#cameramen OCs | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ishomieokay · 5 months ago

Text

And We Made You Pairs (Ch. 2)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

✰ summary - Homelander’s mission in Syria puts him in direct conflict with Noura, an activist working to protect her country from foreign interference. Although their initial encounters are fraught with tension, over time they develop a begrudging respect for one another. Homelander is drawn to Noura’s fearlessness and conviction, while she catches glimpses of humanity in him.

When Noura’s town faces annihilation, Homelander must make a choice. Will he remain the military’s loyal wardog, or will he do something good for once in his life? ao3.

✰ warnings - blood and gore, violence, minor character death, war crimes, breaches of the Geneva Convention, mental health issues, intrusive thoughts, stalking, obsessive behaviour.

✰ taglist - @discowizard88, @possiblyafangirl, @sacha1slytherin, @infinetlyforgotten, @redroserabbit, @1800imgay Let me know if you want to be tagged!

The room was buzzing with tension. Reporters, photographers, and cameramen had flooded the venue in downtown Damascus. The ceiling fans rotated slowly, barely stirring the warm, packed air as people jostled to see. Bright lights from a dozen cameras flashed on the podium where General Mark Thompson stood, flanked by a proud red, white, and blue symbol of American might. Although his presence in the country was known, seeing Homelander in the capital was a rarity. Enough to warrant quite a high amount of media attention, and that without considering the upcoming events.

All eyes were riveted on him, expressions ranging from curious awe to simmering resentment. Dressed in his pristine suit, he looked out of place there, too polished and proud for the worn-down walls and bustling heat. He scanned the room sporting an easy smile, his stance straight-backed, head held high.

“Today marks a critical step forward for stability in the region,” General Thompson announced, his voice carrying over the murmuring crowd. “We’re pleased to be here to support diplomatic efforts between our two countries, and to strengthen our commitment to protecting our allies in Syria.” His words rang out mechanically, delivered with practiced conviction. Devoid of any real feeling.

“And we are especially grateful for the continued service of America’s greatest hero, Homelander! A personal friend, and a big source of inspiration for the troops.” Thompson extended a hand towards Homelander, then, his eyes sharp and attentive as he waited for a response.

Homelander stepped forward, his cape swishing behind him with a practiced flair. A subtle smile tugged at his mouth as he looked down on the crowd, his gaze lingering on the members of the press. Phones out, notebooks poised and pens at the ready. They were looking at him like in the good old days–hungry, enthralled. Finally, after almost two years in service, the Stormfront scandal was beginning to die down.

“Now, now, guys. I know some folks out there are worried about the safety of our diplomats. Let me assure you, we’ve got some great security over here. My boys from the Falcon Unit are on the mission! Isn’t that right, Robbie?” he beamed, randomly pointing at one of his squadmates. The man only smiled, awkwardly waving at the crowd. “Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just shy. He knows what I’m talking about. Anyway, everything’s gonna be a-okay, you hear me? And if anything does happen, you can bet I’ll be there to save the day!”

Homelander’s voice was light and smooth, his tone just teasing enough to suggest that such concerns were unnecessary, even amusing. Cameras clicked furiously, capturing his practiced smile, the proud tilt of his head. His eyes glinted in the harsh lights, and he basked in the attention, in the energy of the room. He was in the eye of the storm, devoured by the ravenous beast of the international press, and he felt right at home.

Someone was watching him different eyes, though.

At the back of the room, Noura clutched her phone, heart hammering in her chest. She wore a cream colored hijab that framed her face, allowing her to blend into the crowd, a silent observer amid a sea of clamoring voices. Her eyes were fixed on Homelander, her fingers trembling as she hovered over the record button.

She could still see him, painted in moonlight—his face splattered with specks of blood, his eyes empty of any remorse as he made his way through the empty streets of Nineveh. The image burned in her mind’s eye, inescapable. The screams, the destruction, the ruins where countless lives lay buried—he had brought all of it. Her nails dug into her palms as she stared at him now, regal and proud, standing under the harsh ceiling lights in the guise of a benevolent savior.

