#wardog-of-the-endless

[mar-of-musing]

Art for @wardog-of-the-endless of our pride month characters 8D?

Team BisexualDemisexuals. Team Triangles~. This is Lady BiBi and her Butler/Hired Arm(Butler) Tri. I'm sure she's over me throwing this around now.. BiBi is War's and Tri is mine~

The paper I drew this on is terrible but at least it made colours pop~!

[shubaka]

Levender. GREEEN. Sky Bluee. Red O.

ahhhhh 💖💖 also i think maybe my brain is "big" because it's filled with too many jeffs (like biotherm!jeff and live-on-saturn-bbk-loop-dance!jeff to name a few) who are all living rent-free up there. it's awful. i have to keep upgrading the place because i'm running out of space. 🤡

colour ask game

[bvcktommy]

💖💖Happy Birthday! 💖💖 I hope you have a marvelous day!

thank u sm beloved!!!

[mar-of-musing]

Kekekke. Well.

I wanted to give you an almost full card bingo. Use the card as an example if you will, eh? The card is mutual~ literally. Though I might be shy offline to meet you but that's just Me.

⭐

Dearest, Darling... Are you trolling for compliments?

We're past the 'I'm too shy to talk to you but let's be friends" stage... And I predate your content SO. Those don't count. But everything else really. ALMOST BLACKOUT MY DEAR. The Romantic Love is a nod to the muses, the platonic is for me. Xoxoxo.

[ghostly-gifts]

🎃🍷 Trick or treat! 🖤🎃

On this creepy Halloween night, @lady-guts has been haunted by the spooky ghost @wardog-of-the-endless, and they've left behind a treat!

Rating: Teen Tags: Fluff, First Meetings/Meet-Cute, Alternate Universe- Fantasy

Anakinn Theerapanyakun is staring at an absolute dive, and briefly considers the possibility that Tay’s phone has been stolen and he’s being led into an ambush. Though he’s double-checked the address twice, the modest bar beyond the window of Kinn’s Maserati doesn’t seem to be changing, for all that there’s no way he’s convinced it’s the correct location. Tay -Taechin Lerttravinont- is nearly as high in the Mafia food chain as Kinn himself, and as such is far more accustomed to dining on rooftop restaurants and drinking champagne more costly than most people’s cars. There’s no reason for him to decide that this humble hole-in-the-wall spot is the place to be, no matter what Autumn-themed event they might be hosting. 

As he scowls at the cheerful lights draped over the entryway, Kinn’s phone chirps with an incoming message. 

1 New Message

Tay: Are you lurking outside? Just get in here before you miss the show. 

1 New Message

Tay: NOW, Anakinn.

“Alright, alright,” Kinn muttered, sliding the phone away and throwing the door open. “We’re staying.”

“Yes, Khun Kinn,” Big murmurs obediently, scrambling to follow him across the street and into the bar. Most Naga are better moving on tails than they are on feet, though it can cost both time and stealth for them to shift, but Kinn’s found Big especially loses grace when he’s caught off guard. At the moment there’s not threat great enough to prompt a transformation, so Kinn lets the near-frantic movement pass without comment. 

Kinn navigates a narrow hallway, rolling his eyes when Big darts around him to navigate the blind corner into the bar itself. The group is easy to hear from the street and nearly deafening inside, for all that the space seemed small and shouldn’t be able to hold a significant audience. From the sound of things the space is beyond packed, and all of them are shouting eagerly about some entertainment Kinn can’t yet see. 

He rounds the corner when Big drifts back to nod, and steps into an audience that’s shouting as they watch the show being conducted by a trio of flair bartenders. The two shorter ones are catching bottles tossed this way and that, winging them to each other for shelving when it seems they’ve been thrown the wrong direction. The center of attention is a tall man with golden skin, laughing brightly as he throws bottles and shakers this way and that, mixing drinks to slide down the bar with flirtatious winks and air kisses. 

Tay catches the most recent drink with a smirk, tossing a look over his shoulder and beaming widely at the sight of Kinn. “Kinn!” 

The cheerful shout catches the pretty bartender’s attention, and he lines shot glasses up with miraculous swiftness, tossing a vodka bottle with a spin before effortlessly tipping it in a casual pour. He moves down the line of glasses and fills the row of shots, tossing the bottle aside when he’s half-way down the bartop, with a row of dozens of glasses between him and Kinn and Tay. 

“Isn’t he scrumptious?” Tay murmurs when Kinn’s at his side, grinning up at his friend and then looking back the row of shots. “Watch this.” 

“You brought me to a dive for the bar show?” Kinn murmurs, obligingly leaning on the edge of the bar and eying the nearest shot. It’s within reach, but he doesn’t, at least not yet. 

“It’s quite a show, baby,” Giving a flirty smile he leans down to nearly cheek to bartop, the bartender gives a flirty wink and then blows Kinn a kiss. 

A spark of gold leaves his lips, a whisper that might be flame or might be a trick of the light. Except, the first shot catches fire, then the second, flame leaping in a cheerful line from glass to glass, dancing down the length of the bar and racing to stop just beyond Kinn’s reach, burning cheerfully in the lip of the last glass. Kinn stares at the dancing blue light, feeling warmth kindle in his gut. 

The crowd screams and Tay laughs, throwing his head back and flashing the glimmer of shining silver scales that flow down his pretty neck. Though usually they can be explained away as body paint or glitter, in half of Tay’s high-fashion looks he doesn’t need to bother with explanations, and this close to Halloween he’s unlikely to keep his gifts underwraps. 

Kinn’s torn between being surprised enough that his best friend is showing his siren traits so freely in public, and wondering just what the hell is smiling at him from down the stretch of mahogany wood. Instinctively he steps closer to Tay, wrapping a possessive arm around the back of his chair and leaning down till a conversation is possible above the din. 

“Pretty, right?” Tay hums, sipping at his drink and watching as the bartender begins passing out flaming shots to those brave enough to reach for them. “His name is Porsche.” 

“Hmmm, pretty,” Kinn agrees, eyes caught on the stretch of gold skin from jawline to breastbone, easily visible through the half-open black shirt Porsche is wearing. “And what, pray tell, is Porsche?” 

“Anakinn,” Tay scolds mildly. “What a rude inquiry.” 

“You knew I would ask,” Kinn glared at him. “You dragged me in here and gift-wrapped him for me to ask.” 

“Can’t I just want to share a pretty bartender and my favorite hideaway with my best friend?” Tay murmurs, fingers idly caressing his glass. “You can appreciate the view without being rude, Anakinn.” 

“Is it rude?” Kinn muses, watching Porsche take orders and flip bottles with ease, chattering away with his fully-engaged crowd. “No scales, but he’s a firestarter.” 

“Maybe it was just flair,” Tay argues, just for the sake of it and not like he really believes. 

Kinn’s betting he knows better, judging by the way he smirks at his beverage. “Could be, but wasn’t. You know him?” 

“Just from trips here,” Tay shrugs. “He told me to cut Time loose months ago. Apparently he had a look.” 

“A look,” Kinn echoes dubiously, attention slid back to Tay at the mention of his ex. “What does that mean?”

“Some men are cheaters, sweetheart,” Croons a smooth voice as the bartender -Porsche- appears in front of them, his warmth immediately noticeable even separated by the stretch of bartop. 

Kinn feels his approach and snaps his head up immediately, eyes fixing on the flash of chest and then slowly gliding up the elegant line of clavicles and neck, the sharp cut of jaw, the elegant cast of his face. Porsche is stunning, and his smile and the gleam of his dark eyes tells Kinn he knows it. Even in the thick air of the bar he smells like sandalwood, with notes of amber and vanilla and neroli. He smells expensive, like something best experienced on a bed of silk. 

Kinn would happily take him there, pin him to the bed in his penthouse apartment… maybe against the glass wall of the pool. 

“And they look like cheaters,” Porsche continues, folding his arms on the bartop and leaning forward just enough that Kinn feels himself sway closer. “Not you though, sweetheart.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Kinn rumbles, warmth building in his chest at the acknowledgement. “So you told Tay to ditch Time.” 

“I told the most beautiful man in the room that his idiotic date was shopping around,” Porsche retorts, sharp and smooth with it. “I’m a bartender, darling, it’s practically like being a therapist. I just call it like I see it.” 

“So you saw Time was a problem,” Kinn leans on the bartop. “And told Tay to cut him loose?”

“Technically,” Porsche purrs, leaning closer. “I told Tay I would cheerfully thrash and trash his date, no charge, and make sure he made it home without any pathetic hangers on. He thanked me and tipped very well, and then when I was right he came back and told me so.” 

“Tay and Time broke up months ago,” Kinn notes. 

“Mmmm,” Porsche nodded. “Pretty Tay and I have spent quite a bit of time talking about the men that have disappointed us.” 

“I told Porsche there was only one man I could think of that never let me down,” Tay murmured, tugging playfully at the lapel of Kinn’s suit. “He demanded I produce evidence, so here you are.”

“Fairly prompt, too,” Porsche notes, sounding impressed. “Tay thought you might sit in the car for at least another ten minutes, and totally miss the Phoenix Kiss shots. He was prepared to be very disappointed.” 

