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A tired elementary school teacher that accidentally involves herself with the equivalent of a ticking time bomb.
Homelander x Elementary school teacher! reader
You can find this fic in AO3! Click here :3
Chapter summary: Homelander experiences the second set of boundaries and, of course, he handles it like a rejection.
“And I just hate that I have to act like I really cared about this man that was a complete degenerate and—”
Homelander went on and on. She nodded, listening intently to his words. She wondered if he ever told this to anyone else, with how much energy he was putting into every word, every complaint.
“So, I can assume that not every member of The Seven is really what they seem, hm?” She said it casually, but it made his eyes bulge out. For a moment, he just looked at her like she was the ghost of Translucent himself. Then he quickly fixed his expression, fake coughing into his fist.
“Um, yeah, something like that. Not everybody, though.” That last part came out so low, she probably didn’t even hear it. Homelander sighed: “I just wish I didn’t have to fake my feelings all the time. I’m supposed to be a hero, not an actor.”
She nodded again, putting her hand on top of his: “I can’t even imagine how exhausting that must be. Your body must take a toll after a while. Hey, how about we do something relaxing sometime? What are you doing next weekend?”
He gave her a toothy grin. It looked pretty similar to the paparazzi smile, but it felt much less tiring on his mouth: “I’m doing whatever you’re doing.” He could see how her face started to warm up, so he went on: “Actually, whatever you’re doing next weekend too.” He lifted his finger up, giving her a wink: “And the week after that.”
Now she’s just staring at him, blinking slowly, like a cat. He loved it when she just stared at him, even if she wasn’t doing any particular expression. So he shrugged: “I don’t really care what we’re doing. I just want to be wherever you are.”
In his mind, this was the most genuine admission of affection he can think of. He mentally patted himself on the back. God, isn’t he adorable?
In her mind, she blinked as well. Trying to process that the man she’d barely started to go out with wanted to spend every single weekend with her. Thankfully, she wasn’t scared— she’d been starting to understand the level of deprivation of affection this man had. So she nodded one last time, cupping his cheek with her hand. Every time her hand was on his face, he melted into it, like leaning closer would make it last forever. It’s a little sad, honestly, the more she thought about it.
“John, you should still have your own life.”
Those words were kind, patient— they made her feel a little bit like a therapist. It’s just setting a healthy boundary, and hoping he wouldn’t try to spend every free second of his life around her. She wondered what he’d usually do on the weekends before they met.
On Homelander’s mind, this was both confusing and upsetting. Because there’s no such life outside of her.
It’s either be a product, or be hers. And after being exploited being the former, he definitely wanted the latter.
Be a product, or be hers.
“It’s honestly heartbreaking.” Homelander’s voice bounced in the speakers, but he’s so used to it, it’s basically white noise. “Losing a team member like that— losing a friend, a friend who is basically family… We saw each other almost every day, you know.” After taking a dramatic pause, he wrapped his arm around Starlight, who was trying her best to give the same grieving act that he’s doing. “We’ve been trying to talk about our personal stories with him. To keep his memory alive.”
The reporter nodded, tears in his eyes. He’s definitely more affected by this than most of the Seven members: “Beautiful.” He mustered up before covering his mouth and excusing himself. When the cameras finally got out of Homelander’s face, he sighed. It came off more as a groan.
Be a product, or be hers. The dichotomy made his brain unable to work like the marketing monster he’d been trained to be. Queen Maeve posed next to him. He smiled without even realizing.
“Jesus, Homelander, this is supposed to be a funeral.” She speaked through clenched teeth. He shook his head a few times, as if that would make the thoughts go away. It just made him look like a crazy person (which he is).
When they said his name on the microphone, he groaned. Internally. Why did he have to do it? Mainly because he’s the leader of The Seven, but he really didn’t want to. Luckily, he’d been forced to learn public speaking since he had memory, so the words came out of his mouth like honey for the Homelander-starved public, who never seemed to get enough of him. God he wanted to leave.
