Haremlander: A Homelander x Reader Story: Vought told Homelander that he was sterile, then hid his son from him. Now that son has disappeared once more into the protection of others.
His Nazi girlfriend was burned and maimed. She is recovering slowly.
As far as Homelander is concerned, he lost everything.
But he’s Homelander. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. And he has a plan to replace what he feels was unfairly taken from him.
Unfortunately for you…you are part of that plan. (Story in two parts)
The Little Guy: A Homelander x Hughie One-Shot: “You’re going to stop hunting Starlight. You’re going to leave Elena and I alone. And you’ll let Ryan go. Or I release this.”
At the end of Season 2, Queen Maeve backed Homelander into a corner. She pitted his desire to be all-powerful against his obsessive need to be loved. The second won out over the first.
Yet he didn’t agree that he would never get revenge. He just has to be careful about his target.
A Supe’s weakness…is the people they care about.
Red Right Hand: A Homelander x Reader Story: Billy Butcher, Season 1, Episode 1: I’m offering you the opportunity to get them that got your girl.
Billy Butcher did his homework on Hughie and then recruited him to plant a bug in Vought Tower. Unfortunately Translucent found the tiny device. The rest, as they say, is history.
Doing your homework on someone and convincing them to help in the fight? Butcher was adept at it.
There’s no way Hughie was the first. Who else did he recruit before the two of them met?
And…remember Becca? There’s no way she was the first one either. Or the last.
Until It Sleeps: A Homelander x Stormfront x Reader Story: A bystander to the abuses of Homelander and Stormfront becomes a witness who needs to be disposed of. With unexpected consequences.
Tags/Warnings: Smut, DUBCON, stalking, PiV, semi-forced oral (m. rec), face fucking, light choking, slapping, power imbalance, dacryphilia, predator/prey, hickies/bruises, biting, degradation, use of 'Sir', dirty talk, implied and vaguely described off screen murder, sex while covered in blood, sex in an alley, clothed sex
Summary: After you go on a date with a guy you met on Tinder, you find out just how far Homelander's obsession really goes.
Word Count: 4.7k
Author's Note: Title from the song No Mercy by Austin Giorgio
There's no excuse why this is late coming out. I got caught up with chores yesterday and wasn't able to get as much done.
Dividers: Line divider by @saradika-graphics—Star Spangled Banner from Pinterest.
Tag List: @copperboom82
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
Main Masterlist
Ever since you started working for Vought as Homelander’s ‘Personal Household Assistant’, you constantly felt like you were being watched.
In the beginning you thought maybe it was some kind of personal security team that was assigned to you to make sure you weren’t a mole or someone who would screw them over. Being in Homelander’s penthouse and being intimate with him awarded you access to sensitive information, hence the NDA you were required to sign during your onboarding and acceptance of the position.
But it somehow felt…sinister. Curious. Not the clean and clinical observation you’d expect from a professional team. It was almost, possessive, in a way.
It followed you everywhere. As soon as you left Vought Tower it was on you. It followed you on your way home, it followed you to the grocery store, it followed you when you took yourself out to dinner. Even behind closed doors with all the blinds drawn, it refused to cease. The hair that pricked at the nape of your neck and along your arms, the oil slick pooling in your stomach that made you feel ill—all of it, all the time. It was tiring to say the least.
You had never felt it before, not one to be paranoid or feel like people were out to get you or anything; there was no predisposition to paranoia or trauma that would cause it.
Stress of the job is how you rationalized it to yourself. Admittedly, being the emotional and physical chew toy for America’s favorite supe wasn’t always the most glamorous. It left you aching and tired and contemplating how the hell you got here. It wasn’t all bad, though. Especially the nights when you were too tired and fucked out to be bothered to take the train and walk back to your apartment, Homelander let you stay in his bed.
But despite the fleeting good times, your interactions were still strictly transactional, and as a normal human being, you craved the intimacy and normalcy that the arrangement with him severely lacked.
So, one night after you trudged home, thighs aching, you collapsed into bed and went into the app store. Tinder had been the first one to pop up, the one you knew the most about, and without a second thought your thumb had pressed the install button. Sure, you had as good of a chance of finding intimacy on the app that you did with the towheaded supe, but your odds were better of finding someone with at least a soul. Though, after you created your profile, entering in all the little fun facts about yourself and picking out the few photos you deemed dating profile worthy and actually started matching with men, you were beginning to question even that possibility.