When General Thompson’s voice dropped to signal the end of the briefing, she felt a surge of adrenaline run through her. Noura took a step forward, heart pounding, ignoring the uneasy glances from those around her as she raised her voice, determined not to be swallowed up by the crowd’s inclement noise.

“You call yourself a hero,” she shouted, her voice clear and cutting through the room, “but all you’ve brought us is death and ruin!”

The room went silent as a ripple of shock spread through the attendants. Heads turned to stare at her, a plain looking woman standing at the back of the room. Although she felt the weight of their stares, Noura held her ground, her chin lifting as she took another step forward.

Homelander’s smile faltered, his eyes narrowing as they found hers across that vast sea of anonymous faces. For a brief moment, he appeared surprised. He quickly masked it with a smooth, almost bening expression, though. He tilted his head, looking at her like one might at a wayward child.

“Sorry, what was that?”

She clenched her teeth, feeling her anger rise as she fought to keep her voice steady. “You act like you’re here to protect us, but your protection has only brought us grief. How many innocents did you slaughter in Nineveh, Homelander? How many lives have been lost ever since you so magnanimously took us under your wing?”

The crowd held its breath. She could see his smile tighten, something dangerous flickering across his eyes. “Ma’am,” he began in that maddeningly smooth tone, “War isn’t always pretty. I know, I know. It’s not easy to accept.” His brow furrowed, and under a certain light, he almost appeared contrite. “But sometimes, sacrifices have to be made to… ensure peace.”

“Sacrifices?” she repeated, her voice unusually blank. She took a slow breath, steadying herself, the phone recording in her hand long forgotten. “What gives you the right to decide who lives and who dies? You level towns, you massacre innocents, and then you have the gall to play hero for the press?” Her voice rose as she continued, words cold and resolute. “You’re not our savior—you’re a murderer!”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Homelander’s smile wavered, the cracks in his facade showing for just a second before he plastered it back in place. She saw it in his eyes, though—a glimpse of something darker, colder. A pale reflection of the monster she had seen before, the night her home was burnt to ashes.

“You know,” he said, a hint of frustration slipping into his voice, “people like you, who spread rumors and make accusations, who love to point fingers and criticize but never contribute—you’re the ones who make this job harder than it needs to be.” He held his head higher, his gaze lingering on her with barely concealed disdain. “I’m here to protect lives. To make sure that peace actually has a chance. Maybe you should stop wasting your time playing influencer with that little flip-phone of yours and start looking at the bigger picture.”

His words fell on her with a weight that felt suffocating. He really felt no remorse. In his mind, everything he had done was right and justifiable. Noura held his gaze, refusing to shrink back. She remembered the faces of her neighbors, her friends, who had been buried under the rubble of their homes. The blood and the wounded. The tears shed and the collapsed mosque. Far from deterring her, the indifference in his voice only strengthened her resolve.

“Tell us, then,” she shot back, her voice rising to fill the room, “tell us how many lives you took in the name of this ‘protection’ of yours.” Her voice broke faintly as she spoke, “Tell us how many children you left to die that night.”

Gasps and whispers rose around her, but Noura had eyes for one person only. Homelander’s expression faltered again, just for an instant. He looked around, gauging the reaction of the crowd with something akin to nervousness. Then, his face twisted into something colder, almost irritated. His displeasure only deepened when several reporters turned their cameras toward her, the lenses hungry for every moment, every biting retort.

He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, two security officers flanked her, seizing her by the arms. “Ma’am, you need to leave,” one of them said, their voices hushed but firm.

She struggled in their grip, but she kept her eyes locked on Homelander’s, refusing to be intimidated. “The world deserves to know!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the silent room. “They deserve to know what you’ve done!”

Homelander’s smile was gone, replaced with a hard, unreadable look. He held her gaze as the guards started to pull her back, his blue eyes flat, icy. A primal instinct made her insides twist with fear, but Noura clenched her jaw, unwilling to back down.