“Phoenix,” Kinn murmurs, and it takes everything in him not to growl. 

The last Phoenix clan known in their world was wiped out nearly twenty years ago, by all reckoning. It both left the Theerapanyakul dragon clan as the clear dominant force in the Thai underworld, and weakened them significantly. Regardless of gender, the most powerful supernatural couple had always been a dragon and a Phoenix. Kinn’s own mother had been one, before mafia-fueled power struggles had taken her from the family. Kinn had more or less resigned himself to reigning as a solitary force, and suddenly a night out at a dive bar with Tay is changing everything. 

“Mmmmm,” Porsche grins, swaying forward even further, a flame dancing in his dark eyes. “No need to ask who you are, Big Dragon, I could smell it on you when you walked in the door.” 

“Careful, pretty bird.” Kinn growls, smiling as he watches a golden hand reach out and flick playfully at the open placket of his shirt. By some instinct Kinn raises one hand and catches the impertinent fingers, pulling them to his mouth so he can press a kiss to Porsche’s knuckles. 

“My, aren’t you a charmer,” Porsche crooned, grinning at the gesture. “Tay was right.” 

“When properly motivated, I am many things.” Kinn promises. I’d dedicate all of them to you.  

By birthright alone, half of Bangkok belongs to this man. Staring into his gleaming eyes, Kinn wants nothing more than to offer up the rest. 

“Mmmm, my work here appears to be done.” Tay notes, smiling as he slides a stack of notes under Porsche’s folded arms. “You two play nice, alright? Porsche, I expect to see you soon, hmmm? But not too soon, or I’ll be very disappointed in Anakinn. I always thought the world of him, to find out he has no stamina now would devastate that impression.” 

“Tay,” Kinn growls in warning. 

“I’m going first,” Tay cuts in. “You can have my chair, Kinn. I don’t think Porsche gets off for another hour or so.” 

“Well not unless we duck out to the alley,” Porsche smirked. “But I probably shouldn’t drag down the king of the underworld on the first meeting… People will talk.” 

“You could blame me,” Tay murmured, brushing a kiss over Porsche’s cheek before he does the same to Kinn’s. “Blessings upon you both, darlings… I’ll see you.” 

Porsche blinks, smiling faintly as he watches Tay swan back out the door. “He’s certainly something, isn’t he?” 

“Mmmmm,” Kinn hummed his agreement. “But I think, Pretty Bird, I’d rather talk about you.” 

“Not so fast, Khun Kinn, I’m not quite that kind of boy.” Porsche flashed bright teeth in a grin that was more a challenging little snarl. “Some of us have work, rich boy. You just hold down that chair, I’ll get back with you soon.” 

“Porsche-”

“Soon,” Porsche promised with a wink, sliding a glass of whiskey across the bar. “Here. Be good now.” 

“Fine.” Kinn grumbled. “For now.” 

With possibly the last Phoenix in Bangkok in his sights, Kinn could afford a little patience.

[ishomieokay]

And We Made You Pairs (Ch.1)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

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

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

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

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

A crescent moon hung over Nineveh, casting long shadows across the empty streets. The night was cold, the air crisp. Only a distant hum disturbed the quiet, a low rumble that crept through the small town, growing increasingly louder. Military trucks were approaching. Sporadic bursts of gunfire could be heard, echoing out from an old warehouse downtown. 

Homelander hovered above, his silhouette blending with the evening mist. His eyes scanned the building below, tracking the heat signatures of the people inside. For the moment, he remained out of sight, his cape softly rippling in the air. The rebels moved in disorganized patterns, panicking in their attempt to flee. The American troops, advancing under the cover of darkness, had caught them completely off guard. Homelander’s lips curled into a smirk as he watched. 

“They always run,” he said to himself, his voice muffled by the blowing wind. He had seen it play out countless times before. Cornered, terrified, clinging to the hope that they could disappear into the endless maze of dirt roads and narrow alleys. 

Without warning, he plummeted from the sky, cutting through the air like a knife. He landed with a bone-rattling crash, the ground cracking under his feet. Dust and debris rose outwards, and for a brief moment, the gunfire paused. It was only when the rebels recognized him that the screams began.

Homelander moved forward, striking with the precision of a living weapon. His heat vision flared, slicing through concrete and flesh without remorse. He could hear the panicked cries of the rebels as they scattered, desperately looking for shelter, but it was futile. They would not escape. He blasted through their makeshift defenses, leaving behind craters where men had stood moments ago. 

The truth is, he reveled in it—the chaos, the fear, the raw power coursing through him. Here, in this forgotten corner of the world, he could unleash himself completely, without restraint. No cameras, no crowds to appease. Just pure, unfiltered violence. A part of him wished every mission could be like this. He grinned as a neighboring building crumbled, the blast turning it to a smoldering ruin. 

He rounded a corner and tore down what remained of a wall, sending bricks and stone flying in all directions. Amid the wreckage, he spotted movement—a flash of color against the gray. A family cowered near the broken remains of their home. The mother used her body as a shield to protect her young son while her husband clutched her arms, trying to help them stand. At the sight of him, their faces contorted in terror. Homelander frowned. The boy held a stuffed animal, clinging to it as if it might protect him from the nightmare that had descended from the sky. 

Homelander hesitated, his expression unreadable as he studied them. He could hear the woman’s labored breathing, the quick, shallow gasps of fear. The boy’s wide, unblinking eyes reflected the crimson glow of his heat vision, ready to burn at a moment’s notice. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Homelander said softly, almost to himself. It would be simple enough to end them, to leave no one behind to whisper of the horror that had come in the night. No witnesses meant no complications. It was standard procedure.

“Who’d believe you, anyway?” He said in the end, shrugging. He let the heat die down in his eyes and turned away, leaving them huddled within the collapsed ruins of the building. With a flick of his cape, he launched himself back into the air, allowing the fearful whispers to fade into the distance. 

He tore through the rest of the town with brutal efficiency, leaving in his wake the echoes of crumbling buildings and the flare of explosions against the dark sky. By the time the last of the rebels fell, he was sweating and breathing hard, adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. He paused for a moment. His gaze drifted across the shattered remains of Nineveh, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When he descended, the rest of his platoon had already re-grouped. “Howdy, boys? I think we’re done here. Couldn’t have asked for a better team,” he said, giving a cocky military salute. He wasn’t their leader — not really. That didn’t stop them from disregarding established hierarchies whenever Homelander tried to act as such, though. He gave them plenty of reasons to, every time they went out into the field.

“Go get some rest, and remember. You guys are the real heroes!”

Noura clutched the edge of her windowsill, her breath fogging the glass as she tried to distinguish what was happening outside. The air vibrated with the hum of distant helicopters, their rotors slicing through the dark. Explosions rumbled like distant thunder, making the building tremble beneath her feet. Each shockwave sent a jolt through her body, as if the earth itself recoiled from the violence tearing through Nineveh. 

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Through the thick veil of dust that clouded the streets, she could catch but glimpses of what transpired below. The normally quiet town was unrecognizable - plumes of smoke rose from collapsed roofs, decimated buildings, and burning vehicles. Cries of panic and the roar of falling debris reached her, mingling with the distant commands of soldiers as they spread through the town. Noura’s heart pounded in her chest, the amalgamation of sounds drowning out all rational thought. 

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye—a figure moving through the haze, swift and precise. It didn’t move like a soldier, didn’t duck or scramble for cover. It moved with purpose. Her breath hitched as she recognized the outline of a cape fluttering behind him, streaked with ashes and blood.

Homelander. 

Noura’s fingers tightened on the windowsill until her knuckles turned white. She could make out his face now, framed by the flickering light of a nearby fire. His expression was cold, detached. He contemplated the street in silence, as if savoring the destruction he had wrought. Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted—straight up to where she stood. 

Noura’s pulse quickened, a wave of icy fear washing over her. She felt exposed, as if he could see right through the thin glass, past the shadows of her apartment, into the raw terror she tried to conceal. For a moment, neither of them moved, their gazes locked across the gulf of darkness and smoke that separated them. 

Homelander’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered behind his eyes, a glimmer of curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, studying her like a strange new creature he’d stumbled upon. It wasn’t the look of a man who saw a frightened civilian, but that of a predator, sizing up its prey. 

Noura’s hands shook as she reached up to adjust her hijab, pulling the fabric tighter around her face. She didn’t know why she did it—some instinctive need to shield herself, to cover her fear beneath the familiar folds. Her fingers trembled against the cloth as she held his gaze, refusing to look away. Homelander gave her one last, long look. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he turned and vanished into the shadows of an alley.

Noura’s legs gave away, and she stumbled back from the window, clutching her chest as she gasped for air. She could still see his face in her mind, the eerie calmness in his eyes as he surveyed the destruction around him. It was as if the suffering, the broken bodies, the cries for help—none of it mattered to him. He was above it all, merciless. Unrepentant. 

