he flew home, ignoring the discomfort of his now drenched pants. They echoed like a broken record, tormenting him with their meaning.

She’d said Johnny.

Once Homelander heard her unintentional confession, his belief that she belonged to him completely solidified into steel. He refused to let her go; he had never felt this way with anyone else before. Not even Stormfront, whom he still cared for, could connect with him on the same level as Cassidy. She was perfect for him.

As the release of Dawn of the Seven approached, so did the end of their little game. They had been at it for almost a year now. He saw the upcoming Valentine's Day as the perfect opportunity to show her how much he appreciated and cared for her. After all, he couldn't resist giving a beautiful woman some pretty flowers. The last time he tried this with Stormfront it had been disastrous, but he was determined to succeed this time. He knew exactly how she liked her tea and how to prepare it, and even her favorite type of flowers. Memories of his childhood flashed through his mind—specifically, the time when she would always bring in a small vase with a single baby blue flower into the Bad Room. He thought it was silly and asked her why she did it. She just smiled nostalgically and said that adding a splash of color brightened up the sterile room. She also mentioned that some people believed the color blue evoked feelings of calmness and relaxation, often described as peaceful, tranquil, secure, and orderly.

He figured it was her favorite due to her never changing it. When she left, Vogelbaum threw the small flower and its vase away saying that it was rubbish and not fit for a superhero like him. Homelander didn't think the flower was silly anymore.

Homelander hunted down a skittish intern and gave the frightened boy specific instructions on which coffee shop to go to and how they should prepare the order. Normally, he delighted in the smell of fear and adrenaline radiating off people when he made them squirm, but this time he was worried that they would fuck up his plan. He could go and do it himself, but the image of him walking through a small crowded cafe was no bueno. Especially with all the negativity surrounding him still.

As he finished his order, the intern gave him a perplexed albeit terrified expression. The Homelander ordering a unique tea blend of peppermint, cardamom, licorice root, and essential basil and clove leaf oil, along with a blueberry bagel topped with cream cheese, was definitely an unusual sight to witness. He couldn't blame the intern for being confused.

The intern hurried off, feeling like his life was on the line. After Homelander's friendly warning about the importance of not messing up, he knew that it very well could be. Now for the next item on his list he had to track Ashley down. He needed to figure out what the flower was called and how to procure them.

[amecrailuvshoegazemusic]

BETTER KNOWING YOU'RE HERE CHAPTER ONE:

WHO: Soldier Boy X OC, Soldier Boy X Fem!OC WHEN: Season Two (I'LL GET TO THE SON OF A BITCH WAIT) WHAT: Evangeline Knows She's A Killer; Butcher Contributes To Her Butchery

TW: Mentions Of Death, Violence, Language, Greif, Loss Of A Parent-Like Figure, Homelander & His Actions, Blood, Gory Descriptions, Talk Of Stormfront, Stereotypes

WORD COUNT: 3577 GL!!

     PARRACIDE WAS AN ABNORMAL TERM THAT Evangeline's relatives never imagined they would label on their niece's, cousin's, sibling's, and mother's actions. Evangeline didn't even grasp its importance. Not only was she a murderer, she was a psychopath. She ruthlessly ripped apart her only second chance. 

The police channels had picked up on a 911 call that alarmed officials on a Supe terrorist. A female voice rambled a brief description, but her frantic voice was cut off, only squeezing out the villain's eyes and hair. Eyes cold, barely able to see into without getting chills. A light brown hair cast a shadow over their face, bringing out the traces of a rough night. The victim suspected the cause would only lead back to a cold-hearted attack they would've made earlier. The caller ID was local, only a few blocks from the police station. The police almost couldn't believe it. A reckless one, the notorious Supe of America picked up on police readings and headed straight for the scene. His flight abilities caused the atmosphere to whip around his speeding figure.

A heroic pose, mid-flight. Palms facing the Earth's ground and dirty fingernails to the moon. His hands extended beyond him, ready to tear apart anything that flimsied across his path. A flick of his wrist has wrecked and devastated, the power causing a dramatic adrenaline rush to volt throught his veins, taking charge of any damages made. Again, he chuckled to himself. Homelander didn't get hurt. Homelander is both invincible and inevitable. His cocky attitude followed him to smell out the rustic scent of blood. Typical to his field of work, he kept the same pace, and casualties were bearable. More than bearable, he walked right past them, not sparring a glance. As the wind ruffled through his now tousled hair, he jolted, plummeting straight into the concrete sidewalk neighboring a gas station.