As the guards dragged her towards the exit, she raised her voice one last time, her words ringing out over the heads of the international press, clear and defiant. “We will not be silenced!”

The woman was forced out of the room, but the energy she left behind lingered, thick and unyielding. Homelander remained standing on the stage, his gaze fixed on the doorway where she had been moments before. Suddenly, the conference buzzed back to life, reporters whispering, writing notes, exchanging glances. The cameras turned back toward Homelander, capturing his stony expression, the hardened set of his jaw. As he met the cameras’ gaze once more, his smile returned, but there was something forced about it now, something brittle. His mask had cracked, if only for a moment.

He left earlier than expected, dodging General Thompson’s attempts to invite him for a celebratory drink with the boys. He felt out of sorts. Unbalanced. The city blurred past the tinted window as he sat, silent, in the back of a military vehicle. He’d been advised not to fly while in the capital, not to draw too much attention. Homelander wasn’t sure what irritated him the most—that after all this time they would dare to try and control him again, or the fact that a part of him still felt compelled to obey.

Damascus swelled with movement outside—a flood of pedestrians navigating narrow sidewalks, shopkeepers shouting their wares, the occasional glint of sunlight bouncing off the rusted fender of an old truck. Yet, in the calm hum of the car, it felt to Homelander as if he were worlds away from the ordinary bustle, separated by more than just glass.

He’d felt it in the press conference, a tremor of something he couldn’t quite place—a feeling of… what? Unease? It was ridiculous, and yet there it was, simmering beneath his well-worn armor of arrogance and pride. The memory of her voice, fearless and wrathful, cut through his thoughts. It was enough to silence the entire room. “You’re not our savior—you’re a murderer!” The words scratched at the inside of his skull, insistently, maddeningly.

And then there it was again, taunting him—not the woman, but his own reflection, his own voice.

“She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.” His face twisted in the window, his smirk sharp and cruel, eyebrows raised in mocking amusement. “It’s not every day someone talks to you like that. You’re not really going to let it go, are you?”

Homelander’s jaw tightened. He pressed his fist against his thigh, nails digging into his palm. “She’s just another activist,” he muttered, barely moving his lips. His voice was flat, determined. “A nobody trying to make a name for herself.”

“Riiiight.” His reflection smiled knowingly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the glass. “You think that’s all she is? Then why can’t you stop thinking about her, huh?” His voice dipped, turning soft and honey-sweet. “It’s unsettling, isn’t it? When people aren’t afraid of you.”

Homelander’s gaze drifted back to the street as if that alone could shut out the jeering specter next to him. He watched a small group of schoolchildren cross the road, their laughter reaching faintly through the vehicle’s insulated silence. He clenched his fist tighter, forcing himself to focus on the gentle thrum of the car, the smooth roll of the wheels beneath him. He was getting nauseous.

Homelander closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to no avail to block out the voice. “Shut up,” he muttered, a faint whisper. A plea to himself, always left unheard.

His reflection grinned wider, gaze gleaming with cold amusement. “Oh, you think you can ignore me?” He tilted his head, studying Homelander with curiosity. “You’re rattled, Johnny boy. Admit it. She got under that unbreakable skin of yours. Her, and her stupid little speech.”

“No, she didn’t,” he hissed, though the words tasted hollow even as he spoke them. The other grinned back at him, clever and always vicious, an embodiment of every doubt he tried to bury, every crack in his perfect facade.

The dim glow of the phone cast shadows across Homelander’s face as he lay in the quiet of his hotel room. The place was spotless—a luxury suite with every amenity a man of his stature could desire, but he barely noticed it. His gaze remained fixed on the screen, on the figure confronting him in a grainy video from earlier that day. The woman’s voice crackled through his earbuds, fierce and unyielding: “You call yourself a hero, but all you’ve brought us is death and ruin!”

He replayed the moment, watching the way her expression had transformed from stern composure to raw anger, her gaze steady as she crossed the distance between them. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t hesitated. Homelander had to give it to her—the little dune coon had bigger balls than most of the military men he’d dealt with during his service. Although he wanted to be amused by it, his jaw tightened as he clicked on the replay button again.