There were a few hits that went beyond the unsolicited dick pic and the request for you to send pictures of your own nude body, but suspiciously you would talk to a guy for a few days before he ghosted you. You shrugged it off too, assuming this was normal amongst the apps, and from what you could find online, it was a serial problem.
But just as you were about to give up and uninstall it, you matched with Jackson. He was tall, handsome, and had a winning smile with fawn brown hair and chocolate eyes. Everything on his profile matched yours; a short term relationship that had potential to become long term, held the same religious and political affiliations, and seemed to be an overall decent guy. He even messaged you first, which counted the second time in nearly a month and a good cycle of guys that it had happened. Seriously, whatever happened to guys pursuing the girl?
After a few days of back and forth, moving almost instantly off the app and to regular text messaging, a date with a time and a place was set. A mid-scale Italian restaurant not too far from your apartment with the promise of ice cream after. You couldn’t say yes fast enough.
But as you got ready, that watched feeling seemed even more present. It clung to you in the shower as you shaved and washed yourself with the scented body wash you saved for special occasions. You kept looking in the mirror, expecting someone to be behind you as you slid on a matching bra and panty set, tugging stockings up to your mid thigh. Even once you slid into a sin-red dress that hugged you in all the right places to make you confident as hell, donning a classic make-up look and styled your hair to the nines, it got more and more intense until you could have sworn you felt a hot breath on your shoulder as you clasped the necklace around your neck.
But when you whirled around, you were alone in your bedroom, nothing out of place. The curtains still shut, the window cracked—perfect.
You shivered, attributing it to first date jitters. It had been a while since you had been on one, and they had always been nerve wracking to begin with. So you bent down to pull your heels on, checked yourself one last time in the mirror, grabbed your jacket and your purse laden with your wallet and keys, and left your apartment.
It was chilly when you left, the biting wind making its way under your jacket. Thankfully, as mutually agreed upon, the restaurant wasn’t too far from your apartment so keeping a brisk pace, you had made it before the cold got to you too much. Greeting the hostess, you gave Jackson’s name since you had gotten their first, and she showed you to your table.
You had never been stood up before. After 10 minutes, you checked your watch, then your phone to see if he had texted. But the last message in the thread was you telling him you were at your table. It registered as Delivered 20:30. Nothing. After 15 minutes, you apologized to the waiter, slipping him a $10 for the inconvenience, shame burning in your cheeks as you slunk out the front door, pulling your jacket back over your dress.
Tears burned at the corners of your eyes as you shouldered your way through the doors. How could you be this stupid?! You ripped your phone from your coat pocket, unlocking it and immediately navigating to the app and uninstalling it. Shoving it and your hands into the pockets of your jacket, you tried to force the tears away from the pity party you were diving head first into and into some kind of anger, some rage. You showed up, looking hot as hell. If Jackson wanted to blow you off, then screw him! But unlike in the movies where the leading lady bounces back faster than an uber-rich celebrity after a minor scandal, you lacked that quality. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks away, teeth gnawing away at the inside of your lip.
Then, you felt it. The hair at the back of your head standing on end.
The streets were mostly deserted at nearly quarter to nine on a Thursday night, save for a few individuals meddling about probably on their way home like you were. You stopped dead in the center of the sidewalk, taking the opportunity to look around. The streetlights did a decent job of lighting the area, but there was still an abundance of shadows of varying opacities. As your eyes scanned your surroundings, you caught on one figure across the street and up nearly a block, standing between you and your apartment. Even if he weren’t so far away, if he weren’t cloaked in shadow, you would recognize those red glowing eyes anywhere.
Two red dots stared back at you, and between their glow and the incandescence of the lights, you could see his mouth pull up into that wolfish grin.
You stood there for a second, brain trying to calibrate, trying to comprehend everything as the puzzle pieces snapped into place. The always feeling like you were being watched. That was him. But it still didn’t explain your missing date. Homelander wouldn’t do anything to them, would he?