For a second, his eyebrows jumped. Destruction was the only paintbrush, the canvas full of gory visuals, blood seeping from every open wound, flesh apart from the bone. He could hear the vibrations of last or shaky breaths, and he could now feel a rib pierce a lung. He could see Maeve gagging to a rolling eyeball. His cape whipped against the harsh weather conditions, trees rustling with the vicious wind, giving Homelander a cheeky smile. He enjoyed this. Finally, he became deliriously thrilled. His heart thumped wildly, excited to try and take down evil. Rather than "giving it all" to beam a pair of red lasers to burn through a vulnerable piece in his little chess game. Where he was the king, dominating the 8x8 board. 

His immaculate vision enabled him to view the firestarter—a taller figure, maybe the same height as him, grabbing the hold of a poor pawn. A sniper narrowed to the deer's dome. The figure's back hunched over the bleeding-out victim, eyes motionless and open over his shoulder. A skinnier man is what Homelander figured—not giving a second to spare as he called out, "Hey, buddy! What's going on in there? I see there's some people hurt in there." 

Before he could blink, he was completely drenched. His tongue succumbed to the back of his throat to try and get rid of the horrible taste of an alcoholic beverage. This was unfamiliar; he had never had to ingest a drink so potent. It was repulsive, so repulsive he didn't hear a match striking. His cape began to disintegrate under the flame's terror. 

The figure rolled over his wrist, throwing its own opened wound into the air, down to where it pained his bare skin. His gloves felt like they flew off. His heartbeat sped, and he blinked his eyes open. The flames heating his backside gave the unknown face a gloom. 

The Supe, the man, terrorist, and flame starter, was a woman. Evangeline pistoned her fist into his nose, sending him to topple over a street curb. His feet found stability soon after. His muscles clenched, veins bulging. The flames fell short as he flailed to fly around, the wind assuring security. Evangeline stayed below, taking cover back within the gas station. 

She tsked, the blood dripping from her wrist came to waste as she was barely able to get a scratch on Homelander. He pulverized the ceiling, knee crushing soon into the ground. His beams were aimed at Evangeline. She swerved, ducking between his stance and kicking out a shin. His knees buckled to transition to a solid kick to her face. She flew backward, tumbling under the hard asphalt. She held her chest, gasping at the loss of breath. She wouldn't be able to get away. Not yet. She only noticed that the deranged Supe was already heaving her high up above his head, choking her due to the damage on his cape. 

Harry, her younger brother, ran around the kitchen, a blanket tied to his back. He acted as a vampire, causing chaos with his non-existent fangs. He bared them, just as America's most valued man did, a devilish grin imprinting his lips. Harry jumped on Evangeline's back, biting into her flesh and sucking her soul. Homelander slammed her back into a nearby wall by throwing her up and booting her. He didn't engage in battle with hefty kicks. His enemies were only punched, choked, and lasered. However, this was no amateur. Not one that had found his kryptonite, although she challenged his powers. No, he wanted this one to know she was a pathetic bug squashed by his red leather boots. She gagged out some blood, bruises already forming, causing her tanned skin to become a purplish-yellow mush. 

She grits her teeth as Homelander applies pressure to her neck, his hand burrowing within her wild head of hair. He was gripping her burning scalp. Her temperature had skyrocketed, and she felt the stress of his weight on her ribcage. 

"What scum are you, and why the hell do you believe it would be anywhere near our gorgeous country?" He had to act, even when this girl was bleeding to death. 

She remained quiet at first, trying to squeeze out a yelp as he further leaned into her body with a mean stomp. She was wheezing rather than breathing. Even though he had stopped holding her neck, she was at a loss for words. She truly understood the fright that criminals, robbers, and vigilantes had to endure against a heavy force like Homelander. Her squinted eyes held the most pain, red from the loss of oxygen. Slowly, she unreleased the tension, making herself as small as possible against his towering over the position. 