Her fear gave way to a fierce, burning anger that clawed its way up her throat, making her want to cry and scream. She couldn’t afford to give in to that, though. Not now. The ground still shook with distant blasts, and she could hear the sounds of her neighbors outside, their voices rising in frantic shouts as they searched the rubble for survivors. Noura pushed herself to her feet, wiping away the tears she hadn’t realized were streaming down her cheeks. She grabbed a flashlight and rushed out of her apartment, her feet carrying her down the crumbling stairwell and into the street. 

She joined the neighbors who had already begun to dig through the ruins. Their hands were bloodied and raw from pulling away debris. Noura felt the sting of blisters forming on her palms, but she ignored the pain. Instead, she focused on the weight of each broken stone, the sharp edges digging into her skin. She forced herself to keep moving, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. 

There, beneath the wreckage, she found the arm of a child reaching out. She pulled with all her strength, helped by another pair of hands—an elderly man, his face streaked with dust and ashes. Together, they freed the little girl, her cries muffled against Noura’s chest as she held her close. 

Noura glanced back toward the shadows where Homelander had disappeared. Her mind replayed the memory of his cold eyes, the way he had looked at her—like she was nothing, like they were all nothing. She felt her resolve harden, settling like iron in her bones. He thought he could come here and destroy their homes without consequence. He thought he could hide behind that cape, pretend to be a hero while leaving a trail of death and destruction in his wake. Well, she wouldn’t let him. 

“I will make them see,” she whispered to herself, cradling the little girl as she wept. “I will make the whole world see what you really are.”

Noura held onto that thought, clinging to it like a lifeline as the night wore on. It was her shield, her only weapon against the terror that still clawed at the edges of her mind. She wouldn’t let it consume her. She moved from one ruin to the next, her hands bloody and her heart burning with a new, unyielding purpose. 

The first light revealed the full extent of the damage—streets filled with rubble, overturned vehicles smoldering in the distance, and crumbling buildings that sagged against each other like wounded giants. The mosque lay in ruins, its once proud minaret snapped in half like a twig. Smoke drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of ashes and blood, and Noura breathed it in, feeling the sting in her lungs.

She stood at the entrance of her apartment building, her legs trembling beneath her. Her brother, Amir, hovered beside her. His left arm was wrapped in a hastily applied bandage, his face drawn with exhaustion. He glanced at her with a frown. “We should leave. There’s nothing left for us here.”

Noura shook her head, hands clenching at her sides. “I’m staying. They need help.” She gestured to the street below, where families sifted through the wreckage, calling out names in a desperate search for their loved ones. The sound of a mother’s wail as she cradled a lifeless child in her arms cut through the air, sharp and raw. It dug into Noura’s chest, twisting with each breath she took. 

Amir’s grip tightened on her shoulder, trying to pull her away. “You can’t help everyone. The buildings are crumbling, debris is falling all over the place. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Noura planted her feet, though, eyes glistening as she took in the shattered remains of the life they once knew. She remembered playing in the town square as a child, the taste of fresh bread from the bakery on the corner, the sound of the muezzin’s call to prayer that had echoed through the streets every morning. Now, it was all gone, and only devastation remained. 

Amir frowned, dropping his hand in defeat. He studied her for a moment, then nodded slowly, stepping back. “Just be careful, okay? Don’t do anything reckless.”

“I’ll be fine.” Noura forced a smile, though it felt like a lie. 

With a final, reluctant glance, Amir turned and disappeared up the stairs. Noura took a deep breath and walked down the cracked steps, the morning sun casting her shadow long across the dirt road.

As she made her way downtown, she noticed neighbors and acquaintances clustered together in the remnants of their properties. Shattered windows and tumbling walls stretched as far as the eye could see. An old man dug through the rubble with his bare hands, voice hoarse from calling out a name that had gone unanswered. A woman with bloodied feet limped past, clutching a baby to her chest, eyes unseeing. 

Noura stopped to offer water and food to those she could. She tore strips of fabric from her own clothes to bandage wounds, wrapping them around arms and legs as gently as possible. With each face she saw, each sob that reached her ears, her resentment only grew. At the main square, people whispered—murmurs about the events of the night before. The stories passed from one person to another like a disease, carrying awe, fear, and bitterness. 

“They say he flew down like a devil, tearing through buildings with his bare hands,” an elderly woman whispered, her lips trembling. “It wasn’t human. Nothing human could do that.”

Another man, his voice strained from the fumes he had inhaled, shook his head with disappointment. “They call him a hero back in America. What kind of hero burns down entire towns? What kind of hero leaves children to die under the rubble?”

Noura pulled out her phone. Her grip around it was awfully tight as she recorded what little was left of her neighborhood. She filmed the collapsing mosque, the dilapidated houses, the faces of wandering pedestrians who had lost everything. Her voice wavered as she narrated, words catching in her throat. “This… this is what the American army does in Syria,” she said, forcing herself to keep her hands steady as she panned the camera across the ruins.

She turned the phone toward herself. “They are not here to protect us,” Noura said into the lens. “They are here to destroy and conquer. The world needs to know what happens when foreign powers bring their war to our doorstep. What happens when their heroes come to save us.”

She swallowed hard, struggling to keep her emotions at bay. She couldn’t afford to break down, not now. Not while there was so much that needed to be done. She had to keep moving, keep recording. Anything to take her mind off of everything she had lost. If she couldn’t save her home, she could at least make sure the world wouldn’t forget it. 

As she lowered the phone, her thoughts returned to the figure she had seen the night before—Homelander, standing in that dark alley like a monster cloaked in red and blue. A shiver ran through her, but she pushed it aside. Instead, she let her anger steady her. It didn’t matter how powerful he was, or how many people labeled him a hero in the west. She would make sure that he, and everyone like him, answered for what they had done. 

A makeshift shelter had been set up in the center of the town square—a temporary refuge built from salvaged tarps and metal beams that had survived the onslaught. As the sun set, the temperature plummeted, and the survivors huddled together for warmth. Their breath misted in the cool night air, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of oil lamps. 

Aid workers moved through the crowd, handing out what little food they had left—small packets of dried bread and canned beans. The lines stretched far, though. The children near the back clung to their mothers’ skirts, already suspecting they would go to bed hungry. 

Noura sat cross-legged on the cold ground, her hands stained with blood as she wrapped a clean bandage around a man’s arm. He winced but gave her a grateful nod, clutching his injured limb to his chest. Beside her, Fatima knelt with her head bowed, carefully stitching up a gash on a woman’s leg. 

They worked in silence for a while, the sounds of the shelter—muffled whispers, the occasional sob—filling the space between them. Noura glanced at her friend, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hands trembled with exhaustion. She opened her mouth to speak, but Fatima beat her to it. 

“Are you really going to do it, Noura?” Fatima’s voice was barely a whisper, but the fear in it was unmistakable. She glanced over her shoulder, as if expecting one of the soldiers patrolling the town to appear out of the shadows. “All this talk about protesting, about filming… it’s dangerous.”

Noura set down the bandages and wiped her hands on her clothes. “And what do you want me to do, Fatima? Pretend like this never happened? Pretend that they didn’t come here and tore apart our homes, our lives?” Her voice was harsh, and she forced herself to soften it. It was not Fatima she was angry at. “If we don’t speak up, no one will know the truth. We can’t let them turn us into ghosts.”

Fatime flinched at the bitterness in her words, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she fixed Noura with a pleading look, her eyes glistening in the dim light. “I just… I don’t want to lose you too,” she said softly. “You’re the only family I have left.”

Noura reached out, squeezing Fatima’s hand tightly. “I know, habibti. But I can’t stay quiet anymore. I just can’t.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “They think they can come here, kill our people, and proclaim themselves heroes. They think no one will care because we’re just another war-torn town. But I’m going to make them care. I’m going to make sure the world sees what they’ve done.”

Fatima sighed, dropping her head. “I’m scared for you, Noura.”

“I’m scared too,” Noura admitted, but there was steeliness in her voice. “But I’m more afraid of what will happen if we don’t do anything.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer, listening to the rustle of the wind against the makeshift walls of the shelter. A shadow fell over them, and Noura looked up to see Rami Haddad, his expression grim beneath his unkempt beard. The local journalist had been a fixture in Nineveh for as long as she could remember, but the past months had hardened him—made him quieter, more cautious. 

“Noura” he said, nodding to her before glancing at Fatima. “Mind if I steal her for a minute?”

Fatima looked between them, worry etched into her face, but she simply nodded and rose to her feet, giving Noura’s shoulder a squeeze before slipping away. Rami took her place on the ground, his gaze sweeping over the wounded around them. “You’re really going through with this, then?” he asked, his tone carrying a hint of concern. “The protest in Damascus. The footage. You know they won’t take kindly to it.”

Noura pulled a small, battered phone from her pocket, the screen cracked but still functional. She held it out to him, showing him the videos she had taken—scenes of collapsed buildings, grieving families, the wreckage that had once been their homes. “I need the truth to get out, Rami. I need people to know that Vought’s heroes aren’t saviors—they’re executioners.” 

