#homelander x patriot
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Patriot Games
The Scent of You
18+
2,371 words || Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Mirrorlander - Character, Mirroriot, Stalking, Obsession, Underwear, Masturbation with Underwear, Masturbation, Vaginal Sex, Underwear Theft, Underwear Sniffing, Patriot is her own warning, Choking, Mirrorlander | The Homelander's Mirror Alter, Mirroriot | The Patriot's Mirror Alter, CPTSD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Child Neglect, Not Beta Read ||
Dividers by cafekitsune
Re-shoots.
Itâs bad enough that theyâre reshooting the entire movie after the debacle with Stormfront; itâs even worse that theyâre doing it with her.
Patriot - the Sevenâs newest member.
Homelander hates her; sheâs just like him with her blonde hair and blue eyes; she even has the same powers, although unlike him, she has an actual family. She wasnât raised in a lab like a fucking lab rat. Yet there she is, saying her lines with a grating, sweeter-than-syrup voice and acting with a smile on her lips that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
There was clearly something very wrong with her.
But of course, everyone instantly adores her; she seems to reduce them all to stupid mouth-breathing idiots, aggravating him even more. Every so often, those psychotic doe eyes meet him, and his jaw tightens.Â
Bitch.
He knows sheâs testing the limit, how far she could push him until he snaps. He often fantasises about the sound her neck will make when he eventually breaks it. His eyes leave hers when she straightens her back and puffs out her chest more. He swallows nothing as his eyes dart down to see the creamy engorged flesh that he covets.
Luckily, heâs been able to forget her face when heâs busy fucking his hand.
âThatâs a wrap!â
âGreat work, everyone,â she chirps, infuriating him further, especially as she makes a beeline for him, stopping beside the monitors.Â
âYou seem tense,â she coos. âMaybe thereâs something I can do to help you relax.â
He clears his throat, trying not to stare directly at her chest. âIâm fine.â
Leaning forward a little, she tries to catch his eyes, âare you sure? Iâm very good at relieving tension.â
I bet you are - whore.
âI said Iâm fine,â itâs a growl, making her back off only a tiny amount.
âFine,â she huffs, walking past him.
He waits until sheâs far enough away to readjust his seating position, his cup managing to hide the fact that his cock has been straining against it the whole time.
If Patriot knew that being in the Seven meant staring in some of the worst-written âblockbustersâ, she would never have accepted Stan Edgarsâ invitation. Sheâs bored out of her mind, completely done with having her makeup touched up every half an hour, her blonde hair âfixedâ and Adam Bourkeâs âattempts at stage directionâ, amongst other things.
âIf you so much as think about me sexually, Iâll laser your fucking dick off.â
Now sheâs taking an âextended breakâ, where everyone stays out of her way, allowing her to wander around the various trailers, including her own. She doesnât quite get the point of her and Homelander having on-site trailers when they can fly back to the tower in minutes.
Eventually, she strolls up to Homelanderâs trailer, knocking politely on the door and smirking when she doesnât get a response. Itâs empty now, so she wastes no time heading inside without knowing how long that will last. She doesnât want to risk anyone walking in on her.
Immediately, she closes her eyes, taking a deep breath - it smells of him.
That alone is enough to get her hot under the collar, and she instinctively unzips the front of her suit, preparing herself for her afternoon of delights. Every little thing needs to be touched and inspected before the grand finale.
She falls face-first onto his bed, wrapping herself up in the sheets and rubbing the fabric over her exposed body. Drowning in his scent drives her wild despite her hatred for him. Rolling onto her back and slowly sitting up, she undoes her boots, kicking them off.
Her suit soon follows, leaving her completely naked. Sheâs never seen the point of wearing panties.
Then she spies a discarded pair of pants with the familiar eagle pattern and eagerly grabs them, holding them to her nose. Theyâre used, the distinct smell of his cum coating the front, enough residue left for her to suck on.
If only heâd be more accommodating, sheâd happily suck his cock, and have him empty the entire contents of his balls down her throat. Still, no, he has to make everything so complicated. Instead, she has to resort to this and is entirely unashamed.
Then, a little thought enters her mind, and she gives the pants one final lick before tossing them aside, searching for a fresher pair. When she finds them, an unsettling smile spreads across her lips, and she lies back, spreading her legs wide.
Turning the pants inside out, she carefully pushes them into her cunt, getting as deep as possible. Maybe thereâs just enough to get her pregnant, to give Homelander another super baby, to trap him. Because, despite hating everything about him, sheâs desperate to keep him to herself.
Her fingers move slowly at first, pulling the pants halfway out before shoving them deep again, her back arching off the bed. Soon, she settles into her semi-usual rhythm, her two fingers curling, pressing the fabric against her g spot. Her eyelashes flutter, her hips lifting off the bed as she finger fucks herself, her mind filled with the dirtiest fantasies she can muster.
The idea of licking blood off his face is enough for her to finish, soaking the pants inside her cunt and the sheets beneath her hips while her eyes scorch the ceiling.
A lovely little present for him, he canât complain that Iâm not generous.
Pulling the pants free, she places them on his pillow, chuckling as she watches her cum soak into the case. There will be absolutely no doubt that sheâs been in here, and hopefully, itâll be enough for her to get a little visitor later on.
That fucking whore.
Homelander nearly rips the door off the hinges as he storms into Patriotâs trailer, finding her leaning against the counter with a glass of champagne. She looks ridiculous in her floor-length sheer crimson robe with feather trim, revealing everything.
Immediately, her aroma clouds his senses, making his cock throb angrily and his mirror image talk into his ear.
âJesus fucking Christ. Sheâs going to be a better fuck than Stormfront ever was.â
Heâs not here to fuck her, heâs here because heâs pissed. Returning to his trailer after his scenes, he met the heady stench of sex, soiled bed sheets and his pants on his pillow. Only one member of the Seven is unhinged enough to do something like that, and he is staring at her.Â
As if the scorched ceiling didn't confirm it.
âTo what do I owe this pleasure?â
You have no idea how badly I want to snap your neck.
âDonât you fucking dare,â he hisses directly into her face, staring directly into those maniacal doe eyes. âYou know exactly why Iâm here. Bet you think your little stunt this afternoon was cute.â
She takes a long sip of champagne, holding his gaze, infuriating him further. âCute? No. I just had a particular itch I needed to scratch.â
She pouts. âDonât tell me you didnât like your gift; I made sure it was special.â
The champagne flute bounces on the carpeted floor, the contents spilling everywhere when he lunges for her, throwing her across the trailer and landing on the bed. Sheâs barely able to sit up before heâs on her, his hand wrapped tightly around her throat, holding her down as he unzips his pants.
âYou want me so fucking badly? Then Iâll give you want you want.â
He doesnât even check if sheâs ready, but he doesnât have to; his cock enters her cunt with no resistance, her back arching off the bed. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine she's someone else: Maeve, Madelyn, Stormfront, hell, he's even imagining she's Starlight.
They do have the same blonde hair.
âDon't you fucking dare close your eyes. You look directly at her.â
He growls, trying to ignore his mirror image's voice echoing inside his head. He doesn't want to look at her, doesn't want to acknowledge it's her; he just wants to enjoy that tight, wet cunt clinging to his cock. The squelching is downright disgusting, filling his ears and drowning out the sound of her moans.
Sheâs not here, sheâs not fucking here.
âYes, she is. Now fucking look at her before I make you.â
He tries to dislodge the voice with a violent shake of his head, tightening his grip, half hoping to crush her windpipe. Yet it has an effect, her cunt constricts, and he lefts out a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper.
âDerranged cunt is the best cunt. Deny it all you want, tiger; the fact is that youâre enjoying this more than you want to admit.â
Shut up.
Itâs a fact that he is enjoying this, but heâd never admit it, not to her or himself. Sure, Stormfront was deranged and kinky, but Patriot is on a whole different level of twisted. Her hands on his abdomen violently pull him from his train of thought, forcing him to stare down at her.Â
Watching those glazed-over eyes staring up at him, mixed with those parted, plump lips, makes it challenging to concentrate, allowing the inner voice to hijack his body. Heâs pulled from the forefront, forced to watch the scene unfold.
âHello Kitten.â
He tilts his head, momentarily stilling his movements while taking in every detail of her face. Thereâs a fleeting glimpse of confusion in her eyes that melts away into intrigued. He relinquishes his hold on her neck, opting to reach into her hair and pull it, smiling when she lets out a slightly pained yelp.
âYouâre not Homelander,â she coos.
âWell, arenât you a perceptive little thing. Youâre half right; Iâm not that Homelander, but I am a part of him, a more interesting part.â
He leans over her, rubbing his nose along the column of her throat, teasing her pulse with his tongue. Sheâs not even the tiniest bit scared; her heartbeat is slow and steady. But sheâs enjoying him and his attention.Â
âI loved your little stunt,â he purrs. âIf Iâd known you were such a dirty little whore, I would have made him come here sooner.â
She lets out a giggle, sending a pulse directly to his cock. Beautiful and unhinged, the perfect combination. He doesnât understand why John has resisted getting her into his bed; thereâs something between them.
Something undeniable yet indescribable.
He moves again with short, sharp thrusts, grinning like a madman at her responsiveness. Itâs clear sheâs eager to please, trying to match his pace, her legs wrapped around his hips to draw him in deeper.Â
He shifts, changing positions so sheâs almost bent in half. His hand once again returns to her neck and squeezes tightly. She struggles for breath, yet she doesnât claw at his hand, trying to free herself from his grip or the position. Slowly, the colour drains from her face, her body completely relaxing.
Only then does he release her, watching with sadistic pleasure as she takes a desperate inhale, panting while she tries to recover. Yet she doesnât fight back or try to attack him; she lies there and takes it, a twisted smile on her pretty red lips.
âYour precious Stormfront is going to throw a fit when she smells sweet little Patriot all over you.â
He rolls onto his back, his hands grabbing her ass and bouncing her on his cock, enjoying the way her body moves when her robe falls open. No doubt anyone walking past this trailer is unaware of whatâs happening inside, not when sheâs close to screaming.
âSheâs the best fuck youâre ever going to have. So donât you fucking dare fuck this up.â
Sitting up immediately, he nuzzles into the side of her breast, biting down on the plush flesh, making her choke on a moan. Itâs clear sheâs close, her cunt squeezing him tightly like a vice, making pulling out close to impossible. Not that he wants to.
Reaching into her hair, he pulls tight, bringing her down with him. Angling his hips, he increases the pace to bruising, his peak rapidly approaching.
âMake a mess, kitten, like you did in our trailer, all over our bed.â
The moan she lets out is loud, sending a tingle down his spine that makes his balls pull taut. Her eyes flicker crimson, forcing him to pull her head back so she doesn't laser his face off. Only a few more thrusts and he finishes, his hips flushed to hers, holding her tightly while he reciprocates - scorching her ceiling.
His inner voice finally relinquishes control, only now that heâs emptied himself into her cunt. In a flash, sheâs on her back, with Homelander trying to make a swift exit. He barely reaches the door when she grabs his hand, forcing him to stop and face her.
But itâs not her.
At least, not the one heâs just fucked.
âDonât go, not yet,â her voice is laced with vulnerability, the last thing heâd ever expect from her. âStay a while; let me take care of you. Please.â
âYou feel it too, donât you?â
Patriot wakes with a start.
She doesnât need to check the time; she already knows it's 3 am. Sheâs been waking up at this time for years. She stares into the mirror, trying to regulate her breathing and slow her thundering heart down.
âEven with Johnâs scent, you still canât sleep, can you princess?â
Her mirror image - her protector.
Tears stream down her cheeks as she softly shakes her head, rolling over and burying her face into the pillow beside hers, breathing deeply.
The smell of Homelanderâs shampoo still lingers; her hand pressed the duvet in the exact spot he had been. She desperately tries to remember how he felt, anything to escape slipping back into her mind's big, black pit.
The remnants of her shattered psyche.
For she, too, was once a child, locked away in a lab where she was subjected to experimentation, except abandoned for days on end in favour of the man she's obsessed with.Â
Patriot - Homelanderâs replacement.
Always second best.
âHeâll protect you; I know he will. He feels the connection.â
How can he protect what he never saved?
#homelander x oc#homelander x patriot#homelander fanfic#homelander fanfiction#homelander x supe oc#homelander smut
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Can I make a request? Homelander falling for a reader who is completely unaware of it. Not because he's good at hiding it but because, they genuinely can't fathom the thought of someone being that intense with their feelings about THEM of all peopleđ but their the only person who's genuinely kind to him.
I'm sooooo sorry this took so long
Love and Devotion
pairing | homelander x supe!reader
word count | 5.8k words
summary | homelander becomes increasingly obsessed with the new kind and unsuspecting supe, and fixates on her as his perfect match, believing she belongs to him. his possessiveness reaches new heights after discovering intimate details about her powers, pushing him to claim her as his own, regardless of her obliviousness to his feelings.
tags | canon homelander??? obsession, possessiveness, season 4 timeline, major fluff, tell me if you think it ooc homelander, lactating kink
a/n | first homelander fic, this was sooooo fun to write and yes I did rewatch season 4 for this
likes, comments, reblogs are always appreciated âš
đđđŹđđđ«đ„đąđŹđ
You were perfect from the moment he laid eyes on you.
"Her?"
Homelanderâs voice dripped with disdain as he watched Firecracker spewing her rant about family values and patriotism, all while waving her hands around. She reminded him of a third-rate talk show host. He grimaced, turning to Sage.
"Yeah," Sage responded, standing at his side.
"Really?" he sneered, barely able to mask his disgust.
"Mhm," Sage hummed in affirmation.
"Seems like she fell off her Jet Ski one too many times," Homelander muttered, his lip curling.
Sage, unbothered by his sarcasm, simply shook her head. "No, now that Starlightâs back leading the Starlighters, we need someone like her."
Homelander raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Mm. And thatâs gonna shut them up?" He knew exactly what "them" meant: the endless critics, social media commentators, all the noise that clawed at his mind.
"No," Sage replied, her voice low and cryptic. "Sheâs going to make them louder."
He shot her a look. "You gonna trust me or not?" she added before he could question it further.
Rolling his eyes, he turned his gaze elsewhere. He was growing tired of these briefings, the endless parade of new supes Vought was parading through. But then, his eyes landed on you.
You were surrounded by a group of eager reporters, microphones pushed into your face. Unlike Firecracker, who couldn't stop her loud, brash performance, you were different. You weren't reciting hollow slogans or pandering to anyone. You stood there with an almost serene composure, answering each question softly, with a gentle smile. There was somethingâŠsincere in the way you spoke, like you actually cared about the answers, not just the headlines theyâd create.
"And what about her?" Homelander murmured, his gaze locked on you as if he were seeing something unexpected for the first time.
"The Pink Dahlia," Sage said, repeating your supe name as though it was obvious. "Sheâs going to be the new Starlight."
Homelander frowned, feeling a flicker of confusion. The new Starlight? That seemed impossible. No one could ever replace that bitch's popularity, herâŠadoring fanbase. But Sage seemed to sense his thoughts, elaborating with an almost bored tone.
"The only reason Starlight is liked is because of her sincerity. Her kindness," Sage explained, nodding towards you. "Pink Dahlia is going to be Americaâs next sweetheart supe."
Homelander hummed, though his mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sight of you. Sage was talking, but he was no longer listening. Instead, he watched as the cameras captured your every move. For a moment, you glanced in his direction. Not out of fear or awe, but with that same quiet softness you gave to everyone. It unnerved him how unaffected you seemed by his presence, by who he was.
He wanted to look away, but he couldnât.
Sage dragged him into yet another pointless debate, but his attention was only half there. He knew sheâd eventually let it go once she realized his disinterest, and sure enough, she did. He was quick to pass her along to the vulturesâphotographers desperate to get the next "supe girl" in their lenses.
As Homelander turned, his gaze landed on Ryan, sulking in one of the chairs at the back of the room. Frustration boiled inside him. He couldnât stand seeing his son like that, so withdrawn, when the whole world was theirs.
But then, his brow furrowed. You had walked over, leaving the cameras behind. Quietly, you sat beside Ryan, the two of you almost invisible in the flurry of the room. He watched as you offered your hand to Ryan, a gentle smile on your face. His son, who had been lost in his own thoughts, blinked in surprise before hesitantly shaking your hand.
For the first time in hours, Homelander saw the tension leave Ryanâs shoulders. His usual sulk was replaced with something lighter. He listened to whatever you were saying, nodding slowly. Homelanders listened carefully to your sweet words, and watched how they were clearly having an effect on Ryan.
Interesting.
Homelander had too many fucking things going on for his mind to keep circling back to you. It irritated him, gnawed at him like an itch he couldnât scratch.
First, the rage that boiled up every time he saw those goddamn Starlighter protests. He could hardly walk outside without hearing people chant for Starlightâs bullshit message, waving their signs, spewing their anti-Homelander garbage. It infuriated him. Then there was the constant frustration in dealing with Neuman. She was slippery, always too clever, too calm, and it made every negotiation with her feel like wading through quicksand.
But every time his temper cooled, his thoughts went back to you. You. That sweet, unassuming smile that you flashed so casually, like it wasnât the most perfect thing heâd ever seen. And then there was your bodyâtight and perfect in that small pink and green suit, looking like you belonged on a magazine cover instead of here, in this hellhole with people like him.
It made him furious.
How could he let himself be distracted by you, when everything else around him was crumbling? He was supposed to be in control, but instead, he was falling apart. First he let that fucking loser Hughie get away. Then, Ryanâhis own sonâhad the nerve to run off to see Butcher after everything Homelander had given him. After all the time and care heâd put into Ryan, after showing him the world, how was he still not good enough?
It made him sick.
And then... and then there was the other thing. His reflection. The part of him that never shut up, that always knew where to strike. His other self had looked at him and sneered. Told him he was weak, that he was a joke. That no matter how much power he had, no matter how feared he was, he was still nothing.
And maybe it was right. Maybe he was losing it.
So he decided to visit home. The lab. Where they had made him. Where he had been molded into the strongest supe to ever walk the earth. Heâd slaughtered every single one of the scientists who had "raised" him. He stood in the sterile halls, the faint hum of the machines still active around him. The silence made him feel grounded, like this was the only place in the world where he could truly be himself.
But it wasnât enough. Not anymore.
Not when the image of youâyour smile, your soft gaze, your kindnessâkept seeping into his mind. You were a weakness he couldnât afford. And that filled him with even more rage.
And yet the moment he saw your face, all that rage he had been holding onto evaporated like steam. The blood, the anger, the frustrationâit all seemed distant as he took in the worried expression on your face.
He had strolled back into Vought Tower like nothing was wrong, though his suit was still soaked in the blood and viscera of the scientists heâd butchered in the lab. It didnât matterâhe was Homelander, after all. No one would dare question him. But fate must have been laughing at him because, of all people, he ran straight into you.
You froze when you saw him, your eyes widening in pure shock at the sight of him covered in carnage. Anyone else would have been horrified, would have run or screamed, but not you. Instead, your lips parted and, with that same quiet softness he had come to expect, you said, âWould you like some help?â
Homelander just stared, his mind slowing to a crawl as the words sank in. He was a god, covered in the blood of men, and here you were, offering help. Something inside him shifted in that moment. He nodded, feeling strangely empty and vulnerable, like a child waiting for instructions. In the back of his mind, he realized this was the first time you had actually spoken to him directly.
His chest tightened as you stepped closer, your eyes flicking up to his with cautious concern. You reached out and gently placed your pink-gloved hand into his red, blood-stained one. Homelander nearly closed his eyes, focusing intently on the warmth of your touch. That warmthâit spread through him, melting away the sharp edges of his anger. No one touched him like that, without fear or calculation.
You led him silently into the elevator, your hand still in his, guiding him like he was something fragile. He couldn't help but glance down at your hand in his, his mind spinning as he tried to commit the sensation to memory. The touch wasnât just physicalâit felt like a lifeline, something pulling him out of the darkness he had been sinking into.
As the elevator doors slid shut, the quiet hum of the building surrounded them, and Homelander found himself focusing solely on you. You didnât flinch. You didnât recoil. You just held his hand, gently, as if leading him somewhere safe. He didnât feel like a monster in that moment, not in your presence.
The elevator dinged softly, and you led him down the hall to your floor. The sight was unlike anything in Vought Towerâlush greenery, vibrant pinks and soft petals blooming everywhere. It felt alive, warm. This was your power after all, to bend nature to your will. And it was a reflection of you, full of life, soft but powerful. He was surprised it was even still Vought Tower.
He hadnât expected you to bring him here. You couldâve taken him to his own floor, left him in one of the pristine, sterile bathrooms of his suite. But noâyouâd brought him to your space, a sanctuary. It was so unlike the cold, artificial world of Vought. And so much like you.
Slowly, you guided him to the bathroom. The plants trailed along the walls, the air fragrant with the scent of blooming flowers. You looked up at him, blinking those wide, soft eyes of yours. A single word entered his mind: Fawn. You looked like a fawn, delicate and innocent, standing before something dangerous without any idea of what it could do to you.
âDo you want me to leave?â you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He shook his head, unable to find the words to speak. Still entranced by you, he wondered how you could be so kind, so gentle, to someone like him. Anyone else would have left him to clean himself up in cold silence, but youâŠyou stayed.
You nodded quietly, as if you understood, then turned to the bath, filling it with warm water. He watched you bite your lip in thought, and all he could think about was biting your lip himself. His gaze lingered on your mouth, and for a split second, he imagined pulling you close, feeling that softness against his own. But instead, he remained silent, his breath heavy as you carefully and gently began to undress him.
He couldnât remember the last time anyone had touched him with such care. You didnât fumble or stare, didnât sneak a lustful glance as you removed his suit piece by piece. You were entirely respectful, your touch light, focused on the task. And when you led him to sink into the bath, your hands still guiding him, he realized that you werenât treating him like Homelander. You werenât treating him like a god. You were treating him likeâŠa person.