Evangeline wanted to unlock her power. To give this man fear, fear for the first time. No matter how much she thought he would deny from his insane ego, she knew that he would see that he would be frightened. His hands would get grippy and sweat to the point that he would have to take off his gloves. The scarred slashes across them would only be visible to him. His damages were seen as much as he saw copper. But deep, teh scarring underneath it all, where he hid, he saw the strain of power loss that she unlocked. His eyes would well as he had as soon as he booted her nose. She strained herself, twisting and withering beneath him to try and make an opening. 

This was more than just entertaining for Homelander; it was something that he needed in the self-loathing part of his brain. A stress reliever. That weight on his shoulders to keep up his patriotic but strong demeanor was sickening. He had no say in expressing what he wanted to. His battles lasted minutes to get there but less than a minute to finish. For him to build up to be victor, he was overwhelmed with his immoral conceptions. Inevitably, he would raise over her corpse, burning it to ash to diminish any evidence of his brutality. 

"I am an American," Amelia growled as she had one hand on his wrist and the other on the ankle of his foot. "And, I-" Her anxiety spiked as she was losing more than a liter of blood, the setting surrounding her clouded with internal confusion.

Her actions were panicked and rushed. She struggled trying to get under Homelander's foot, where he had merely smashed her fingers to the point where they snapped. She shuts her eyes, remaining quiet to give him the impression that she will get out of this. Inside, her mouth was parched, causing her tongue to stick to whatever surface she rummaged around. She tried to suck around the empty space near her teeth to build up some spit. Homelander picked up, shattering the bones in her digits.

Homelander only had his iconic, stupid grin on his face, engulfing himself with the thought of her lifeless eyes rolling to the back of her head. Her legs heaved up as her hands began to collapse into her body. The skin rubbed against one another, bones smashing. 

"I am here, the scum, to get one of you fuckers," She gasped as she caught him off guard, sending him flying as her legs wrapped around his waist, lifting her to headbutt him to the ground. "Dead!" 

Time seemed to slow; blood seeped from her forehead, and more than a drop fell into his mouth. That familiar, robust scent turned to taste; he beamed his lasers through her skull, causing her face to heat up, flesh and bone melting off her face. 

Finished, squashed, exterminated. Homelander shot up, his chest slowly crushing in on itself; he gasped, eyes widening in pain. A perfect shoe shape felt as if it were embedding into his ribs, organs squishing into one another. Every breath was rushed, sagging with the loss of proper oxygen. He suddenly grew hot. Specifically on his head, he felt as if he were scratching a bug crawling into his skull. Some of his hair was falling out, the weak strands failing against the skin of his head, which was aging faster than the rest of his body. When The Deep read that in an article, he didn't know a new fear that opened up Homelander's vulnerability: aging. His mouth was gaping like a fish. Their eyes were wide as if he were submerged underwater for too long.

What the fuck? What's happening? Who is doing this? He rolled on the ground, catching sight of that limp bug. The Junebug that snuck through your door in the summer, dead in the corner, was now awake. Resilient like a cockroach. It was on its hind legs. Dirt-stained Converse that turned perfectly white Converse to a mustard brown. Grass stains covering symbols. Straight black cargo pants shaded her silhouette, and a grey thickly-strapped tank top was underneath. The imprint of his boot remained, and the logo of Vought was there to shine right on her abdomen. 

Some spit had dribbled down to his chin as if she were acting on him with her mind; he was beaten. Fates refabricated, destined for the sole purpose of rid, now for sweet revenge. Every kick, chokehold, throw, now all fell onto him. Ignoring all evident problems, he would skip along like an innocent adolescent. Until he fell, wailed as he scraped his knees, and continued to cry out in agony once all of those abandoned crises weighed on top of his noggin. Soon, that beam, which seemed fatal to that pesky bug, seemed to mirror her suffering directly into his own eyes. 

His voice was hoarse from calling out on the girl, slurring slurs, crying cries, his teeth cracked from how hard he locked his jaw. Evangeline leaned down on a knee and opened her mouth, eyes creasing, "Get out of my country, you goddamn freak." Homelander would only have her voice to remember, slowly echoing through his brain's wicked corners. Her face was covered in blood, staining the gorgeous skin underneath. 