In the years following the Stormfront scandal, he had developed a somewhat thicker skin. The public’s vicious reaction had made him numb to most accusations, especially after the whiplash provoked by what he endearingly referred to as the Apology Tour. Still, there was something different in the woman’s words, in the contempt in her voice. Her defiance felt too… personal.

“What gives you the right to decide who lives and who dies?” she’d said, her voice piercing through the tense silence of the room. “You level towns, you massacre innocents, and then you have the gall to play hero for the press?”

He felt the words in his bones, an unpleasant churning sensation that tugged at him like the bite of a thorn he couldn’t quite dislodge. It made no sense, of course. This woman was nothing. Less than nothing. He had no reason to worry about what she thought of him. And yet when he found a link to her Instagram profile as he scrolled down the comments, he found himself opening it.

Noura Al-Sayed.

That was her name.

A video flickered to life, revealing the woman walking through rubble-strewn streets, narrating the aftermath of a military operation. Her words were steady, powerful, painting a picture of horror and loss. Homelander’s face twitched as he watched her carefully pick her way through what had once been a school, her voice never wavering, her eyes dark and steady. Dead children. A smart choice—the media always fell for that.

“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered to himself, trying to summon the disgust he normally felt toward rebels, protesters, or anyone who dared defy him. Instead, he felt curious. Surprised. She wasn’t like the mud people who usually stared up at him, wide-eyed and trembling, begging for mercy, desperate for a scrap of his attention.

She wanted nothing from him. She just wanted him gone.

His thumb hovered over her profile picture. A simple, candid photo where she wasn’t looking at the camera but off to the side, caught in some quiet moment of contemplation. He knew he should scroll past, should stop staring, but his fingers didn’t move. He felt himself searching her expression, drawn to the way her brows knitted together, the intensity in her bright hazel eyes.

She’s a threat, he told himself, clicking through to another video she’d posted earlier that day. In it, she spoke passionately at a rally, her aggressive rhetoric bordering on recklessness. Dependency theory, unlawful occupation, cultural colonialism. Very complicated words, for someone whose first language wasn’t English.

Just another troublemaker, Homelander thought derisively. The words felt hollow, though. Al-Sayed was different from other high-brow bleeding hearts he’d come across. Her outrage wasn’t calculated or forced. It was raw, fueled by pain and anger in a way that even he, in some dark corner of himself, could recognize. She was fighting for something she believed in, something that felt real to her.

“Are we really doing this?” A voice sneered in his mind, breaking through the quiet. “She’s just some woman. Some insolent, loud-mouthed, puritan old hag. And yet here you are, obsessing over her like a fool. What is it that you’re scared of?”

Homelander forced himself to tear his gaze away from the screen, scowling at the reflection in the dark window across from him. Scared? No, that was ridiculous. She didn’t scare him. She was just a phony little activist, a civilian caught up in a conflict far beyond her comprehension. His hands itched to click back, though, to watch her videos once more.

“Just some woman…” he said aloud, looking for reassurance in the sound of his own voice. It came out softer than he intended, though, laced with a trace of doubt.

The courtyard was cloaked in shadows, the thick, warm air hanging heavy as murmurs passed between the dozen or so people gathered there. Noura scanned the faces surrounding her, illuminated by the faint light from a single, weak bulb hanging from a cord above. She felt the weight of their expectations, and, deeper still, the tremor of fear she was still learning to ignore. It was not an ordinary meeting. Each person present understood that they were taking great risks.

Noura took a breath, quieting her racing heart. “Our goal is to expose the truth,” she began, her voice low but unwavering. “What happened in Nineveh, and what’s still happening in towns like ours, needs to be seen by the world. No one else is going to tell our story, so it’s up to us.”

Across from her, Rami Haddad nodded, his camera already recording. He kept his voice just above a whisper. “They’ll try to twist everything you say. They’ll call you terrorists, fanatics, but you can’t let it affect you.” His eyes looked tired, shadowed by sleepless nights. He had worked harder than any of them to make these meetings happen. For years, he had been documenting the dark side of the war, sidestepping danger and authorities. At last, his work was bearing fruit.

