Isn't it confusing, what first love does to a man?
Story where Alexine is Soldier Boy's first love and rekindle after many years apart.
[UNGOING]
[Warnings; smut, angst, torture, mention of torture, trauma, physical abuse, mental abuse, verbal abuse...
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As Alexine's words stirred the nation, like a stone cast into a still lake, ripples of panic spread across the country. Riots erupted in the streets, a chaotic symphony of anger and disillusionment. People swarmed banks, yanking their money out as if it were lifeblood, hoping to hold onto something tangible as trust dissolved. Grocery stores became battlefields; mothers begged online, pleading with strangers to leave diapers and formula on the shelves, to think of the children who might be left without.
Meanwhile, Alexine descended to the bowels of Vought Tower, heels echoing like a death march down the sterile, silent halls. She hadn't seen Belle in a week, leaving her to stew in solitary as a lesson, but judging by the roll of her daughter's eyes as the cell door swung open, the lesson hadn't quite sunk in. Belle lay sprawled on her bed, a book open in her lap, though Alexine could tell her mind wasn't absorbing a single word.
"How are you?" Alexine's voice was cool, but behind it simmered a frustration she tried to mask. She remembered when they had been a family, bound by more than duty and blood. There was a time, distant as it seemed, when Belle had looked up to her, albeit through a haze of adolescent rebellion. Now, Alexine wondered if she had somehow poisoned her daughter's soul with her own darkness, like ink bleeding into clear water.
"I am getting married, so if you want to come." She tried again.
Belle's response was as sharp as a blade. "The Lannisters send their regards." A cruel smile flickered across her lips—a pointed allusion to the Red Wedding, where a bride and groom met their bloody end. It was a barb meant to wound, and it nearly succeeded. But Alexine forced herself to keep her face calm, unfazed, though her heart twisted.
"That's a good line," Alexine replied, her voice a mask of indifference. "Tell me, you heard what the guards did to your little team, right?"
Belle's smug defiance faltered, her eyes darkening as she recalled the muffled sounds—the screams and the blows from the guards. They hadn't tortured, not in the brutal, traditional sense, but they'd made sure her friends felt the weight of their mistake.
"You're lucky they haven't done the same to you," Alexine continued, voice low, steady. "Only reason they haven't is because you're my daughter."
"You're such an asshole. You could make them talk without using brute force!" Belle's voice was sharp, almost desperate, as she perched on the edge of the bed.
Alexine shrugged, as if it were all inconsequential. "They're not my prisoners. Homelander has his own ways. And I don't mind. Play that kind of game, and see what it costs you."
Belle's face twisted in anger, her defiance rekindling. But before she could snap back, Alexine stepped toward the open door, gesturing for her daughter to follow. She tossed Belle's cane onto the floor, a quiet command. Reluctantly, Belle picked it up, her limp adding a rhythm to their silent march.
Alexine led her down a long hallway, finally stopping in front of a guarded cell. Inside, Frenchie sat on a sterile bed, his face pale, eyes dark hollows of exhaustion. His right arm ended in a clean bandage just below the elbow—a brutal amputation that spoke volumes.