Rami studied the footage in silence for a moment, his jaw clenched tight. He glanced back at Noura, at those big brown eyes, full of determination. His expression softened. “I’ll help you get the footage out,” he said. “And I’ll spread the word about the protest. But you have to understand, Noura, once this gets out… there’s no going back. You’ll be putting a target on your back, on all our backs.”

Noura met his gaze without hesitation. “I know the risks, Rami. I just feel like… I have no other choice.”

He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “Alright then. Just… be careful. It’s not just the Americans. The world isn’t kind to people who try to tell the truth.”

She managed a small, tired smile, slipping the phone back into her pocket. “It’s never been kind to us, Rami. But that’s not going to stop me.”

Rami gave her a long, searching look, then nodded. “I’ll reach out to my contacts in Damascus. We’ll make sure this gets seen.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Stay safe, Noura. What you’re doing is dangerous, I won’t lie. It’s going to take some guts, so you better be ready.”

Noura nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle on her shoulders. She knew the path she had chosen wasn’t easy. As Rami disappeared down the street, she turned her gaze back to the people huddled in the shadows of the shelter. Her resolve hardened like steel beneath her skin. They had survived the night. Now, it was time to fight for the days to come. 

A military base loomed just outside Nineveh, a fortress of steel and concrete surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Inside there was a different world—clean walkways, neatly aligned vehicles, and soldiers laughing over trays of scrambled eggs and hot coffee. The air buzzed with the hum of machinery and the distant thump of helicopters on patrol. 

In a sleek, sterile briefing room deep within the base, Homelander stood with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on a large digital map projected onto the wall. General Mark Thompson, a broad-shouldered man with a silver buzzcut and a perpetually stern frown, paced in front of the screen.

“Hell of a job, Homelander. Hell of a job,” Thompson said, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of someone used to shouting orders across battlefields. He tapped a spot on the map where the town was located. “You took out the core of their operations in one night. This is the kind of show of force that keeps the locals in line—lets them know who’s in charge.”

Homelander nodded, his chest swelling slightly with the praise. He felt the warmth of Thompson’s words seeping into him, a balm for his own bruised ego after the recent dip in his popularity back home. “Just doing what needed to be done, General,” he replied, keeping his tone even. “Can’t have those supervillains thinking they can run wild under our noses.”

“Exactly,” Thompson said. his mouth twisting into a thin smile. He folded his arms across his chest, the rows of medals on his uniform catching the light. “Of course, there were… some unfortunate casualties among the locals. But you know how it is—collateral damage. Sometimes you gotta make necessary sacrifices. We’ll handle any reports that come out. Our PR team’s already spinning the narrative. You’ll come out of it looking like the hero you are.”

Homelander took a moment to absorb the words. Slowly, he nodded along. “Good. It’s important that people back home see the bigger picture. They need to know we’re making progress out here.”

“Don’t worry, son. We’ve got your back.” Thompson gave a curt nod, dismissing him with a firm pat on the shoulder. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

The general turned his attention back to the map. Homelander walked out of the briefing room, still smiling faintly as he basked in the aftermath of the old General’s praise. It felt good to finally be appreciated. As the door slid shut behind him, the chill of the air-conditioned hallway pressed in, though, and the emptiness beneath the accolades began to gnaw at him. It was too quiet. He needed a moment away from the base’s antiseptic order. Homelander wandered down a narrow corridor, finding a quiet corner by one of the windows that overlooked the desert beyond. 

The glass pane reflected his image back at him—a tall, imposing figure clad in a red and blue suit, still speckled with traces of blood he hadn’t bothered to wash off. He stared at his own eyes, at the hardness of his expression, and felt the familiar pull in the back of his mind. 

“Sloppy,” a voice drawled, low and mocking. Homelander’s reflection in the glass twisted, just slightly, into a smirk that didn’t match his own. “Letting them see you like that. But then again, you liked it, didn’t you? The cries, the horror. Watching them beg and squirm, knowing there’s nothing they can do to stop you.” 

Homelander’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He glanced around, ensuring no one else was in earshot, before he muttered under his breath, “They should be thanking me. Those rebels would’ve torn this place apart if I hadn’t stepped in.”

The smirk in the glass grew sharper. “Keep telling yourself that, hot shot. But we both know the truth, don’t we?” The voice was soft, oozing with smug certainty. “You enjoy this. The power, the fear in their eyes… It’s the only thing that makes you feel alive, isn’t it?”

Homelander’s lips pressed into a thin line, refusing to give voice to his nagging doubt. He turned his gaze back out to the endless stretch of desert, where the sun beat down on the unforgiving landscape. The silence between him and the voice in his head stretched, thick with tension, before he forced a dismissive chuckle. 

“They need me. The locals, the military, even Vought. None of them could do this without me,” he muttered, as if saying it aloud might make it truer. The voice, his own and yet not, merely scoffed in response. 

“They need you… or they’re afraid of you?” It let the question hang in the air, taunting, cutting deeper than Homelander cared to admit. “It’s all a lie, Johnny. A show you put on. It was back home, and it still is now. You know better than anyone that there were no supervillains in that town.”

He took a slow, deliberate breath, pushing away the flicker of doubt, the hint of something he was yet to put a name to. He wasn’t some ordinary man—he was the Homelander. Untouchable, superior. He had a job to do, a role to play, and he wouldn’t let anyone—especially not a voice in his own head—undermine him. 

And yet, as he stared out at the desert beyond the base’s pristine walls, the weight of its words lingered.

The underground café was hidden beneath the shell of a bombed-out building, its entrance barely discernible behind a sagging metal door. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of cigarette smoke and the murmur of hushed conversations. Shadows clung to the corners, where the locals huddled over tables, whispering about the latest military movements, exchanging fragments of news from the outside world. A dim bulb swung overhead, casting restless light across their faces.

Noura sat across from Rami at a rickety table near the back. His camera lay between them, battered and scratched, his loyal companion in the pursuit of countless war stories. Rami’s face was drawn, his usual wry smile absent as he listened to Noura lay out her plan. Her fingers traced invisible lines on the table as if sketching out her vision on the scarred wood.

“Next week, there’s going to be a press conference in Damascus. It'll be the first time the Syrian government meets with a high level US delegation in years,” Noura said, her voice low but firm. “The eyes of the world will be on us. That’s when we need to stage the protest.”

Rami’s brow furrowed, and he took a slow drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the dim light. He exhaled, the smoke curling upward, mingling with the heavy air. “Damascus is a whole different beast, Noura. It’s not like here. You make noise in the capital, and everyone comes down on you, hard. Our government and the Americans might be at each other’s throat more often than not, but there’s one thing they have in common. They don’t like troublemakers.” He paused, studying her with a critical eye. “You know what happens to those who attract too much attention.”

Noura met his gaze, unflinching. “I know the risks, Rami. But I can’t stay silent. If we don’t speak up, they’ll bury everything—our stories, our town, our lives. They’ll rewrite history while we’re still living it.”

Rami sighed, scratching his forehead. He glanced around the café, where faces turned away from the mere mention of protests. “It’s not just your life you’re risking, Noura. If you do through with this, it won’t just be you they come for.” 

“That’s why I need your help. You’ve seen what they did to us. You have the proof, the footage. If we can get this out there, we might have a chance. We might be able to make people care.”

Rami’s eyes softened. There was something like admiration in his gaze, but also skepticism. “All right,” he relented, snuffing out his cigarette in a cracked ashtray. “I told you I’d help and I will. But we do this my way. No reckless speeches, no big signs with your face on them. We’re trying to make noise, but we have to do it carefully.”

Noura nodded, grateful for even this reluctant agreement. They sat in silence as she edited the footage on her phone, translating the Arabic words into English subtitles. Her hands shook slightly as she added the final frames—a shot of the town square, reduced to rubble, followed by a close-up of a child’s doll half-buried in the dirt, one eye missing. She took a deep breath, mildly uncomfortable as she watched a recording of herself speaking into the camera. 

“We are not terrorists,” she said, eyes red and face stained with ashes. “We are mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. And we are not going to disappear.” 

She posted the video online, her fingers hesitating for only a moment before hitting ‘upload’. Rami watched her with a grim expression, knowing that with this one action, there was no turning back. Noura stared at her phone, feeling her pulse quickening as the video began to circulate. Every second that passed felt like an eternity. She knew that this could be the moment that changed everything—or that it might just be another cry drowned out in the endless noise of war.

The notification chime echoed in the silence, and her heart leapt. It had begun.

The street was cloaked in shadows, lit only by the dull glow of a flickering lamppost. Dust swirled in the night breeze. It was late, and they were the only patrons left in the café. Rami hunched over his laptop, his face illuminated by the screen’s cold light. His fingers flew across the keys, uploading photos and videos of the attack onto his social media platforms. 

Noura sat beside him, her own phone in hand, scrolling through the footage she had taken earlier. Her thumb hesitated over the screen, pausing on an image of the collapsed minaret, its broken spire reaching pitifully toward the sky. She swallowed hard, staring at the twisted metal and shattered stone. 

“I like this shot,” she murmured, holding her phone out for Rami to see. “We can lead with this. The mosque… they’ll understand what that means, right?”