He said some bullshit mixed with some truth. The bullshit is mostly about Translucent. The truth is about never letting fear win. It’s mostly a message to himself, since he could feel the fear creeping up on his back every time the zinc box came to his mind. The threat. The doubts on himself. The terror of dying. The fear of something, anything happening to her. The crowd mourned while he mourned. Then they got angry as his words got more and more energized, more filled with the contained rage he has grown around everything that happened. When he started speaking about the country, the crowd got even more patriotic than him. He realized he controlled the entire emotional direction of the speech, and wondered if he could do the same for the entirety of the event.
He wondered if his words could have the same strength on her mindset.
Jesus, how could he never stop thinking about her? He barely missed the moment the crowd erupted into claps, jumping a little at the sudden noise. The clapping usually got him going. It kept him in a magnifying, holier-than-thou trance. But right now he felt empty. These people didn’t matter to him.
He couldn’t stop thinking about what she would say. When he came back, would she congratulate him on his speech?
Butcher had mashed potatoes and beef by himself, eating in complete silence as he watched an old movie. He left the dishes on the sink and got into bed without putting on pajamas. When his head hit the pillow, he never thought about what kind of dream he’d have. Mostly because he didn’t really dream at all.
But it was suddenly day, and he quickly got up, stretching his arms and looking at the old bulldog sleeping next to him.
“C’mon, Terror. We’re going for a walk.” The dog looked very happy with those words. But the moment he actually stared at his dog, he felt his stomach drop. Terror had the exact same blue eyes that Homelander had. His dog was Homelander.
For some reason he didn’t mind, simply putting the leash on the dog and going out. Now he was wearing flipflops and a hawaiian shirt as we walked around the neighborhood with his dog. But it wasn’t his actual neighborhood: it was the main square of New York. And nobody was there, except for one woman who was walking in front of him. He didn't really mind her, but Terror (Homelander?) was gingerly walking behind her, almost as if he was following her steps. At that moment, Butcher didn’t care.
Until the woman disappeared around a corner. People usually do that, especially when you don’t notice them too much. But Terror’s chain snapped, and Butcher froze as he saw his dog growing bigger, and bigger, and bigger, until it was the size of a small suburban house. He couldn’t do anything as the dog ran over buildings in a crazy, sudden rampage, people screaming all around him as cars flew over his head. Destruction galore.
The loud noises hurt his head so much he woke up, sitting straight on his bed with a scream on the tip of his tongue. He felt the air leaving his lungs for a single moment, desperation dissipating when he realized he was in his bed, and it was night, and Terror was Terror sized next to him on the bed, snoring peacefully. For some reason, he felt the need to write everything down, so he scrambled to grab a small notebook and a pen from his bedside table and scribbled down everything he could remember.
“Homelanduh… Was Terror… Woman… Chaos…” He mumbled to himself before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes. “What the hell was that…?”
Butcher knew something so absurdly relevant had to have some kind of meaning for his actual life. He shook his head and got to sleeping again, throwing the notebook somewhere on his bed.
Homelander was staring at the ceiling. The digital clock (and the analog one too) said it was 3:12 AM. He looked at his phone, the other one, not the one owned by Vought that definitely had a tracking chip and he was very sure that had other weird shit as well. The normal, plain looking phone with no case that he had bought specially to talk to her. It only had her contact, and the wallpaper was a picture he had found online, on her school’s webpage. It showed the most charming teacher of the world sitting on a small stool inside of her classroom, pointing to something on the whiteboard and smiling as she used her free hand to give a thumbs up. The picture was a little blurry, but it was the only one he had, since this damn woman didn’t have any sort of social media presence. Not even a miserable selfie. He sighed, his finger touching the screen right where her cheek was, almost rubbing it like that would do something else besides move to the next app slide.
He opened the message app and stared at the message he had typed out a few minutes ago.
“Are you awake?”
No, god, that was too needy. He deleted it, huffing. His fingers were way faster than a normal forty something year old.
“Hope you’re sleeping well.”
“God that’s so fucking stupid.” He grumbled, deleting it again and hitting the back of his head with his pillow. He typed again.