The warm water surrounded him, washing away the blood and grime. But what made him feel truly clean was your touch. You knelt by the tub, peeling off your pink gloves, and began washing him with your bare hands. He could feel your skin against his, the warmth of your palms gliding over his body.
He had to fight to keep from shivering. The sensation of your skin on hisâbare and vulnerableâsent a wave of euphoria through him. It was unlike anything heâd ever felt. This wasnât lust. This was something deeper, something far more dangerous. He was intoxicated by you, not because of what you were doing, but because of who you were. The softness, the care, the genuine kindnessâŠit was all so foreign to him.
And as you worked in silence, cleaning away the blood, he realized with a start that he never wanted this feeling to end.
Homelander couldnât take his eyes off you as you washed him. Every gentle stroke of your hands sent a ripple of pleasure through him, and though his eyes begged to close, he refused. He needed to see you. To watch you, to take in every movement, every touch. Your fingers slid through his hair, and for a moment, he almost gave inâalmost let his eyes flutter shut and just melt into the sensation. But his gaze stayed locked on you, intense and unyielding.
You could feel his stare, that much was clear, yet you didnât say a word. You just kept working, silent and serene. And it started to bother him, gnawing at him. How could you be so quiet, so unaffected by his presence? He needed to hear your voice again. He craved it, like a drug, something to soothe the irritation building inside him.
âTalk to me,â he said, the words slipping out in a petulant tone he hadnât meant to use. But he didnât care. He wanted your attention, your words, your everything.
Your eyes met his, wide and curious, like you were studying him, trying to figure him out. You tilted your head, and once again, the thought struck himâfawn. That was what you reminded him of. A fawn, delicate and gentle, standing before a predator without realizing the danger.
You pursed your lips, thinking carefully about what to say, and for just a second, Homelander finally closed his eyes. He wanted to focus solely on your voice. Nothing else mattered. Just you.
âI named myself Pink Dahlia because my favorite color is pink,â you began, your sweet voice filling the room like music, âand dahlias symbolize love and devotion.â
His eyes snapped open.
Love and devotion. The words echoed in his mind like a gunshot, shattering every other thought. You kept talking, explaining something about flower meanings and other potential supe names youâd considered, but Homelander didnât give a fuck about that. None of that mattered. All he could focus on was love and devotion.
It was a sign. It had to be. You were made for him. There was no other explanation. How could it be a coincidence that the one person who treated him with kindness, who looked at him without fear, had chosen a name that embodied exactly what he wanted from you? Exactly what he needed. Love and devotion.
His chest tightened with the realization, his mind spinning with the possibilities. You would love him. You would be devoted to him completely. It was inevitable. Fate had brought you into his life for a reason.
As you continued to speak, your voice soft and calming, he stared at you, consumed by the thought of itâhow perfect it would be. You, by his side, loyal and loving, filling the void that no one else could. The world would bow before him, but youâŠyou would worship him in the way he craved, in a way no one ever had.
You were starting to seriously piss him off. The way you acted, pretending like nothing had happened between you, like the connection between you wasnât so strong it practically vibrated in the air. You carried on as if the two of you didnât share something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable. It was infuriating.
Then again, if you had acknowledged itâif youâd brought it up and confronted him about itâhe probably wouldâve blown a fucking gasket. His control was fragile enough as it was.
But trying to talk to you? That was a whole other level of frustration. Every time you looked up at him with those soft, gentle eyes, and gave him that sweet, unassuming smile, all the words in his head vanished. Just gone. Like you had some kind of power over him that even he didnât understand.
So, he did the only thing he could think of to get you closerâhe forced The Deep to move, ordering him to sit somewhere else, so that you could sit right next to him. He wasnât subtle about it, either. He didnât care if anyone noticed. As long as you were close, that was all that mattered.
Then came the Vought V52 Expo, and Homelander could feel the agitation building inside him. He needed to talk to you, to make you see what was right in front of you, but the timing was never right. On the bright side, things were going well with Ryan. He was bonding with his son, teaching him to stand up for himself, to say no when he needed to. It feltâŠgood, like he was finally getting through to him.
But by the time they got to the V52 Expo, the agitation had grown into something much sharper. His eyes tracked you across the stage, watching as you announced your new environmental awareness projectâthe Dahlia Project. Fans were cheering for you, screaming your name, and you looked so damn perfect up there.
You were smiling, waving to the crowd, talking passionately about your cause, and the noise of the crowd was deafening. But all Homelander could think about was how you hadnât even looked at him once. Not a glance. Not a dedication. Nothing.
He watched you with cold, calculated eyes, trying to keep the growing frustration in check. You were good at this, at drawing people in, making them adore you. But how could you not see that you already had him? That no one else in the crowd mattered compared to him?
And as the fans continued to cheer, his grip tightened around the milkshake heâd bought for you. He needed to speak to you. To make you understand. And the longer you went on, the more he realizedâthis wasnât just about getting closer to you anymore. It was about making sure you knew that you belonged to him.
Homelander was standing with Ryan, guiding him through yet another lesson in asserting control. Ryan had been eager to "help" people, to really understand what that meant. So, when Homelander saw an opportunity, he called over Adamâthe Vought employee who had been making his assistant visibly uncomfortable with inappropriate advances.
Ryanâs eyes narrowed skeptically, his young face twisting in uncertainty as he looked at the assistant. âUm⊠is he making you uncomfortable? You can tell me. You wonât get in trouble.â
The assistant bit her lip nervously before nodding, her voice hesitant but honest. âKind of⊠yeah.â
Homelander raised an eyebrow, turning his attention to Ryan. âRyan, what do you think we should do about that?â
Ryan hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He still hadnât fully grasped the power he held, and Homelander could sense his uncertainty, the hesitation that made his own patience wear thin. With a sigh, he glanced awayâonly for his eyes to land on you, walking past with that usual air of calm about you.
âDahlia,â he called, his voice a little sharper than he intended. âCome over here.â
You looked up at him, eyebrows raised in that sweet, expectant way that only made him more agitated, and walked over without hesitation, your eyes scanning the scene as you assessed the situation.
âWhatâs up?â you asked simply.
Homelander smiled, the kind of smile that didnât reach his eyes, and gestured to Adam. âAdam here has been making some inappropriate advances toward his assistant. What do you have to say about that?â
Even Ryan turned to you, waiting for your response. Homelander watched you closely, studying the way you furrowed your brows in genuine concern as you looked at Adam.
âI think,â you said carefully, âthat thereâs no excuse for making someone else uncomfortable. And itâs even worse when you know youâre doing it.â
Homelanderâs smile widened at your answer. It was perfectâclear, direct, and moral, just like he expected from you. There was a subtle pride in the way you spoke, and it fed into his own sense of approval. You were playing right into his hands without even realizing it.
Your words seemed to be the push Ryan needed, as he turned to Adam, his voice gaining confidence. âApologize,â Ryan commanded, the hint of authority in his tone surprising even himself. When Adam hesitated, Ryanâs jaw tightened. âNow.â
Adam stated an obviously insincere apology, and Ryan, growing bolder by the second, looked at the assistant. âI want you to slap him.â
Homelanderâs gaze snapped to you, watching intently for your reaction. You didnât flinch. Instead, you seemed to consider the situation with a quiet thoughtfulness, your expression showing no sign of discomfort. You didnât object or look shockedâin fact, there was a hint of agreement in the way you nodded lightly. You understood the need to make a point, to assert control.
Homelander couldnât help but feel a surge of pride. Not just in Ryan, but in you. The way you navigated the situation with clarity, how you stood by his side and reinforced his lessons without even realizing itâit only confirmed what he already knew.
You belonged with him.
The moment his resolve truly snapped was at Tek Knightâs party. Everything had already spiraled out of control. A-Train and Firecracker were nowhere to be found, MIA at a critical time. And when it was time for the big speech to the GOP donors, Sage was acting as if sheâd had a fucking lobotomy, leaving Homelander to take over.
The minute he started speaking, they questioned him. Him. They criticized him as if he wasnât the most powerful man in the room, as if he wasnât Homelander. His hand twitched, and he was one second away from lasering through every single one of those smug, entitled bastards. But then Neuman stepped in, pulling the conversation back on track and rallying the support he was seconds from obliterating.
He stalked away, seething. And thatâs when he saw itâhimâone of the donorâs sons talking to you. But it wasnât just talking. He recognized the look in that guyâs eyes, the casual leaning in, the way his hand brushed against your arm like it was nothing.
Homelanderâs chest tightened with a slow, burning jealousy, the kind that clawed at him from the inside. His grip on the glass tightened, but for the moment, he held himself in check. Barely. When that loser touched your arm, though, thatâs when it snapped. His entire facade shattered.
In his mind, that small touch was a violation. You belonged to him. Whether you knew it yet or not, it was already decided. And this idiot was crossing a line no one should ever have the nerve to approach.
His reaction started subtlyâat first. His smile stiffened, his eyes narrowed with an icy focus. He moved toward you with the kind of charm that made people believe he was still in control, but inside, he was already a storm waiting to break.
Homelander slid smoothly between you and the man, a calculated smile plastered on his friendly. âEverything alright here?â His voice was polite, but there was an edge, a tension simmering just beneath the surface.
You blinked up at him, surprised but unsuspecting, nodding lightly. âYeah, of course. This is Jason Wilson, the District Attorneyâs son. Weâre just talking.â
Just talking. Homelanderâs smile grew tighter. Logically, he knew that. But logic had no place here. The jealousy gnawed at him, irrational, violent, and all-consuming. Without hesitation, he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer in a way that left no room for doubt. âWe wouldnât want things to get inappropriate, now would we?â
Jason froze, his eyes widening slightly, clearly unnerved by the sudden shift. Homelanderâs stare bore into him, a silent warning not to take another step, not to even breathe in your direction. Jason stammered an awkward excuse and quickly retreated, leaving you and Homelander alone.
You frowned up at him, clearly confused by the sudden shift in his mood. âWhat was that about?â
Homelander didnât answer right away. Instead, his grip on your waist tightened, enough that youâd feel the strength behind itâenough that you couldnât pull away easily. He quietly steered you toward a more secluded corner of the room, away from prying eyes. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous tone, his lips close to your ear. âYou shouldnât let people touch you like that,â he said, barely keeping his rage in check. âNot when youâre with me.â
You blinked, utterly confused, your brows knitting together in that way he both adored and despised. âI donât understand. Iâm not⊠with you.â
His jaw clenched. The words stung, hitting him harder than any physical blow could. You didnât understand yet. You didnât see what he saw, didnât feel what he felt. But you would. You had to.
Homelander let out a hollow chuckle, raising his hands in mock surrender. âYou donât understand. Itâs fine, Iâll forgive you for that.â His tone dripped with condescension as if he were talking to a child. He then pointed between the two of you, his expression hardening. âYou and meâwe belong together. Which makes you mine.â
You stared at him, completely lost, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. The confusion in your eyes only seemed to amuse him further. You were so oblivious, so innocent, and it both frustrated and thrilled him. Finally, you managed to speak, your voice soft and uncertain. âI thought you were interested in Firecracker.â
Homelanderâs face scrunched up in pure disgust, his lip curling as if you had just said something vile. âWhat? No. Ew. No.â
âOh,â you mumbled, looking around as if there were hidden cameras capturing this bizarre moment, half-expecting this to be some kind of elaborate joke. âOh.â
Then you turned back to him, your wide eyes filled with genuine surprise, lips pouting slightly as you asked, âYou⊠like me?â
The way you said itâso innocent, so utterly unawareâmade his chest tighten. Like wasnât even close to what he felt for you. He needed you. You were everything heâd been waiting for, the one pure thing in a world full of filth and betrayal. But the fact that you couldnât even comprehend why someone like him would be interested in you⊠It only made his obsession stronger.
He smiled, soft and almost tender, his previous irritation and jealousy melting away in the face of your cluelessness. âLike doesnât even begin to cover it,â he murmured, his voice lower now, dripping with an intensity that sent a shiver through the air. He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto yours with an unsettling focus. âYouâre perfect. Youâre everything.â
He reached out, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture intimate but laced with possessiveness. âYou just donât see it yet. But you will.â
You blinked up at him, still dazed, still confused, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But in his mind, it was already decided. You were hisâhad been from the moment he laid eyes on you. And soon enough, youâd understand that too.
Homelander cupped your face as though you were the most delicate thing in existence, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone capable of such monstrous strength. His heart raced as he leaned in, finally close enough to taste the softness of your lipsâsomething heâd craved for what felt like an eternity. He could already imagine how perfect youâd feel, how right it would be.
But before his lips could meet yours, your hand quickly covered his mouth. "Wait," you said, eyes wide with sudden embarrassment.
His eyes snapped open, irritation flashing in them, his impatience barely concealed. "What?" he grunted, his voice muffled by your hand.
You hesitated, biting your lip nervously, avoiding his intense gaze as you finally explained, âMy lipsïżœïżœ theyâre poisonous.â
His brows furrowed in confusion, and you removed your hand, looking even more embarrassed. âThey contain a toxin,â you said softly, as if confessing a dark secret. âIt gives anyone who kisses me a high, raises their heart rate until they get a heart attack⊠and die.â
A heavy silence followed as you waited for his reaction, expecting rejection or disgust. But Homelanderâs eyes gleamed with something entirely different. Instead of pulling away, he just shrugged as if the danger you posed was trivial to him. "Fuck it," he muttered with a smirk, his hands tightening around your cheeks.
Before you could protest again, he pulled you into a kiss, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that bordered on madness.
The moment your lips met, Homelander let out a low, primal groan of pleasure. The sensation of your mouth against his was everything heâd imaginedâand more. He could feel the toxin you had warned him about seeping into his bloodstream, but instead of fear, it only fueled the euphoria rushing through him. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, deepening the kiss, his desire consuming every rational thought.
The high from your poison made him feel invincible, like every dark, twisted part of him was being set free. The world outsideâits chaos, its disappointments, its endless betrayalsâfaded into nothing. All that mattered was you. He felt light, weightless, as though he could fly to the edge of the universe with you in his arms.
And as the toxin worked its way through his system, the sensation of bliss became all-consuming. He didnât just want to kiss youâhe wanted to devour you, to possess you completely, body and soul. Every kiss, every taste of you, made the thought of losing you unbearable.
He deepened the kiss, his grip on your face tightening, every muscle in his body screaming with pleasure. He didnât care about the risk, didnât care that you could kill him. In that moment, he belonged to you, utterly and completely, and heâd die a thousand deaths for this feeling. The darkness inside him surged, but for once, it didnât feel like a curse. With you, it felt like freedom.
Homelander had never been high in his entire existence, but if this was what it felt likeâwell, it was fucking spectacular. Every nerve in his body buzzed with euphoria, his muscles relaxed in a way that felt almost foreign to him, and everything around him suddenly seemed amusing, even absurd. He laughedâreally laughedâas he flew the two of you back to Vought Tower, the wind whipping through his hair as if the world itself couldnât touch him.
When he landed on your balcony, a wide grin stretched across his face, a rare glint of pure joy in his eyes. You looked up at him, bemused, as he stumbled slightly, his usually poised demeanor replaced with a boyish charm. He couldnât stop smiling. âHow long does this last?â he asked, his voice light with the toxinâs effects.
You chuckled softly as you led him inside, your touch warm and steady while his hands wandered over you, unable to keep still. âMax? Maybe two hours before the average human dies,â you murmured with a teasing smile.
He let out a breathless laugh, his hand still brushing against your waist, intoxicated not just by the toxin but by you. âHow many people have you done this to?â he asked, voice low as he buried his nose in the curve of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. It was almost possessive, his need to absorb every part of you.
You leaned back slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. âTwo⊠high school boyfriends.â
Homelanderâs hands slid over your body, but then something caught his eyeâa small jar on the kitchen island. His gaze sharpened instantly, curiosity piqued. âWhatâs that?â he asked, tone suddenly playful but underlined with a dangerous edge as his fingers drifted toward the jar.
He could feel the tension in your body before he even turned to face you fully, sensing the shift in the air. His smile twisted into something more predatory as he turned to you, eyes glinting with amusement and a hint of menace. âLook here,â he started, his voice low and smooth, âsince weâre now officially togetherââ
âOfficially?â you murmured, your eyes slightly hazy from his intoxicating presence, a dreamy smile playing on your lips.
He scrunched his nose in a mock expression of annoyance. âYeah, officially. And thereâs one thing you should know about meâI hate secrets. Canât fucking stand 'em.â
You flushed, your face heating with embarrassment as you shifted on your feet, clearly reluctant to answer. âItâs⊠nipple cream,â you mumbled.
Homelander raised an eyebrow, his expression uncharacteristically patient, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. âI can see that,â he said, his voice slow, almost mocking. He leaned closer, a smirk tugging at his lips. âBut why do you need it?â
You hesitated, then looked away shyly before finally answering, âI lactate.â
For the first time in a long time, pure shock crossed Homelanderâs face. His smile faded, replaced by an unreadable expression as your words sank in. Lactate? He couldnât process it at first, the information almost short-circuiting his mind. âWhat?â he asked, his voice lower now, the question almost a growl.
You swallowed, explaining softly, âJust like how some plants and fruits produce milk⊠ever since I got my first cycle, Iâve been producing milk too.â
Homelanderâs throat went dry, his eyes dropping instinctively to your breasts as his thoughts spun wildly. âOnly during your cycle?â he asked, voice barely a whisper.
âNo,â you admitted, your voice softer still. âEvery single day since I got my cycle.â
A long pause hung in the air between you, the weight of your revelation settling in. Homelanderâs heart pounded, and for a moment, the effects of the toxin couldnât compare to the sheer awe and hunger he felt. His gaze drifted back up to meet yours, and something primal flickered in his eyes.
âOh,â he murmured, a slow smile creeping back onto his face, but this time, it wasnât just euphoria driving it. No, thisâthis was something deeper.
Somehow, impossibly, you had just become even more perfect in his eyes.
Reader's Aesthetic
(only her supe name is Pink Dahlia)
Hope you enjoyed!
#homelander x reader#homelander#the boys#homelander x you#homelander x y/n#antony starr#the boys x reader#homelander fanfiction
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Grounding Him
Requested by @thelirofnorthlands
Pairing: Homelander x reader
Genre: Fluff, Slight Angst
Characters: Homelander, Y/N
Description: Homelander keeps his anger brimming at the surface whenever he's in an uncomfortable situation, but he can always count on you to keep him grounded.
A/N: Look at that lil' cuties face <3
Everybody always walked on eggshells around Homelander, afraid he would pop and laser someone's head offâeveryone, that is, apart from you. Every time he raised his voice at you, you would flash him a look, and he would know how to tone it down. He was incredibly grateful to have you in his life; you kept him grounded and gave him love he had never had. He showed a different side to him when you were by his side, and everyone could see it, much to his dismay. He was happier and treated everyone better, even humans. Homelander would still occasionally kill someone if they got in his way or said something that really angered him. He did always keep his anger at the surface, but he always knew that you would pull him back. Homelander let out a nervous, shaky breath as he prepared to step onto the stage for yet another PR campaign for The Seven. He wished you were by his side, but you were in another country making deals with Vought's international clients. He closed his eyes, took deep, slow breaths to slow down his ever-quickening heart, and replayed your calming words in his head. He was always more nervous when you weren't around to ensure everything went okay. Homelander knew that if just one person said one wrong thing, his anger would take over, and he would kill everyone standing before him. He heard his cue to go on and made his way but stopped when he heard a flurry of footsteps hurrying behind him. His eyes lit up as he smiled wide. When he turned, he saw your flustered form hurrying towards him. "I'm so glad I'm not too late." Homelander gathered you in his arms and kissed you deeply. "I can't believe you're here; I thought you were still out of the country." He placed his hands on your cheeks, pecked your lips once more and grabbed your hand to go on stage. "I was up until 30 minutes ago. A-Train rushed me here, and he did a good job. Otherwise, I wouldn't have made it." You both plastered on smiles and walked on stage to a mixture of applause and boos from the audience. Homelander waved at the crowd and took a patriotic stance, still holding your hand. He began making a speech about the importance of The Seven and how America still needed them. He was doing an excellent job until somebody interrupted him and started hurling insults. Homelanders expression immediately changed, his lips forming a thin, straight line, an instant indicator that he was becoming increasingly angry, especially as others began to join in. You rubbed circles into his hand, which usually calmed him down, but it wasn't enough this time. Homelander's whole body began to shake with anger as he closed his eyes to try and contain it. Still, they shot back open again when somebody mentioned your name, and the rest of the crowd joined in. His eyes glowed red, but you managed to distract and pull him off stage before he could do anything disastrous. "Hey, calm down. C'mon, baby. I'm right here, they're not going to do anything." You hugged him and ran your fingers through his hair, a loving gesture that always calmed him down. "I know, but the things they were saying about you, I couldn't contain it any longer. They need to keep your name out of their fucking mouths! There would be a room full of dead fucking corpses if you weren't here, so thank you." He finally calmed down and pecked your lips before taking your hand and leading you out of the building. An angry mob surrounded the two of you as you opened the door to the outside. "Move out of the fucking way before the ground gets covered in your fucking guts." Homelander kept a stoic expression as he warned the group of people, who stepped a whole way back, letting you jump into his arms and fly to Vought Tower. You jumped down from his arms and linked your arm with his. "Thank you for being my rock; I would be in a whole ton of shit right now if it wasn't for you." "Anytime, honey."
#homelander#homelander x reader#homelander fluff#homelander angst#homelander imagine#homelander fanfiction#the boys#the boys imagine#the boys fanfiction#the boys fluff#the boys angst
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I saw you were looking for The Boys requests. Please I beg of you ANYTHING between Firecracker and reader. Sheâs so beautiful and I need to be with her so bad! Literally anything you want to write. Itâs just that NO ONE has written for her!!
â± â country girl â â±
A/N: Thank you for ur request, I also agree, nobody is writing about Firecracker, our country girl needs some love <3.
WARNING: cursing, tw: abortion, firecracker as a person, tw: tek knight, this might be crackfic sorry.