The question was shortly thereafter answered when he stepped more into the light, and you could see the way he was dressed. It stunned you, seeing him out of his supe regalia. Gone was the garishly patriotic getup. It was replaced by a pair of dark wash jeans, a white t-shirt and a dark blue jacket with a ballcap pulled low over his brow.
Except, his t-shirt, it wasn’t white anymore.
No, it was stained red.
The pounding of your heart was near deafening, every part of you buzzing, primed and ready to run. He took another step. Then another. And another, until he was close enough that you could read his lips.
“Run.”
And run you did.
The heels of your shoes sounded like gunshots on the concrete as you bolted. Instantly you regretted ever wearing them, one step away from pitching an ankle sideways and breaking something. But you didn’t dare take the time to stop and take them off. The dainty buckles which you thought looked so elegant would be too difficult to navigate with your shaking hands and in the dark.
You didn’t know what to do, where to run. Even though you had moved here years prior, you never really made it a point to walk around much beyond the train station and your jobs. Even if you had, the panic that swarmed around you would have muddled any sense of direction. Looking around wildly, you nearly trip as you harshly round a corner into an alleyway. The tears that had once stained your cheeks were gone now, eyes wide and frantic.
Vaguely you recognized water and other liquids you didn’t want to think about splashing around your feet. Dodging trashcans and trashbags, random boxes and discarded furniture, you scurried down the alley. Towards the end, your lungs burning in insistence to slow the fuck down, you reduced your speed to a walk.
Through the dull thud of your pulse in your ears, you strained to listen for any other signs of life. Maybe I lost him? You almost chuckled at the naivety of that thought. The man—the supe—had stalked you for weeks, and if the feeling of being watched while having no direct line of sight into your apartment told you anything was that if he wanted to find you, to see you, he would.
Sure enough as you peered around the hulking green garbage bin, he was already halfway to you barely winded. Again, your muscles tense as you dash forward, but you don’t know how much longer you can keep this up. Your lungs are aching, hanging on by strings causing a stitch in your side, your feet ache and your legs feel like jelly. But still, you run.
You burst out the other end of the alley onto another road, this one more deserted than the last. At the last second you wheel to the right but realize when it’s too late that he’s herding you away from your apartment, away from relative safety, and towards the industrial side of town. You lost your purse long ago, which meant you had no phone, no keys, no wallet, so even if you found a way back to your apartment, you had no way to get in, no way to call the superintendent to get you inside, and no money to go anywhere else.
With the lack of any other pedestrian presence, you blindly sprint across the street and into the alley there. You dive almost head first behind a pile of discarded pallets, sandwiching yourself between them and the rusted industrial sized washer. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you try to control your breathing, though you know nothing is going to stop him from finding you.
Maybe that's why you stopped, why you chose to hide instead of keep running.
You know that it’s futile. He can never tire, never at the will of his body's limitations. His body doesn’t even have any limitations.
But in spite of the situation, you still felt a blaze of heat in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it was the combination of the adrenaline and the intimate nature of your relationship, your employment, but as you shifted into a crouch, you recognized the unmistakable sensation of slickness between your thighs. Well, if he couldn’t hear or see me before, he can definitely smell me now. The fear, the arousal.
“Come out, come out.” He sing-songed from somewhere close. “I want to have a little fun.”
The alley was already darkened significantly due to the lack of immediate light sources, but still, you saw his shadow cross over the space between the garbage bin and the washer. A sneakered foot followed suit, then a denim wrapped leg until he was blocking your only way out, peering down at you with his head animalistically cocked to the side as he considered you.
He had lost the ballcap somewhere in the chase, his blond hair strewn and mussed about after being under the hat. It was even stranger up close to see him in civvies and not dressed to the nines, polished and preened like a prize bull at the county fair. Normal. He looked almost normal. But you knew better, especially with the blood spatter scattered across his chest like a bloody Jackson Pollock.
Homelander’s hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of your hair in a near painful grasp. It forced you to pitch forward onto your knees. The force of your knees meeting the concrete had pain zinging up your thighs, reverberating into your bones.
“Now,” He said in a scolding tone that reminded you of how one would talk to a naughty child. “What possessed you to think you could go find somebody else? I treat you pretty good, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do.” You said, blinking back the wince at how tightly he was craning your head back in order to look up at him.
