Marvel : Homelander

Some people are being mad annoying so I've uploaded these earlier than planned.

Anyway your loss less chapters will be released together.

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Penélope was asleep in the lavish bedroom she had grown accustomed to within the Vought Tower.

Outside, the city went on with its life, but in her mind, the real world had faded away.

She was caught in the grip of a nightmare—one that felt all too familiar. It started innocuously enough, as dreams often do.

The nightmare descended on Penélope without mercy like a shroud of darkness, pulling her back into the past—into a night she could never truly escape.

She was back in that decaying house, the oppressive silence broken only by the heavy footsteps of her father moving down the hall.

Her heart raced, and her body froze, every instinct screaming at her to run, but there was nowhere to go.

The walls of her small bedroom felt like a cage, trapping her with the inevitable.

She was sixteen again, huddled in the corner of the room, desperately clutching the torn blanket around her as if it could shield her from the horror that was coming.

The door shuddered under the force of his blows, each one sending a jolt of terror through her spine.

"Penélope!" His voice was a vile mix of drunkenness and lust. "I know you're in there. You can't hide from me."

She could hear her mother's weak voice from the other room, pleading, but it was nothing more than background noise now—a distant, fading protest that carried no weight against her father's cruelty.

The door finally gave way with a splintering crack, and there he was, filling the doorway with his hulking figure.

His eyes were bloodshot, his breath reeking of alcohol as he stumbled into the room, his gaze locking onto her like a predator who had cornered his prey.

"Why you gotta make this difficult?" he slurred, advancing on her. "You're all mine, girl."

Penélope's breath hitched, her heart pounding so loudly in her chest she thought it might explode.

She pressed herself against the wall, but there was nowhere to go, no way out.

He was on her in seconds, his rough hands grabbing at her as she struggled to push him away.

He tore at her gown, ripping the delicate fabric as she screamed and fought with everything she had.

His weight pressed down on her, and she felt the horrifying reality of what was about to happen sink in.

"No!" she cried, her voice raw with desperation.

She thrashed beneath him, her nails clawing at his face, her legs kicking wildly, but he was too strong, too heavy.

As his hands moved lower, his foul breath hot against her neck, Penélope felt the last of her fear transform into something else—pure, animalistic survival.

In a moment of desperate clarity, she did the only thing she could think of.

She bit him. Hard.

Her teeth sank into the soft flesh between his legs that was open to the world at the moment with all the force she could muster, and the taste of blood filled her mouth.

Her father let out a scream—a high-pitched, agonized wail—and his body jerked away from her.

He fell back, clutching himself, his face contorted in pain and shock.

Penélope didn't waste a second. She scrambled to her feet, her torn gown barely clinging to her as she bolted for the door.

Her father was still screaming, writhing on the floor in agony, but she didn't look back.

She ran through the house, out the front door, and into the cold night air.

She didn't stop running.

The wind stung her face, the tears blurring her vision, but she kept going.

She didn't know where she was running to, only that she had to get as far away from that house, from that man, as possible.

The darkness of the night swallowed her whole, but for the first time in years.

The young Penélope felt something close to hope. She was free.

The nightmare didn't end with her escape.

As Penélope tossed in her sleep, her dream shifted, pulling her deeper into memories she had long since buried.

She was no longer running through the streets, no longer fleeing from her father's monstrous hands.

Now, she found herself standing in the small, rundown house of the couple who had taken her in after she ran away.

The "kind" couple.

In her dream, Penélope's younger self was hopeful, eyes wide with relief.

The couple, Mary and Joseph, had found her huddled behind a grocery store and offered her shelter.

She had been so desperate, so broken, that she convinced herself that these strangers were her salvation.

They gave her food, a bed, and even enrolled her in school. It felt like a second chance at life—a miracle after everything she had endured.

But the dream twisted, and the truth she had refused to see back then began to emerge, as if peeling away the layers of her own delusion.

The couple who had seemed so generous were anything but.

They kept her as little more than a servant.

Her days were filled with endless chores—scrubbing floors, washing dishes, doing laundry.

They made her work for every crumb of food, for every scrap of kindness they pretended to offer.

In the dream, Penélope watched as her younger self dragged a heavy basket of laundry up the stairs, her arms shaking with exhaustion.

Her clothes were threadbare, hand-me-downs from some backyard sale.

They were rags, washed just enough to look decent but still rough and worn against her skin.

She had no other options, no other clothes to wear, but she had told herself it didn't matter.

She was better off than she had been before. At least, that's what she wanted to believe.

In reality, the couple had seen her as nothing more than cheap labor.

She had become a ghost in their home, someone to do the work they didn't want to do themselves.

They treated her as if her existence was a burden they were generously tolerating.

Yet, despite it all, Penélope had clung to the illusion of safety.

She told herself it was enough—that she was lucky, even, to have escaped her father and found a place to stay. It was better than the streets.

It had to be.

But even in this false sanctuary, fate had not finished playing its cruel tricks on her.

In her dream, Penélope saw herself at school, sitting alone at a desk, her eyes tired but filled with a fragile hope.

It was here, when she was sixteen, that she had first met him—Robert.

He was older, five years her senior, with a rough edge to him that had both intrigued and terrified her.

He wasn't like the other boys at school.

He seemed dangerous, thrilling in a way that made her heart race for reasons she didn't understand.

Looking back, Penélope knew she had never truly loved him.

She had only been desperate—desperate for someone to care, for someone to make her feel like she wasn't alone in the world.

Robert had seen that desperation, and he had used it to his advantage.

He had known how to play the role of the attentive, older boyfriend, showering her with attention and affection just enough to make her believe that he cared.

In the dream, Penélope watched as her younger self fell into his arms, smiling, her cheeks flushed with the naive belief that she had finally found love.

But it wasn't love. It was manipulation, plain and simple.

Robert had never loved her.

He had only seen her vulnerability and exploited it.

But at the time, Penélope couldn't see it.

She was blinded by her need to be wanted, to be cared for.

She was so starved for affection that she had fallen right into his trap, mistaking his possessiveness for devotion.

In her dream, she saw it all play out again, her younger self laughing at his jokes, holding his hand, looking up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

It made Penélope's stomach twist.

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Stones and Reviews please