PAIRING: firecracker x reader
WORD COUNTER: 974
It was so boring at the Tek's Knight party, you were mindlessly taking glasses of alcohol served on a platter to guests that attended, mostly the room filled with important, rich, people of America.
Like you want to be here with these superficial assholes and fucking racists, you had better thing than to be here in this party but you were forced to attend. Most of the members of the seven were here, including you. Here you are, in a party filled with old people who controlled the country, you looked up at the seemingly staring Tek Knight portrait that was on display, "Creepy" You muttered, before you gulped down the content in the glass, swiftly placing it on the waltzing waiter passing by.
It was going to be a while till you were able to leave the party. It was an event where people were the best dressed and for you, the best dress was your costume, shut up and stay still while people talked to you, talking about nonsense and political matters you didn't care about.
You just nodded with a smile.
Tap your fingers on your glasses, looking for anything that can occupy your time. It wasn't the worst, free high-quality alcohol was being served, and interesting-looking food was being served around the party. You looked around the room of guests, and your eyes quickly landed on Homelander, Sage, and Neuman. You quirked your eyebrows at the scene, before taking a sip of the champagne in your glass.
"Hm," You exhaled, swirling the liquid in your glass. The sound of heels clicking on the floor took your attention. You looked up from your cup to see Firecracker walking by you, you didn't get to know a lot about her only to know that she was involved in pageants, hate Starfire maybe a pedophile. You kept your eye on her with amusement as she walked toward the group of supes.
You were way too curious about how the interaction was going to play out, especially with her introduction, it was almost comical.
Everyone in the group just stared at her awkwardly, it was all truly funny and made you laugh a bit. Then Sage dismissed her straight, I guessed it was something snarky towards her. You watched her as walked away quickly, it looked like she was upset about what Sage said. "Trailer trash, huh?" You gulped down your maybe 10th glass of the night and placed it on the walking waiter's tray before you strode to the dessert table.
You recognize the greeting butler of the house taking the cake. âHey, are you going to take that?" You asked the butler holding the chocolate cake in his hand. "Yes, Miss H/N" He stated, âWould you like a slice?â He questioned, âNo, actually Iâll take the whole cakeâ You shot him a smile, grabbing the cake from him. âThanks for being such an American patriotâ you exclaimed before you walked out to follow Firecracker.
You stepped out of the room where the party guests were. You followed Firecracker, you wanted to keep your steps as silent as possible maybe to surprise her a bit, maybe this was a bit creepy, a little at least. You hid behind one of the white columns, hearing the door behind her close with a 'click' sound.
You stepped out into the hallway, with the cake in hand. You paused for a moment when you reached the door. Before putting your ear near the door to hear sniffing coming from her you backed away. You hesitated to knock, so you just waited on the side of the door until she opened up.
Propping yourself up on the wall, it was a couple of minutes until she opened the door. It was evident she was crying with her tear-stained cheek and the reddening of her irises. Bounced off the wall, "God were you crying, you look like shit" You said bluntly, her brows furrowed when she heard the comment escaping you.
"Shit, my bad, cake?" You prominently offered the cake to her, she looked at it and then at you, "Is this a joke?" She said with her strong accent shining through as she spoke.
Narrowed her eyes at you.
"No, actually this was from the good of my heart, I saw the exchange between you and you know sage?' You said you heard her groan as you talked.
"So, are you going to tell me to drink Everclear or SunnyD" She exclaimed.
"Of course not, I was going to tell you to drink some Dr. Pepper and Jack Daniel" You grin at her smugly,
She furrowed her brows more, you got her pissed, "Jokes" You put up your free hand defensively, "But seriously, I saw you upset and what better way to calm down than with cake, especially chocolate cake" You grinned pointing at the chocolate cake in your hands.
"What in god green earth would make you think I would eat cake with you" She crossed her arms, "Geez if you put it that way...I just wanted to support a friend in need, since you are part of the seven, you know..so cake?" You offered her again before she looked at you and the cake.
"Fine"
..
"You know Sage is like a slithering snake, I just should known" Firecracker grumbled, taking a spoonful of cake and shoving it in her mouth, you hummed in agreement.
"The whole thing with the show and live cast with the starlight bullshit, should of fucking know" Firecracker finished,
"How did you...I mean she even gets information about Starlight abortion?" You asked, stabbing your fork in a piece of cake, Firecracker just shrugged it off, "I mean you took those punches like a champ" You said bluntly, Firecracker glared at you.
"Hey Y/N" You turned towards her,
"What?"
"Fuck you"
#the boys#the boys fanfic#the boys series#the boys season 4#the boys s4#the boys amazon#firecracker#firecracker x reader#firecracker the boys#sister sage#homelander#victoria neuman#tek knight#the boys season 4 spoilers#the boys tv#firecracker x you#firecracker x oc#firecracker x y/n
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You're Safe With Me [Chapter One]
Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader
Summary: When you accidentally stumble upon something far bigger than the fluff and filler news stories youâve always covered for WGN News Chicago, you reach out to the Department of Homeland Security and come in contact with Dinah Madaniâbut that only seals your fate as a target for the Patriot Militia and their wealthy political backers. Determined to root out the culprits deep within the government, Madani tasks an unlikely person to keep you safe while she builds her case. But when the person she expects you to go on the run with is Frank Castleâthe Punisher himselfâyou feel anything but safe.
Warnings: 18+; series contains violence, mentions of mass shootings, angst and comfort, slow burn romance, enemies to lovers, eventual smut
Word Count: 5k
a/n: Sharing the first chapter of this fic! There's a bit of exposition at the beginning, just a heads up, but it's all important information. I'm really excited about this series and feedback is certainly appreciated!! Chapter list can be found here.
Tag List: @lunaticgurly @allaboardthereadingrailroad @linamarr @hollandorks @sleeperthelazy @marcysbear (tagging everyone who initially asked, please let me know if you want to be removed)
Today had started off as almost any normal day at WGN Chicago for you. You'd been at your desk working on piecing together a news segment detailing the upcoming construction in the city this morning, rushing to meet a deadline for Gloria. It was a terribly boring piece, one that had been tossed around the station until it had eventually landed on your desk. Having stared at that filler piece more times than youâd have liked, you had found yourself already on your second cup of coffee for the morning, a headache pounding in your head that you hoped to relieve with the extra caffeine.Â
But while you had been at your desk working, you'd received a call from a number you hadn't recognized on your phone. Maybe it was foolish that you'd answered that call and talked to whoever it was on the other end of the line, but it wasn't entirely unusual considering your line of work. You often had sources calling you with information about something. But you'd thought that their very enthusiastic invite to a Patriot Militia rally in a small town just outside of the city was incredibly strange. Your curiosity had admittedly been piqued as you jotted down the address, wondering why a group dangerously close to being deemed domestic terrorists had actively sought out attention from WGN Newsâand from you in particular considering you weren't remotely a big name reporter at the station. After you'd gotten off the phone with whoever it was that had called, you'd made a few calls to verify the rally was legitimate before bringing it to Gloriaâs attention.Â
Of course, like any good boss when it came to covering potentially dangerous stories, she'd instantly rejected the idea. She'd told you it wasn't safe and it smelled like dangerâ especially because it was being held on private property and because there would definitely be guns present. It was, after all, the Patriot Militia. You had practically begged her to let you head out there this afternoon with just Andrew to film so you could cover whatever it was that was happening with this rally. You figured if someone had gone through the trouble to invite you then there had to be a story there, and you were desperate to make your way out of the filler and fluff pieces. Eventually Gloria had caved and given you permission, but only with the promise that you'd leave if things seemed like they were getting out of hand.
Knowing what you now knew, you wished you wouldnât have gone at all. You wished you hadn't gotten involved.
Everyone at the rally had been surprisingly friendly to you and Andrew, though. Nothing had seemed remotely suspicious or out of the ordinary, and you were shocked to find that you hadn't felt threatened in the slightest despite the fact that everyone was heavily armed. Even more unexpected than that, considering your presence had apparently been a surprise, even if a welcome one, was that everyone you had interviewed had been willing to make statements to the press for the piece you were putting together.Â
But what you hadn't expected when Andrew was packing up his camera equipment was that youâd overhear a conversation behind one of the tents as you'd finished getting a last minute statement.Â
You had almost immediately recognized the voice of Adam Johnson, a Republican running in the upcoming senate elections. Curious, you'd paused and leant up against the tent, pretending to be focused on your notes as you turned the audio recorder in your pocket back on. When you realized exactly what he was discussing with a few other men in hushed voices, your eyes had gone wide.Â
You worked in the media yourself, even if you weren't much of an investigative reporter at the station quite yet, so of course youâd heard all about the mass shooting at a mall in Schaumburg only days ago. Fifteen injured and three dead. But it wasnât the police that had arrived on the scene and gotten the situation under control, it had been a civilian with a concealed carry that had stepped up and taken charge. Heâd shot the suspect on sight and killed him. It had been all over the news after the fact, and the civilian who'd stepped up and killed the shooter had been touted as a local hero.Â
But from what you had gathered while youâd stood there silently eavesdropping on the hushed conversation, youâd learned the shooting hadn't been perpetrated by an ordinary young man like the news had been reporting. He'd been a member of the Patriot Militia, one who'd willingly played martyr for the cause. The whole thing had been orchestrated as a way to sway public opinion on guns. And as you continued to eavesdrop, you'd begun to learn what happened in Schaumburg hadnât been the first time they had done this. The shooting that youâd seen in the news only a month ago out near Columbus, Ohio had been brought up among the group, and theyâd also name-dropped a Glen Allen, Virginia, though that name hadnât rung any bells in your mind for any recent incidents.
From what youâd gathered, it sounded like not only was the Patriot Militia behind these mass shootings where armed civilians had taken out the shooterâwho also happened to be a Patriot Militia memberâbut these attacks had begun to sound far more like terrorist attacks, and it seemed like they were being quietly led by prominent political figures who were proudly anti-gun control across the country.Â
Clearly you had accidentally stumbled on something you werenât meant to hear at that rally, and it had made you wonder if the stranger whoâd called and invited you out to it that morning had hoped youâd uncover this. Especially since you had been the only member of the press present at the private event.
Your heart had been furiously hammering in your chest when youâd slipped your phone out of your pocket, readying it for a quick, inconspicuous photo. Ducking your head, youâd walked past that tent and snapped a single, quick picture of the group of men youâd been recording, knowing that whatever you'd overheard was proof the Patriot Militia was in fact a domestic terrorist group. News that you needed to take far above WGN and straight to the proper authorities. Â
Youâd thought youâd been in the clear when you and Andrew had left the rally without a single problem, too. You were driving a little faster than usual, trying to rush straight back to the station, your eyes repeatedly flickering to the rearview mirror as you drove. Though no one had followed you from the rally.
Back at the station, youâd immediately sought out Gloria in her office and relayed everything youâd overheard. The two of you had huddled over her desk as you replayed the recording youâd taken, Gloriaâs face only looking more and more grim as she listened. Afterwards, youâd pulled up the photo on your phone andâdespite the attempt to hide their identities with hats and sunglassesâthe pair of you had quickly recognized the politicians Adam Johnson, Eric Bane, and Daniel Carpenter who were speaking to Elijah Wolfâthe man who ran the Patriot Militia.Â
Gloria had immediately retrieved the number for the Department of Homeland Security, which she had scribbled on a piece of paper and slid across her desk to you with a trembling hand. Sheâd urged you to call them immediately and you had.Â
That was how youâd been put into contact with an Agent Dinah Madani who seemed quick to act the moment youâd spoken to her and explained what you had uncovered. Sheâd stayed on the line with you while you uploaded the audio file and the cell phone photo, sending them to the secure email address sheâd given you. And then sheâd continued to stay on the line with you while she listened to the recording, a nervous churning beginning in your stomach as she did. Afterwards she told you to make a copy of both pieces of evidence and to hold onto it, sit tight, and keep your head down. Before ending the call, she had given you her personal cell phone number in the event anything else came up or in case something more happened.
And, unfortunately, something did.
Sitting at your kitchen table, youâd been quietly eating your reheated leftovers for dinner. Chewing a bite of the pasta, your eyes were meticulously scanning over the news articles from the day on your phone. Nothing in the media had mentioned a single thing about the Patriot Militia rally or a shooting in Glen Allen, Virgina, though. As your eyes continued to skim over the dayâs news, your hand absently twirling pasta noodles around your fork, you heard a noise coming from the side of your house.Â
Your hand froze mid-twirl of the fettuccine noodles, your breath entirely catching in your throat as your eyes widened. Distinctly you could make out the hushed tone of voices just outside. Carefully setting the fork back into your bowl, you rose to your feet and slipped your phone back into your pocket, making your way towards the window above your kitchen sink. Nervously you reached a hand out and peeked through the blinds. Two men dressed in all black, both carrying guns in their hands, were sneaking around by your garbage bins along the side of your house.Â
Fear struck you like ice in your veins and you quickly lurched backwards, releasing the blinds. Your heart began to beat just as rapidly as it had done earlier this afternoon when youâd snapped that photo and tried to disappear from the rally without raising suspicion.Â
The men outside had to be related to the Patriot Militia. But why? If theyâd known what youâd discovered todayâwhat youâd recordedâwhy wouldnât they have done something before you could leave that rally? Why would they show up at your house later at night and have given you all that time to alert the federal authorities about them?
In a panic, you flew from the kitchen as quietly as you could, racing down the hallway and towards your bedroom. Keeping the lights off, you pulled open your closet door before kneeling down and digging around in the corner of it. Eventually your hands landed on the duffle bag you occasionally used as a carry on when you traveled. Barely paying attention to what you grabbed, you began tossing handfuls of clothing into the bag, stuffing a few bras and pairs of underwear from your dresser inside before you snatched your wallet from your purse on the bed. Cautiously tip-toeing back to your dresser, you grabbed the flash drive you had transferred the photo and audio recording to the moment you'd gotten home from off of it, adding that to the few things youâd packed.Â
The moment youâd finished zipping up your bag, you heard the faint squeak of your back door opening and you stopped, your body becoming completely still. Whoever those men were, they were in your house now. And that had the hairs on your arms raising.
Inhaling a shaky breath, you tried to stay calm. Leaving out your front or back door was no longer an option now that they were in your houseâyouâd have to pass them to reach one of those exits and that was not something you wanted to do. Eyes darting to your bedroom window above your dresser, you knew you had no other choice.Â
You reached your hands out, pushing the curtains back as silently as possible. Biting down on your tongue, you unlocked the window latches next before slowly beginning to push the window up. You could make out more hushed voices coming from your living room and you swore you'd stopped breathing while you worked. Continuing to push the window up, you winced when it made a soft noise as it slid upwards, breaking the silence in your bedroom. Thankfully neither of the men came running down the hall to your room at the faint noise, though.
Leaning over your dresser, you peered outside and checked that no one was lingering out front before tossing your bag outside. You heard it land with a soft thud on the grass. Climbing carefully up onto your dresser beneath the window, you thanked whatever higher power existed that the windows in your house were wide enough for you to comfortably climb through right now.Â
Awkwardly you maneuvered around on top of the dresser, turning and placing your legs out of the window one at a time. Slowly you began to slide your body through it. It wasnât until you were almost halfway out of the window that you heard the shout, your bedroom lights turning on and taking you by surprise. Looking over your shoulder, you caught sight of one of the men dressed in all black standing there, a black ski mask covering his face and the gun still in his hand. Your stomach felt like it almost flew up out of your mouth at the burst of fear and adrenaline that immediately shot through you.
âSheâs climbing out of the window!â the man shouted. âGo out the front!â
Terrified, youâd pushed yourself the rest of the way through, tumbling down the short drop and ungracefully landing on the ground. You scrambled to your feet as fast as you could, grabbing your duffle bag before glancing over your shoulder to be met with the sight of a gun pointed right at you. With a shriek, you darted to the side and took off at a run down the sidewalk, your legs protesting the movement as your lungs began to burn.Â
You kept on running, adrenaline pushing you forward as you neared the corner of the street. Chancing a look behind you, you spotted both men standing in your driveway staring straight at you. Though neither of them were chasing after you.Â
You didnât give yourself time to wonder why as you continued running, trying to make your way back towards the downtown of the suburb you lived in where you hoped youâd be safe among the crowds of people. The moment you were, youâd be calling Agent Madani and praying she had some way to keep you safe.
°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°
Leaning an elbow along the bar counter, Frank drank down the cold beer in his hand. His eyes lingered on the country band currently on the stage in the roadhouse, listening to the music they were playing with a faint smile pulling up one corner of his lips. It was the reason heâd meandered his way over here from the motel next door. Heâd heard the music on his walk over to the room heâd paid for, having been ready to settle in for the night after the long day of driving he'd been doing. He was exhausted and his body ached from sitting in the van for hours. Inevitably the music pouring out of Lola's Roadhouse next door had drawn him like a moth to a flame before he'd even managed to unlock the door to his room.
The pretty brunette behind the bar counter he'd spotted when he stepped inside was just an added bonus, too. Frank had surprisingly found he couldnât seem to keep his eyes from her every time he ordered a new beer, though he hadnât made any attempt to flirt. It was something heâd become aware of lately ever since heâd left New York. Heâd been noticing women moreânot that he never had before, but ever sinceâ
He drew the beer bottle back up to his lips, taking a long pull. He didnât want to think about that.
âHowâs about I get a pint and one for you, too?â
Frank swallowed down his beer, his eyes still focused straight ahead as he heard yet another inebriated patron hitting on the woman. That was the sixth one heâd heard this evening since heâd stopped in here.
âThanks man, Iâll grab it later,â the bartender told him.
âOh come on,â the man behind Frank said, his voice grating on his nerves already, âwhy not grab it now?â
âI donât drink when Iâm working,â she replied in a clipped tone.Â
âWell if Iâm giving you my eight dollars, Iâd at least like you to have a drink with me,â the man continued.
Frankâs hand gripped tighter around the neck of his beer bottle, his jaw clenching as he tried to focus on the music playing. He was not going to get involved. He was laying low and heâd be leaving in the morning. This didnât concern him.
âAnd whyâs that?â she huffed out.
âI think youâre a good lookinâ woman,â the man replied, trying to sound all charm. âAnd I want to see how far down those tattoos go.â
Frankâs eyes slowly closed, his teeth grinding against each other. Couldnât this man take a ânoâ the first time around? He hated assholes like these.
âPlenty of other women here with tattoos,â she answered, setting what sounded like a glass on the counter behind him.
âOh come on,â the man pressed.Â
To Frankâs ears, it sounded like the man had reached across the bar counter when he'd spoken, and when Frankâs head shifted just a bit over his shoulder, he noticed the man indeed had a grip on the brunetteâs wrist. Anger slowly began to smolder in Frankâs gut at the sight as the woman tried to pull her arm out of his grip.
âAt least give me your name or a number,â the man pushed.
Trying to keep his temper under control, Frank turned and rested his back against the bar counter, knocking a fist against it lightly three times. The gesture caught the manâs attention and Frankâs intrusion quickly cut off whatever the woman had been starting to say, but his focus was on the asshole still grabbing her wrist.
âHey, the lady is tryinâ to work,â Frank pointed out, trying to keep his tone casual and calm despite the anger he felt begging for a release. âYou expect her to keep pourinâ drinks while your holding her arm like that? Let her go.â
The man made a show of releasing her wrist, the brunette shooting Frank a once-over before she walked past him behind the bar to continue pouring beers. Frank muttered an offhand âthank youâ to the asshole, trying hard not to cause a problem as he focused back on the bandâbecause he was supposed to be staying out of trouble.Â
But he could feel the assholeâs eyes still on him.
âWhat a skank.â
Frankâs eyes narrowed just a bit, his head shifting back towards the man a fraction. âThatâs real classy, man,â he shot back.
The inebriated man beside him rose from his bar stool, his eyes still on Frank. âYou say something to me?â he asked, trying to sound intimidating as he closed the space between them.
âYeah,â Frank answered simply, turning further towards him.
The man reached out, placing two fingers against Frankâs chest before he roughly pushed them against him. Frank's eyes lowered to the man's hand, staring at it as the guy used those same two fingers to push against his chest a second time.Â
"You just made my night, dumbass," the man said, his two fingers pushing against Frank's chest for a third time.
Eyes rising back up towards the man's face, Frank's right hand casually swung up and grabbed the man's fingers in his grip. With a sharp twist he heard the sound of finger bones snapping over the sound of the band playing. Instantly the man cried out, doubling over in pain as Frank tossed the man's hand back at him.
"You sure 'bout that?" Frank asked.
Clutching his injured left hand to his chest, the man straightened and reached out, picking up a beer bottle from the bar counter beside him. In a single, swift movement he'd smashed it against the counter, beer and glass splattering everywhere.Â
"Come on now," Frank warned him. "Don't do that."
The drunk took one step forward, ready to lunge at Frank with the smashed bottle raised in his hand, but the roadhouse bouncer came up behind him before he could get any further. He grabbed the man's wrist, twisting the broken bottle from his grip before he shoved the man over the bar counter, keeping his good arm trapped behind his back. With the man incapacitated, the bouncer focused on Frank as he spoke.
"You've got two options," he told Frank. "Either you leave, or I kick your ass out with this asshole."
"Hey, Ringo," the brunette behind the bar cut in, her voice briefly catching Frank's attention. "He's good. He was just helping me out."
The bouncer known as Ringo eyed her for a moment longer before Frank saw him give the woman a quick nod. He pulled the man off of the counter, leading him towards the exit without another glance at Frank. Though Frankâs eyes watched as they went, following to make sure the man didn't cause any more trouble as he clutched his injured hand to his chest.
"I deal with assholes like that every damn night," the bartender said.
Frankâs focus shifted from Ringo and the asshole he was dragging outside to the woman eyeing him up on the other side of the counter. Gradually Frank turned fully towards her, resting both of his hands on the bar and contemplating another beer after all of that or whether he should just head back to his motel and call it a night.Â
"You shouldn't have to," he told her. "'S'not right."