“You don’t need anyone else.” He commanded.
“Yes, sir.” A shiver cascades down your spine as the warmth in your stomach grows.
With the hand not tangled in your hair, he tugs the stained shirt away from his body. Now that you are so close, you can see the blood hasn’t quite dried yet.
“This,” Homelander emphasizes. “This is what will happen to anyone you try and meet again.”
That cements it in your mind. Jackson hadn’t stood you up. But Homelander isn’t done.
“I thought I made that clear when I scared all those nutless, godless sons of bitches away from you.” He scoffed, letting go of his shirt. “But you just kept going back.”
Holy fuck. You hadn’t really registered just how obsessed, how possessive he was of you. In all honesty you expected to be dead within a month at most after being hired on, but it had gone on way longer than you predicted. For whatever reason, you served a purpose, filled a hole in his life.
You didn’t know how to respond, so you didn’t, just keeping your eyes on his face instead.
“So clearly.” His hand reaches for the front of his pants, and from your peripheral, you can see the bulge already evident there. “You need a reminder that I am the only person you need.”
His jeans are undone and pushed down his thighs in a matter of moments, his thick cock springing free. You anticipate him to haul you up by his handhold, to rip the dress from your body and fuck you senseless, but it seems that would come later. Instead he spits loudly into his hand, stroking the length of him.
This is new. Given the ‘casual’ nature that all your encounters had possessed prior to this, he had never been inside your mouth. That would require acknowledgement of the act, which was seemingly against the ever changing rules that you could never seem to get a grasp on.
Eyes half lidded, he pumped his cock in your face. Holding your head in place with the other hand, he brought your head closer and closer until the head of him brushed wetly against your lips.
“Open your fucking mouth, whore.” His hand abandoning the grip on his cock to slap across your face.
The stinging pain had instinctual tears beading at your waterline and you opened your mouth. Again, he guided himself to your lips, slipping past them to lay heavy on your tongue all the way to brush the back of your throat. Your lips closed around him as spit started to flood your mouth. You gag as he bullied himself in further, and you pressed your hands against his thighs in a futile attempt to push him away.
“Swallow it.” He grunted, pulling back a little before shooting back forward. “All of it.”
With most of himself inside your mouth, his other hand abandoned his shaft, coming to rest beside the other at the back of your head, keeping you steady as he fucked your mouth. You’ve gave up trying to keep your lips tight around his cock, letting it go slack and you could feel viscous drool coating him and sliding in thick strings down your chin and neck.
Each bump of his cock against the back of your throat had more and more tears gathering at your eyes, beading along your lashes until they grow too heavy and spill down your cheeks to join the amalgam of fluids coating your face.
“What a fucking pathetic mess.” He growled, pace picking up as he saw the way your mascara runs down your cheeks. “Cryin’ like I can’t smell how fucking wet you are. You’ve been wet since I started chasing you. Got you weeping all over for this cock.”
Your brain is so far past short circuited now. The pure filth that he was uttering made your pussy throb harshly with each syllable. Your knees started to grow sore from how long you had been kneeling there on the unforgiving concrete. The hands on his thighs became less defensive and more bracing as he began to slip, moving faster and erratic, sending him past that barrier and into your throat. On instinct you swallow around him and gag which causes him to do it again with a choked sound.
“Ohhh fuckkk,” Homelander pressed your head further on him with the grip on your hair. “Do that again—fuck. Just like that.”
With his thick cock down your throat, no air is passing to your lungs and the corners of your vision start to go dark, a lightheadedness pressing at your brain.
He was so far down your throat you didn’t taste his cum when he climaxed with a loud and gravelly moan. You could feel him twitch violently against your tongue and how his cum flooded your throat, warm and thick, until you were forced to swallow.
The dark spots were just threatening to take over your vision when he pulled from your mouth, sweet oxygen rushing in to take its place. You coughed roughly, all your senses returning like someone had flipped on a lightswitch. The hands at the back of your head disappear, instead hauling you to your feet by your arms.
Effortlessly, you were lifted off of your feet and plopped down roughly onto the stack of plastic pallets you had been hiding behind. Then Homelander did something he had never done before.