“goodnight :)”
He looked at the clock on the corner of the screen, then at his message. He closed his eyes as he hit send. Then he immediately pressed the message and clicked on unsend. He regretted it almost as soon as he deleted it.
I... can't... stop... writing... Homelander fics..... I gotta fix him....
wordcount: 979
summary: Fresh out of the lab and into his new superhero persona, Homelander needed more than a little help getting his social queues in line. (This is chapter 3, other chapters are up on my masterlist)
warnings: fluff/crack, fem!reader, young homelander, (might be ooc for him because i love a goofy young homelander instead of the batshit version of him) he's a bit oblivious to social queues, slightly autistic coded homie, implied eventual homelander x reader, basically training him like a dog– think that’s it !!!
Three months into the job, you had learned many things about Homelander. You had learned that he hated scripted jokes, he could memorize an entire interview brief after reading it once, he liked compliments but pretended not to, he listened significantly better when you called him John... And apparently? He was impossible to find when people actually needed him.
You checked the conference room? Nothing. The training room? Nothing. The observation deck? Nothing.
Which was concerning, because Homelander wasn't exactly easy to misplace. The guy was a walking poster, painted in red white and blue– kind of hard to miss.
You rubbed your temples, already feeling an incoming migraine. "Where the hell did he–"
Then you spotted a closed door of a smaller meeting room. Suspicious– very suspicious. Slowly, you pushed the door open. "John, they're waiting for–" The words died instantly.
Homelander froze. He was across the room, sitting at the head of the conference table. Looking… guilty? Or was it embarrassed? Maybe it was just caught. Which was perhaps the most alarming thing you'd witnessed all week.
For a long moment neither of you spoke– then you finally spoke up: "What are you doing?" Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a single word. You narrowed your eyes. "John"
"I'm busy"
"With what?"
A pause. "...Things"
"You are physically incapable of looking or sounding more suspicious"
"I'm not suspicious"
"You hid something as soon as you heard the door"
"No I didn't" Sometimes it felt like dealing with a superpowered toddler.
"John" You doubled down, hip jutted outwards and arms crossed over your chest in full on mom-mode. (It worked best when he got stubborn)
Another pause.
"...Maybe" You stared, to which he just stared back. You sighed– then walked around the table before he could stop you. "Don't"
That made you stop– Homelander almost never sounded nervous. You blinked, taken aback, but still looked down. And froze. "Oh"
The entire table was covered in stickers. Rows and rows of stickers– gold stars, silver stars, smiley faces, even the little Superman one you'd given him after surviving an entire charity fundraiser without insulting a single politician. Every single reward sticker you'd handed out over the past few months. All carefully arranged, accompanied by a little post-it note by the side. You picked one up. March 14th– Successful Interview. Another. April 2nd– No Threats During Press Conference. A third. May 11th– Excellent Civilian Interaction. You slowly looked up. Then back down– then up again. "...John"
"I can explain"
"Can you?"
"No"
The honesty nearly killed you– he sounded so small like this. So human compared to the version of him everybody in Vought painted of him. "You kept all of them?"
Homelander frowned slightly. "Of course" He seemed genuinely offended by your doubt.
"Most people throw stickers away"
His expression immediately became confused. "Why?" You opened your mouth. Then closed it, because somehow? You genuinely didn't have an answer. Not a logical one at least. Finally he shrugged, cutting the silence. "They were rewards"
"Yes…?"
"You said they meant I was improving" The room suddenly felt much quieter. You looked down at the stars again– at the little notes written beside some of them, at the effort, the organization, the fact he'd clearly spent time doing this. "So why would I throw them away?"
Your chest tightened in that annoying way it occasionally did around him. The way you tried very hard not to think about too much. "You're unbelievable"
"You've said that before"
"Frequently" You admit, shaking your head in fond disbelief. His mouth twitched at that– a small victory smile The kind he only seemed to use around you. You would hate how much it worked if it weren’t for how it always managed to make you smile too. A comfortable silence settled between you.