Her eyes lingered on him, a slow smile sliding across her lips. Making a quick decision, he'd been about to ask if he could trouble her for another drink, maybe this time while getting her name, but the phone in his jacket pocket began to vibrate. Brows curiously drawing together, he glanced down towards the noise before reaching a hand inside of his jacket, pulling it out.Â
Who the hell would've been calling him on this phone? He'd picked it up shortly after he'd left New York. To his knowledge, only two people had the number.
Looking down at the series of numbers on the screen, confusion further spread across his features. It was Agent Madani's number. But why the hell would she be calling him? She'd made it quite clear that if he crossed her path again, she'd be arresting him.Â
Frank glanced up, about to tell the bartender he needed to take the call, but she'd already wandered off to help another patron. With a sigh he slid his finger across the screen before holding it up to his ear.
"Yeah?" he asked into it.
"Castle, it's Agent Madani," the woman's voice immediately came over the line.Â
"Figured as much," Frank replied, his focus on the damp bar counter before him. "Wasn't expecting a call from you. Am I already in trouble, Madani?"Â
"No," she answered him quickly. "I actually need a favor. AâŠbig one."
Frank's eyes narrowed curiously as he heard the tension in her voice. What could a federal Homeland Security agent need from him?Â
"And what's that?" he asked carefully.
Madani loosed a deep sigh that was loud enough for Frank to catch over the music still playing in the roadhouse. Her apprehension was only increasing his curiosity.
"I need you to protect someone," she said after a moment. "They'veâŠaccidentally stumbled on something and now they're in danger."
"You got federal agents for that, Madani," Frank pointed out.
"Yeah, well," she continued slowly, "I don't exactly know who I can trust with this here."
Frank pushed away from the bar counter, maneuvering his way through the crowd of people dancing and enjoying the band. A few of them shot him strange looks as he moved between them but he ignored it. The closer to the roadhouse exit he got, the better he could hear Madani over all the noise.Â
"What's that supposed to mean?" Frank asked. "And what's that got to do with me?"
"There's a woman who came to me earlier today," Madani explained. "She's a reporter for a news station out in Chicago and she accidentally stumbled on something huge. As in national security huge. It's something that involves high profile politiciansâweâre talking wealthy, big names here. It'sâit's going to be a massive scandal once this surfaces, but I need to keep her alive. I'm trying to assemble a case but I need her witness testimony with the evidence she brought me."
"Yeah? What's that gotta do with me?" he asked her again.
âShe was at a Patriot Militia rally today,â Madani continued. âI donât have to tell you who they are, do I?â
Frank leant up against the wall near the exit, his eyes on the pretty bartender pouring a beer. âBunch of crazy activists, yeah?â he asked.
âPutting it simply, yes. This reporter recorded some things. Snapped a photo of these high profile people conversing together. Yet no one paid her any mind when she left that rallyâbecause no one knew sheâd done that. Or I think we both know she wouldnât have been able to just hop into her car and leave.â There was a pause before she continued. âBut she called me a few minutes ago. Couple men with guns showed up at her house. Now that has me thinking someone in Homeland caught wind of this and is trying to clean up the mess before anything gets out.â
Frank ran a hand over his chin, the stubble of his beard rasping lightly against his calloused fingers. âSo you canât trust your men but you think you can trust me?â
âIâm hoping I can,â Madani corrected. âI need you, Castle. If anyone is trained enough to keep this woman alive, itâs you.â
âI ainât no babysitter, Madani,â Frank told her, shaking his head. âThatâs not what I do.â
âI can make it worth your while,â she replied quickly. âIâve talked to my superior Hernandezâthe only one I trust on this right nowâand heâs said if you help us with this, weâll clear Frank Castleâs name.â
âClear my name?â he asked curiously, his hand halting its movement on his chin.
âYou wonât have to live as Peter Castiglione,â Madani told him. âYou can be Frank Castle. If you help us. But I need her alive , Frank.â
Frankâs attention drew back towards the band that was playing on the stage, his mind racing. The government would clear him? Of all the charges for what heâd done in New York? And all he had to do was keep one woman alive to get that?
âWhat do you say, Castle?â she asked. âCan I count on you?â
His hand slowly lowering to his side, Frank pushed off of the wall, turning and making his way towards the exit. He pushed the door open, stepping out into the chilly night air.
âYeah, Iâll do it,â he told her.
âGreat,â Madani replied, her tone sounding vastly relieved. âWhere are you?â
âJust outside of Detroit,â he answered, making his way back to the motel.
âSheâs a bit north of Chicago so thatâs perfect,â Madani said, her fingers flying across what sounded like a keyboard rapidly. âIâll have her meet you halfwayâRubyâs Diner off of I-94. Tomorrow morning at seven sharp. Can you be there?â
âYeah,â he replied, digging around for the key to his room in his pocket, âI can be there. But how the hell do I know who Iâm lookinâ for, Madani?â
Frankâs eyes narrowed as Madani said a name over the line, his hand pausing in his search for the key in his pocket.
âSheâs a small time reporter for WGN News out there. Google her,â Madani ordered. âThereâs a picture of her on their site. Thatâs the woman I need alive, Frank. I just need you to hop from town to town and keep her safe. That's it. And Iâll be texting you coordinates for a drop site in a bit. Iâll have someone I trust leave money to help keep you both taken care of on the road while I build this case.â
Frank reached the door to his room, shouldering his phone. He slid the key into the lock, twisting it before opening the door and stepping inside. He turned on the light, closing the door behind himself before locking it.Â
âAny questions?â she asked him.
âYeah, just one,â Frank asked, tossing the room key onto a nearby table. âYou say you need this woman alive because thereâs people with guns tryinâ to kill her, right?â
âYes,â Madani answered.
âSo does that mean Iâve got the U.S. governmentâs express permission to keep her alive and safe by any means necessary?â he asked, his tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.
There was a long pause over the line at his question. Frank could hear the tapping of something like a pen coming from Madani before he heard her let out a rough breath. The corner of Frankâs lips twitched upwards at the sound.
âYes, Castle,â she replied. âBut no civilian casualties or our deal is over. And if the reporter dies, the deal is over. If you lose her, the deal is over. Ifââ
âYeah, yeah, I get it, Madani,â Frank cut her off. âText me the drop site details and Iâll find this woman in the morning. Iâll keep her alive for you, Madani. But I expect you to hold up your end of the deal.â
âI will,â she assured him.
Frank hung up, quickly pulling up the search browser on his phone afterwards. He made his way over to one of the beds in the room, settling down onto the end of the stiff mattress as he typed in the news station's name along with yours. Sure enough, a photo of a smiling woman appearedâ your faceâand for a moment Frank just sat there studying it.Â
âSo youâre the one who stepped in some shit,â he muttered to the picture. âYou definitely look like youâd cause some trouble, thatâs for sure.â
He stared at the photo for another moment longer, telling himself it was just because he was trying to memorize your face and not because he liked your smile. Eventually he closed out of the search and rose back to his feet, switching the screen of his phone off. If he needed to be a few hours from here by seven in the morning, he needed to go to sleep now. If he was lucky he'd get four hours of rest before he was back on the road again.Â
#frank castle x reader#frank castle x you#frank castle angst#frank castle x f!reader#frank castle#frank castle fic#the punisher
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àŠźàŠšà§àŠ° àŠźàŠŸàŠšà§àŠ· - Soulmate
[Steve Rogers x Indian!bengali!GN!reader
Summary: your heart is aching for a home that no longer exists. Steve finds you in the middle of emotional turmoil.
Warning: homesickness, childhood trauma if you squint, mention of political disturbance, fluff, cursing, Steve being an absolute sweetheart, Steve also getting the feels]
youtube
After the third round of knocking incessantly at your bedroom door, Steve huffed. He didn't want to intrude, in case you weren't decent or something.
"Sorry y/n," he muttered before twisting the handle, fully expecting to find it closed, unyielding.
His eyes widened, first in mild surprise at the ease with which he'd made it in: no locked doors. Then in shock, since his favourite person - you - was currently curled up on the floor, facing the sunset. Knees pulled up to your chest and tears streaming down your face as you whimpered softly now and then.
The next emotion was confusion at the music playing in the room - something that sounded like a folk song sung by a gravelly male voice in a language he didn't understand. However, he'd heard you speak or sing in it to yourself enough to know it was Bengali.
He joined you on the floor, quietly tapping your arm.
You turned your head to look at him, making no effort to wipe away the salty moisture on your cheeks. "I miss home."
Three words. Just three words from you tugged violently on his heart-strings, making him scoot closer and wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer. You let him engulf you, finding comfort in him.
He didn't bother asking any questions. He knew the answers. Unfair elections and totalitarian practices had completely destroyed the political opposition in India five years ago. You'd watched democracy fall apart slowly but surely within fifteen years. Your beloved state of West Bengal, safe from the ruling party till then, had been overpowered too.
You'd run. You'd wished you could stay and do something, be a patriot, but you'd run. Forced yourself to throw yourself and your best efforts into medical school, even if your heart had ached for a different subject instead. You'd clenched your jaw and survived five years of suffocating dictatorship (nobody ever called it that but that's what it was) and communal riots. Then, the moment you'd graduated, you'd packed your things and left your homeland for a stable future.
You hadn't taken anyone with you. Your family wasn't the best and you'd made the decision to go no contact with them while still in high school. You'd lied to them about where you would be living, promised them you'd call. At the airport, just before boarding, you'd sent your mother the final text you'd silently prepared beforehand, listing everything she'd done wrong and refused to make up for and why you felt wronged. You'd apologised for being so harsh, and for abandoning them, but explained that you needed to protect yourself and you couldn't do it while staying with them. Then you'd thrown away your phone.
It was for the best, for your best, but you still missed the carefree life of your early years. Carefree, not in the sense that you weren't being hurt over and over, but carefree in the sense that you were naĂŻve enough not to realise you were being hurt. You were alone in this new environment. Yes, you'd found friends, you'd found Steve. But a part of you still felt lonely.
Steve knew all of this. He'd held you close the day you poured all of it out. And he held you close now as the homesickness returned.
"I'm a fucking coward," you sniffle. "I should've stayed and tried to fight. Spoken up. Done something. Said something. Anything. I didn't even try. Like a selfish bitch."
He pressed a kiss to your head, stroking your hair and shushing you. He'd save that conversation for later. Right now you didn't need a response from him, you needed to let your feelings out. He'd always be here to wipe your tears away and get you back on your feet.
You hugged him tighter, and he pulled you into his lap, leaning against the bed as he closed his eyes, focusing on the song playing on loop.
Weirdly, it felt like home. Nevermind that he understood nothing. There was something earthen and rustic about the song and its ambience, something that called to him. He thought of his mother. A little voice in him said she'd love this music too. He felt his own eyes water as well, and blinked to prevent them from spilling.
You turned in his arms a little so now your back was to his chest, and you both watched the sun go down in silence.
When you'd calmed down, he brought one of your hands up to his lips. "Do you feel like going out and getting some ice cream? Or brownies?"
You giggled - despite the surge of emotions earlier. "I'd love that. Thank you," you met his calm and loving eyes, genuine gratitude in your own.
"Of course, honey."
Minutes later, as you held on to him from behind while his motorcycle wove in and out of traffic, you felt some of the weight lifting off your chest. Life had been rough, but it was better now. You were better now. Safe and loved. You'd be okay, right?
You rubbed his arm softly. He found your hand and squeezed it three times at a red light.
Yeah, you'd be okay.
[AN: This is the direct product of me being homesick, while sitting in my hometown, and being terrified for the future. Steve is my comfort character so I wrote this solely to calm myself; this is the most self-indulgent piece I've ever written. I know most of you won't relate to this much, but I hope that for once, you can put yourself in my place and at least try to understand the emotions in this fic rather than agonise over the details which don't apply to you.
AN 2: India is quasi-federal in structural, meaning while there is a Prime Minister to govern the entire country, every state also has their individual Chief Minister and Cabinet of Ministers for the affairs of said state. The party in power at the Centre isn't always the ruling party in every state. West Bengal is one of such states where the part in power is different from the one at the Centre...so far.
Current affairs in the country are really bad. Abuse of legislation, silencing the national press, completely altering the Constitution, bribing the judiciary, rigging the polls - it's all happening. It's bad enough that the UN and even other countries have criticised the central administration here. This fic is me being super scared that what I mentioned here will actually happen. Elections are this month, and like many other civilians, I'm desperately praying it doesn't take a turn for the worse.
AN 3: The song linked above is the inspiration for the title. àŠźàŠšà§àŠ° àŠźàŠŸàŠšà§àŠ· (moner manush) translates to "soulmate". It is one of the most popular Baul songs. Baul are a category of Bengali folk songs which have double meanings. Most songs, at first listen, appear to be aimed at a lover, however, they can also be meant for God. It depends on how you wish to interpret them. They're a highly respected part of Bengali heritage and can be easily identified by the sound of the ektara in the instrumental, a one stringed musical instrument.]
Tagging my desi friends:
@mainly-marvel @slut-for-henry-cavill @averageambivert
#steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x indian!reader#steve rogers x bengali!reader#steve rogers x you#steve rogers x gender neutral!reader#steve rogers x gn!reader#steve rogers fluff#steve rogers comfort#Youtube
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FREQUENCY: Episode 6 - A Soldier Boy Story
FREQUENCY:Â A Soldier Boy Story
EPISODE 6: âYou Make Me Feel So Youngâ
WORD COUNT: 7736 (sorry)
PAIRING: Soldier Boy X ReaderÂ
WARNINGS: (NSFW) Foul language. Offensive slurs. Violence, depression, and mentions of suicide. Slow burn. Drinking, and drugs.Â
A/N: This story is dark, and covers mature themes. The main character, as well as other major characters, are offensive in nature, and may offend some people. Please peruse with caution, and remember that this is fiction. Reader discretion is advised. Please message me for any questions, comments, or concerns.Â
Masterlist | TaglistÂ
Everything was exactly where she usually would have left it. Hm, he thinks. Totally stumped. Sheâs never gone this long without telling him. Her apartment, vacant and cold, hadn't seen her around for about a month, and neither had he. Not since the last time she had come over, at least.Â
He stalks around her place. Taking a peep into the fridge, only to be greeted by the smell of spoiled milk. He grimaces, shutting it so hard the door comes off of its hinges. Fuck. He leans it back up against the body of the refrigerator, not really bothering to fix it. Maybe she wouldnât notice?Â
He takes note of her bedroom. Her worn laundry is still in the hamper, including that little get up she had on the last time she came to see him. He reaches down into it, grabbing onto the black lace underwear, and taking a deep whiff. Still smells like her, which surprisingly brings him little comfort. He knew she did her laundry every day, or else the smell alone would drive her close to insane.
He rummages through her drawers, observing that almost all of her undergarments are gone. Sheâs also missing shorts, flannels, and her hiking shoes. Okay, he thinks, perhaps sheâs just gone home for an extended period of time. Perhaps she is angry with him because of his reaction to her most recent proposition. Lord knows when sheâd be back. But he knew he could always check.Â
Leaving her apartment, her black lace underwear stuffed into the sleeve of his supesuit, he knocks on her neighbors door. He knows they are home, he can hear them. An older woman answers, her eyes wide, mouth dropped.Â
âGood evening, maâam, I was wondering if-â She passes out before she can answer.Â
Great.Â
He knocks on the other neighbor's door. He stomps his foot with impatience. His lips formed into a tight line. He crosses his arms over his chest and swallows his irritation with feigned patriotism.Â
âHello Sir, would you mind if I asked you a quick question?â
The man stammers, completely dumbfounded.
âWow! Homelander, what a wonderful surprise,â He turns to look over his shoulder. âHoney, come look! Homelander is here!â
John rolls his eyes, only to resume his pleasant expression once the imbecile turns back to meet his gaze.Â
âWhat can we do for you, Sir?â The idiot asks.Â
âWell, I actually had a question about your neighbor.â
âWhich one?â The man beams, a goofy grin on his face. His wife joins him at the door.Â
âMy God! Homelander! To what do we owe the pleasure?â
Homelander smiles back at her, nodding his head. His irritation becomes a lot more difficult to hide.Â
âYes maâam. I was actually asking your husband here a few questions about your neighbor.â
âWho, Old Emma?â The woman asks. âSheâs demented. Whatever she did, we had nothing to do with it.â
He raises an eyebrow at them, shaking his head.Â
âUhâŠno, no, not the oldâI was asking about your young neighbor. Apartment D.â
âOhhhh,â They both say simultaneously. The woman slapping her head, showing her idiocy. âWell, we donât hear much from her, right Steve?â
The man looks at his wife, nodding, turning back to John.Â
âShe in some kind of trouble? Not one of those supe terrorists, is she?â
âNo, no, God no.â
âIs everything alright? Anything we should be worried about?â
âNo, just curious about the last time you saw her.â
The couple turn to each other, scratching their heads. Visibly searching their brain for some sort of answer.Â
âMaybe a few weeks ago? Sheâs quiet. Itâs not out of the ordinary. She usually comes and goes late at night anyway.â
John sighs, nodding to them.Â
âAlright, thanks anyway. Sorry for bothering you two. Stay safe out there, okay?â
As he begins to walk away, Steve, the husband, calls after him.
âHey homelander!â John turns back to them, a flicker of hope in his eyes. âDo you mind if we get a picture?â
Kill me now. He thinks.Â
âNo, not at all!â He walks up to the two of them with open arms.Â
The two of them eat dinner every night together for a few weeks. He comes home from a long day of work, which again, he chose to do willingly. Something she still thinks is a feat in itself. He slips off his boots, and lays down on the couch. Heâll turn the TV on and flip to whatever channel is showing reruns of M.A.S.H. Although he does happen to enjoy Two And a Half Men, he was good friends with Charlie Sheen's father back in the day.
Last Tuesday she had borrowed one of Amas cookbooks, deciding on a southern style pot roast. Didnât look too hard. You just stuff everything into a crockpot, wait eight hours, and call it a night.Â
By the time he got home the house smelled heavenly, and had been obsessively deep cleaned by the freak herself. He had noticed during their time together that she had to deep clean every few days, otherwise itâd drive her up a wall, and sheâd start acting like a deranged mental case. Although regular, established, modern people would just refer to it as irritability. He will never not call her out for it, no matter how many times she tells him that upsets her.Â
Because of this interaction, his enjoyment of smelling whatever she had cooking for him would usually be cut short, ending in some ridiculous, twenty minute bicker. The two of them are equally hard-headed, and would never admit they were wrong. At this point they both give up, and begin to eat in silence, on the couch, side by side, watching some sort of movie. Finally beginning to talk normally from some obscene observation on his part. Sheâd never say it, but times like that she did find him funny.Â
He was crass, and gross, and condescending, and simply everything she thought sheâd hate in another human being. But, unfortunately, there was a part of her that found it charming. And come present day, she realized she might be sad the day he doesnât come home to bother her. Sheâd been by herself for so long, the idea of even any sort of companion drove her crazy. But she had gotten used to this. And his nightmares had gotten at least a little better to the point where she could fall asleep without headphones, and lie back, being soothed to the sound of his steady heart beat.Â
All that is short lived when she wakes up to a screech, or a shout--or something. Either way she knows it's him.Â
Typically, in this situation, or what sheâs done so far to cope, is turn on âSwan Lakeâ on her headphones. She cranks it up, rolling her eyes, and flipping over on her side. Facing away from his side of the house. But tonight, after a particularly heated conversation about the Star Wars Prequels, she can't help but feel a tinge of guilt.
She lies awake, staring at the ceiling, her box fan only doing so much to conceal his soft whimpers of misery. She gnaws on her lip, her heart aching with a sudden remorse for the oh-so-broken man that lies tortured by his own sleep. When was the last time he slept a full night? She thinks. When was the last time he woke up feeling rested? She knows he's strong as steel, and biologically augmented. He probably didnât even really need the sleep. But mental anguish? Cognitive health? She knew from her own experience that can take a toll on even the strongest of Supes. Take John, for example, even he was a loose cannon for Christ's Sake!
She sighs, standing up, and making her way into the living room. Itâs at least worth a try. She didnât even really know what to try. She was never one for comfort, even with the likes of John. Hell, she didn't even know how to expect people to comfort her!Â
He lies on the pull out bed, resting on his side. Small, innocent, puffs of air fall from his lips. He almost looks sweet like this. Like a little boy, so wholesome and demure. She's sure that won't last long when he wakes up. With this man's amount of pride, she's sure he'd have her in a chokehold for even thinking consoling him was a good idea.Â
She softly sits to the left on him, making sure to not create too much noise. Did he wake up to stuff like this? Could he sense her presence or maybe he's well equipped to military style combat even when half asleep? She definitely wasnât willing to find out.Â
Another round of his wimpers start up again. She looks around awkwardly, unsure how to go about this situation. She reaches her hand down, it hovers over his damp forehead. Heâs going to snap my wrist, she thinks, grimacing. She bites her lip in preparation. Anything to get this wild, uninhibited man to have a full night's sleep. Shit, anything to get her to have a full night's sleep!
Fuck it.Â
She begins cascading her stiff hand through his wet hair. She's moving like she doesn't have control of her arms. I look disabled, she thinks, shaking her head. It was a funny sight. If she were to tell someone she had cerebral palsy, sheâs sure they'd believe it. She snorts at that. What an awful thing to think. She had definitely been hanging around him too much.Â
He shifts over onto his back in his slumber, her hand moving away from him quickly. She eyeballs him to make sure he's not awake. His little breaths continue to puff away. She sighs in relief. She watches as he stiffens up, his whimpers bubbling from his throat again. Her eyes widen. She drops her hand back down to his scalp and begins to scrape her fingers through it. He starts to calm down. Like magic, she thinks. She shuts her eyes for a moment, suddenly desperate to feel any sort of electrical current dancing around underneath the top layer of his skull. And she does. It lights like a wildfire as his nightmare begins to calm down--
That is, until he nearly breaks her wrist, of course. He's up with a jolt, as he wraps his hand around her delicate, unaltered bones.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â He demands, her eyes going wide.