He kissed you.
Your lips were captured between his the second you were set down and he moved to stand between your open legs. Instinctively, you bite down. Not like it would do jack shit, you realize after the fact. A groaning chuckle fills your mouth, and you can truly taste him now. Blood, ire and pure unadulterated delight.
Again his hand, which is so odd to see without the coverings of his gloves, wrapped around the back of your neck, tangling once more in your once styled hair to pull you closer to his mouth. Then you feel his mouth shift, your only warning before his teeth bit down on your lip. Your cry is swallowed by his mouth as pain echoes from your lower lip. You could taste blood as it flowed into your mouth and across both his and your lips, especially as he takes advantage of your parted lips to invade with his tongue. Your pussy ached in time with the feel of his tongue sweeping through your mouth, clenching around nothing.
Boldly, you put your hands on his chest, running over the shift in the topography of him as your palms traverse the hills and valleys of his muscles. You felt him flinch, but he didn’t pull away, didn't scold you, or worse. He almost leaned into you, pressing himself closer between your thighs.
Clearly trusting enough that you aren’t gonna bolt or pull away, he moved his hands to your thighs, dipping underneath the hem of your dress. Hiking it up your legs, you shift to help him get the material of the dress between your thighs and the pallet below you until it’s bunched up around the curve of your ass.
His tongue swept across your lip, lapping at the blood still leaking out from the small wound. The way his mouth moved on yours is laced with intent, with control. The way you breathed into his mouth, the small sounds that pinged against his lips, all of it is his doing, his control.
He slid his hands up under the bunched fabric of your dress and with a swift outward tug, he ripped your underwear at the sides, tugging them from your bottom half and dropping them to the side to decorate the alley. Then tugging you forward by your waist, his hips lay flush against your soaked core. You could feel the hard length of him slide against the very top of his thigh. With a few awkward motions of his hips, he rutted himself through your slick, coating his cock, making you jolt at the contact you had been craving. You give an experimental roll of your hips, meeting his motion.
He reached up as he pulled away, gripping your jaw. “What are you?”
You blink for a moment, not fully in your mind, before responding. “Yours.”
“Don’t ever try anything like that again.” There was murder in those blue eyes as he glared at you.
“Yes Sir.” You breathed.
He let go of your chin roughly, going back to your hip as he positioned the head of his cock at your entrance. With a sharp thrust, he buried himself in you with ease. Your mouth fell open, hands gripping his shoulders at the feel of him inside you.
“Ahhh, fuck!” Homelander curses harshly, gripping your hips hard enough you were gonna have bruises tomorrow.
He retreats slowly, dragging his cock out of you until only the blunt head of him remains inside you. Then, another swift thrust forward. Your body jolts at that and you finally find your voice.
“Oh, God!” You cry out, wrapping your legs around his trim waist.
He finds a pace, as he pulls his eyes from where they had been watching his cock slid in and out of your pussy.
“No,” He corrects, sending his hips into you harshly. “No God. The only man in the sky, is me.”
You nod, and are thankful when he lets it drop in favor of slotting his lips over yours again. With each thrust he pounded into you, the head of him brushed against the gummy, sensitive spot deep inside your pussy. You clung to his shoulders, his back, legs wrapped tightly around his waist like that would help the coil in your lower belly tighten any faster. Trying your best to meet his motions, you rolled your hips against him, but his hands kept you solidly in place like you were nothing more than a toy for him to fuck.
“Such a good cockslut.” He groaned, breaking the kiss in favor of mouthing at your neck and shoulder. “Making such filthy noises. You ought to be careful otherwise I might think you like getting fucked in an alley like a deadbeat whore.”
You couldn’t help the moan that his filthy mouth caused, nor the way your pussy clenched hard around his cock. He nipped at your neck, your head rolling to the side to allow him better access. He kissed and licked and sucked along your neck, each ministration sending zings down to your pussy where you could feel your legs start to tremble around his waist.
“Don’t you dare cum before me. Whores don’t get to cum without permission.” He ordered.
You feel him pull away from your neck, replacing his mouth with his hand. The entirety of it spanned across, his thumb on one side and fingers on the others. Then he squeezed. Not hard, but enough to make you feel it.