She was unrecognizable, with a crazy look in her eyes, bloodshot, ready to victimize poor pedestrians and store clerks. The image was set by Vought, with healthy and happy supes that couldn't struggle. When she stepped back into the small store, she sucked in a hitched breath. Anything that went against Vought would benefit Evangeline. That picture-perfect slot that needed to be filled with having absolute zero compassion didn't have a single lick of her appearance. She passed through the doorway, tears falling down her cheeks. 

Gabriel was an elderly, strongly-hearted, Scottish man with marks of sun damage and droopy eyelids that Evangelien suggested getting plastic surgery for. He whipped his non-existent hair, a habit he picked up from his grandchild, Abigail. She had long, strawberry-blonde locs that were close to reaching her thighs. She would toss her hair to emphasize every emotion. He picked up on it but didn't have much to work with as his hair had stouted from hair loss. He said it was because he would think so hard when he was younger. In truth, it was the same conundrum Homelander feared. 

Every chip bag held a chunk of meat that had flown off of customer's faces as the chips were on the top shelf. Sweet clothes that Evangeline had even complimented a girl on were now drenched in that crimson red. The floor was sopping wet. No mop could go over once; the tiles would be cleaned but stained in the acquaintance of lost souls. It enervated her spirits; she would gag on the smell, yet she was already choking. Drowning in her thoughts, she saw the absolute worst. Gabriel. 

He was a weakening man, although his years seemed longer than expected. Everyone hoped for the best, and his conclusion included those he valued most, peace and warmth. Flowers would parade his hospital bed after he had fallen, broken a bone, and the doctor's CT scan encountered a significantly colossal issue. His eyes remained in that same daze, unconcerned with his new state of health that was now detrimental. As he was overwhelmed only by the people who loved and supported him. Evangeline would grow more wretched; he impacted these people's lives with his sweet words, warming jokes, and disregarded empathy. He was a man of great honor. His death welcomed no peace or warmth as the walls of his insides darkened, trying to keep the organs at bay, sucking in any access blood from his libs. His fingertips, skin, and toes were abnormally cold. He had talked of his summer tan remaining on his customary white skin. He was too weak to see the skin on his hands and make another stupid remark that would probably cost him his life. Suffering from overusage; exhaustion. 

Evangeline trudged through the countless bodies, her empathy sagging as she kneeled down to flip their eyelids to a close. I wipe the blood off of their faces, hoping to cleanse my actions. But it was already tainted, ingrained into this very gas station. It would be recorded as one of the most immense devastations a gas station ever housed. No sort of purification would fix this. No wipe down or fix up. She felt just as cruel as she imagined Homelander. Homelander. Her time was ticking; as much as her breathing was hoarse from his kicks to my stomach and diaphragm, he was superhuman, able to bound back up to whatever knocked him down. Evangeline rushed over to Gabriel, gasping as his eyes slowly opened. 

"Evangeline, hey...do y'mind carrying me on up? It's glaicket of me not to follow your silly workouts," Gabriel warmly smiled and struggled to move. Blood leaked out at a significantly higher rate. 

Evangeline didn't want Gabriel to panic or feel any more down in this painful moment. "How about we just lie down for a little, uh, little bit more? Puh-please?" She kept herself as composed as possible, saying every word slowly as if reading it from far away.

"Mince, I think I'mma get on with it," Gabriel urged himself, coughing out some blood, which caused his brows to jump. "What?" 

She pressed her lips together in a straight line, trying for him to not see her cry and figure that this was something awful. Evangeline held his hand, wiping off the mouth that oozed out from the corners of his lips. He was lethargic, unaware of how he could bypass this situation. His health continued to diminish faster than the told time the doctors estimated for him after his CT scan; her eyes glinted in tears. 

"Let's just breathe for right-right n-uh-now, yeah? How about we- uh-" Evangeline's tears now flooded out and her breathing was frantic.

She engulfed his perishing body with her own, squeezing lightly so he could feel that he wasn't alone. Give him that comforting warmth that she always hoped he would receive. Her hand was on his head, his cap falling to the ground. She carefully leaned his fading body against the freezer doors. Ben & Jerry's behind his head. Slowly, his arms wrapped around Evangeline, taking in all available support. 