She tries pulling her arm out of his vice grip, her bones creaking under the strength of his fingers.Â
âYou were having a nightmare,â She argues, slightly embarrassed. âI was trying to help.â
He laughs at her, dropping her arm into her lap. He stands up, separating himself from her.
âOnly little boys have nightmares, and last time I fuckinâ checked, Iâm a grown man.â
âYou have kept me up every night for a week now.â
âWhat happened to your phoneheads?â He demands. âThose keep you from hearing things.â
She rolls her eyes at him. Hearing things. Whatever gets you to sleep at night, pal. Which was, obviously, nothing.Â
âThey are uncomfortable.â
âYeah? Well, Iâm uncomfortable when you come and caress me in my sleep-â He stops himself, thinking about that statement for a second. Well, maybe not that kind of caressing. Â
âYouâre perverted.â She already knows exactly what he's thinking.
âAnd you don't listen. How many times do I have to tell you I dont have fuckinâ shell shock?â
She shrugs, âYouâre gonna have to keep telling me, because thirty years of captivity seems like itâd do a lot to a guy.â
âYeah, well, maybe to one of those pussy desert storm vets. Those are the ones who were left fucking half-retarded.â
She stands up, scoffing, brushing past him, and walking back into her room.
âYou liked it,â She states. âIt shut you right up.â
He stares at her.
âBut okay, tough guy, I won't do it again.â
He looks down at his feet, kicking at the floor. âGood, glad we're on the same page.â He says.
She closes the door on him.Â
John has been sitting in Vought Security for the past four hours trying to find any surveillance he could of her quiet escape. He just wanted to make sure she really did go home. That she wasnât flaking out on him. That she wasnât abandoning him. Not that he cared or anythingâŠ
âDoesnât she have a tendency to take out security cameras?â The young intern asks.Â
He had stolen her from her minor duties as a security assistant. She wasnât even sure what she was doing.
âYes, but donât you think weâd at least see her take them out?â
âYes Sir, but if she left, then Iâm sure we would have seen her leave by now.â
âDonât question me. Filter through the next hour, Iâm sure weâre almost there.â He breathes down her neck as he hunches over, getting himself closer to the screen to see.
And anyone could have missed it, but he didnât. There goes her shitty old car, flashing past the screen.
âThere,â He shouts. âGo back, pause it.â
The young girl sighs, rewinding the footage, and stopping on the blurry still of the car.
âThere she is,â He smiles, âNow where the fuck are you headed?â
The two of them sit there for another hour as they watch her car travel from camera to camera across the city. That is until she reaches a big dumpster behind some shitty supermarket on the outskirts of Queens.
The camera on the lamp post that recorded this had to be at least twenty years old. It looks like it had been filmed on a fucking microwave.
âIs there any way we can make this image clearer?â He asks, gesturing to the screen.
The young intern shrugs, pressing some buttons, and filtering out at least a little bit of the grain.
âItâs not much better,â She sighs.
He pats her shoulder, she goes stiff, ready for this loose cannon to fire any second.
âThis works.â He states, yanking her out of the seat and taking her place.
He gets obnoxiously close to the screen, squinting his eyes, and watches as Freak throws something into the trash can.
âIs that a body?â The intern gasps in horror.
John rolls his eyes, âNo, it's not a fucking body.â
He begins to rub at his chin, â...At least, I donât think soâŠâ
The girl reaches over his shoulder, clicking a few buttons, then walks over to the printer and hands him the location.
âThis is where this camera is located. I doubt whatever she threw out is still in there, but it's worth a try, I guess.â
âWow, thank you so much for your input that I definitely did not ask for.â
Deadpan. The girl would rather him put her out of her misery by this point. They stare each other down pathetically for a moment, before he shoos her away to go about the rest of her day.Â
He waits for the young girl to leave. Sighing as he turns back to the screen, he watches as Freak hops back in her car and drives off. He keeps the speed of the footage up, and only a few seconds later does he spot a homeless man walking over to the dumpster. He pauses the video quickly, putting it back into real time. The homeless man looks around suspiciously, before launching himself over the side of the dumpster.
John is at the edge of his seat. Please, Christ. He thinks. He begs. Anything that will get him on her trail.Â
After a few minutes, the homeless man pops his head back out. He hops back onto the ground, something shiny under his arm. Maybe a laptop, he thinks. He follows the man on nearby security cameras until he reaches a pawn shop. The man is in there for a good five minutes before he walks back out, envelope in hand. He immediately walks next door and into the liquor store. Typical.
This is worth a try, John thinks. Although, this was recorded over a month ago. Even if it was sold, he's sure they wouldn't mind giving him the information on who bought it. I mean, he is the Homelander for Christ's sake.Â
With that in mind, and location of the pawn shop in hand, he makes his way out of Vought Security, and then launches himself out of the tower. Heâd find her. Even if it was the last thing heâd do.
They didnât talk for two days after the nightmare fiasco. Heâd come home to a dark house. She was either asleep, or hanging out with Ama until late. She never told her what really happened, just that his senile ass was getting on her nerves.Â
All the young adults on the res had plans to go out on friday night. He didnât really know what that meant. Partying wasnât like it used to be, and he isnât sure if he would even like to party at all.Â
âYou coming tonight?â Asher asks, taking a drag off a cigarette.
He and Ben lean up against a brick wall outside of the diner that they all frequent for lunch.Â
âWhatâs it weâre doing exactly?â Ben asks, pulling a cigarette out of his pack and up to his lips.
âIt's like a bar honkey-tonk.â
âA honkey tonk?â Ben grimaces.
âIt ainât too bad, they barely play any country, either. Usually old classics, disco, that kind of thing.â Asher adds.
âOld classicsâŠwhat the hell does that even mean?â
Asher laughs. Ama and Freak had ended up telling the rest of the young people on the res about Ben. Who he was. Why she broke him out. What the plan would be come summer.
A lot of them were hesitant at first, and for good reason. The Soldier Boy they knew had not necessarily been too kind to them. He understood their resistance for acceptance. Hell, he didn't even really want to be talking to these people anyway. The further they stay away, the better. But, of course, that wasnât how it seemed to work. Everyone had been harassing him about stories from the past. Hell, he was once the most famous man in the world at the time.Â
âOld classicsâŠ80âs and under.â
â80âs and under?â Ben gapes. âSpare me.â
âYour version of old music is whatâŠBeethoven live?â
Ben shakes his head, laughing.
âFuck you,â He drags from his smoke. âSo old music, drinking, and dancing?â
âThink you can handle that, old man?âÂ
âWeâll see.â
Asher finishes his cigarette, dropping it to the ground, and crushing it with his foot.
âThere will be some girls there too, Iâm sure. Plenty for you to choose from.â
With Ama and Freaks' admission about who Ben really was, also came everyone knowing that the two of them werenât really together. He didnât mindâŠOr, at least he didnât think so. A few days after they let everyone know, Ben watched one of Amaâs brothers pull Freak off to the side of the outdoor pavilion. He rested his arm above her head and looked down at her with a glowing admiration. Soft, big puppy dog eyes, doing what they do best. A look she seemed to send right back to him in return. She had never looked at him like that.
Did he even want her to? He swallowed that feeling down before he let himself answer.Â
âIâm a little rusty. Iâll come out for a little while and then turn in.â Ben sighs, still smoking on his cigarette.
âYour choice.â Asher shrugs, beginning to walk back inside the diner.
In theory it would probably be best for Ben's mental health to at least try to stay out later. Be social. Did he have to talk to women? No. These were baby steps. He could stay out, drink with the few friends heâs made, and listen to songs that made him feel comfortable. Think back to the good times. Hell, he might even get to see Freak let loose.Â
â...Christ on a crossâŠâ He lets out a heavy groan. He had almost forgotten about what happened a few nights ago. There's no way sheâd be going out, he thinks. And even if she did, she sure as hell wouldnât get anywhere near him.Â
He felt bad for his reaction to her sweet gesture. How it was purely innocent, and kind. Something he rarely saw from her. She wasnât cold-- well, not really. It was more like the idea of letting herself become comfortable with someone was, shocker, uncomfortable. His response to the situation ended up making him look weaker than what he was afraid of. He was acting like a little boy terrified of catching cooties.
He had always considered himself to be an open book, because to him there wasnât much to be open about. He didnât have any feelings that werenât manly, and if he did, they were suppressed by bouts of irrational anger and rage. Reactions which he's sure led to his existence as a lab rat for thirty years.Â
He was cold to all of Payback, especially Noir, who was always agreeable and pure. And even to Countess, who he claims he loved. No man would ever treat a woman they cared about that deeply with such discontent and hatred. He acted like she made him sick. Heâs sure he had even slapped her around a few times. But he was so arrogant, and she wasnât built like regular women. He thought she could take it. She was strong. She needed that treatment. She needed that to be stronger.Â
In reality, his behavior all led him right back to his father. To his silver spoon childhood. His father, who was a disgrace. His father, who was unfair and disgustingly evil. His father, who was everything he turned out to be. Ben's personality was purely the result of mistreatment. Of parental negligence. Of deep rooted insecurity. Worst part is, he knows that now. He's been having to live with it. Heâs been having to deal with these weird, foreign, repressed emotions. Ones that bubble to the surface as a short temper that's taken out on another broken human being who doesnât deserve it.Â
He remembers dinner with her about a week ago. She was freshly showered so her hair was dripping wet, making a little puddle on the floor. The back of her shirt damp, and sticking to her skin. She was ridiculously shiny, which was the result of some face mask from the nearby pharmacy. It smelled like blueberries, and heâs sure she could tell. Most definitely an overpowering mixer with their steaming plate of macaroni and cheese. She grimaced as she took a bite.Â
âYou put a lot of effort into yourself for a girl whoâs so set on dying.â He says, breaking the silence. He had been refering to her planned suicide mission in the coming weeks.Â
She widened her eyes at him, setting her fork down, and reaching over to take a sip of her water. She had been exhausted that day. There had been a big music festival thirty miles down in one of the valleys. That's all she had heard and felt for the past twelve hours. A little self care is what she needed. Anything to treat her pounding headache, and sore muscles.Â
âI would've done it a long time ago if I wasnât so set on revenge.â She stated, rubbing the sides of her temples with her fingers.Â
He shakes his head, putting his fork down.
âYou canât let these people have such power over you.â He argued.
âIâm too tired to have this conversation right now.â She sighs.
She pokes around her plate with her fork, resting one side of her head on her hand. He watches her as she mopes.
âYâknow, sometimes people in my blast zones donât even die they justâŠend up losing whatever fucked up thing the V did to their DNA.â He tries to act nonchalant about it.
She looked up at him. It was a sweet gesture, she thought. He obviously didnât think she was worthy of dying. Worthy of throwing her entire tortured life away. He was willing to help her find an alternative to her suffering. The question was whether or not she was willing to do that. And at this point, she didn't think so.Â
âBen, itâs a nice gesture, really.â She smiles weakly.
She had always thought she was one of those people who were born to die. Like her whole purpose in life was death. That her existence had a deeper meaning, and that she wouldn't die in vain. Sheâd die in sacrifice. In the way she wanted to. She thought it was beautiful that she would be the final factor in her demise. That cancer, or John, or Vought, or an atomic bomb--any outside source wouldnât have the ability to take control of her ultimate cessation.Â
âWe can keep you at a close distance so you wouldn't get hurt. Itâd be quick, and you wouldnât have to worry about shit like today anymore.â He sounded excited almost.
âThis thing that V gave me, I hate it,â She starts. âBut I wouldnât know how to live without it, either.â
He nodded along. That he understands.Â
âLike today for example; the ground is shaking, I feel it everywhere. It gives me a headache, raises my blood pressure. And the sound, the fact I can hear the bass from thirty miles away. I mean, to say my ears are ringing is an understatement. But, at the same time, the way I experience music is an incredible gift. I can hear chords and choruses and notes and keys--things machines couldnât even be able to pick upâŠWithout this curse, I would be just an empty shell. I wouldn't know how to live. So I guess, maybe the real curse, is just continuing to exist, compound V or not.â
By the time John gets to the pawn shop it had already been closed for thirty minutes. He lands just as the shopkeeper is locking up for the night. The manâs coat flies up from the force of John's arrival. He jumps in response. He turns to face him, John already putting on a shit eating, manufactured smile. The man freezes, dropping all of his belongings on the ground.
âHow are you this beautiful evening, Sir?â It had been raining all day.
The man stammers, searching for some sort of coherent response. John grits his teeth. Deep breaths. He goes out of his way to continue the conversation.Â
âIâm looking for something that may have come through in your shop, do you mind if I have a look?â
âI-I-IâŠâAlmost there, itâs nearly out. âIâve just closed up for the night Sir, can this not wait until m-morning?â
Sorry--wait until morning? Does this absolute fucking imbecile retarded fucking moron not understand who hes talking to? John stalks up closer to him, the shopkeeper trembling enough to drop his keys onto the ground. John watches them as they fall, only to turn back up to the man.
âYou gonna pick those up?â John asks, cornering him.
âUh, y-yes sir.â The man stutters, squatting down and picking up his keys.Â
âGood job,â John praises. âNow, are you going to unlock this door and let me inside or am I going to have to force my way in myself?â
The man audibly swallows, turning back to the knob and unlocking the door with an old, rusted key. When the door opens John is hit with a waft of moth balls, old cigarettes, and dust. God this place was a slum. Who the hell would buy anything from there and expect it to be any quality higher than dog shit?
âAre you looking for anything in particular, Sir?â
John scans the room. There is furniture; some old and ripped, some newer and draped in red velvet. There is a section for jewelry, he's sure none of it is real. There is silver, china, guns, knives, japanese art, again, definitely not real.
âDo you have any electronics?â
The man gestures down in front of him. There is a glassed case that houses a few flip phones, a handful of Blackberryâs, some walkie talkies, and, Ah, laptops.
âWe actually just got in a few new flip phones, Sir,â The man leans in closer, looking around, speaking under his breath. âIncluding a first generation keypad Nokia.â
John snorts, shaking his head. Unbelievable.Â
âIâm actually looking for a laptop.â
The man takes a deep breath, âAw man, we just sold our last one today. Microsoft Windows I think.â
John feels himself getting agitated. Heâs sure he can no longer hide the look of discontent on his face.Â
âSo, no apple computers then?âÂ
âN-no, unfortunately not, sir.â The man swallows hard again.
John takes note of his blood pressure. One-eighty over ninety. He must be hiding something. He begins to laugh at the man.
âWhat was your name?â John asks.
âA-Akash.â He stutters, his palms beginning to sweat.
John could smell it.
âOkay, Akash,â John leans in closer, grabbing him by the collar. âI know an apple computer came through here a few weeks ago. And Iâm gonna assume by the pounding of your heart rate that you bought it off of some homeless guy for thirty dollars and some change.â
Akash nods, beads of perspiration forming at the top of his hairline.Â
âAnd Iâm gonna bet that since you got such a good deal on a new, nice laptop, that you decided you were gonna keep it yourself. Is that right?â
Akash squeaks something, but John can hardly understand him due to his crushing vice grip.
âSorry, what was that?â John says, pulling Akash up closer to his face, his feet hovering off the ground.
âY-yes!â Akash cries, âP-please, Homelander, I have a family at home. Take whatever you want!â
âWhere's the laptop?â He asks.
The man points down to his briefcase.
She stands in the kitchen, doing her makeup in the reflection of the microwave. She likes the natural lighting. She turns around, reaching to grab the controller, and turning the TV on. The New York news station is reporting about some Pawn Shop that caught on fire. Good, she thinks. As long as it has nothing to do with Ben. She's relieved to know that the two of them continue to be white noise.Â
And ugh, speaking of Ben, she prays he won't be going out tonight. Maybe heâll continue to be antisocial and isolate himself at home, watching reruns of âHappy Daysâ, and snorting mountains of benzos. She's tired of getting them for him.Â
After she finishes up on her mascara, she walks back into her room and slips on her dress for the evening. It's black, tight, vintage Guess. She had gotten it from the consignment store the other day. Everyone had planned on going to dinner first, but most of the guys had a long day. They would rather go home and relax, and then go back out later in the evening. The club had alright bar food anyway. Well, at least from what she can remember.Â
Smoothing out the edges of her dress with delicate hands, she sits back down on her bed, and turns on the TV. Waiting for when everyone was ready to go out. Sheâd rather be ready early than having to scramble during an already stressful evening. She hadnât gone out in ages.Â
As she settles back onto the pillow, she hears the front door creak open. She goes still, hoping he won't come in to bother her. He doesnât, just goes to hop right into the shower. He must be going out then, she thinks. And if he is, there is absolutely no way he's leaving after her. She will be fashionably late. He can happily go early and hopefully turn in before midnight like the old man he is. Anything to guarantee avoiding an unwanted interaction.Â
She's still and silent as she listens to him get ready. Her TV on mute. Her face heats up as she hears the familiar zipper of his jeans. She had gotten used to hearing that everyday. He clears his throat, keys jingling as he shoves them into his pocket. The clock on the wall now read 9:03. People would slowly start to turn up at the bar.Â
Suddenly his phone rings, the one that she got him from Wamart. It was a cheap flip phone that had minutes. He still didnât understand how any grown man is ever able to type on the tiny little keypad. His whole fingertip takes up half the screen.
âYeah?â He answers, opening the front door and walking outside. It was Asher. âIâm leaving nowâŠNo, I donât know if she's comingâŠWell tell Ama to call her thatâs not my fuckin problem.â
She hears Tough Guyâs big ass truck pull up outside of the house. It growls as it comes to a quick stop on the gravel drive. He hops in, hanging up the phone as he does so.Â
Thats not my fuckin problem. What an asshole.Â
She bolts up after that phone exchange. Her skin was hot. She was embarrassed. Why the hell is he acting like this whole situation was her fault? All she was doing was trying to help him! She stomps over to the floor mirror, reaching for the ties on the back of her dress. She pulls it tight so her waist cinches in significantly. She reaches over to her makeup bag again, adding a load of eyeliner and an even thicker layer of mascara. Popping off the lid to her perfume, she drenches herself in it, making sure to get all of the parts any man would love to smell. The places that catch in the wind, only to make their breaths catch in their throats.Â
What was this going to do for her? What sort of gratification was she wanting here? Is this her way of getting back at him for being a piece of shit? By acting like a slut and taunting him with something he couldn't have? Maybe. Sheâs sure it might work. Sheâs sure it would do something. Even if he didnt feel that way about her. The fact that she was letting loose and having so much fun without him.Â
But what if this made him angry? What if this backfires and he blows the whole place to the fucking ground with everyone still in it? Or worse, what if he decided to back out? He says âfuck you, and fuck the family,â and leaves in a cloud of dust? Sheâd really be fucked then. Well, her rational brain wasn't thinking tonight anyway. She grabs her keys off the console and says fuck it.Â
The car ride there was hot, and sweaty. Tough Guys AC in his car had stopped working and he was too tired to fix it. Although he must've been 200 more pounds than Ben, he wasnât blessed with the likes of Compound V. That shit made him a human heater. They had the windows rolled down, which made everyones hair look fucking crazy.
Once they make it to the bar, all the guys hop out of the car. The place is buzzing with people. All different ethnicities too, which surprised him to say the least. Youâd think the rednecks would've ran these people out of town by this point, he thinks. One thing everyone had in common though, almost all of them were wearing cowboy boots. Ben felt significantly out of place, and not just because he was a century older.Â
The inside of the club is blasting âStayinâ Aliveâ by the Bee Gees when they walk in. Okay, he could get behind that. In the center of the dance floor is a good amount of people, mostly couples or groups of girls. Some of the couples were grinding up and down on each other. It was inappropriate beyond gross proportions. I mean, some of these girls were literally rubbing themselves on these guys' thighs. The older crowd, anywhere between 40 and 70, stood by the bar, watching the dance floor. A lot of them were grimacing, although slightly amused by the ridiculous display of affection. Feeling the same way about it that Ben was. There were high top tables over there, one of them just freeing up as they headed over. The four of them wrap around the table, looking around for their friends.Â
âIâll go look for the other guys.â Tough Guy says, they all nod at him.
Asher looks around, craning his neck, searching for his girlfriend.Â
âAh, there she is,â He says. âJust in time.â
The music changes in the club âWhoâs That Ladyâ By The Isley Brothers coming on. Ben turns his head to follow Asher. Ama and the rest of the girls begin to walk in the door. Perfect timing for this song, he thinks--And then his breath catches in his throat.
She walks in behind the rest of them, sticking out like a sore thumb. Girls like her beelong on the silver screen. They belong in films. On the cover of magazines. In art museums hanging up on a wall surrounded by a sea of onlookers taking her picture. She is it. She is money. She is light. She is so radiant in that tight, black dress he thinks the whole place quiets down when she walks in. Okay, he was not expecting that.Â
The herd of girls say hello to him as they walk up to the bar. He nods, not paying attention. His eyes glued to the sight across the room. Adohi, the guy that had her up against the pavilion the other day, saunters towards her, two drinks in his hand. He passes her one, she accepts it happily, leaning in to give him a hug.Â
âI'm surprised you could make it!â He yells over the music, she grimaces.
What an idiot, he thinks. Who the hell would forget that about her?
âSorry,â Adohi says, rubbing the back of his neck. âIâm just surprised you can even handle the music.â
She smiles at him, gesturing towards a pair of earplugs. She knew they didn't do much. But, those plus the gifts of alcohol made it much easier for her to tolerate. Once she got drunk enough her body would end up feeding on the sensation of the bass through the floor. She downs the drink quickly at the realization. Then starts sauntering over to the bar.Â
She catches him in her peripheral, not daring to look at him. She knew where he was sitting the moment they pulled up. His heartbeat was so unique, it was easy to spot even from a mile away.Â
âFreak,â He calls. Fuck. She wasnât expecting that.