Then your eyes caught another note: June 3rd– Used Appropriate Small Talk. Gold Star. Underneath it, in suspiciously neat handwriting: "Asked her if she was having a good day. She smiled." You blinked. Slowly, very slowly. "John"
His posture immediately straightened. "What?"
"Why is there commentary?"
"There isn't" Is he really trying to gaslight you right now?
"There is literally commentary"
"It provides context"
You stared. He stared back– completely serious. Like this was a perfectly reasonable thing for an adult man to say. God.
The intercom crackled from where you had it hooked onto your waistband. "Homelander to Stage B. Homelander to Stage B."
You sighed. "C’mon you've got a charity appearance in ten minutes" Reluctantly, Homelander began gathering his stuff. Before he could close the journal, you reached into your bag. His eyes immediately tracked the movement, like a puppy watching his owner reach for the treat bag. You paused. "...Seriously?"
"What?"
"You know exactly what"
"I don't" He hums nonchalantly.
Liar.
Suppressing a smile, you peeled a fresh gold star from the sheet. "You remembered all your talking points" His eyes lit up instantly. Subtle but there. "And you showed up on time today"
"I was three minutes early"
"Which is horrifying" You interrupt with an amused huff. He held out his hand expectantly– you laughed. Actually laughed. Not a half laugh or a polite smile– an actual, warm sound bubbling from inside your chest. Then pressed the star onto the front of his suit.
Right over his heart.
For a second he looked down at it. Then back at you– looking far too pleased with himself.
"Y’know" You said, grabbing your folder back up from the table. "Most grown men aren't this invested in stickers"
John followed beside you toward the door. "Most grown men aren't Homelander"
"...That might be the most reasonable thing you've ever said"
"I know" The confidence in his voice was immediate. Automatic. You groaned– he just grinned. Somehow, you were pretty sure he'd be adding today's star to the collection before the day was over.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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A tired elementary school teacher that accidentally involves herself with the equivalent of a ticking time bomb.
Homelander x Elementary school teacher! reader
You can find this fic in AO3! Click here :3
Chapter summary: The aftermath of the first kiss doesn't last long, because a new problem is on the horizon. A transparent problem, you might say.
Maeve wanted to wipe that stupid grin off of his face. It was seriously making her mad.
“You’re dating her now.”
He had the nerve to chuckle and blush like a schoolboy: “Well, I haven’t asked her officially, but we did kiss.”
It was magical, it was better than the movies, her lips were so soft and she was so gentle and soft to him, like a cloud; he wouldn’t say that out loud, at least not to her. “... And she likes me.”
“Of course she likes you. She thinks you’re this poor, overworked superhero that has never done wrong.” Maeve rolled her eyes. “I don’t care about this. Don’t keep me updated.”
His expression changed to that sassy bitch face of his.
“Whatever suits your boat, Maeve.” He shrugged, acting like her words didn’t matter to him in any way, before stomping out of the room. Queen Maeve sighed and opened her purse, taking out a canteen bottle and drinking a long sip.
Hughie had been staring at people’s necks all day. Every person that passed next to him on the street received the same treatment: his eyes going all goggle mode and staring intensely at the visible veins on their necks, almost burning them into his retinas. For the first time in his life, he had realized how fragile humans could be. It’s like they were held together by thread, hopes and dreams. Much like most of the devices he used to sell at the electronics store. One wrong move, or one bad decision and—
He gulped, feeling incredibly evil at the fact that he had just imagined the little old lady in front of him exploding into a bloody mess of guts. Like Translucent.
Like Translucent.
God. He still felt the smell of metal in his skin, no matter how many showers he’d had already... And not metal as in electronics, metal as in blood.
He swallowed again, shaking his head as if that helped get the bad thoughts away, but it only made him look slightly insane to the other passerbies. He tried his best to stop thinking about gore while the doors of the convenience store opened with a little ‘ding!’
As he entered, the warm air of the air conditioner slapped him on the face. The constant humming of the hot dog machine making the wieners rotate, combined with the sounds of the cash register and that weird sound that fluorescent lights always emit made him a little sick. Even though it was so painfully normal, the fact that it was so mundane made him feel physically ill. Like he didn’t belong there anymore. Because he had killed a person.