“Yes Sir.” You gasped.
His thrusts grew faster and faster, not helping the growing feeling of your climax between your legs. Breathing through your nose you tried not to fall over that edge that you teetered on like a knife’s edge. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Again and again and again as he fucked into you harder and faster as the minutes creeped by. Over and over he bottomed out, hips pistoning more and more unevenly until they met yours one last time in an almost painful collision before he stilled.
It was all you needed, no amount of mindful breathing could have stopped the euphoric feeling of your climax wash over you as he spilled himself into you. His grip on your neck grew tighter, almost imperceptibly, in time with how he gripped your hip. A low moan met your ears as your legs shook violently around his waist, nails digging harshly into the material of his jacket.
You suppressed a whine as he rolled his hips once, twice, milking whatever was left inside him out before pulling out of you entirely. Hands slipping from his shoulders as he took a step back to tuck himself back into his boxer-briefs and jeans, you steadied yourself on the pallets. You had no fucking clue how you were gonna get home like this. Legs like jelly, probably looking like a $10 whore with the way your makeup was smudged to hell and hair a mess with a brain that was more fog than grey matter. Not to mention you didn’t even have your keys anymore.
But that decision, like many you anticipated in the future, wasn’t up to.
“I’ll have one of those sniveling pussies collect your things from your apartment later. You can’t be trusted to live on your own.” Homelander said matter-of-factly as he slid an arm around your waist.
A hoarse scream ripped from your lungs as he shot you both into the air. You barely had time to cling to him before he was landing on the balcony of his bedroom. He set you down with a little gentleness.
“I expect you to be out of that outfit by the time I get back.” Then he was gone with such a force that the wind blew your hair back from your face.
Not knowing how long, exactly, he’d be gone, you instantly ripped your dress off along with your bra. Knowing the apartment by heart by now, you ran to the laundry room, chucking both pieces of clothing into the basket, frantically unbuckling your heels and leaving them in the space between the washer and the wall.
You moaned as your bare feet met tile. You hated heels to begin with, but now with them screaming at you after running in them for so long, you didn’t think you could ever wear them again. At least not that pair.
Washing your face of the mascara and makeup you had been wearing, you spared a glance at yourself in the mirror. Your hair was a mess, but not as bad as you thought it would be, and your lips kiss-swollen.
But what surprised you the most, was that you didn’t hate the woman you saw staring back. This was your life now, and you were damn sure you were gonna make the most of it.
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a non-exhaustive list of stuff the left has done since october 7th:
praised actual genocidal terrorist groups
claimed that the rapes on oct 7 were just propaganda and didn’t happen
outright saying that oct 7 was justified
didn’t say a single word about the hostages except to belittle their suffering and that of their families
allowed literal nazis into their protests
stood by as those nazis threw up their salutes and chanted nazi shit
refused to collectively condemn a single antisemitic incident done in the name of pro palestinian activism
made any israeli out to be evil incarnate to the point where israelis can’t even exist outside their country without being attacked, harassed, black listed, etc.
excused away a literal pogrom that happened in the streets of a modern european city as if it were nothing more than a demonstration against the war
gaslit jews constantly about the rampant antisemitism that has been ongoing for over 600 days
said that the guy who executed two israelis at a peace event at a jewish museum was committing a legitimate form of protest against israel
praised the guy who threw molotovs at a group of jews doing a peace march
i’m convinced at this point that the left has never actually cared about social justice since they have more in common with nazis than with people who actually give a damn about justice or standing up for marginalized groups
if it walks like a nazi and talks like a nazi it’s just a fucking nazi
I was on Twitter when October 7th was unfolding, and I can tell you that leftists were actively defending the rapes as they were happening. Claiming that there is no evidence of rape was a later development as more moderate people started to get involved.
It was really messed up to read someone I followed for being a male feminist saying that we can't expect more of Palestinian men because that's just what men do when subjected to intense oppression, that they express anger through sexuality because men are naturally angry and hypersexual, so we have to appreciate rape when enacted as part of righteous violent resistance. That is not feminist; that is weaponized misandry, looking down on men as nothing more than rape machines and saying they have use in war. I actually believe men are better than that. What's really messed up was that he was a trans man. I guess he can't be trusted around women because he has exceptions to "men shouldn't rape women", and he's a man. (Someone did challenge him on this but not strongly, just a reply that he got the final word on, and there was never any strong opposition to him following these statements.)