"Let me go easy, an'tell Abby, that.. she sure do," He chuckled weakly. "She the prettiest, most long-haired girlie in the world."

She cried into his shoulder, nodding her head. "Can always do it yourself."

He loved it when I told him that. A tired smile was imprinted on his face before his weight fell on my hands.

As long as her family didn't know to use parricide on their close relative, she would be okay. Gabriel's family should have no knowledge of the word, either. Only a man from New Zealand, paired with a black leather coat and Hawaiian relaxed polo, would use it. 

"Didn't know you had it in ya, mind telling me?" William Butcher, a new client, had ended up on the other side of your table. A false description of his time as a goalkeeper on a foreign team allowed him to come in. 

The darkness shrouded Evangeline when she walked away from Gabriel that day, abandoning the morals she had left there. "My job matters, specifically because I ask the questions, Butcher."

"You know that you want the job back, especially after what 'Omelander made y'do." Butcher kept his face stoic, manspreading and crossing his arms over his chest.

Evangeline mirrored his position, slumping her the coach, letting her head lean over. "That's not fair, I was 14. You know that I did that to repay these...these, uh, simple acts of kindness that seem like they died after you did one good thing for me." Before Butcher could open his mouth, she continued. "I strayed away from my class, and a perv picked up on it. So what? That doesn't mean I haven't already repaid you, completing these sinister, down-right messed-up actions!" 

"Could ya just tell me to fuck off and save me the ear load?" 

"Fuck off, I have a job that actually pays me." She said bluntly, a coldness dressing her voice tightly.

"I paid you, now your the down-right, messed-up cunt," Butcher accused, eyes narrowing down on the numb woman ahead of him. 

"Cunt? That's common of you. Are you now going to teach Terror how you jack off to Homelander, losing popularity? 'Cause I've heard some true, down-right, messed-up shit come out of your room," Evangeline loudly repeated her phrase for the final time. It didn't shut Butcher up or gag him. He remained quiet to rub the crook of his nose before he stood up, walking around his couch to lean over the furniture. 

"I'll pay you what Grace's paying both me and Frenchie," Butcher looked at her through his eyebrows cocking a grin at your intrigued face. The slightest glint in your eyes paid notion as no new expression read over your face since he got to writher his way into her office.

"How did you know I needed money?" Evangeline stumbled over her words, wondering how long he had been watching her. 

"Lucky fucking guess." 

She knew that wasn't the case, seeing through his lies. She didn't prod it out of him, however. As long as he is willing to pay, Evangeline can get a break from work. She would convince her patients that her grandma just got the news that she was now terminally ill; the best estimate would be a month and a month only when measuring her passing. She had had enough of lying, so this would be her last big one. Evangeline couldn't fight off lying to Gabriel, falsely reassuring him that he would be okay. That he would be able to tell Abigail herself. 

She placed her hands on her knees, sucking in a gasp before she floundered to Butcher, acting as if she wasn't filled with newfound excitement, which was rare these days. The darkness under her eyes felt gone. No more expensive eye creams that so rich-bitch influencers promised would help. She only looked into it since her clients would now refrain from making eye contact, making them uncomfortable with their therapist's well-being. Butcher would get a kick out of both disrespecting her and seeing her being contemptuous of it. Her acting wasn't great, so he ended up reading. She was enlightened to hear about her current wealth status going up. Her palm extended to his, showing off her cracked nails and dry knuckles. 

"Well, don'tcha look a million times more, not murder-y?" Butcher's grip was tight, but Evangeline squeezed tighter. 

“ONLY WHEN I TAKE MONEY OUT OF YOUR GREEDY POCKETS.”

A/N: Did You Guys Enjoy Chapter 1? Sorry It's A Lot But Yet Vague To The Storyline, But That's How All Intros Are. I Hope You Guys Enjoy My Story, Give Me Some Feedback, & Ask Me To Tag You For My Future Chapters!

Another A/N: Soldier Boy Isn't Too Far Away, But Right Now, This Is Set In Season 2, Episode (Whenever Stormfront Was Talking About Super-Terrorists ((WE HATE HER SO MUCH)))