Although he technically didn’t see the murder happen, he could imagine Translucent’s eyes staring at him. Shaming him. For being a killer. Not even any killer— a supe killer.
Hughie didn’t notice the cashier greeting him. But it was okay, since she wasn’t interested in it either, too busy looking at her phone. He walked straight to the refrigerators and stared at the display, feeling his hand itching to grab something, anything. So he took out an energy drink, even though he wasn’t that keen on energy drinks at all. God. Everybody knew he wasn’t an energy drink guy, why did he grab that can if he didn’t even like how they tasted…? Anyone could see that he was so awkward at being a human being, but why? Did they realize he was a killer now? What if everyone around him could see the blood on him? What if he accidentally wore the blood stained clothes when he got out? What if—
“Oops.”
Hughie looked down, a string of apologies leaving his mouth without even realizing. He had almost stepped on someone’s foot.
“Gosh, I-I’m so sorry, geez, I wasn’t even looking—” His eyes took a second to focus, too nervous to even think properly. When he finally recognized the figure he had almost stepped on, he felt even more guilty. It was a small woman, holding a basket close to her chest. His eyes went to its contents: a can of coffee, a packaged sandwich, two cartons of milk… And right over those, a pair of eyes that looked right up at him. For some reason, he felt incredibly embarrassed when he saw her smile.
“It’s okay. That happens to me too, when I’m distracted.” She shrugged, and he nodded once. Twice. Thrice.
“Uh, yeah. Um, distracted.” As he rubbed his neck for some reason, she kneeled in front of him. Huh…?
Oh, she was picking up something she dropped. He quickly knelt too, helping her grab a few cartons of apple juice.
“Thank you. Those little boxes like to run away all the time. Slippery things.” She spoke a little funny. It made him more at ease. Like he could actually breathe properly now.
Jesus, he seriously needed to talk to normal human beings again. Butcher was not a normal human being and it was starting to take a toll on him. Hughie sighed and, as he stood up, put the energy drink back into the fridge, moving to the next refrigerator and taking out an orange juice. That was more like him.
He stared at the bottle, smiling to himself. He didn’t realize that she had been staring at him too, and smiling as well. In her mind, he seemed a bit distraught. And if she was honest, she had realized it as soon as her eyes had laid on him— at one point he looked on the verge of a panic attack. Poor guy. She turned on her heel and walked to the cashier, taking out the things from her basket and grabbing a chocolate bar.
“Hey, sorry if this is weird, but… Can you give this to the guy that’s over there, when he comes to pay for his things? The tall, nervous guy with the green jacket, yeah. Actually, you know what? You too can have one. Take this one, it’s on me. Yeah. Have a nice day too!”
She waved goodbye to the cashier, not noticing the magazine rack right over the entrance, where a smiling photograph of Homelander in a magazine cover had been staring directly at everything that had happened, the words “HUNKY HERO” in bold letters right over his blonde hair.
…
When Hughie came out of the convenience store, he felt completely different. Almost like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders. He smiled, looking down at the chocolate bar in his hand, and wondered how he could repay the nice gesture.
“Maybe a chain of nice favors.” He said to himself, thinking about the possibilities. People can be as nice as they can be cruel, he thought.
At Vought Tower, Homelander was thinking very deeply as well. His eyes went back and forth, from the zinc covered box to the wall, to the Deep, who just had to be the bearer of bad news and brought the god forsaken box to him. He didn’t want to open it again. Not because it grossed him out— because of the message.
“COMING FOR YOU”
Right over Translucent’s remains. Homelander was completely used to seeing human remains, that part wasn’t bothersome. Also, he didn’t even like Translucent. He was annoying, he thought too highly of himself and he was a weird pervert (high words coming from the other weird pervert of the group). It was the fact that they were his teammate’s remains. And he, Homelander, was the leader of the team. So it was a direct attack. Those words, they were definitely directed to him… Were they not?
Just who the fuck had the balls to threaten him, the Homelander? The number one hero in the world? The strongest supe?