“Be strong,” Noura continued. “If we let them break us, then everything we’ve lost means nothing.”

Rami reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of pamphlets they’d hastily printed. “Help us get these out. We need to show people what’s happening here. Spread the word through every channel we have.”

Noura took a pamphlet from the stack and passed it to a man beside her. One by one, she handed them out. “Get these to the neighborhoods, the universities, the shops. Anywhere people gather.” Her voice grew steadier as she continued, “We’re not just victims, and we’re not invisible. We won’t let them silence us.”

Later, as the gathering dismantled, a hand tugged at her sleeve. Noura turned to see Fatima, her face pale under her hijab, brows knitted in worry.

“Noura,” Fatima murmured, so the others wouldn’t hear. “This is dangerous. You’re drawing too much attention to yourself. It’s only a matter of time before…” Her voice trailed off, but her eyes spoke the rest. She was scared, and it took every ounce of her courage to stay here despite that fear.

Noura softened. “I know what I’m doing, Fatima.” Her words came out more confident than she felt. She reached out, giving Fatima’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “But we can’t turn back now. If we don’t speak, who will?”

Fatima’s expression remained troubled, but she nodded, gripping Noura’s hand tightly before letting go.

As she was preparing to leave, Rami caught her attention, his face etched with both worry and curiosity. “I found something you should see.”

He lifted his phone. Noura leaned in, her heart skipping as she saw herself on the screen, her voice rising in defiance at the press conference, the words still clear in her mind. “You call yourself a hero, but all you’ve brought us is death and ruin!”

In the footage, she could see Homelander’s face, the flicker of anger barely concealed behind his forced smile. She hadn’t noticed it in the moment. Now it was impossible to miss, though. Rami swiped through the trending posts, her face filling feeds across Twitter, Instagram, TikTok.

“You know what this means,” he murmured, glancing up at her. There was, surprisingly, no reproach in his gaze. “We wanted to be careful, to stay in the shadows as much as possible. But that’s over now. Everyone’s seen you, and you’re trending. They’ll know who you are.”

Noura took a step back. The flicker of doubt she’d pushed aside in the past began to burn a little brighter. She knew what she was doing—or at least, she’d thought she did. But now, staring at her own face on the screen, watching the way people shared and reacted to her words, she felt the enormity of it all.

“This is what we wanted,” she whispered to herself, hoping her own words would steady her. It had been an impulsive decision, careless, but she couldn’t change it now. Noura met Rami’s gaze and managed a shaky smile. “I’m not backing down.”

Homelander hovered above the flickering streetlights, nearly invisible against the midnight sky as he watched the protest unfold below. The Presidential Palace loomed nearby, a stark white against darkness. The following day, it would host a meeting between the Syrian government and a high-level US delegation.

The reason for his arrival to Damascus was pragmatic, on paper—the American attendants needed someone to guard them, to make them feel safe in a savage, war-torn region. Homelander knew better, though. He was there to pose for the cameras, make the military look powerful and in-control. Still, he found himself breaking protocol, as he so often did these days.

He was done with being relegated to be a phony little ken doll by bureaucrats and fools. This was not like back in the US, back with Vought. Homelander had a purpose here.

The crowd gathered just outside the gates was sparse, but big enough to warrant a quick sweep of the premises. Below, Al-Sayed stood at the heart of the crowd, microphone in hand, leading her followers in chants against foreign occupation. Her words rang clear and sharp, echoing off the surrounding buildings. Despite the limited numbers, every phrase seemed to vibrate with a sense of raw urgency.

Homelander narrowed his eyes, watching the way her face lit up with passion everytime a new agitator joined the protest. He was there to monitor them, to make sure things didn’t get out of hand. That was his duty, whether his superiors wanted to acknowledge it or not. At a time like this, the Homelander was not meant to be a spectator. He was here on official matters, America’s finest weapon, always ready to strike fear into the heart of the enemy.