People on jumblr still post his political artwork because he's not a raving Nazi and is a competent feminist most of the time, just that he had this bizarre bit of appalling rape apologism motivated by anti-Israeli fervor.
The Tanach writing Moses as having a bad stutter from burning his mouth as a baby and needing his brother Aaron to come with him to talk to the Pharaoh and still not being questioned once as God's prophet has done more for Jewish disability rep than 95% of current media.
Yk fuck it Jewish positivity. From one Jew to another:
I love you Jewish people.
I love you Ashkenazi Jews. I love you Sephardi Jews. I love you Mizrahi Jews. I love you Beta Yisrael Jews. I love you Bukhari Jews. I love you Jews.
I love you Orthodox Jews. I love you conservative Jews. I love you reform Jews. I love you humanitarian Jews. I love you Jews.
I love you Jews who have had a faith crisis before. I love you Jews who have never had a faith crisis before. I love you Jews who are in a faith crisis. I love you Jews.
I love you queer Jews. I love you physically disabled Jews. I love you neurodivergent Jews. I love you mentally disabled Jews. I love you alterhuman Jews. I love you Jews.
I love you born and raised Jews. I love you patrilineal Jews. I love you matrilineal Jews. I love you convert Jews. I love you Jews.
I love you Jews who don’t practice. I love you Jews who do practice. I love you Jews who have a complicated relationship with Judaism. I love you Jews who find nothing but happiness in Judaism. I love you Jews.
I love you Jews. You are beautiful and wonderful and amazing and the world is better with you in it. You are precious and loved in the eyes of Adonai. He loves you. I love you.
I recently got an on-campus job. During the interview process, I requested that I not be scheduled on Friday nights or Saturdays as I am a Jewish student.
My boss immeadiately brightened and rushed to explain - "Of course ! Of course! We want to accomodate you! We have another worker who takes off for Ramadan. Do you need to take off for Ramadan?"
I shook my head, incredibly confused. "Uh. That's. Not my jurisdiction. I'm good."
Boss nodded but was sure to add "Let me know if that ever changes. We can help you with Ramadan."
nivrah bein hashmashot, or נברא בין השמשות, a Hebrew phrase meaning “created between the suns,” is a term for queer Jewish folks. it refers to the time between the sixth and seventh days of creation, during which g-d created several important things with the connecting theme of not fitting into binaries. nivrah bein hashmashot is an umbrella term for Jewish queerness and queer Jewishness; it can be used by queer Jews of any queer identity and any Jewish denomination! it was first coined here by @magnetothemagnificent, alongside the term ovrim, another umbrella term for queer Jews; for more detail on the thought behind or meaning of either term, check that post out!
color symbolism:
purple: “between”-ness, existing outside of boundaries and norms
dark blue: Jewish faith, culture, tradition, and community
sky blue: optimism, hope, and passion
white: finding joy and euphoria in both queerness and Judaism
spring green: engaging in the act of creation
gold: the richness and diversity of queer and Jewish communities
burgundy: past, present, and future queer Jewish resilience and survival
note: recently, @sillyjewishqueer also created a nivrah bein hashmashot flag, as well as an ovrim flag, both of which can be found here. my nivrah bein hashmashot flag is not meant as a replacement for their design, but rather as an alternative/companion flag for anybody who wants to use it! i actually designed this flag a few months ago, originally just for personal use; i didn’t post it until i was inspired by them to join in on sharing this term and what being nivrah bein hashmashot means to me!!
synopsis. payback has soldier boy shinning on stage--but offstage, you're the only thing keeping him from falling apart... or becoming the monster everyone fears.
pairing. the boys ﹢ soldier boy x reader ﹢ angst
wordcount. 829
warnings. possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, ptsd mentions, co-dependency, fame-related pressure, cursing, implied emotional neglect, a very messy, toxic relationship.
˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. heavily inspired by the song monster by shawn mendes n justin bieber
The crowd’s still screaming when you leave the stage.
Their roars echo through the concrete halls of the venue like some twisted lullaby made of ego and adrenaline. You can still hear them chanting his name—Soldier Boy, Soldier Boy, like he’s the second coming of Christ in a bulletproof cape. You know that look in his eye when he bathes in it, soaked in adoration like it’s a drug. He’s high on it, again.
And just like every other time, he left you standing in the wings. Smile painted on. Invisible.
You storm down the corridor, heels pounding against the floor, fingers trembling as you yank open the greenroom door. The scent of cigar smoke and cologne smacks you in the face—him. Always him.
The mirror lights flicker overhead. You cross your arms and wait.
“You done playing the national treasure out there,” you say coldly, “or should I come back when the applause dies down?”
Ben strolls in behind you like he didn’t just kiss a senator’s wife on the hand for the cameras while you stood offstage like a damn accessory. He peels off his gloves slowly, theatrically, like it’s foreplay.
He doesn’t answer. Just smirks.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you bite. “You think I’m pissed about the kiss? It’s not the kiss, Ben.”
“Oh, this’ll be good,” he drawls, tossing the gloves on the couch. “Go on, then.”
You spin to face him, fury boiling under your skin. “It’s the fact that once the spotlight’s on, I disappear. You hold my hand in private and drop it the second there’s a crowd.”
“It’s not personal. It’s PR.”
“No, it’s cowardice.”
He blinks.
And there it is—that flicker of something behind his eyes. The part of him that’s never really grown up. Still 20-something and drowning in medals and expectations, still that golden boy who never learned how to love without performance.
“You put me on a pedestal,” you say, voice shaking. “Told me I was different. Made me feel like I mattered. And then you tear it all down the second it threatens your image.”
His jaw flexes, but he says nothing. You’re not done.
“I spill my guts, and you act like I’m the one being unreasonable. You rearrange me, Ben. Break me into pieces just so I’ll fit into your perfect soldier-boy narrative.”
“You done?”
“No. Not even close.”
You stalk closer, the air between you electric, suffocating.
“You say it’s pressure, the fans, the job—yeah, I get it. But what happens when you fall, huh? What if you trip? What if the crowd turns? Are you still the hero then? Or are you the monster they always warned us about?”
His voice drops, dark and low. “Then I guess I’m the fucking monster.”
You flinch. Not at the words—but at how easily he says them.
Like he’s rehearsed it.
Like maybe, deep down, he’s always believed it.
“You want to be worshipped for your strength,” you whisper. “But you can’t handle being seen for your weakness.”
He moves before you can react, caging you between him and the mirror, his arms on either side of you. Not touching, not yet, but it’s a threat. A plea. A desperate need to still be close, even while everything crumbles between you.
“You’re not just some fling,” he says, voice cracking like ice. “You’re the only person who knows who I really am.”
“And that should scare you,” you murmur. “Because I’m starting to wish I didn’t.”
Something flickers in him then—something real, raw and wounded and angry. “You think I want this? You think I wanted to be the country’s weapon, some overhyped mascot who can’t even go to sleep without hearing screams in his head?”
His breath is shallow, panicked.
“I came in with good intentions,” he whispers. “I swear to God, I tried.”
You believe him.
That’s the worst part.
Because Ben’s a walking contradiction. A bleeding heart wrapped in titanium armor. He wants to be good, but he doesn’t know how to get there without leaving a trail of collateral damage.
“I won’t let you ruin me,” you say, quieter now. “I won’t bleed myself dry just to keep you from falling apart.”
A beat passes.
And then, quietly:
“Don’t let me fall.”
Your eyes close. Because he always says it like a prayer, like he still thinks you can save him.
You turn slowly, facing him, the warmth of his chest almost brushing yours. Your fingers find the hem of his jacket, gripping it just enough to keep from walking away.
“You’re not the monster,” you whisper, voice trembling. “But you keep acting like one.”
He exhales like you punched the breath out of him. His forehead falls to yours, touch tender where his words never are.
“I’m trying,” he murmurs.
And god help you, part of you still hopes he means it.
But another part?
The smarter part?
It’s already bracing for the next time he lets go.
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