Rami glanced up, shaking his head slightly. “Not necessarily. It’ll hit hard in Muslim countries, but in America? They’ll call it propaganda. They’ll try to twist it.”

Noura’s jaw clenched. “Let them. The truth is out there now. It’s up to the world to decide what to do with it.”

As Rami continued his work, the café fell into a tense silence, broken only by the baristas cleaning and picking up plates, the distant hum of generators powering the few buildings that still had electricity. Noura’s focus drifted, her mind replaying what happened the night before—Homelander’s blood-soaked figure against the moonlight, the way his eyes had met hers, unflinching, unfeeling. A shiver ran down her spine, and she hugged herself against the chill. 

She glanced towards the window, and her breath caught in her throat. On a nearby rooftop, barely visible in the dim light, a figure stood silhouetted against the starless sky. Her heart lurched, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin. It was him. She was sure of it. Watching her, like some monstrous guardian or a predator biding its time. 

“Rami…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She reached out, clutching his arm. “Look—up there—”

When she looked again, the rooftop was empty, though. The figure, if it had ever been there at all, had vanished into the darkness. 

Rami followed her gaze, frowning. “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

She shook her head, trying to steady her breathing. “Nothing. I… I thought I saw something.”

Rami studied her for a moment, concern furrowing his brow. “Fear can play tricks on the mind, especially at times like this. Danger seems to lurk at every corner. It’s a hazard of the profession,” he said, offering a tight, reassuring smile. “Come on, we’ll be done soon. Then you can go home and rest.”

Noura nodded, though her thoughts remained on the empty rooftop, and the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest refused to fade. She forced herself to focus on the task at hand, leaning over Rami’s shoulder as they reviewed the final uploads. Each image, each frame, was another weapon in their growing arsenal.

As they finished, the weight of what they had done settled between them. The air in the café felt colder. Noura slipped her phone into her pocket. 

“Stay safe, Rami,” she said. “We need to be careful.”

“You too, Noura. We’ll meet again soon, when it’s time for the next step.”

They parted ways. Rami disappeared into the shadows of the alleys, his footsteps muffled by the dust. Noura lingered for a moment longer, staring at the spot where she had seen the figure. Was it just her imagination, or had she really glimpsed a presence up there, watching her?

She pushed the thought aside, though her unease clung to her like a second skin. The real fight was just beginning, and there was no time for fear.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Last line word count

Thanks to @dogmomwrites for the tag!

The rules are to post your last line and tag as many people as there are words. I've been working on Going Quietly again, and this line sums up how I'm feeling about it all as well.

Buoyed by the relief of all this coming to a close, Nathan sailed on through the downpour; a little ballast lost, a bit of balance found.

This is sadly a massive 26 words, so after taking a deep breath I am tagging the last 26 people who have reblogged one of my writing posts: @toughpaperround, @lover-of-many-things, @suspiciouspopsicle, @shineyma, @derekstilinski, @babydroll, @waffleinator-inator, @felinemotif, @victorineb, @wicked-ghoul, @theskittlemuffin, @aethersea, @taikeero-lecoredier, @uhf-comm-pass, @actiaslunaris, @leem-lawson, @bubbles-the-banshee, @twoheartsoneclara, @onward--upward, @wardog-of-the-endless, @my-deer-friend, @harringtonss, @elegyofthemoon, @crestfallen-blogger, @heywizards and @midnightsnapdragon.

Now, I know a lot of you guys are struggling with writing at the moment, so there is absolutely no pressure to get involved. However, if you do want to use this as a spur to share your last project, no matter how old, or even open your WIP and write one more line, please do!

[scattered-stardust]

At least the ruckus pulls Arm out of his conversation and back to his side. “Is there a problem,” he says in a tone that promises there better not be a problem, as he puts his hand on the small of Porsche’s back. Which is fine and Porsche can deal with that like he’s not a guy with a crush on the gorgeous man next to him so obviously he blushes. Or, Porsche has a crush on his three roommates and is totally chill about it. As long as people stop assuming he's dating them, his poor heart can't take this. Or, Six times people assume Porsche is dating Pete, Pol and Arm and one time he does something about it.

Dedicating this fic to all my mutuals who made this fandom and tumblr in general a fantastic place to be in: @callmeahopelesscase @just-slightly-chayotic @risu442 @shubaka @salamander89 @xxatlasxx @the-cookie-of-doom @omegaphobe @wardog-of-the-endless @kimchaybrainrot @vani-ash @eggwars @fuckyeah-itme @dummerjan @divorcedmalewife @arewedoneyet @i-got-the-feels @hometothecanyonmoon I appreciate all of you so much<3<3<3

[overthinkthis]

Thank you @wardog-of-the-endless for tagging me, even though this game is so hard!

Challenge: Make a poll with five of your all time favourite characters, and then tag five people to do the same. See which character is everyone's favourite.

I thought about sticking to BL characters but there are too many that I like roughly the same amount, so here you go with five characters that really mean something to me:

Shoutout to Dawan from My Marvellous Dream is You, who I didn't want to put on the list before the series is finished.

I've seen a lot of these polls and have no idea who's already been tagged but I'm tagging @doyou000me, @blue-grama, @7nessasaryevils, @pluckygazelle and @malin-moon (no pressure obvs)

[alwaysandforeverlost]

✨ Challenge: Make a poll with five of your all time favourite characters, and then tag five people to do the same, and see which character is everyone's favourite! ✨

These are the ones that came immediately to my mind!! Thanks @risu442 for tagging me 💙💙💙💙 I always appreciate it!!

I tag @just-slightly-chayotic @wardog-of-the-endless @shubaka and whoever wants to do it ✨

[oyunjae]

For @wardog-of-the-endless who wanted a mix “for science” lol I’ll try to get a better one someday. Yunho’s NWL melody with Jaejoong’s All Alone ahhh love the chorus <3

Lyrics to both songs ^ (Jaejoong and Yunho both wrote their own) Yunho’s was released 1 year after JJ’s in the beginning of 2014

Original post:

[mar-of-musing]

Wishing @wardog-of-the-endless the best and happiest of birthdays!

Please give her happy birthday wishes she deserves all of them 🎁.

[myndless88]

✨ Challenge: make a poll with five of your all time favorite characters, and then tag five people to do the same, and see which character is everyone's favorite ✨

I had seen @wardog-of-the-endless and a few of her mutuals do this, and I wanted to do the same. ^__^ It's pretty difficult to think of "all time" favorite characters, so I'll go with ones I used to talk about all the time.

It was tough to limit it to just five. Anyway, here are pics of each so that you can see what they look like. They're in the order they appear in the poll.

While it says that I should tag five people, I'm just going to leave it to whomever would like to do this.

I'm quite curious who'll get the most votes. Happy voting!

[jacarandabanyan]

WIP game, tagged by @hayanwulf

Rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

So right off the bat I'm going to say that my WIP folder is a bog. Lots of stuff goes in, some of it stays on the surface long enough to be completed and a good deal of it sinks down into the folder's depths, unlikely to ever see the light of day again (though only 'unlikely'- many pieces have managed to make comebacks).

Which is a long way to say that I'm not going to list everything in my WIP folder because a lot of it will probably never be finished and it would take too long. Also a bunch of it is original stuff, not fanfic.

So, list of fanfic WIP stuff that I still expect/intend/hope to finish:

Marvel:

The Tide Comes Rushing In Ch. 6

Dr Strange's AI Student

IronStrange Tony Reborn as AI

Treebot

Gila Monster WinterIron

IronStrange Brain Surgery

Steve Gets in the Trunk of Bucky's Totally Stolen Car

Tony LMD Fic (final bit)

Virtual Reality

Naruto:

Sasori Makes a Team 7 Puppet

Konan/Mei Religious Imagery

Itachi Infiltrates Kiri

Itachi IV Bowstaff AU

Naruto Can't Talk

Kisame-sensei

KisaIta Soulmate AU

Fake Honeypot

Naruto Gender Fic

Misc:

The East Blue Crew's Adventures Microchipping Zoro

Snake Story

Daddy Issues

Tagging people: @wardog-of-the-endless, @rebelmeg, anyone else who wants to. Also to the two I tagged, only if you want to! No pressure!

There's no way I can find as many people to tag as WIPs so I'm just going to stop there.

[ghostly-gifts]

🎃🎤 Trick or Treat!!! 🍷🎃

On this eerie Halloween night, @wardog-of-the-endless has been haunted by the spooky ghost @subtextsays, and they've left behind a treat!

[ishomieokay]

And We Made You Pairs (Ch. 3)

──── a homelander x arab oc story.

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

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

✰ warnings - terrorism, kamikaze missions, radicalization, incitement to commit suicide (typical homie behavior, lmao).

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

It was a rainy morning. The basement was cloaked in shadows, a handful of candles casting a faint glow over the small, crowded space. The walls were damp, lined with crude paintings depicting martyrs and ancient battles— bloody chapters of the Quran. Amir sat cross-legged on the floor among a group of young men, each face tense and alert, all eyes locked on Hassan El Ghany as he spoke.