Still, he found himself hovering there longer than he meant to, gaze always fixed on Al-Sayed. She was a small woman in her mid to late thirties. Her light-colored clothing made her stand out in the crowd—a pink veil with a white tunic-like garment. There was something electric about her presence. Despite her unassuming size, she stood with a steady, defiant strength. Her words seemed to lodge themselves into the hearts of the people, to awaken something dormant within them.

He hated it, he realized, the way she made him feel as though he were the one who lacked strength. Inside her burned a fire that he couldn’t fathom, a passion that came from something deeper than duty, image or fame.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he muttered to himself. No matter how hard he tried, the sting of her words wouldn’t disappear—her accusation, her challenge delivered before a room full of cameras. Her voice had been just as steady then, each sentence carefully aimed. He’d been through worse confrontations, faced greater enemies. Why would such an innocuous creature leave a mark on him?

“What’s got you so rattled, old sport?” The voice slid into his mind again, sharp and vicious.

Homelander clenched his jaw, forcing down the instinct to snap at the specter of himself. Now more than ever he felt unwilling to indulge it.

“She’s nothing. Just another rabble-rouser,” he muttered. “A whiny nobody in need of attention.”

“Who are we talking about, again?” the voice taunted, the jab clear in his hollow sneer. “Come on, John. If she’s so insignificant, why do you keep watching her? You could be anywhere else. Anywhere in the world. Why are you here, hovering in the shadows like a ghost? Are you hoping she’ll look up and notice you?”

Homelander felt a flicker of rage at that. It was not about the woman. He was here to protect, to serve, to impose order.

Yet, as he continued to watch the protest, he felt something tighten in his chest. There was a fierce sincerity in her, a connection with the people around her that he envied. She didn’t need a million dollar PR team. She didn’t need flashy powers or a designer suit. Her words alone, her raw courage, seemed enough to seduce the crowd, to hold them in place.

He hovered there, torn between disgust and fascination. The weight of his gaze pressed down on her, but she didn’t look up, didn’t flinch. She remained focused, her voice rising with every chant, every phrase meant to drive home her point.

A stone clattered against the pavement below, jolting Homelander from his thoughts. One of Al-Sayed’s supporters had turned, aiming a rock toward an American patrol stationed a few yards away. The rock struck the ground just shy of the soldiers, who immediately tensed, their hands reaching for their rifles.

Homelander’s scowl deepened. This was exactly what he expected from a gathering like this—violence, mindless vandalism. Al-Sayed didn’t move. Didn’t raise her hand to stop her supporter or even acknowledge the act. Her focus remained on the people, her words flowing, uninterrupted.

The protest was turning, and it could escalate if he let it. She was their voice, their spark. A strange longing twisted uncomfortably within him.

He stayed until the mob dispersed.

It was a quiet night, the silence broken only by the occasional clamor of distant voices or the low hum of passing cars. Up on the rooftop across from her apartment, Homelander lingered in the darkness, feeling like an intruder yet rooted to the spot, unable to look away. In the dim light of her window, he could make out the figure of Al-Sayed leaning against the windowsill. Her shoulders slumped slightly, exhaustion etched into her posture. Her hijab was still in place, though her hands toyed with its edges absently, as if itching to take it off. Homelander stared, unblinking.

He didn’t quite understand why he was there, watching her from the shadows of a rooftop—a place meant not for heroes but for apparitions and slimy cowards. There was so much to do, preparations to be made, and yet here he was, glued to a moment he had no business intruding on. He told himself he was simply checking up on her, making sure she wasn’t stirring up any more trouble after today’s events, but the excuse felt flimsy even to him. He stayed where he was, hovering in secret just beyond her world.

He watched as she stood by the window, eyes closed, breathing deeply. She seemed tired. Not as strong as before. The way she looked in that dim light, poised yet burdened, was oddly haunting. Her fingers ran over her neck again, and this time, she slowly began to unwind her hijab, letting it slip from her hair in a careful motion. Homelander caught his breath.