She looks over her shoulder quickly, not stopping her pursuit towards the bar.
âHey,â She says, sounding completely uninterested. She said it in a way that you talk to someone whose name you don't remember. She is ice cold. Leaving him frowning on the chair.
Ouch, he thinks. This was going to be harder than he thought. Good thing he's persistent.
Throughout the span of the next few hours the both of them had their fair share of drinks. Ben was buzzed, and so was she. Not to the point where the two of them were incapacitated, but enough so the room was brighter, and they were significantly happier than they were the moment they walked in.
The two of them stood at opposite ends of the club all night. Both stealing glances, pretending that they didnât catch the other one looking. She made it obvious she was putting on a show. Dancing with Adohi provocatively when any sensual songs came on. Ben gave up on moving slowly with women about an hour ago. After she had her first dance with Adohi. Currently, Ben sits at the bar leaned into a woman's ear. He has her howling with laughter, his hand resting on the small of her back.Â
Ama and Asher watch from the entrance of the club after going outside for a smoke break. You could cut the tension in the room with a knife. It was embarrassing, and immature, to say the least. These were two grown adults acting like petty teenagers to get back at each other for the sake of their own pride. They had had enough.Â
Ama stomps over to Freak, who was currently grinding on Adohi on the dance floor. She was flushed and sweaty, her hair poofed up from the humidity within the club.Â
Ama grabs her arm, âMind if I steal her for a minute?â She asks.
Freak gives her a what the fuck look, as Ama drags her off to the bathroom.
âSorry, I didnât want to go alone.â She says, blatantly lying.
âCouldnât you tell I was in the middle of something?â She asks as the two of them walk through the bathroom door.Â
âYeah, exactly why I pulled you out of it.â Ama pulls them into a bathroom stall. It's small enough where their feet are on top of each other.
âI was having a good time.â Freak argues.
âAdohi is three years younger than you and has a heart murmur, there is no way you are dancing with him because you want to.â
âI am so.â She crosses her arms over her chest.
âYou are not,â Ama argues, looking down at the time on her phone. âOkay, one second.â
Ama reaches up and ruffles Freaks hair. Making it sexier, messier, voluminous. Then she takes her thumbs and drags them under her eyes, wiping away the running mascara.
âDidnât your mom ever teach you about waterproof?â Ama teases.
âI don't have a mom.â Says Freak plainly.
Right, Ama thinks. She then reaches to unlock the bathroom door and pulls them back out.
âHey, I thought you had to go to the bathroom!â
Ama drags them both out onto the dancefloor, the familiar intro of âHow Deep Is Your Loveâ beginning to play from the speaker.
âIt, uh, went away?â Ama says, looking around for Asher.
He sees him coming towards her, and just as Barry Gibb begins to start singing, Ama pushes Freak into Asher, who pushes Ben into her. The two of them running into each other. Out of habit, Ben wrapped his hand around her back to steady her. Having no idea who it was at first. They both stare at each other for a minute, not knowing what to say. It would be too immature and awkward if the other decided to just storm off, leaving the other one alone.
Looking around, all the other couples slowly start to slow dance with each other. A new one coming off of the side lines and onto the floor every few seconds. Freak eyeballs him, then slowly lifts up her arms and onto his shoulders. Not looking him in the eye. In fact, she looks everywhere but him. The ceiling was interesting this evening.
He rolls his eyes at her. He was so sick of her acting like a little teenage girl. Although, he thinks he's no better. The two of them dance in silence until the song is almost over.Â
âIâm sorry,â He says suddenly, breaking the tension. âIâm sorry for all of it.â
She blinks at him, tilting her head to the side. She wasnât expecting that to come from him so easily.Â
âI was just- It was- I havenâtâŠâ He trips over his tongue trying to find the right words to say.Â
He takes a deep breath, looking her in her eyes.Â
The song switches to âYou Make Me Feel So Youngâ By Frank Sinatra. They usually played Frank this time of night before the older couples decided to turn in.
âIâm an asshole, and Iâve always been an asshole. And I know that now and Iâm trying to be kinder and to adapt but I donât know what to do or what to say or how to even existâŠâ He trails off, looking over to the side of the club.
âI get it,â She says, smiling softly. He turns back to her as she continues âI have a hard time feeling like a real person too.â
He looks down at her outfit, his voice getting quieter, his eyes becoming heavy.
You make me feel so young
You make me feel there are songs to be sung
Bells to be rung
And a wonderful fling to be flung
âYou look so beautiful.â He says.
âThank you,â She says, her eyes watering, her throat dry.
She doesnât think anyone has ever said that to her in her life.
He thinks he's never said it and meant it before in his whole life. Not until now. This was the first time in his life he's ever felt it. The first time in a hundred years. When he looked into the eyes of someone and had the answers to every question heâs ever asked.Â
And even when I'm old and gray
I'm gonna feel the way I do today
'Cause you make me feel so young
âIâm sorry,â He starts, resting his forehead on hers. âThis is the closest to home Iâve ever felt. Iâm such an asshole.â
She looks up into his eyes with a misty glimmer, a devious gaze. One that holds the whole world within it. A soul pouring out into another. And he caught all of it in the palm of his hands.
She leans up and places a gentle kiss on his lips. Heâs reluctant at first, but slowly begins to smile into it.
This felt like home.
Masterlist | Taglist | Episode 7
Taglist: @sl33pylilbunny @Lanassmarty @Sydneyyyya @1-800shootmeplease@muhahaha303@nancymcl@speedyrebelfan@ghh05ttt@agentorange9595@let-me-luve-you @peachytits @darkdahl @deans-spinster-witch @soggybasementfries @ladysparkles78 @madamthemoo @lyarr24@sadlittlecountess @mickaelly007 @mrscountryclub @vtheoneandonly @decadentanchorwerewolf @wonderland2022@buckybarnes-1917@rebeccathefangirl@daisy-the-quake @tiredbibi @greyish-wallpaper@previousloversandmuses@is-this-a-febreze-commercial@justrealizedimmascifygurl@broimamy@freewastelandstrawberry@breadsgalore@savagemickey03@franblaq6466@lustendreams@atinylittlebee @VtheOneandOnly
#homelander smut#homelander x reader#soldier boy#soldier boy smut#soldier boy x reader#homelander#jensen ackles#soldier boy fanfic#soldier boy the boys#jensen ackles x reader#soldier boy oneshot#the boys fanfic#the boys#jensen ackles smut#frequency: a soldier boy story
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One Step Ahead (Yandere! Russia x Reader)
Warnings: Yandere behavior, implied kidnapping.Â
Anonymous Request: Can i req one shot about yandere russia accidentally met his runaway darling (that escape 2 days ago) on train and what his next move
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You should have run when you had the chance.Â
Years ago, when you had first met Russia, you had been just as nervous as the rest of your coworkers upon introduction. It was hard not to freeze up and back away at the very sight of himâover six feet tall and with a presence that demanded respect and attention. Even if you had exchanged minimal pleasantries, you felt your heart seize in your throat at the thought of continued conversation.Â
That day, you vowed to never get on his bad side.Â
However, while first impressions may have colored your perceptions of him at first, you found that Russia was a rather hilarious person once you got used to his blunt nature and dark humor. Witty and well read, whenever the both of you found each other alone (rare occasions, but you found yourself looking forward to them), Russia would give you battered books filled with his homelandâs poetry. Under hushed breath as other Nations milled around the room with political favors and current events in mind, Russia would translate bits and pieces of his favorite poems.Â
Pushkin, Pasternak, Nabakov.
Krylov, Lermonov, Yesenin.
Derieva, Dushkova, Ivinskaya.Â
You would have never known this had you not given Russia a chance, but his voice was comforting and soft. The way he would read in his native tongue first was to immerse you into his homelandâs most precious written words. Afterwards, as you would roll around the syllables and hushed breaths in your mind to try and recall the correct translation, he would gently transition into your native tongue. At first, his attempts were clumsy, but to know that he was willing to translate his most famous poetry into a tongue that wasnât refined as his, filled you with warmth. Even as he apologized for his stumbling grammar and tenuous grasp on your vocabulary, you found yourself endeared.Â
In time, you also began toting around books of poetry from your homeland. Like him, you would start with a hushed, reverent tone in your own tongue before transitioning into his native Russian. Before long, these private poetry sessions extended from the short breaks in meetings to scheduled rendezvous that could take you from cute cafes to expensive restaurants.Â
Your other Nation friends were somewhat amused, but wary of the Russianâs intentions. Yet, they noted that your abilities to speak in the Slavâs tongue was becoming more fluent rather than practical. Furthermore, the interest in his culture and prolific bodies of literature had gone from professional curiosity to something bordering on close friendship. Yes, you had told your closest friends and colleagues, in the political arena Russia was a foe not to be ignored, but as a person who needed companionship just as anyone else? He was just a man.Â
What you didnât expect from such a man, was the treatment that followed afterward.Â
Perhaps if you werenât so loud about your friendship with Russia, if your friends hadnât been so keen on butting into your affairs⊠Maybe if you had decided not to indulge in Russian poetry from the very beginning, you could have escaped without any hard feelings.Â
The fact of the matter was this:Â
Russia could be kind, but he had the choice to strip you away from everything you held dear.Â
Russia could be gentle, but he also had the capacity for cruelty far beyond your imagination.Â
Russia could have courted you and you would not have been the wiser had it not been for the fact that he felt slighted by your words.Â
Did you not realize that after all the time spent with him that you could no longer be friends? Russia loved his literature beyond anything else in the world? The words of his patriots had uplifted not only his hearts, but also the souls of countless citizens living in his lands. Just because you were a fellow Nation that happened to stay with him during breaks in meetings didnât mean that he would read to them about poetry and provide a translation in the language that most reminded them of home.Â
No.
He only did that for you because you were special.Â
Could you see him doing that for Lithuania? For America? For China?
You were special and he reserved that title just for you. How dare you throw that back in his face and claim that you were merely friends!
So, Russia took you.Â
He hid you away in the depths of his wintry lands and away from prying eyes. From time to time, you would move from different abodes, from dacha to dacha, region to region. There was not one moment that you would be allowed to head back to your homeland, not without Russiaâs permission at least.Â
On one evening, after a few weeks of getting used to living near one of his cities, you finally got the courage to sneak out and board a train. It had taken some time, quick thinking, and gentle persuasion, but you had done it. Preparation had been tricky, but you managed to score a rucksack with a number of practical articles of clothing, documentation that proved that you were the representative of your home, and money. A part of you felt bad for stealing the money, but at this point, it was either you would go home or not at all.
And to many Nations who had the misfortune to be taken away to another Nationâs household, that was basically imprisonment and a one way road to a slow, but painful existence. It was rare for Nations to die when withheld for too long from their native soil, but it wasnât unheard of.Â
(It was a good thing that regeneration was available. However, it wasnât exactly viable because it was a lengthy process that took up too much energy).
After two days of alternating from trekking around on foot and hitchhiking, you finally boarded a train. The platform was densely crowded, the packed bodies talking to each other about their plans and other inane chatter. You paid them no mind. Amidst the crowd, you were sure to be invisible.Â
Finally, after what seemed like an inordinately long amount of time, you and the crowd began to head inside. Lugging your rucksack on your back, you passed by several compartments until you reached one that was empty. Inside, you took note of the available amenities before settling yourself onto the bed. While you had initially felt bad about the money that you took, you wanted revenge. Was booking the most expensive overnight train petty and dangerous? Probably, but after the torture Russia had put you through, you thought that it was appropriate.Â
The worst that Russia could do once you were finally back home was to make accusations and point fingers. International incidents were supposed to be the product of human affairs, what Nations did between themselves on a purely personal level was up to the parties involved.Â
Content now that you were on your way to nearest neighboring country who could help you, you unpacked a few of your essentials and began to settle in for the night.Â
You were finally free.Â
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Russia was a patient man.Â
Not many people knew that, but while he was quick to anger, he let the rage freeze and crystallize in his veins, the shards of ice hardening his heart. It had been a while since someone had incurred his wrath quite like this, but he knew from the telltale signs of his political aides and secretary shying away from him, that his temper was slowly bleeding into his normally personable disposition. If he was feeling charitable, he would have felt sympathetic, but at the thought of his lover traipsing away in the dead of night without so much as a goodbye, but with at least two monthsâ worth of his salary in their hands, he thought himself justified when he yelled at his secretary for their inefficient organization.Â
Today, he was to board a train and attend a conference in his capital city. While he would rather search for his dearest lover, he knew that this meeting had to take top priority. If any of his neighbors or God forbid America found out that not only had he kidnapped one of their fellow Nations but also lost them⊠Russia was always ready for an altercation, but he would rather not have a repeat of the Cold War.Â
As many of his citizens and a number of tourists gathered on the platform, he kept himself preoccupied at the very back of the crowd nearest to the train station. He arrived fifteen minutes early, keen on keeping to his appointment and knowing that if he stayed a moment longer, his volatile energy would have caused the humans under his direct command to be more skittish than usual. Poor things, them.
As he glanced up from his phone, his eyes scanned the growing crowd. Young children tagged along with their adult companions while a few couples mingled and held each other. At the sight, Russia felt his heart harden once more, the ice in veins refusing to melt even as he heard someone whisper about their plans for a future date. Moments before Russia could tune out the rest of the world, his eyes caught sight of a particular person who tried to keep themselves in the very middle of the crowd.
Now, normally this sort of person would have escaped Russiaâs notice long before now, but he couldnât help but stare.Â
That rucksack.Â
That coat.Â
The stance.Â
The figure underneath that heavy coat that was meant to conceal height and width.
Could it be�
Suddenly, the crowd began surging forward onto the train, the person that Russia was observing followed suit. Hurriedly, Russia pushed forward, neglecting to act the part of a polite politician as he carelessly bumped into the humans who dared to get in his way. Had they no idea that they were in the presence of a Nation on a mission?
Woe to those who thought it prudent to demand recompense for his actions.
And hell to the rest of the train if he found out that the person he was tailing was not his beloved.
Close as a shadow, but not so close as to arouse suspicion, Russia trailed behind the figure. At this point, when he saw the person walking in the same rhythm as his lover, when he heard them mutter something under their breath, and when he paid careful attention to the rucksack on their back, he knew it was them. It had to be!
When his lover rounded the corner and faced their compartment door, Russia took note of the number and placement, carefully withdrawing from the area before his lover could see him.Â
As he steadied the heavy beating of his heart, Russia flexed his large hands within his woolen gloves. He was feeling poetic and emotional, but he thought that the ice that froze his blood was steadily melting.Â
He felt alive again.
But, if he were to have you in his arms again, he would truly be free.
As he strode back to his assigned compartment, he unlocked his phone and began contacting certain people and Nations for a few favors.Â
You had missed out on last nightâs poetry session. Perhaps you should rectify that, no?
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DISCLAIMER: I do not condone yandere behavior outside of fictional settings. Please donât mistake the actions of fictional characters displayed in works of fiction to be considered harmless in real life.
If you want to donate a Ko-Fi, feel free https://ko-fi.com/devintrinidad.
HETALIA AXIS POWERS/WORLD SERIES MASTERLIST
#hetalia#hetalia axis powers#hetalia world series#hws#aph#hws russia#aph russia#x reader#gender neutral reader#yandere#yandere character#yandere behavior#yandere hetalia x reader#yandere russia#yandere russia x reader#dearestones#devintrinidad
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Patriot Games
Defacing Lady Liberty
18+
1,375 words || Dubious Consent, Stalking, Obsession, Handjob, Exhibitionism, Desecration of a Landmark, Alcoholism, Aftercare if you squint, Patriotlander, Referenced CPTSD, Referenced Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Referenced Child Neglect, Not Beta Read ||
Dividers by cafekitsune
âYou keep doing that, and youâll rip it off.â
Homelander closes his eyes, his jaw tightens and his hand stills. Of course, sheâd find him; the bitch had the same powers as he did.
She was like a bloodhound, purposely sniffing him out to come and anger him for fun.
And of all the moments she could have chosen, it would have been when he was relieving stress while standing on the Statue of Liberty. It was not the most respectful endeavour, but he needed to be alone. He needed time to think and, more importantly, rid himself of the tension in his body.
âYou need to be gentle here; let me show you.â
He sucks in a breath when he feels her hand wrap around his cock, moving slowly at first while she finds a rhythm. Whimpers build in his throat, her other arm sneaking around his waist as her body presses against his back, making him feel hotter.
âI never thought the Homelander would be so disrespectful,â she coos. âOr maybe he has a crush on ladies of liberation. Either way, Iâm here now; Iâll look after you.â
Sheâs teasing him with long, languid strokes, ignoring how his hips move with purpose, in desperate need of release so sheâll go away.
Just relax, tiger, and let her take care of you; thatâs what sheâs here for.
Of course, his inner voice would say that - thereâs some connection between them.
But he doesnât know what it isâat least, not yet. Heâs been digging and trying to find any dirt on Patriot, whose real name is Jolene Godwin. Yet all he finds is information already readily available. Thereâs something sheâs trying to hide, and heâs determined to find it out.
âYou enjoy tuning me out. It can't be because I'm ugly, so it must be something else.â
I canât stand you.
Her other hand strokes down his abdomen, coming to rest on his naked hip, those perfectly manicured fingers digging into his flesh, making him hiss. Pleasure will always come with pain, whether inflicted on him or her.
âYou can do whatever the fuck you want,â she whispers, her lips pressed to his ear, sending shivers down his spine. âAnd theyâll all love you.â
The words warp his brain - it's one thing to say it himself, but to hear it come from those cherry-red lips is perverse and obscene, an affront to God himself.
But the only man in the sky is Homelander.
She runs the tongue over the shell of his ear, letting out soft, breathy moans, rilling him up. She knows how to play him like a fiddle; right now, he's more than willing to let her.Â
Fuck, just smell that ripe cunt.Â
Her scent is getting to him, clouding all sense of judgement. Heâs paralysed, unable to do anything but thrust into her hand as the praise drips from her luscious lips.Â
âThe World's Greatest Hero,â she tugs on his earlobe with her teeth. âCome, let me give you a better view.â
Her hand moves from his hip to his abdomen, pulling him backwards until he no longer stands on the crown but hovers in front of the Statue of Libertyâs face. He knows exactly what sheâs about to make him do. This was nothing short of desecration, and by Voughtâs patriotic duo no less, but he canât deny his excitement.
Americaâs Greatest Hero cumming on the ultimate symbol of American freedom? Surely, thatâs the pinnacle of patriotism.
For itâs not this husk of corroded copper that keeps America free, itâs him. Itâs always been him, and it always will be him.Â
Homelander.
And with your sweet little Patriot by your side, youâll be unstoppable, tiger.
Her sinister little giggle brings him back to reality, her hand tightening around his cock, stroking him faster as his breathing heaves, head lulling back on her shoulder and eyes scrunched closed.
âNo,â she whines, and he can practically hear her pout. âItâs rude not to look at someone when youâre about to cum on their face."
She knows.Â
Delicately reaching into his hair, she tips his head forward, holding him in position. He opens his eyes automatically, staring directly at Lady Liberty as the rhythm heâs been so blindly following falls to pieces. Her lips ghost over his neck, her lower lip dragging along his skin.
âYouâre close. Why donât you show her just how much of a good boy you are.â
The dam breaks, and his eyes flare, an immense howl ripped from his lips when he comes hard, coating Lady Liberty right between the eyes. She strokes him through the throes of his orgasm, milking him for every last drop before eventually relinquishing control.
He canât even bring himself to look at her, and he doesnât even need to; the obscene noise alone is enough to tell him that sheâs licked his cum off her fingers. It only amplifies the shame he feels for allowing her to touch him again.
âMmm,â she hums with satisfaction. âThat was outstanding; Iâll see you at home, darling.â
Suddenly, sheâs gone, leaving him with a strange, empty feeling.
Itâs 3 am.
Patriot pours herself a glass of whiskey, downing it instantly and pouring another. When she was a child in the lab, theyâd always wake her up at this time to get a few hours of work done before Homelander woke. Then theyâd abandon her for him.
Sheâs on her third when Homelander saunters in, standing in the middle of the room and clearing his throat.
âWhat do you want?â Her noxiously sweet persona is gone, replaced with bitter resentment.
âI like to cuddle,â he says reluctantly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. âAfter⊠that.â
She scoffs, downing the alcohol, closing her eyes as it stings her throat. âThen go and find someone. Iâm busy.â
By the time sheâs poured her fourth drink, his hand covers the top of the glass, stopping her from lifting it. She chews the inside of her cheek, trying to tug the glass out of his grip, but he wonât let go.
âFuck you.â The stench of alcohol on her breath makes him grimace. âWhy donât you go bother someone else?â
He grabs her jaw, digging his fingers into her cheeks and forcing her to look at him. Their eyes flare crimson; theyâre prepared to laser each otherâs faces off.
One of the many disadvantages of having the same powers.
âWe already have one drunk on the Seven,â he hisses. âWe donât need another one.â
âFine. Take it from me; youâve taken everything else.â
His eyes flash with confusion, only to be replaced with annoyance. His hand releases her jaw in favour of her neck, squeezing tightly but enough to cut off her air supply. His eyes flitter between hers and her lips, giving away his thoughts.
âNo kissing,â she spits out.
With his other arm secure around her waist, he drags her towards the bed, throwing her with very little care. She doesnât move, putting up no resistance when he climbs onto the bed, settling down partially on top of her, burying his face in her neck.
âCuddle me,â he demands.
When she doesn't immediately obey, he huffs, pulls her arms around him, and grips her biceps to hold them in place. Eventually, she holds him, a satisfied noise leaving his lips as his hands move away from her biceps, his arms wrapping around her.
âSee?â He purrs. âIsnât this nice? You were so keen to cuddle the first time.â
That wasnât me.
She doesnât bother responding; she lies there and lets him do whatever. His hands stroke down her sides and grip the underside of her thighs, wrapping her legs around him.Â
It's not clear if he wants to cuddle or fuck; she's not in the mood to do either.Â
âI hate you,â Homelander whispers, pressing himself closer, almost desperate to fuse their bodies together.