Hassan’s voice had a magnetic quality, the measured, confident vigor of a seasoned leader. He leaned against a table covered in maps and journals, his face barely visible under the sparse light. He was old, almost frail looking, and yet his presence dominated the room. A former soldier turned rebel, Hassan was a hero to many. He wore the scars of countless battles, visible and invisible, and when he spoke, it was as though the walls themselves leaned closer to listen. 

“For a year now,” Hassan was saying, his voice low but sharp, “they’ve sat in their palaces, the so-called leaders of this country, shaking hands with the same men who brought destruction to our homes.” He paused, allowing the disgust in his tone to settle, for his words to take root in the minds of the young men before him. “They call it diplomacy,” he sneered. “I call it betrayal. Reopening the American embassy? After all they’ve done to us?”

Amir shifted, feeling the bite of Hassan’s words open a festering wound. He thought of his sister, Noura, sitting in the kitchen of their small apartment after another sleepless night, the strain of endless worries pulling at her. Nineveh’s destruction had marked them, had marked him, but he was haunted even more by the knowledge that they might never feel safe again. Now, El Ghany offered him a chance to fight that fear with something stronger.

Hassan’s gaze drifted over the men in the room, resting on Amir with a knowing look. “You all have a duty,” he continued. “To make sure they remember that this land is not theirs to trade away. It’s ours .” His voice softened, then, as if to incite a frightened, hungry animal to eat out of his hand. “Each of you is a hero waiting for your moment. When that time comes, you’ll know what to do.”

Amir’s pulse quickened as Hassan’s words wrapped around him, filling the cracks left behind by carnage and war. He felt the weight of his own anger shift, like a stone moved just enough to allow something else through—a need for retaliation. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes focused on Hassan, as if to catch every last syllable of his lethal promise.

“Amir.” Hassan’s voice broke into his thoughts, as if beckoning him closer. Amir swallowed, suddenly self-conscious under the steady gaze of the other young men. “I see courage in you. An orphan without a home, forsaken by our leaders, by those who swore to protect us. You’ve already endured what most could never imagine,” Hassan said solemnly. “And only for that, you have more to fight for than your brothers.”

Hassan reached down beside the table and picked up a vest, its weight and purpose unmistakable. He extended it to Amir, who accepted it with trembling hands. The fabric was rough and heavy in his grip, and he could feel the chilling reality of its purpose sinking in.

“This vest,” Hassan murmured, his voice low but clear, “is your path to freedom. Wear it with pride. You’ll be a martyr—your name remembered long after we’re gone.” He placed a small remote in Amir’s hand, his fingers curling Amir’s around it, as if asking him to not let go. “With this, you hold their fear. You hold the power to make them feel the same terror we feel every day.”

Amir trembled, the weight of the vest pressing against him, the remote cold and unfamiliar in his palm. He tried to steel himself, to calm the wild beat of his heart. He had to do this. For Noura, for his town, for the hope that someone could make those monsters pay.

He heard himself say, “I’m ready,” though he hardly recognized his own voice.

Hassan’s eyes softened, and he nodded approvingly, a small, prideful smile forming at the edge of his mouth.

Noura paced the length of her small apartment, her phone clutched tightly in her hand. The sun was sinking low, casting an amber glow across the room. Each ring on the line felt like a countdown, her worry increasing with every second Amir didn’t answer.

Fatima watched from the couch, her brow creased with concern. “Noura,” she said gently, but Noura barely glanced in her direction. “Maybe Amir’s just blowing off steam. You know how he can be when he’s restless. Boys his age, they—”

“No.” Noura shook her head, her gaze darting back to her phone screen. “He wouldn’t just disappear like this. He hasn’t been himself for weeks now. Distant, secretive… It’s not like him, Fatima.”

Fatima bit her lip, reaching out as if she could somehow steady Noura from the whirlwind of emotions tugging her down. “Maybe he’s just trying to make sense of it all. The attack, the protests—everything’s been so chaotic this past year. For all of us.”

Noura’s voice dropped to a whisper, almost as if she were speaking to herself. “He’s angry, Fatima. Hurt in a way I can’t heal. And I’m scared of where that anger might take him.” Her thoughts strayed back to the days following the attack on Nineveh, the loss that had changed them both so drastically. She had seen the haunted look in Amir’s eyes, the impotent fury. She hadn’t known how deeply it had sunk into him until recently. Now, it seemed to manifest all the time, in increasingly wild and unpredictable ways.

Fatima sighed, seeming unsure of what to say. “Amir’s strong. And he has you.”

“But he’s young,” Noura said, her voice rising as she shoved her phone into her pocket. “And bitter. Bitter enough to do something stupid if the wrong person is whispering in his ear.”

“The wrong person?” Fatima blinked, taken by surprise. “And… who would that be?”

Noura shook her head, unsure what had prompted her to say that. There was a name at the tip of her tongue. Amir spoke of him often, with an admiration that bordered on reverence. She didn't like it. To her, it felt as haram as worshiping at the altar of a pagan God.  

Hassan El Ghany—she’d heard his name before, whispered in the hushed corners of meetings or late-night discussions among activists. A former soldier, now rebel leader, Hassan promised liberation and revenge, and she feared he knew exactly what to say to lure in someone like Amir. A twenty something young man, not college educated, without a job, desperate to feel like he could still make a difference.

Noura stormed toward Amir’s room, her heart pounding. Maybe he’d left something behind—a clue, anything that could lead her to him. The room was in disarray, his bed unmade, clothes strewn across the floor. She sifted through his things, careful not to disturb too much, hoping he would return and find everything as he left it. Her fingers brushed over a crumpled piece of paper near his pillow, and her breath caught.

The note was hastily scrawled, as if written in a rush. “For Syria’s future,” it read, “sacrifices must be made.”

Noura paled as she held the note. Her mind raced, piecing together the warnings she had ignored, the changes in Amir’s behavior. A wave of terror washed over her. She shoved the note into her pocket, already reaching for her keys.

“Where are you going?” Fatima asked, standing quickly.

“I have to find him,” Noura said, her voice unsteady. “If I’m right… he could be about to do something terrible. Something irreversible.”

Fatima’s hand gripped her arm. “Noura, you can’t just go looking for him alone. At this hour? It’s dangerous!”

“Amir is out there,” Noura said, not a hint of doubt in her voice. “He’s my brother. If he’s mixed up in something… I can’t just sit here.”

Fatima let go, her gaze softening. “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Noura said firmly. “If it’s what I think it is, I don’t want you caught up on it. I’ll just ask around, see if anyone knows where he might have gone.”

Without another word, Noura left, plunging into the crowded streets. The fading sun cast Damascus in hues of deepening blue and gray, the city alive with lights and vendors. She moved quickly, head held high, her gaze sharp as she scanned the faces in the crowd, searching for someone who might have seen Amir.

She stopped by the nearest café where Amir had once spent time with his friends. The small shop was bustling with regulars enjoying the end of their day. She approached the owner, her voice urgent as she asked about her brother’s whereabouts. The man shook his head. She moved on to the local market, stopping passersby, but again no luck. Her desperation took over, and she found herself speaking another name, asking for someone else.

Noura watched as people exchanged glances, reluctant to speak about Hassan El Ghany out loud. The name was a curse to some, a beacon to others. She pressed on, asking in hushed tones, “Do you know where I can find Hassan’s men?” A young vendor sent a wary glance her way.

“I wouldn’t go looking for them, sister,” she murmured, looking over her shoulder. “They were seen today downtown, near the marketplace. Be careful, though. They don’t take kindly to questions.”

With a nod of thanks, Noura left, her steps quickening as she made her way down the street.

General Thompson’s voice echoed through the briefing room as he paced in front of the digital map, his heavy boots striking the ground in precise intervals. The image of Damascus flickered, showing red markers in the city center, the outlines of buildings, and a few isolated streets. Thompson leaned in, pointing with a gloved hand toward one particular sector of the map.

“We’ve intercepted intel on an imminent attack. A bombing planned in the heart of Damascus. Target’s likely to be high-density civilian areas—markets, transportation hubs. ” he began. “Now, as you all know, we have no legal jurisdiction in this city. But if a good samaritan, someone who was technically not military personnel, were to intervene and stop this tragedy from happening… I think that would gain us a lot of points with the new administration. Al-Assad is finally gone. It's time to get his successors in our pockets.”

He sent a meaningful glance in Homelander’s direction. He stared back, unsurprised. It was not the first time they played this card. He nodded in agreement, arms folded across his chest. 

Fatigue was weighing down on him tonight. Three years of deployment had finally taken their toll. When he’d first arrived in Syria, he’d felt unstoppable—a true American hero in a foreign land, flexing power in a place where he had nothing to lose. Now, that energy had dulled, and only a hollow sense of duty remained.

Thompson tapped the map again, and the image shifted to display a low-resolution photograph of a young man, his gaze steely, lips pressed into a thin line. The surveillance photo had been captured through night-vision, and the light cast a ghostly green tint over his face. Homelander’s eyes narrowed.