Anything the Deep at that moment said went into one of his ears and came out of the other, his mind too busy with potential outcomes.
Was this strictly personal? Or perhaps it was more so directed at Vought in general? And… How could someone be so ballsy to be so sure they could kill him? He couldn’t stop asking himself that. Even though he wasn’t sure if he could be killed, actually. It was both interesting and terrifying. But he wouldn’t let either of those emotions show in his face.
He knew the correct course of action would be taking this to Madelyn. But a big part of him (huge, actually) wanted to fly over to the small apartment in the outskirts of town and tell her everything that had happened. He felt sure enough that he could even confide in her all of his doubts and fears, and she would listen and comfort him.
“Is Stillwell here today?” He spoke over Deep, who was rambling about who the fuck cares.
“Uh— yes, she is, I think. I saw her this morning.”
Homelander sighed. He had to do the right thing, right? Even if he didn’t actually care about the transparent degenerate. The more he thought about it, the world was a little better without him. The possibility of that invisible sicko peeping on her was getting on his nerves, even though it was completely impossible now. Because he was a mangle of organs and blood.
“Oh, Jesus.”
Madelyn turned away right after seeing the contents of the box. Homelander took a deep breath and folded his arms, waiting for her to speak.
She didn't. She barely had the strength to side eye the box again, closing her eyes and sighing deeply.
“This is a direct attack on me.” He muttered, to which she stared at him like he had a frog head instead of a human one.
“Jesus.” She repeated, wondering how this man was so calm and even took the opportunity to make it about himself. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was a message for him. “We’re going to have to make this public at some point.”
“Make Ashley say that he’s on vacation or some shit like that.”
Stillwell sighed. “Some shit like that.” She repeated in a low voice.
The Homelander raised his eyebrows: “Excuse me?” He was visibly annoyed. Stillwell felt her entire body turning still, not used to this treatment from him.
“I’ll have the marketing team think up a few ideas of how to write up… this.” She scurried away, not before taking one last look at the box and its bloody contents.
After that, it took about five minutes for Homelander to be right outside her house. On her balcony, to be exact. He slid the door, not before knocking over the glass gently, too gently, as he had been pleaded to by her (because she was starting to lose hair at the fact that The Homelander was appearing inside of her house way too often, without any notice).
“Come on in!” Just hearing her voice made his eyes feel watery, but he wouldn’t know the exact reason why. The moment his eyes met with hers, she knew. She always knew: “Oh dear, something happened to you.”
Nothing else. No “what happened?”, not even “are you crying?”. She never pried. She just tapped the space next to her on the couch, waiting for him to sit, and found herself quite surprised as the Homelander laid his entire body next to her, like some sort of oversized dog. He rested his head on her lap without even asking, and put her hand on top of his hair. She understood the signal and ran her fingers through his blond locks. Slowly. Gently. As she always did.
His voice came out as a whisper: “One of my teammates died.” He did not go much further than that— he felt like she didn’t deserve to know the gory details; the box, the message, the feeling of being threatened that lingered in his head.
“God…” She muttered, never stopping her soft caressing. He closed his eyes, a few stray tears damping her pajama pants. She didn’t care.
The more time he spent in that position, the more he realized he didn’t really care at all about Translucent. At one point he even felt a bit annoyed at the fact that there was going to be a huge commotion about him, just because he fucking died, but those feelings quickly disappeared when he heard his beloved teacher speaking with that teacher voice that seemed to calm him down every single time:
“Losing a coworker must be so traumatic. I can’t even imagine how you must feel, John… I’m so sorry.” She sounded genuinely sad.
And, still resting his head on her lap, he smiled. Because she was sad for him.
He would’ve spent more time there, but a goddamn call from the goddamn Deep had to force him to fly back to the Vought tower, not before giving miss teacher a nice kiss on the cheek (he felt a little shy to give her a kiss on the lips, for some reason). He didn’t realize he had flown right over the man responsible for Translucent’s murder, who was gingerly walking back to his house.
Both of these men were thinking about the exact same woman.
One of them didn’t even know her name. The other one was physically incapable of not thinking about her, every second of the day.