It was only a quick flash. Dark hair spilling over her shoulders, fingers combing through the strands as if savoring the feeling of being unencumbered. Something about it disturbed him, made him feel that he was peering into something forbidden, not meant for his eyes to see. He looked away.

“Let’s not pretend. You’re not here because you’re on some noble mission,” the voice said, dripping with a mixture of contempt and delight. “ You know you could crush her, right? All it would take is a flick of your wrist, and she’d be gone. Real easy, Johnny. Deal with the threat, snuff out that little fire she’s got burning.”

The thought made something rebel inside him. He glanced back at Al-Sayed. She’d opened the window, and her hijab was back on. Her gaze drifted out over the street below, a small crease of worry in her brow. Her face, framed by shadows, seemed softened, even vulnerable. Had she noticed him? Sometimes people did, even if they couldn’t see him. An instinctive response.

It was back, that longing from before. She looked human, he realized. Painfully human, like someone who still believed the world could be good if she fought for it. Homelander felt a pang of envy—for that fire, for that faith she seemed to carry so easily, as if it were some vulgar tricket and not a precious stone.

There was a ringing in his head, someone screaming. “Shut up,” he muttered, covering his face, a sharp whisper in the silence.

The voice only chuckled, curling into his thoughts like a poisonous snake. “So, what’s the real reason you’re here, then?” It asked, teasing, pushing. “If you don’t want to destroy her, why keep watching her like this? You wanna fuck her, is that it? Or maybe you’re afraid of her? Malala’s different, I’ll give her that. Smart enough to take one look at you and see what you really are—a hollow shell.”

Homelander’s fists clenched as he tried to shake off the creeping unease the words stirred in him. It was just his own mind, playing tricks on him, nothing more. Al-Sayed was a pest, a nuisance—an ordinary woman with an overinflated sense of justice.

“She knows nothing about me,” he muttered, gaze narrowing as he studied her from afar. “Nothing.”

“Oh, she knows enough,” the other scoffed, derision dripping from his tone. “Enough to see past your celebrity smile and your cute little act. To her, you’re just a fake, a monster masquerading. And you know what? It scares you, because you know she’s right.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Homelander said, harsher than he meant to.

Across the street, the light in Al-Sayed’s apartment flickered off. Her silhouette remained by the window for a moment, a slender shape against the darkness, before she slipped out of view completely. The night seemed to press in around him now, swallowing up the space where she’d been.

It was a wasteland, now. The remains of the village crumbled around Homelander as he strode through smoke and dust. Shadows flickered in his periphery, bodies scattered among the rubble, some still breathing, others not. He barely looked at them. His objective was clear, simple—eliminate the insurgent stronghold, neutralize the threat.

That’s what General Thompson had said in his crisp, military tone—the kind that always grated on him because it was not a request, not a suggestion, but an order. Usually, it was easy to tune out the details, to simply tear through the mission and let instinct take over. That’s how he usually approached it. No real thought involved.

He stepped over a fallen beam, his boots crunching through the debris. A sudden movement caught his eye. A rebel crawled from beneath a shattered wall, his face smeared with dust and blood. His arm was twisted at an unnatural angle. Homelander closed the distance in seconds, his hand clamping around the man’s neck, lifting him with ease.

“What’s the matter, champ?” He asked, his voice smooth and deadly sweet. “They left you here to die, didn’t they? So much for brotherhood.”

The rebel’s eyes narrowed, hatred burning in his gaze. When he spoke, his voice was thick with scorn, but the meaning of the words escaped Homelander. The man spat at him, saliva mixed with blood landing on his cheek. Homelander’s jaw tightened, and without a second thought, he backhanded the man, sending him crashing against the wall.

The rebel’s jaw hung at a grotesque angle, broken, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained defiant, unyielding. “Hurts,” he choked out, his words slurred and mangled. Across his face a deranged smile unfolded. “All you are. Just pain, destruction. Anti shaytan.”