“Amir Al-Sayed,” Thompson announced, his tone businesslike. “According to our mole, this young man has been recruited by Hassan El Ghany’s network. He’s carrying a vest—wired and ready to detonate.”

A sliver of recognition slid through Homelander’s mind. Al-Sayed. He’d seen his face before, here and there on social media. In the posts Noura Al-Sayed made ralling locals and sympathizers to stand against foreign military presence. 

“This one’s non-negotiable,” Thompson continued, his voice steely. “You know what’s at stake. We need results, not hesitation.”

Homelander held his gaze steady as he nodded, glancing once more at the grainy image on the screen. Amir’s face looked both fearful and determined, the kind of look that only came from those young enough—or desperate enough—to believe in martyrdom. He’d seen it before, countless times over, in every target he’d been assigned.

“We’re expecting this to happen tonight, in the busiest part of town. You’ll intercept before he can reach his objective. This is a cut-and-dry op,” Thompson said, his tone leaving no room for interpretation. “Neutralize him.”

Homelander remained silent, but as the lights flickered back on, Thompson’s expression softened slightly. “I know you’ve been here a long time, soldier,” he said, as if in half-hearted consolation. “But we need you to stick to this. You’re the only one who can get close enough, fast enough. We can’t afford failure.”

Failure. The word hung in the air, a reminder of everything Homelander was never allowed to be. He nodded curtly and rose to his feet, waiting for Thompson’s dismissive wave before he left the briefing room, heading down the long, empty corridors of the US embassy. Outside, dusk had settled over the city, casting a dim, orange light through the high windows.

As he walked, the image of Amir’s face lingered in his mind. The younger Al-Sayed shared some resemblance to his sister, though his expression was harder, sharpened by anger. He thought of Noura’s impassioned speeches, the way she ignited her followers with righteous fury. 

Now, that fire had spread to her brother, consuming him with the same need to fight back, even if it meant self-destruction. Homelander remembered the first time he saw her—standing defiantly at that press conference, words like knives, unafraid. She had faced him without flinching, without giving him an ounce of respect. And in return, she had paid for it in ways she likely hadn’t even realized yet.

He reached the door to his quarters and paused, his reflection in the glass catching his eye. The fatigue was visible now, the sharpness he once carried dulling. But he forced it down, smothering that glimpse of weariness. He was the Homelander—untouchable, superior. These people and their struggles, their little rebellions, meant nothing to him. Except...

Noura Al-Sayed. 

Her brother.  Her blood. 

He’d seen so many faces these last three years—lives he’d erased without a second thought. They blurred together, a mosaic of forgotten souls. It felt different now. Personal. He’d seen this face in fragments, woven into the story Al-Sayed had crafted online, in the glimpses of her family, of her life before the destruction.

Her brother’s death would devastate her. A part of Homelander felt contentment, even vindication. He relished the thought of seeing her crumble, drunk on this new power he held over her. It would break her spirit, silence that voice that had dared to defy him in public. Perhaps it would even be a kind of poetic justice.

The night had draped Damascus in shadow, but the narrow, winding alleys were still alive with murmurs and movement. Noura’s heart pounded as she clutched her phone, her fingers tight and sweaty against the cool glass. Once again, the call went to voice mail.

She wove her way through the crowd, desperation sharpening her gaze as she scanned each face, searched each corner. She stopped to ask a street vendor, a weathered man hunched over his cart, but he only shook his head, glancing at her with a trace of sympathy. “Haven’t seen him, dear,” he muttered before turning back to his wares.

Everywhere she went, it was the same—shrugs, half-hearted glances, apologetic words. None of it brought her closer to Amir. Panic twisted inside her as she moved, her brother’s name hovering on her lips, though she was too afraid to shout it aloud. She could feel the weight of the note she had found in his room, the single, haunting phrase lingering in her mind: for Syria’s future, sacrifices must be made.

He was out there somewhere, convinced that he was doing something heroic, something meaningful, when all she could see was the looming shadow of tragedy.

“Noura!” Her phone buzzed, Fatima’s voice crackling through the speaker as she caught her breath in an alley, hand pressed against the rough stone wall. “Noura, listen—I've heard something.”

“Fatima, please tell me you know where Amir is.” Noura’s voice was desperate, her words tumbling over each other.

There was a pause on the other end, followed by a shaky exhale. “I don’t, not exactly, but there’s a rumor going around. Hassan’s group… they’re planning something big tonight. The word is, it’s happening at the market square. Not far from where you are.”

Noura’s throat tightened. The market square. It was a hub, crowded even at this hour, where vendors and locals mingled, an easy target for anyone wanting to make a deadly statement.

“Do you think…,” Noura whispered, swallowing hard, “do you think Amir could be there?”

“Noura, please,” Fatima’s voice was thick with worry, the urgency prickling through the line. “Don’t go looking for him. You have no idea what you might be running into.”

Noura had already turned, though, her feet carrying her toward the market square. She didn’t have time for fear—not now, not when her brother might be moments away from making an irreversible mistake. Her breaths came fast as she navigated the tight streets, the city blurring past her in shadows and fractured light.

Her mind raced with fragmented images, snatches of memory: Amir’s quiet, resolute face, the arguments they’d had since he’d started idolizing men like El Ghany, his words taut with anger and frustration. He had been slipping further and further away, and she’d tried to reach him, tried to keep him grounded. But what if it hadn’t been enough?

Her hand slipped over the phone in her pocket, and she dialed Amir again. This time, the line clicked, and his voice came through, faint but clear.

“Amir!” she gasped, relief and fear twisting together. “Amir, where are you?”

There was silence on the other end, the kind that stretched too long, too empty. “Noura,” he finally murmured, his voice raw, almost unrecognizable. “I… I’m doing something important. Something that matters.”

Noura choked back a cry. “Amir, please, whatever they’ve told you—whatever they’ve made you believe—this isn’t the answer. Lives will be lost. You’re putting yourself in danger. You’re putting us all in danger!”

He exhaled, a quiet, broken sound that seemed to ripple through her. “They’ve taken everything from us, Noura. You know that. This is the only way to take something back.”

She fought to keep her voice steady. “We can find another way. Together. Just tell me where you are, please.”

“I just…,” a long pause, “I just wanted you to know that I love you, and… I’m sorry.” The line went dead then, the words swallowed by silence.

Tears blurred Noura’s vision as she gripped the phone, her fingers trembling. She turned the last corner, and the square opened up before her, the hum of the crowd louder, pulsing with life. She scanned the faces, searching for Amir, for any sign of him among the bustling market stalls.

Nothing. Noura’s jaw clenched as she looked into the crowd, scanning each movement, each shifting shadow. She’d already lost so much.

She couldn’t lose Amir too.

The alley was quiet, a stark contrast to the bustling street nearby, swarmed with crowds. Amir stood in the corner, his hand clutched around the trigger mechanism strapped to his chest. His face was pale, set with the determination of someone who had already said his goodbyes.  

High above, Homelander watched, unnoticed, his silhouette merging with the darkened rooftops. He knew he could end this here and now, end it without anyone ever knowing there had been a threat. He thought of Al-Sayed, then, of her grief-stricken face once the news was delivered. The fire in her eyes finally dying down. A satisfied smile tugged at his mouth. It would be so easy, it almost felt like cheating.

He drifted down, landing silently a few feet behind his target. “So, this is it?” he drawled, crossing his arms. “This is what they told you to do, huh? Blow yourself up for some guy who probably won’t even remember your name?”

Amir spun around, eyes wide with shock. For a moment, he fumbled with the trigger, but before he could blink, Homelander’s hand shot out, snatching it effortlessly from his grip. He held it up, examining the device with detached curiosity. It looked cheap. Made of scraps. Clearly not American. For a moment, he simply stared, letting the man process the full weight of his helplessness.

“You think this makes you a hero?” Homelander tilted his head, his smile sharp and cutting. He reached forward and gripped Amir by the collar, lifting him with no more effort than one would a feather. “You want to die, and then what? Think they’ll sing songs about you? Make statues in your honor? Nah-ah, Kebab. That’s just for guys like me. No one gives two fucks about another Camel Jockey going kaboom.”

Amir’s lips parted, but no words came out. He seemed torn between fear and confusion. The bravado that had carried him here was quickly unraveling. He stared at Homelander, breathless, trembling, perhaps realizing for the first time how very alone he was. This was it. He had failed in his mission and his supposed allies would not come to save him. 

“Go on, then,” Homelander said, his tone mocking as he loosened his grip and allowed Amir’s feet to touch the ground. “Do it. Prove me wrong.”

Amir stood, still frozen, his eyes darting from the crowd in the distance to the towering figure in front of him. He didn’t move to pick up the trigger from where it dangled in Homelander’s hand, nor did he run. His mouth opened, words catching in his throat.

“What’s the matter?” Homelander smirked, amused by Amir’s paralysis. “I thought you were ready to be a hero.”

“You… you don’t understand,” Amir finally managed, his voice weak. “You’ve destroyed everything. My family, my town—my sister—”

Homelander raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching, as if hearing the punchline to a joke. “Oh, I understand plenty. Trust me. I just don’t think you do. Here’s a reality check: your death isn’t going to change a damn thing.” His voice lowered, laced with something between pity and disdain. “All you’re doing is giving us another excuse. Another headline, another reason to call you savages and justify tearing your country apart.”