âThe feelingâs very mutual,â she replies, turning her head away and slowly disassociating.
Faint snoring slowly fills her ears, signalling that heâs fallen asleep, but sheâll remain awake, staring off into nothing until the sun rises. Then sheâll paint her face and adopt that saccharine grin, pretending everything is okay.
Until 3 am the next day.
#homelander x oc#homelander x patriot#homelander fanfic#homelander fanfiction#homelander x supe oc#homelander smut#antony starr
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Nora and Homelander for the kid meme, please? (idk anything about the boys but from what I know about these two, I feel like this would be cursed)
HEHEHE thank you, this truly is the most cursed timeline...
Name: James Gillman (Supe name: Patriot)
Gender: Male
General Appearance: Blonde hair, blue eyes, strong jaw. Every bit the "perfect" specimen Homelander is meant to be
Personality: Confident to the point of arrogance, egotistical, narcissistic, chauvinistic, nationalistic
Special Talents: flight, super strength, nearly impervious to all damage, lazer eyes, cooling breath, super speed, x-ray vision (aka all of Homie's powers)
Who they like better: John (Homelander)
Who they take after more: John (Homelander)
Personal Head canon: While James was growing up John (Homelander) was very much the helicopter parent, wanting to give his son everything that he lacked while growing up, resulting in his father being very clingy and rarely letting him out of his sight.
Face Claim: Liam Hemsworth
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anyway, i feel like ranting about my nationality
i don't think many of you have been following me for more than a year. but those of you who have, you might have noticed that lately i've been reblogging things in czech more often. there is a reason for this.
growing up i never really felt patriotic. i felt like my country was a shithole where nothing good or interesting ever happened. i took my history for granted, like it was nothing special and that there were so many cooler things outside and to be fair, i kind of blame our education system for this. as a result, i've become really disconnected from my nationality and culture. and now i'm trying to fix that. i think having a partner from the US kind of helped me see this country from the eyes of a foreigner and realize that we do have some cool stuff here that is unique to us, from the language to the history, art and inventions like eye contacts or the very beginnings of genetics.
so, all that to say - i'm sorry if it annoys you? but not really. i'll be tagging all that content with my czechposting tag in case you want to filter it. the thing is, i've found out that sharing things about my culture is actually really fun. (my beloved can confirm this, the moment i get asked about something from my homeland i start to rant.) so i might open up about my thoughts every now and then, or write posts about the neat things i've learnt.
worry not, i'm not becoming patriotic in the "our country is the best" way - i do think that's a very slippery slope - it's more like "hey look at the stuff we do" and "hey btw today x years ago we assassinated a nazi" (real event).
so yeah. this is a heads up. also my inbox is totally open to any questions regarding my country, it would actually make me pretty happy to see anyone interested in my culture
rant over, morde out
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You're Safe With Me [Chapter Two]
Pairing: Frank Castle x Fem!Reader
Summary: When you accidentally stumble upon something far bigger than the fluff and filler news stories youâve always covered for WGN News Chicago, you reach out to the Department of Homeland Security and come in contact with Dinah Madaniâbut that only seals your fate as a target for the Patriot Militia and their wealthy political backers. Determined to root out the culprits deep within the government, Madani tasks an unlikely person to keep you safe while she builds her case. But when the person she expects you to go on the run with is Frank Castleâthe Punisher himselfâyou feel anything but safe.
Warnings: 18+; series contains violence, mentions of mass shootings, angst and comfort, slow burn romance, enemies to lovers, eventual smut
Word Count: 3.6k
a/n: Got chapter two already finished so y'all could see the not so cute 'meet-cute' between Frank and Reader. Also note Reader's career shift to news reporter. Hope you enjoy and feedback is always appreciated! Chapter list can be found here.
Tag List: @lunaticgurly @allaboardthereadingrailroad @linamarr @hollandorks @sleeperthelazy @marcysbear @mattkinsella @mattmurdocksstarlight @xxdrixx @v4leoftears
Sitting in the stiff and worn, peeling red booth, you ran the heels of your hands over your tired eyes, pressing them roughly against your closed lids. They burned and ached horribly from overuse and lack of sleep but you tried your best to ignore it this morning. There were far more important things for you to worry about besides exhaustion right now.
Hands sliding down your face, your head turned to the window at your left yet again, your foot anxiously tapping against the outdated tile floor of Rubyâs Diner. It was the location Agent Madani had told you to be at before seven this morning when she had called you last night. Apparently whoever she'd gotten to accept the task of keeping you safeâfor the undesignated length of time it was going to take for her to piece this case togetherâwas supposed to meet you here. Other than the fact that he was ex-special forces, you'd been given no other information about the man that was supposed to keep you alive so Madani could get her witness testimony from you. She hadnât even given you a name. All Madani had told you was that heâd find you and youâd know him when you saw him. Which still seemed weirdly ominous when you thought about it. What did that even mean?Â
Your thumbnail slipped between your teeth and you began to nervously chew it, your eyes scanning back and forth over the parking lot out front, jumping from car to car. Though admittedly there werenât too many parked outside. Besides the cook in the back and the two older women who were waiting tables, there was only a family of four in the back of the restaurant and two other couples at nearby booths. For the most part, this place was empty.
You had been sitting in this booth for the past forty minutes keeping an eye on the parking lot, watching as cars came and went. Youâd had breakfast while youâd waitedâor rather, youâd pushed the slightly overcooked eggs around your plate for twenty minutes after taking a few bites. Your phone had died a couple of hours after that final call with Madani last night so you had no idea if she had tried to reach out to you since then. Meaning you had no idea if something had changed with the plans she had given you as you sat there impatiently waiting for whoever it was to come find you. Your panic had been steadily growing with each passing minute. Sitting here chewing your thumbnail, you desperately hoped that the wrong person didnât find you first.Â
For what felt like the tenth time in the past few minutes, your hand dropped down to your pocket, about to slide your phone out to check the time, but then you yet again reminded yourself it was useless until you could buy a phone charger. Unfortunately when you'd hurriedly packed your belongings into your duffle bag last night before climbing out of your bedroom window, you hadn't thought to grab your phone charger. And once youâd gotten somewhere you had deemed âsafeâ last night and ended that first call to Madani, you'd gotten a taxi out to a hotel where you'd barely been able to sleep the entire night. Early this morning youâd showered and made a quick exit from the hotel, having paid an exorbitant amount for a car to take you all the way out to this rundown diner in some unknown town in Michigan. Buying a charger hadn't made it onto your list of priorities.Â
"Would you like anything else, ma'am?"Â
Startling in the seat, your thumbnail slipped from between your teeth as you turned to your right, spotting the middle-aged woman who'd seated you and taken your order when you'd first arrived. She was smiling down at you now, a genuine smile that warmed her face and crinkled the corners of her green eyes. Somehow that kind smile only unsettled you as you shook your head, forcing a tight smile onto your lips.
"No, thanks," you replied. "I'm still just waiting for someone."
She held up the pot of coffee in her hand, her eyes dropping down to your almost empty mug.
"Would you like another refill?" she asked.
Your eyes slid past her, landing on the clock that hung on the wall behind her. It was a few minutes past seven already. Whoever was supposed to be meeting you should be here soon, which hopefully meant you'd be out of this diner that smelt like burnt toast and bacon. Eyes returning to the woman, you shook your head again.
"No, thanks," you repeated. "I think the three cups I've had already are more than enough."
She nodded and you began to turn in the booth, about to focus your attention back out of the window beside you to keep an eye on the parking lot again. Though you had barely moved before youâd stopped, noticing the woman was hesitating beside your table after having taken a single step. Glancing back up at her, you noticed her smile had faltered. You frowned in return, growing uneasy under her attention after everything that you'd been through in the past twenty-four hours.Â
"You alright, dear?" she asked softly, leaning towards you over the table. "You in some sort of trouble?"
You fought back the bitter laugh that nearly spilled forth at her question. You absolutely were in trouble, but it wasnât like you could tell her that. Instead, you fought to keep that strained smile on your lips, your cheeks beginning to ache from the effort.
"No, I'm alright," you assured her. "Just waiting for someone."
She stared at you a moment longer, her eyes narrowing a bit as if she could see through your lie. And maybe she could, but you weren't about to tell her the truth. Eventually she gave you a single, curt nod before walking away and your attention quickly returned to the window.Â
But this time, movement outside in the parking lot immediately caught your attention. Your eyes landed on a man making his way across the pavement and towards the diner. Just behind him you spotted a large, dark gray van that hadnât been parked there a couple of minutes ago. Nervously your hands dropped into your lap under the table, fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt. This had to have been the man Madani sent, right? He certainly had that sort of ex-military look about him.
But so did many members of the Patriot Militia.
Your eyes lingered on the mysterious man as he continued his approach towards the diner, his own eyes surveying the parking lot around him as he moved. You quickly began to take in his appearance the nearer he came, trying hard to piece together if he was friend or foeâif you needed to run or not. Youâd already discovered a back exit down the hall by the bathrooms shortly after you arrived just for that very purpose of running.Â
The man looked tall, almost six foot, and he carried himself in a confident and intimidating manner that sent a chill down your spine with every step he took. He certainly looked dangerous. He was wearing a dark jacket, but even with it on you could tell the man was well-built and broad shouldered. He had dark and fairly short, cropped hair that had a bit more length on top, and as he walked you saw his hardened stare scanning the diner through the windows. The look on his face alone was enough to scare you.
There was something else about him, though. Something that almost looked familiar the more you studied him, as if you knew him from somewhere. You felt that nagging feeling beginning to tug at your mind as your eyes narrowed, your thoughts racing as you tried to place him. Youâd swore youâd seen him before. It wasnât until his dark eyes landed on you through the diner window that it hit you.
You knew exactly who that man was.Â
Frank Castle. The Punisher.Â
Youâd remembered following the story about him closely in the news not that long ago. For a few months he was all anyone ever talked about at WGNâs station. Always talking about how heâd gone after all those criminals whoâd played a part in killing his family. How heâd been charged with killing thirty-seven of those men. You even remembered hearing about how he had opened fire in a hospital once. A handful of local news stories you'd read at the time had painted him as a heroic vigilante of sorts because he had never killed an innocent person, only criminals. But the vast majority of news stories had painted him as a heartless murderer and a trained killer who left a trail of bodies in his wake wherever he went.Â
And he was supposed to be in prison, so what the hell was he doing here about to wander into a diner in a random small town in Michigan and looking at you like that?
UnlessâŠhe was here on behalf of the Patriot Militia.Â
You knew next to nothing about Frank Castle besides what details the media had published and presented. He didn't seem like the kind of killer who would align with a domestic terrorist group, but it's not like you knew the man personally. Maybe he was a member. Maybe someone hired him. Because you certainly found it hard to believe Frank Castle was the ex-military person that Madaniâa federal agentâwould've sent to keep you safe. The man was a mass murderer, if anything she'd lock him back in prison, not send him to come find you.Â
Which meant it was high time you ran.
Your hands flew to your wallet sitting on the table, rapidly opening it and pulling out a neatly folded pile of bills. Barely taking the time to count the money in your trembling hands, you tossed a stack of cash onto the table before hurriedly unzipping your duffle bag beside you. Throwing your wallet inside, you quickly rezipped it before sliding out of the booth, your heart pounding in your chest and the few bites of eggs you'd eaten threatening to come back up.Â
You began making your way towards the hallway with the bathrooms, planning to slip out of the back door and make a run for literally anywhere. Even making your way back to the interstate was better than nothingâthough knowing what you knew, you wouldn't put it past the Punisher to shoot you in front of everyone driving by.Â
That thought didn't help the digested eggs in your stomach.Â
Ducking your head, you tried to look casual as you slung the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the friendly waitress glancing up from her place at the counter where she was making another pot of coffee. You could practically feel her eyes on you as you moved, making your way past the counter and towards the dimly lit hallway.
Just as youâd almost made it, you heard the ding of the bell above the entrance sound, your head involuntarily shifting over your shoulder in response. Frank Castle was standing just inside the door, his dark eyes fixed on you. The hair on your forearms bristled beneath your sweatshirt and as you turned to head down the hallway, you caught sight of the waitress suspiciously eyeing Frank.
You didnât have time to worry about that as you continued forward. Once youâd gotten out of sight, you didnât bother to walk. Running down the hallway, you practically slammed into the back door with your shoulder and pushed it open. Stepping outside, your eyes quickly glanced from left to right as the door behind you shut with a comforting click .Â
But now you didnât exactly know what to do. You didnât have a car and it wasnât like you had the time to wait to call for one. Panicking, your only options were to run back towards the interstate and hope to flag down a state trooper, or to try to find somewhere to hide at the joint gas station and fast food building a decent distance down the road. Neither option offered you immediate cover and a place to hide though. Surely the Punisher was going to see you running and chase after you. But what other option did you have? Stand here and let him kill you?
Setting your jaw firm, you began to sprint off in the direction of the gas station. You werenât by any means a marathon runner or an olympic sprinter, but you hoped somehow luck would be on your side. Hoped somehow youâd manage to throw him off your trail and find a way out of this situation.
Adrenaline pumping through you, you pushed yourself to run faster, your eyes focused straight ahead on the building down the road. Maybe it would have a bathroom you could hide in. Or maybe the fast food restaurant beside it would have somewhere discrete. Maybe someone would let you use the phone to call the police. Surely alerting them about a missing fugitive would slow Frank Castle down.
But as you inhaled a deep breath, your lungs protesting the physical exertion yet again, youâd rounded the back of Rubyâs Diner only to run straight into the man you were trying to escape. A scream tore out of you when his large hands grabbed you abruptly by the upper arms, his hands gripping you so tight through your sweatshirt you thought heâd leave bruises. Heâd momentarily lifted your feet almost entirely from the pavement as he caught you mid-run.
Immediately you began to thrash in his hold, struggling to get away. He only held onto you tighter, his expression growing harder. And when another loud scream for help ripped through you, he clamped one of his large, rough hands right over your mouth before he twisted you in his grasp, drawing the back of you to the front of himself.Â
âStop screaminâ,â his deep voice ordered in your ear. âMadani sent me!â
Fear instantly raced through you at his words. Madaniâs concern that someone in Homeland was working against her only seemed even more apparent to you now. Because you refused to believe this man was the man sheâd sent to help you. He was certainly doing anything but that. Hell, he was an escaped fugitive.
Your hands reached up and tried to pry his large one from over your mouth. You heard him release a rough grunt behind you when your nails dug into his skin which only encouraged you to claw at him more. His hold only tightened further around you, almost entirely halting your movements as you tried to squirm away.Â
âGod-fuckinâ- dammit ,â he growled out. âIâm not tryinâ to hurt you but if you donât fuckinâ stop fightinâ me you wonât give me a goddamn choice !âÂ
His mouth lowered to directly beside your ear, your eyes going wide as his hand released his grasp on your arm to instead wrap around your waist. He pressed you firmly back into him, the thick muscular arm of his holding you in a vice against the front of himself. You could feel the hard muscle of his body pressed against your back and it only caused you to flinch in his grip.
âYouâre coming with me no matter what. So Iâll give you two choices, Spunky ,â he rumbled into your ear. âYou either stop fighting me and I bring you with me the easy way, or you keep fucking causinâ a scene and I bring you with me the hard way. So whatâll it be, Spunky?â he goaded. âYou wanna do this the easy way or the hard way? âCause youâre not outrunninâ me and no cops are gonna be able to help you.â
Slowly, he released his hold from over your mouth, but the moment he did you let out a scream for help. His large hand immediately clamped back down over you as a curse flew out of him. You continued to thrash against him as he began to drag you around the building with you still pressed to the front of him, his hand firmly covering your mouth. It was pointless to fight him though, there was no way youâd ever overpower this man on your own.
As he led you nearer to that gray van, you heard the front door to the diner open. A womanâs voice called out and your eyes lit up with hope, your head whipping in the direction of her voice.
âLeave her alone, asshole!â
It was the waitress whoâd served you. The one whoâd been wondering if you were in trouble. You were instantly grateful for her right now.
âThis doesnât concern you!â Frank yelled back at the woman. âGo back inside!â
âIâm calling the cops!â she shouted back.
Your heart sank in your chest when you saw her disappear back into the restaurant to call the police. There was no way they were going to get here before he threw you into his van. Giving up for now, you stopped your struggle as the pair of you came to a halt at the back of his van. Maybe the waitress had gotten his license plate so the police could follow him. You had to hope for that at least.
âThatta girl, Spunky,â he muttered. âAinât worth the fight.â
He opened the back doors one at a time before he released you from his grip. Frank grabbed your bag from off of your shoulder, tossing it into the van before he nudged you lightly with a hand against your upper back.
âGet in and sit down,â he ordered.
Reluctantly you did as he asked, moving as slow as you figured you could get away with. Because he was right, it wasnât like you could outrun him, but you could at least hope to buy time for the police to catch up.Â
When you settled onto the floor of the van, you turned and rested your back against the wall of it. You watched as Frank pulled something out of his jacket pocket.Â
âHands out,â he ordered next.
Your eyes went wide when you noticed the black zip tie in his hands. Your attention flew up to his face, a pleading expression on your own.
âPlease, donât,â you begged him.Â
His eyes narrowed back at you. âLook, I donât know you for shit and I sure as hell donât trust you arenât going to run on me,â he told you. âSo until I know you wonât, hands out, Spunky. I donât feel like chasinâ you all around Michigan.â
Nervously you held both of your hands out towards him, wincing as he tightened the zip tie around your wrists. The plastic dug uncomfortably into your skin as your shoulders dropped in defeat, your hands lowering down to your lap. But apparently Frank wasnât done. He leaned into the back of the van, digging something out of a duffle bag opposite you. Your frown deepened when you saw he had a roll of silver duct tape. He tore off a piece before turning towards you, covering your mouth with it.
âI donât feel like listening to you screaminâ for the next few hours,â he said. âAnd now, thanks to your struggling, Iâve got police to deal with and a call to make. So get comfortable, Spunky. Youâre goinâ to be there awhile.â
You glared back at him as he grabbed his bag, throwing the strap over his shoulder before closing both of the back doors of the van. Shifting uncomfortably on the floor, your eyes scanned the nearly empty space around you, though there wasnât anything you saw that would help you get out of this situation. Youâd figured as much.
A moment later you heard Frank open the driverâs side door before getting in and tossing his bag onto the chair beside him. He started the engine before he abruptly pulled out of the dinerâs parking lot, dialing someone one-handed on his phone as he drove. You curiously sat back, listening in as he held it to his ear.
âYeah, itâs me,â he said after a minute. âI got your girl. Put up a goddamn fight about it, too.â
There was a pause before Frank scoffed.
âNo, I didnât hurt her,â he snapped back. âI donât know what her deal is. Sheâs the one with the damn attitude. And now I need you to get rid of the damn cops that diner waitress called.â
Your eyes narrowed, wondering what heâd meant about you having an attitude. Because of course youâd have an attitude. The Punisher had just showed up and abducted you, was he expecting you to be smiling about that?
âYeah, yeah, I know the drill, Madani,â Frank said.
As he hung up the phone, dropping it into the center console of the van, you perked up at the mention of the Homeland agentâs name. Your eyes had once again gone wide and if there hadnât been duct tape over your mouth you were sure your jaw would have hit the ground.Â
Madani really had sent the Punisher to keep you alive on the road? He was the one sheâd chosen for that irritatingly long and undesignated length of time youâd be on the run?
There was absolutely no way this was going to work out at all.
#frank castle x reader#frank castle x you#frank castle x f!reader#frank castle#the punisher#the punisher x reader#frank castle fanfic
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proserpinaÂ
homelander x reader
CW: dark!soulmate au, possesive/obsessive behavior, stalking, yandere tenancies, fem reader, angst(?), homelander needs his own warning bruhÂ
âYouâve seen his cynical mind, the possessive soul he bears, you know his cruelty knows no bounds. But at this moment, he is simply a broken man who craves your affection so desperately itâs almost pathetic.â
Proserpina (Roman mythology): Proserpina, daughter of Jupiter and Ceres, goddess of fertility, was kidnapped by Pluto, king of the underworld, who fell in love with her after seeing her picking flowers.
â
You remember the first time anyone, other than your parents, ever saw your soulmate mark.
You were 16, still hanging out with friends at the park like a normal kid. The new tattooed ink on your wrist was a mystifying wonder to everyone your age. The way it appears overnight, rising to the surface of your skin like a beautiful art piece. Everyone wanted to see each otherâs marks and foolishly hope one of the other kids was theirs to call home.
Your parents told you not to show anyone, that it was⊠too much for them to handle.
âLet us see yours,â they said, crooked teeth and flushed dirty faces crowded your vision, you were all so young still. And of course, you smiled and showed them your arm, letting them crowd around and stare at your binding mark.
You remember the sliver of proudness that beamed in your chest at their awed silence. The way they gaped at the motherland eagle, the ridges of its wings, and the sharpness of its beak.
Anyone would recognize the symbol, even at your age, it was something that you could identify. Even though he was a newly formed hero, still on the brink of coming out from Vought, you all knew what it represented. Even though he was a bit older than you, even though he was a powerful fucking supe - you were proud in that moment.
You donât exactly remember when, but sometime after that people started to look at you differently.
You werenât you anymore, you were Homelanderâs soulmate. A way to get in with their favorite superheroes, a way to get cash, a way to get attention. Â
-
Of course, youâve seen him, everyone has seen him. Heâs like Santa or Jesus, an integral part of America. It only got worse as you grew up. Especially once he became number one, it was like a flashbang - you were bombarded with this new wave of emotions and feelings every time you looked at his face on a screen. It wasnât a welling of love or adoration, but something more acrid.
People always asked you what it was like being Homelanderâs soulmate despite the fact youâd never actually met the guy. They were always in your face, blabbering about how lucky you were. Prodding with their questions as if they were a part of it all.
âThat must be so exciting!â Or âYou must be so happy to have Homelander as your soulmate!â
It was nauseating.