The words stung in a way Homelander hadn’t expected, cutting through the thick layer of rage and landing somewhere deeper. He gritted his teeth. How presumptuous. Why would he care what this insignificant speck of a man thought? He was the Homelander, the strongest being on the planet. The world looked up to him as a symbol of hope, of power.

Then why did these words echo, sinking into him, refusing to be shaken off, even as he walked out of the stronghold bathed in blood and entrails, screams of death still fresh in his mind?

He turned, his gaze sweeping over the smoldering remains of the village. His work here was almost done; the rebels were either dead or fleeing, their hideout reduced to little more than a smoking ruin. It should have been satisfying, should have left him feeling triumphant, the same rush he always felt after a successful mission.

Tonight felt different, though.

In the distance, he saw a lone figure hunched over, one of the last survivors. He approached. The tension simmering inside him threatened to boil over. Each step felt like a march toward something he couldn’t name, a confrontation he wasn’t ready for.

The figure looked up—a young woman, eyes wide with fear, her face streaked with ash. She backed away, crawling over the rubble, her gaze never leaving his. Homelander paused, his fists clenched, every muscle in his body taut with frustration. This was what he was here for, wasn’t it? To instill fear, to make them understand the price of defiance.

He stared in silence, unwilling to acknowledge this unknown weakness that seemed to grip him. The woman closed her eyes. She was ready for the end. Without another word, Homelander turned away, leaving the girl behind. Even if she were to tell her story, no one would believe her.

When he returned to the base, Thompson was waiting for him.

“Well done,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Another stronghold taken out. Effective as always, Homelander.”

Homelander nodded, barely registering the words. Usually, he would feel pride, he would revel in the praise, but it was as if a fog had settled over him, dulling every sensation, every thought. Thompson was just noise, barely breaking through the haze.

“There was a… delay, Sir,” Homelander muttered, his voice flat.

Thompson’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression flickering with curiosity. “Is that so? I wasn’t aware that a few rebels could slow you down. You’re practically unstoppable.” Even though he knew it was meant as flattery, there was a smugness in his tone that Homelander didn’t like.

He forced a smile, but it felt like a thin mask, one that could shatter at any moment. “The locals, they… Well, we got caught up in a little resistance. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Oh, that. You know how it is, it won’t be an issue.” Thompson nodded, seeming satisfied. He patted Homelander on the shoulder again, his gaze filled with an admiration that felt more like ownership. “You did well tonight. Another mission completed, another victory for our side.”

Homelander nodded again. For the first time, Thompson’s praise felt like ash in his mouth, hollow and meaningless. There was no satisfaction in it, no sense of accomplishment. Just an aching void that seemed to stretch wider with every word of approval.

As he walked away from Thompson, his mind drifted back to the village, to the broken bodies left behind, to the rebel’s words echoing in his mind. Anti shaytan. After two years in Syria, Homelander understood little to no Arabic, and that was fine. He had no interest in learning that strange, savage language. He’d picked up on a few words, though, almost against his will. Enough to understand what the rebel had meant to say.

You’re a demon.

Something inside him had shifted. Homelander was dimly aware of it. A crack had formed in the carefully constructed facade he had built for himself. And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard that mocking voice, a sneer cutting through the silence.

“Is that what bothers you?” It whispered, dripping with disdain. “That they don’t love you? That all this power, all this strength, means nothing if they don’t believe you’re a hero?”

Homelander gritted his teeth, fighting against the anger that simmered within him. He didn’t need these taunts, didn’t need the doubt that seemed to gnaw at his very core. He was the Homelander, the strongest man on Earth, a symbol of power and strength. He didn’t need their approval.

Thompson was pleased with him. He had done what was expected of him, had completed his mission efficiently, and that was enough. It had to be.

#homelander #the boys #the boys fanfic #the boys fanfiction #antony starr #my babygirl #homelander x oc #homelander x you #homelander x reader #homelander fanfiction #homelander x y/n #lena writes #homelander x muslim oc #homelander x arab oc #homelander fanfic #fine i'll create my own content #and we made you pairs

11 notes · View notes