Amir’s face twisted, disbelief battling with anger. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked, shaking his head.

“I dunno. I just think it’s fucking hilarious.” Homelander’s grin spread, wide and unsettling. “I mean, let’s say you go through with it. They’ll report it on the news— ‘Rebels threaten peace process with barbaric attack .’ You know what that means, don’t you? More guns, more bombs, more soldiers.” He tossed the trigger mechanism from one hand to the other, enjoying the way Amir’s eyes followed it. “In fact, if you die, you’re doing us a favor.”

“That’s not… that’s not true,” Amir whispered, but his voice was faltering, the resolve slipping through the cracks. 

Homelander chuckled. “You don’t believe me? Look around, kid. It's not our people you're gonna fucking massacre, it's yours. And, newsflash, we don't care. We’re here for power, for control. And you—” he jabbed a finger at Amir, making the man flinch—“you’re just another expendable pawn in the game.”

Amir stared back, a storm of emotions flickering in his eyes—fear, anger, shame. Homelander could see it all, the collapse of those lofty promises that Hassan guy had woven, and he savored it. He could feel his own sense of weariness melting into something else, something that almost felt like pleasure as he watched the hope drain from Amir’s face.

“Go on, prove me wrong,” Homelander taunted. “Blow yourself to pieces, just like they told you to. Or—” he smiled, voice dropping to a whisper, “you could live. Walk away. Show them you’re not some mindless weapon.”

Amir’s gaze dropped to the trigger dangling from Homelander’s fingers, and a visible tremor ran through him. He had no words, and when Homelander let the trigger fall to the ground, Amir didn’t reach for it. Homelander took a step back, folding his arms as he watched the boy’s internal battle rage on, the wavering resolve, the remnants of his fragile convictions crumbling.

“You think you’re gonna change anything by throwing your life away? That your death will make a difference, touch the hearts of millions? Wake the fuck up. The world doesn’t care. You’ll be gone, and it’ll keep spinning. Your sister—she’s fighting a lost battle. No lie there. But at least she’s fighting to live.”

Amir’s expression tightened at the mention of Noura, his fingers curling into fists. He didn’t move. He stood rooted in place, his eyes fixed on the ground, the weight of his decision bearing down on him. His gaze flickered to the trigger mechanism lying between them, glinting faintly under the dim alley light.

Homelander observed him, arms still folded, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he seemed almost patient, as if giving Amir the time to decide was just as important as the decision itself. There was something unsettling in the calmness of his gaze, a silent dare in the way he looked at Amir—like he knew which choice the man would make and didn’t care which way it went.

Silence stretched. Homelander’s mouth curved in a barely-there smile. “Well?” he asked, voice dangerously soft.

The market square bustled with life. Vendors called out, selling spices, sweets, and toys, their voices mingling with the chatter of families and children darting between stalls. 

In the shadows near an old fountain, Amir stood still, hidden in the fading light. His jacket was zipped up, but the weight beneath it was unmistakable. His lungs seemed to tighten with every passing second. He could feel the trigger pressed against his hand, slick with sweat. He looked out over the crowd, his heart pounding erratically. Faces blurred before him as he tried to steady his breathing, to silence his racing thoughts.

They have to know. 

Amir swallowed, a tremor running through his hand as he hesitated. He stared at the families moving about in blissful ignorance. Hassan’s words echoed in his mind, drowning out his fear with a strange numbness. 

They have to pay.

As he unzipped his jacket slowly, exposing the vest, the numbness wavered. A distant, haunted look clouded his eyes. He took a step forward anyway, his lips pressed tightly together. Panic rippled through the crowd as people caught sight of the explosives, gasps turning to shrieks. The square erupted into chaos as they scattered, pushing past one another in their haste to escape.

Then, he heard it—a voice cutting through the noise, through the panic, calling out his name.

“Amir!” Noura’s voice pierced the air as she fought against the tide of people fleeing the square. Her eyes locked on him, wide and filled with a terror. She pushed forward, her feet pounding against the stone, the sound drowned out by the screams around them.

“Don’t do this!” she yelled as she reached him, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Amir, look at me!”

He turned, the fear etched across his face deepening as he met her gaze. For a moment, he couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened, but his voice was choked. “I have to, Noura,” he finally whispered, barely audible above the clamor. “They… they need to pay for everything. For what they did to us. To you.”

Tears spilled down Noura’s cheeks as she took his trembling hands, pulling them away from the button. “Amir, no. This won’t bring anyone back. It won’t change what happened to our home. You’ll just destroy yourself,” she pleaded, her voice breaking. “Please, come home with me. Just… come home. No one has to die.”

Her words cut through the haze clouding his mind. For a brief moment, he felt the weight of the trigger slacken in his grip. He looked down at his sister, the pain in her eyes pulling him back, grounding him in a way he hadn’t felt in so long. Doubt crept in. He began to loosen his hold, his fingers trembling as they slipped from the device.

A soft beep started, then—a ticking sound so faint it was nearly lost in the chaos.

“What… what’s happening?” Noura’s voice trembled, her eyes darting to the bomb as the ticking grew louder. Panic flared in her gaze. She looked back up at Amir, her hands clutching his with increasing urgency. “Amir, stop it! Turn it off!”

Amir’s face paled, realization dawning on him as he stared down at the device strapped to his chest. “I… I don’t know how,” he stammered. His fingers fumbled helplessly as he tried to silence the countdown. A sickening dread twisted in his stomach as he realized the truth. “They… they detonated it remotely. Noura, I can’t turn it off—”

“No,” she gasped, her hands flying to cover her mouth. “No, they wouldn’t...”

Amir forced himself to swallow his panic, his hand shooting out to push her back. “Noura, you have to go! Now!” He tried to pull away, his heart hammering as he looked into her tear-filled eyes. His voice choked. “I can’t—there’s no time. You have to leave, now!”

Noura didn’t move. Her hands tightened around his, as if holding on could somehow keep him safe. As if her mere presence could change what was inevitable. She shook her head, her voice barely a whisper. “I’m not leaving you, Amir.”

Just as she spoke, a shadow passed over them, cast long and dark across the ground. 

A sharp crackle split the air, a sudden burst of energy and movement descending like a lightning bolt. Noura felt the rush of wind an instant before he landed. Dust and pebbles scattered at his feet, the red, white, and blue of his suit a sharp, blinding presence against the dimness of the square.

Homelander.

Noura’s heart seized. She froze, her mind struggling to comprehend the sight before her. He stood just a few steps away, his figure too bright, too strong, like a character forced into the wrong scene. For a second, all the noise around her faded, the murmurs and cries of the crowd dimmed to silence. Time seemed to stop, everything narrowing down to the three of them—her, her brother, and this terrible force standing between them.

Homelander’s eyes flicked to Amir, then to her. She could see his gaze drop to the vest Amir wore, his brow furrowing slightly, as if calculating, assessing. Noura didn’t know whether to move forward or back. All her instincts screamed for her to run, but her feet were anchored to the ground.

Her eyes locked with his, and for a split second, there was something almost human in his expression—confusion, a question. What are you doing here? Then it was gone, his face shifting back into the detached, unreadable mask she had come to despise. 

“Step back,” he said, his voice a quiet, controlled force. It was a command, not a suggestion.

She opened her mouth to protest, but she found herself speechless, unable to form words. Amir, wide-eyed and trembling, seemed just as paralyzed. Before she could blink, Homelander reached forward, grabbing Amir by the collar with a hand as casual as if he were lifting a bag. Noura’s heart lurched, and her hand shot out, but her fingers barely brushed Amir’s arm as Homelander lifted him effortlessly into the air.

“What… what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaking, eyes locked onto her brother’s terrified face. “Please, stop!”

Homelander didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on Amir, his expression cold. Noura reached out, as if to pull her brother back from the edge of something dark and final, but Homelander moved faster than she could even blink. In a flash of movement, he was gone.

He shot up into the sky with Amir, a streak of red and blue vanishing into the darkness above. The force of his departure sent a rush of wind through the square, scattering dust and debris, throwing Noura back. She stumbled, her eyes wide, her gaze fixed on the disappearing figures as they climbed higher and higher, shrinking into dots against the night.

“No!” she screamed, her voice swallowed by the wind. Her heart pounded in her ears. She stared up, waiting for a sign, for anything to bring her brother back.

The night held its breath.

Then, it happened—a brilliant, fiery burst of light exploded above her, illuminating the sky like a second sun. The shockwave rippled down, shaking the buildings, rattling windows, throwing Noura to the ground. The roar of the blast echoed, loud and terrible, reverberating through her bones. She watched, her heart seized in horror, as the fireball bloomed in the sky, its glow lingering against the darkness.

Noura’s throat closed, her breath coming in shallow gasps as the explosion faded into silence, leaving only a shimmering trail of smoke. She lay motionless, her mind blank, the reality settling in with a crushing weight. 

Her brother was gone.