You grew up with his patriotic ass plastered on every billboard and poster in New York, his movies, his comics, his interviews - always on screen. You could recount his fucking life story and youâd never even met him. You were 110% sure no one asked Homelander what he thought about his soulmate.
Not to mention your parents, god, they couldnât get enough of it. They were so fucking happy, so fucking ecstatic that you were Homelanderâs soulmate. How much rep youâd get, how much screen time, the privileges they said. His name left everyoneâs mouths like he was their god.
So why didnât you feel the rush of excitement? Why did you feel dread and damnation creeping up your spine every time you turned on the TV and he was there?
Probably because youâve seen the horror stories. The awful dailies on the news where a supe âaccidentallyâ killed their soulmate. Gruesome scenes of split spines, shattered bones, piles of ash and guts. Of course, people always said you had nothing to worry about. It was Homelander, heâd never do anything like that. But you always felt the fear linger when he did public speeches.
-
Unfortunately for the world, Vought had made it their mission to find every supeâs soulmate and âuniteâ them as one.
Itâs a bunch of corporate media bullshit.
But people want to see their favorite heroes in a humble light, settled down, and cozied up with their âone true loveâ. Of course, Vought wouldnât miss an opportunity to milk it, snagging supeâs soulmates left and right like theyâre just stray dogs on the street.
It was only a matter of time before they found you. To be honest, youâre surprised they havenât gotten to you sooner, that they left you alone to lead a ânormalâ life. After all, youâre The Homelanderâs soulmate - that means a lot more than you thought it ever could.
Though you suppose you didnât make it easy for them. You never posted about it online, you refrained from telling new people that you met, and you tried to cover it up all the time.
But all it really takes is some nosey neighbor or ex-friend from high school to rat you out.
And suddenly youâre being dragged to the the Seven tower, hounded by Vought employees and a perky assistant who wonât shut the fuck up.
Alice? Amanda? No wait- Ashley, blabbers away to you about how fortunate they are that they found you. Sheâs chipper as a chipmunk, asking you all kinds of questions that make your skin crawl, tapping away at her screen like youâre just another product ready to be shipped out. Are you single? Do you have any kids? Whatâs your medical history? Religious preference? Who should we contact in case of an emergency?
âHeâs going to be so happy! I know itâs gonna be great.â She practically squeals in excitement, gripping the tablet between her fingers as you two ride the elevator up to the 99th floor, a sinking feeling pooling in your stomach.
She turns to you with a wide gummy smile, âJust make sure not to say anything bad or to upset him, ya know?â
You nod slowly lips pursing, âLike what?â
âOh you know, asking for pictures or calling him anything other than Homelander or sir.â
You stare at her blankly, âWhy would he be upset by that?â
She blanches just a bit, you see her look away. Probably thinking about every little thing that could go wrong. Huffing out a laugh she says, âNothing, nevermind. Iâm sure youâll be fine.â
The elevator doors open and youâre ushered into a hallway, making your way in front of a big iron door. Their conference room.
The assistant turns to give you one last forced smile before the iron is sliding open, inside is all of the seven, Homelander at the end of the table. Itâs all more imposing than you thought it would be. The sunlight streams in through the big glass windows, reflecting against the mirrored V-shape table.Â
You see everyone in their full glory. A-train, Queen Maeve, and Starlight is to the right. To the left Black Noir, The Deep, and a pair of floating glasses - Translucent. Most of them donât even pay you any mind, hardly even looking up at you and focusing their attention elsewhere. You feel as though youâve interrupted something.Â
âHi, good morning sir! Iâve brought her.â Ashley is flashing a bright smile, her hand pushing your lower back so you move closer to the supe.Â
Homelander gives a slow nod, rounding the edge of the table, his hands behind his back as his cape sways with each step. Heâs much taller in real life, looming over you. You decide to just take the plunge, sticking out your slightly trembling hand,Â
âHi Homelander, sir, Iâm-âÂ
He snatches your wrist, it scares you more than youâd like to admit and you have to force the shriek from your throat down. Eyes going wide as he holds your wrist between his forefingers. His gloved thumb brushes over you skin, pushing up the sleeve of your sweater to reveal your his mark, staring down at it with bright clear eyes. You feel the leather of his glove brushing over your skin, it makes a dark feeling punch your gut.
Youâd think after all this time heâd be happy, that his signature bright shining smile would spread across his face, maybe heâd tell you how happy he was or how excited. Instead, his brows furrow and his jaw clenches.Â
âAre you a supe?â He mumbles, eyes roaming over your body with a piqued interest that borders on perturbed fascination. You shake your head,
âN-no, sir.â He makes a sound, deep in his chest and you wince at the tightening in your hand. You try to pull back but he doesnât let go. Panic starts to ebb up your chest, settling into your blood. You feel trapped. Heâs nothing like the charismatic friendly man youâve seen in interviews.Â
Thick gloved fingers curl around the flesh of your wrist, pressing the carpal bone. He could snap your entire arm and shatter each bone with just a squeeze. Hell, he could leave you paralyzed just for fun. You feel your pulse starting to pick up, youâre entirely sure he can feel the rush of adrenaline and dopamine in your system.
Youâve seen what heâs capable of. When you had this fascination with him and you wanted to know more, youâve seen the liveleak videos of him slaughtering people, melting them with his eyes till they were nothing but a pile of flesh and guts. Youâve read the reddit posts and forums about interactions people have had with him, his pretentious and snarky comments that made even government officials weep. It made you fucking sick.
So when he doesnât let up, when he just stares like he wants to burn a hole though your head, you feel yourself ready to crumple and accept your fate. Maybe this was Voughtâs plan all along, to bring you here to be disposed of. You let out a tiny whimper, you feel the bones starting to shift uneasily inside your wrist.Â
âHomelander.â Queen Maeve warns, the rest of the seven watching in tempt silence, more amused than anything. Thereâs a beat of rigid silence and youâre positive heâs going to just snap it then and there. But the supe rolls his eyes and drops your wrist like hot garbage, practically throwing it back at your chest.
You cradle your hand, massaging the soft bruising tissue as you stare wide-eyed at him. He glared down at you, the disgust prominent in his baby blues but thereâs also a hint of something else, you canât place your finger on it but it makes you want to hide away in the earth.
âFucking pathetic.â Homelander sneers, turning on his heel and walking to the large window that overlooks the city. You gape, pushing back the tears that threaten to overflow on your waterline, head spinning as you feel everyone stare at you. In pity? In disgust? You donât really care anymore.
Homelander is your soulmate and heâs nothing like you imagined. Heâs a loaded gun in your face, waiting for the trigger to be pulled at any second and blow your brains against the concrete.
âWell, that was lovely but,â Ashley is ushering you out the sliding iron doors with a peppy smile, âThe seven are extremely busy, we should let them get back to work!â
The last thing you see is the group of supeâs sitting in their seats and Homelander has his back to them all.
Ashley walks with you down the long hallway, blabbering about how, âHe was just in a bad mood, heâs actually really nice.â
But you canât help but clench your jaw, your heart pounds in your chest and you feel as though youâll sink into the ground at any second. The way he stared, the way he gripped your wrist, he didnât feel like how you thought he would. There were no sparks or honey-sweet emotions, shit you at least thought heâd give you a smile.
The entire elevator ride down the peppy assistant is telling you how things will be from now on. It makes you wanna claw at your face.
âOh, itâll be so cute! Everyone is going to love you, Iâm sure of it!â Sheâs so damn loud and snippy you want to smash your head on the mirrored edge of the elevator. Â She wonât shut up about PR, and how theyâre going to manage your socials, and put you on the red carpet - right next to your soulmate.Â
You get this horrible vision of you standing next to him, getting bombarded by paparazzi and having to cuddle up with him for life. You almost throw up in the elevator.Â
âCan I go home?â You cut her off, not giving a damn if itâs rude or awkward.
She balks, gaping at you with wide eyes. She grips her tablet between chippy-painted fingers, you think for a moment sheâll tell you no and that youâre not allowed to leave. But she calms herself, biting the inside of your cheek and says, âOf course! A driver will take you home.âÂ
âNah, itâs alright,â The doors open and youâre already making your way out to the front entrance, âIâll walk home.âÂ
You live all the way in Brooklyn, but you donât give a rats ass. You donât give Ashley the chance to debate it, speed-walking out of Vought and onto the Manhattan sidewalk. A buzzing fills your ears, like flies droning in a bottle. You heave, clenching your fists so hard the nails dig into your palms. You have this horrible feeling youâre still being watched.Â
By the time you make it to your apartment itâs nighttime and youâre exhausted. Youâve ignored every call from your parents and friends, especially the unknown ID that you know is Vought. You try not the cry in the shower, gripping the edge of the bath and willing yourself to breathe evenly. Nothing happened yet, so why are you so upset?
-
The days donât get any easier. You have this constant feeling that youâre watched, as if youâre under a microscope. Youâre surprised Vought hasnât kicked down your door yet. You still ignore their calls, trying to return to normalcy.Â
But youâre a fool to think you could ever rid yourself of him.Â
You swear you catch glimpses of him, wispy mirages of him in the corner of your eye. The flash of his cape or a glowing reflection in your window, it makes you like feel like the lining of your stomach is being lifted, pulled up and apart from your skin and peeled away from your body inside of you. It makes for something brutal - violent, punch through and shred at your gut.Â
You start noticing that all your friends are suddenly pulling away. Leaving you in the wind as they look at you with sad pitiful eyes, jumping away when you get too close. Some of them go missing entirely, you canât outright accuse Homelander of anything - but you know heâs responsible.
He follows you everywhere like a shadow. A slinking ghost, thatâs imbedded so deeply within your soul you can never rid yourself of him. Manifesting into this world, through pure unadulterated rage. Born from the deep bone marrow sorrow that exists within everyone. Gliding through this plane like a dreadful curse, seeping into your skin, hollowing out what little is left of you. Clinging like a leeched bastard, rows of teeth digging into faithful necks, marred from years of trusting.Â
Maybe the world is cruel. Giving you such a dangerous soulmate.Â
-
You rummage around your kitchen, hair still dripping down your nape from your shower and onto your soft PJâs. People chatter and scuttle about outside, faint car horns and the buzz of tipped streetlights are your only source of comfort. You reach for a mug in your cabinet, you swear you hear a whooshing sound behind you, but when you turn to look nothing is there. Youâre too jumpy, too nerve-wrecked and scared over nothing-
âNice place.â
You let out a scream, the mug in your hands sliding out onto the tiled floor. It shatters around your bare feet and you spin around to see whoâs inside your apartment. There stands the number one superhero in all of his glory, the suit a vivid contrast to your beige-colored walls. Heâs here, just meandering through your apartment like itâs a walk in the park.
He gives a muted laugh at your reaction, his hands tucked behind his back and covered by the flag. The outline of him in the fluorescent kitchen light makes him look much more demeaning, more intimidating.
Homelander can hear your heartbeat, the heavy pumping against its fleshy walls as you tremble. You canât walk backwards without stepping on glass, so you wait with a bated breath to see what he has to say. He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes and looking you up and down like youâre just a slab of meat on the deli counter, and to him you probably are. Nothing but a sack of flesh and bones, not even a supe capable enough to keep with him.
âHomelander- sir,â Always so respectful, even to a fault.Â
âI- what are you doing here.â You wish you could say you werenât absolutely terrified of him. Heâs the worldâs greatest hero, your soulmate after all. Arenât you supposed to feel the most connection with him? The safest?
You donât. Thereâs something not right about the way he stares, like he canât tell if he wants to crush your head between his palms or just crumple onto your couch like he owns the place.
âDropped your cup there,â He completely ignores your question, stepping closer to you. You can hear the crunch of porcelain under his boots.
âSpooked ya did I?â You gulp, staring at the blue and red super suit, heâs got that signature smirk on his jaw that he projects onto the public. The fake grin he plasters on when he wants to appear friendly and charming.
How did he get into your apartment? Why is he in your apartment?
You gape at him, breath hitching as you stare at him under the glow of your shitty kitchen light. The shimmer of blonde starlight strands, his eyes nearly glowing like crystal.Â
âHow did you-â
He steps forward, breaching your personal space and his hands unfurl from their position behind his back.
âYa know, I think you and I got off on the wrong arm.â He says it jokingly like he didnât subtly threaten to snap your wrist in front of the seven simply because you existed. That he didn't call you fucking pathetic when you first met.
Heâs too close, almost chest to chest with you. You can smell his cologne, a woody musky scent, masculine through and through. Youâre sure itâs some stupidly expensive type that the public canât even get their hands on. The shattered shards of porcelain lay at your feet, and thereâs no debate in your mind - you could never outrun him even if you tried.
âWhat do you want?â
His smile falters just a smidge, you could only tell if you stared hard enough at his mouth to see the edges twitch downward. Heâs getting impatient with your apprehension, your refusal to see him.
"Ashley told me you refused to have a driver take you home and that youâve been ignoring our calls.â He plasters on the fake grin like itâs nothing, like itâs an accessory. Itâs meant to be disarming, but thereâs a certain feral gleam to his features that makes you tense in uncertainty. Â
Fucking Ashley, of course she told him.Â
You swallow hard, you donât know how to read him, you donât know what will work with him yet. Heâs untouchable and youâre a weak human.Â
âYes, I did.âÂ
âWhyâs that?â He hums, hands coming out to glide up your biceps. It makes an unruly shiver spark up your spine. He revels in it, this power trip - it makes him want to flutter his eyes closed and inhale the scent of fear like a fucking dog. Youâre not what he was expecting, youâre better.Â
âI just, just thought that-â You sputter and choke on your words, how are you supposed to tell him you donât want any of this? That all youâre life youâve felt like this was all some big joke, a cruel prank from the universe?
Your heart pounds in your chest, so hard it makes it ache and you think youâll pass out from the tenseness around you.Â
His gloved palm comes up to cup around your jaw, thumb sweeping across your cheek. Itâs meant to be comforting, sweet. But all you can think is how easy it would be for him to snap your neck.Â
âI canât have my girl being unsafe, I just wonât allow that.âÂ
You look up at him with wide glassy eyes, he can tell youâre petrified of him and he loves it.Â
âNo more of this âI can do it myselfâ shit, yeah? Youâre gonna let me take care of you.â He says it so softly youâd almost blow past his demeaning comment, the small lifting smile on his face setting it in stone.Â
You nod, lip quivering as you realize the full scope of your situation. He knows you now, knows where you live, where you work - youâre never going to get away from him. He knows all of your family and friends, god.Â
You choke on a sob, trying so hard to bury it before he sees. Homelander shushes you, his hand giving you a warning squeeze. Thereâs barely any strength, any effort, put into it. You know what it means though. He inhales deeply, a sigh escaping his parted mouth and he looks down at you. Blown pupils engulfed in swirling, sparkling azure, so magnificent as it ebbs and flows with his amusement.
âYou and I, weâre going to be something special.âÂ
-Â
Thereâs something wrong with your soulmate.
Youâd thought that because it was Americaâs greatest superhero, heâd be all the glorious bullshit youâd seen throughout your life, but heâs not. Homelander, John, whatever he is - isnât normal. And you donât mean in the âWow heâs a supe heâs stronger than me!â kinda way, but heâs wrong, your connection is wrong, it doesnât feel right.
Itâs not like how your parents described it to you, with bursts of passionate color and emotions, blooming with this fire of love you canât snuff out. No, it feels off, like youâve been dropped in a pit of vipers waiting to strike, waiting for them to ball around your neck and ankles till you suffocate. An unease runs through you, slithering up your spine when heâs around.Â
He doesnât try to appeal to you, he doesnât try to hide it or cover it up. Why should he? Youâre his soulmate.
Of course, he knows what it means. He has his own mark, annoyingly enough. The etched black ink on his wrist made him curl his lip in disgust, why did he need a soulmate? He was the fucking Homelander.
But he canât help the flurry in his heart at the thought of this binding mark. Soulmates are more than just lovers, theyâre your entire being, the people that know you to your core and still love you. Or at least, that was what Vought taught him growing up.Â
Even if you donât love him now, you will soon enough. You will because he doesnât know how to handle it if you donât.Â
Homelander looks past the fact youâre not a supe, that can be changed. Heâs enamored by you and your menial life, what did you even do before him? He wants to flood your entire existence until all you know is him.Â
-Â
Your life is steadily taken over, flipped, and ripped apart by your soulmate as he invades every inch of your small little being.Â
You donât have an apartment anyone, you share one with him in the tower. You donât eat alone, dress alone, sleep alone. Youâre never by yourself anymore, heâs always hovering, even when heâs not around youâre guarded in the tower like a captured princess.Â
Homelander comes home to you everyday, sometimes he just talks and talks and talks. Making up for years of being apart. He asks you all types of questions, âWhat was your childhood like?â and âDid you ever fall in love before me?â All the while he mooches off you like some needy cat, you never thought heâd be the physical type, but you guess now it makes sense.Â
-
He comes home in a mood, unsurprisingly. Ranting and raving about government officials and his âstupid teammatesâ, throwing his gloves onto the couch as he slips his way onto your lap.
Youâve done nothing but ponder while heâs been away. Pushing around stupid little decorations in his apartment, arranging and rearranging them till you got sick. You try to make conversation with the others but they keep their distance.
Homelander doesnât even ask before heâs laying his head on your lap, kicking his legs up and just muttering about his day. Youâve learned to just coddle him, knowing itâs better than him taking his stress out on you in other ways.
So you do what he craves, slipping your fingers through his hair and scratching lightly at his scalp, humming at his words and pretending youâre sympathetic to his worries.
âIâm sorry, you donât deserve any of it.â You mumble, so numb to the feeling in your chest you think you almost believe it.
He sighs contently, âI know, itâs just- so hard. Everyone puts this weight on my shoulders and I canât handle it.â
You frown, smoothing your palms over his cheek. Thereâs a bittersweetness on your tongue, words you know you shouldnât say.
John preens under your hands, leaning into your hesitant touch with so much depraved neediness you nearly feel bad. Youâve never seen him look so⊠submissive. He's fragile-looking, with pursed lips and downcast eyes that refuse to look up at you. He rests there, head in your lap like a little boy. You card your fingers through the blonde strands, theyâre soft for the most part but you can still feel the hair gel that coats them.
Youâve seen his cynical mind, the possessive soul he bears, you know his cruelty knows no bounds. But at this moment, he is simply a broken man who craves your affection so desperately itâs almost pathetic.
Youâve come to realize that he canât take care of himself.
Heâs vulnerable in a way. Homelander has no capacity to help himself, heâs been taken care of his entire life. By PR, damage control, the doctors in the lab, hell even Madelyn Stilwell. Theyâve all written out what he should be and say, theyâve manufactured him since the day he was born. You guess you can't fault him for not knowing how the world really works.
Youâre bound to John in a way no one else on earth is, chained to his heart and mind whether you want to be or not.
#val.writes âŠ#the boys.âź#homelander x reader#the boys x reader#homelander x you#the boys x you#the boys#homelander#tw. yandere
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Itâs funny how, when Trump was in the White House, liberals feigned concern for immigrants and asylum seekers crossing the southern border, but now that Biden is president, back-to-brunch liberals pulled a 180 and are boasting about how many Brown people Biden has caught at the boarder. đ
Another case of, âbad when they do it, but good understandable and excusable when we do it,â hypocrisy.
This is another reminder that it is policies that really matter. What was it Malcolm X once said? âYouâre not supposed to be so blind with patriotism that you canât face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or who says it.â
ICE still isnât being held accountable for carrying out forced sterilization against women detainees. The Department of Homeland Security and the Border Patrol still havenât been held accountable for harassing peaceful protesters and whipping Haitian asylum seekers like runaway slaves. Biden is still using Trumpâs racist Title 42 to mass deport Haitians. Biden is giving far more discretionary funding to racist police forces than any of his predecessors ever did. âOutragedâ news outlets have lost interest in reporting on these human rights abuses like they did under Trump, and liberals have gone back to brunch, just like they said they would. Nothing has changed. This is why itâs so hard for people to take Democrats seriously; especially when they pay lip service about âreformingâ the system. State entities like Homeland Security and ICE are so thoroughly racist that they cannot be reformed, and they arenât safe in Republicans nor in Democratic hands.
#politics#neoliberalism#immigration#asylum seekers#abolish ice#bidenism#border patrol#hypocrisy#dnc hypocrisy
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Forget Katara dark or Zuko dark, do you even know how messed up TSR is?
The Southern Raiders is, in worldbuilding sense, the last arc of âfire nation x water tribe.â The episode physically connects the present day story to the darkest historical conflict of the hundred years war, namely the racial genocide â which is the peak fire nationâs oppression act; the evilest most ruthless connivery the a*holes fire lords had came up with (Sozin), had started the war with (Sozin), and is about to end the war with (Ozai); something theyâre super proud of, that they had named the natural phenomenon used as nuke for the genocide after the guy who came up with the idea (Sozinâs Comet).
And then, thereâs the personal level mind f*ckeryâŠ
Set aside your charactersâ bias for a sec and think of these people as your textbook historical figuresâŠ
In this episode, weâre seeing an aftermath journey of a survivor victim, who had personally experienced the reigning oppressorsâ repeated assault in her homeland, which wiped out her people to near extinction, and in result made her the last magical kind of her entire tribe of an entire continent. This survivor had also lost her mother in the attack. And now sheâs facing the oppressors responsible, who are currently still alive, roaming free, unpunished, unaccounted for, because their actions are a gold-medal patriotic accomplishment in the current circumstance⊠Do you get how dark that is?
Iâm talking about the equivalent to âif a surviving jew were to face a nazi unit when Hitler and the nazisâ genocide/ concentration camps were still reigning because the second world war hadnât ended and the international forces hadnât intrudedâ kind of dark.
The kind of messed-up dark no one should live to experience, let alone children.
Children!
and yet, some people are obsessing about katara being mean in that one scene⊠what a mind numbing utter crap.
Previously, on Zuko
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