One of them had just killed a man. The other had to experience the consequences of said murder.
Neither knew that, soon, the paths they’re taking would bring them to each other.
Hewwo owo uwu iwi
I couldn't wait any longer so I had to update with a new chapter lol it may be a little messy, since there's a few different situations going on, but I hope it makes sense!! I don't think I can work with schedules so please just be patient. It shouldn't take too long for me to cook up more of these since I'm still very much obsessed with Homelander. Anyways hope you like it!! xoxo
ahhhhhh the obsession has got to me ahhhhhh. so i'm writing now i guess. just a meet-cute to get me back into the groove. hopefully this is good bc i didn't check for grammar or edit. really throwing shit to the wall and seeing what sticks. anyways. enjoy.
☆┇Working as the tailor for the Seven was not how you pictured your future, but since your suit designs for B-list supes gained enough traction that Vought Enterprises slid into your e-mail, you would have been stupid to turn the offer down.
☆┇You first meet Homelander after he returns from what he called "taking care of some external affairs" when Ashley asks him where he had been. The only problem was that this vague business left his suit torn, and he had a press conference in ten minutes. And so, Ashley called you out of the basement of Vought Tower. You arrived with a spool and needle in hand two minutes later.
☆┇Stepping out of the elevator, the first thing you notice is Homelander's gaze, sizing you up. You look at him as well. He's handsome, admirable in the same way as a marble statue. Meant to be ogled at. When he's done assessing, a new, dangerous gleam is in his eyes. A smile — one that doesn't reach his eyes — comes across his face, like he has to consciously remember to be cordial to someone he's never met. "Thank you," he says "For coming on such short notice." "It's my pleasure, Homelander, sir." You reply, your voice soft.
☆┇You get right to business, stitching away at a tear by his upper bicep. One hand holds up the fabric and rests on his arm; the other hand deftly moves to patch up the tear. In the silence of the room, you can't help but hear his breathing. It's quick, erratic, and seems to hitch every time you adjust your hands. It conjures up the image of a dog in a kennel being pet for the first time; something regarded as dangerous met by someone unafraid.
☆┇You can feel his eyes on you, but you don't dare to make eye contact until you've finished. You wrap up the last stitch. With a look of satisfaction, you lift your head. Your eyes lock with Homelander's, and you find yourself frozen. Being mere inches away from the face of the most powerful company in the world has finally hit you. Your eyes dart all over his face, trying to absorb the details, knowing you're one of the few people in the world that get this privilege. They find a place to land when you notice something peculiar above his eyebrow. "You're bleeding, sir," you note, motioning to where his skin has been marked red. His face contorts in confusion, but when he brings his gloved hand to his face to wipe it off, he gives you a reassuring smile. "Ah. Don't worry. It's not mine."
☆┇Ashley rushes to his side, muttering under her breath about how Homelander's interview is supposed to start in 30 seconds. Right. Your time with him is finite. She motions for Homelander to come walk with her, but not before looking over her shoulder and saying "Let's pick up the pace next time. He has places to be." This takes you by surprise, as you had done your job as quickly as possible. You watch Homelander's head snap to Ashley, and notice how he's stiffened after her comment. "Fucking Christ, Ashley. God forbid some people actually put consideration into their work." His voice is almost a growl, intended to be hushed but his anger betrays him. He looks over his shoulder to give you one last smile — one that seems different, more genuine. "Thanks again."
☆┇A rush of adrenaline fills your body as they walk away. Did you just witness the Homelander stand up for you? Did he just smile at you? As you walked away, you felt... strangely attached to him. Like you wanted to see him again. You looked back once, then twice, until he and Ashley were gone. You entered the elevator and took a deep breath to yourself as you realized that... shit. You might have a tiny crush on a man that could laser your head off. Oh well. That was a problem for another time. Back to the basement you went.
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Female gaze is realizing that the more attractive and edible Homelander becomes is when the more pathetic, whiny, cowardly, and deeply miserable he is. Like, look at him crying pathetically because nobody loves him, that’s peak female fantasy.
