with his ultraviolence

Her supe name is Seeker, but Ben knows her as Adelaide.  A sweet, kindhearted girl with a penchant for teleporting wherever she pleases so long as she can picture the place in her mind.  She looks at him like he’s lost his mind, but he can’t care how he looks.

He has to help him.

He has to.

“Please, Addy, I—”

“He’s rotten.”  Her words drip with hate, and rightfully so, but she looks at him like she understands.

“I know.”

“So why help him?”

Ben takes a deep shuddering breath, letting the tears painting his cheeks do as they do.  There’s no point in hiding the hurt.  God knows he wants to see Homelander get his ass beat, but—

He doubles over in pain, that screaming sixth sense of his banging the pots and pans of his brain while he hisses through gnashed teeth.

He’s going to die!  He’s going to die!  He’s going to die!  

They’re going to kill him!  They’re going to kill him!  

“He’s my rot!”  Ben keens, hands coming up to cage his head.  “And he’s my stupid bastard asshole and I can’t stand him, but he’s mine and I love him!”

The sounds of the fight on the monitor fill the silence.  Ryan has joined.

“And I—he’s all I’ve got now…”

He dares not look up at her.  What she must think of him, pleading like this to save a man who means to crush this world under his boot just so he can drink what little love may leak from its cracks.

None of them know.  None of them understand where it all began.  That cell.  That fucking furnace and those horrible, evil labs.  Homelander was doomed from the start.  But, god above, how could Benjamin possibly allow this to happen?  Even knowing all that Homelander has done…  How?

How!?

The sound of the battle becomes a crackling static.

The image distorts.

“Get your mask on,” Seeker sighs.  “And don’t make me regret this.”

Benjamin’s eyes are wide as ever and he scrambles to do as she says.  Just as it’s slipped in place, her hands come to his shoulders and he’s suddenly covered in pinpricks and he feels warped from the inside out.  Taken apart and put back together again.

Seeker isn’t even with him.

Ryan is the first one to notice his arrival.  The boy doesn’t move from where he lays on the tattered floor of the Oval Office.

There’s a cruel squelching thud, the blurry sight of blue falling to the floor coming into focus, the sound of a broken voice he knows all too well.

“I’ll fucking suck your dick!”

His body won’t budge, still like lead against the floor.

Move.

Get up and fucking move!

“I-I’ll eat your fucking shit!”

It rips through Ben like nothing else to hear what’s behind those words.  The raw terror, the fear of death he’d heard Homelander confess with nothing but shame in his eyes—those words that were only ever uttered in their most sacred moments.  The little boy forced to laser his own skin open for injections and operations.  The same one thrown into a furnace just to see if he could handle it, then tortured and mocked and starved of love.  There’s blood all over his face and he’s in pain.  

For the first time in his life, the hands that have abused him can finally break his skin and snap his bones.

He’s human.

Homelander is human and he’s at their mercy—

“I am the Homelander!”

Just as that screeching, roaring pain in his head starts up again, Benjamin is forcing himself to his feet and bolting forward with all he has.  His head screams with every inch Butcher’s hands move, every fraction of a second in which that crowbar comes closer to the heart he’s called home for so many years.

It can’t end like this, can it?

Can his last interaction with the man who stole his heart all those years ago really be having told him that godhood was a cheap cover for all that he lacked?

“Me, John!  You have me.”

It’s sick.  It’s all just a big, sick, twisted joke.  What has become of his Johnny?  Is this really the man who he used to swing around the city with?  Who sat with him on the Queensboro Bridge and ate ice cream and chatted about anything and everything until the sun came up?  Where did he go?  Where’s the man who shared his bed and would always peel the pickles off his sandwiches for the bug to have instead?

It’s like he blinked and all of his worst fears came to life.

“And I should have the world.”  He looks so satisfied.  Like he’s legitimately on the verge of this supposed godhood he touts.  Like he’s not falling deeper into a pit of psychosis that he may never be able to come back from.  “Do you doubt me?”

Honesty has always been best.  He’s never lied to Homelander.  He’s never brown-nosed.  Why start now?

“I do.”

Ben sees it.  Despite how Homelander tries to pretend they didn’t, those words cut him deeper than anything.  The tears settle in, blinked away rapidly like he always does, nose twitching before it all gets hidden with a big grin.

In a flash, there’s a hand around his throat.  It doesn’t squeeze, only threatens.

“Then you’re one of them.”  Homelander spits.  “You’re a Judas.  A backstabber.”  He laughs through what is certainly meant to be a repressed sob.  “I raised you up above the chaff, and this is how you repay me?  You came to me as a wolf in sheep’s clothing after all.”

“No, John.”  With a hand at Homelander’s wrist and another cupping his cheek, Ben shuts his eyes and resigns himself to whatever fate has in store for him.  Even if he walks away from this, he’s lost the most important part of his life.  His Johnny is gone.  Replaced by whoever—no, whatever this is.  His world has ended here.  It ended a long time ago.  Whatever is left is… it isn’t for him.

“I came to you with love.”

“You little cunt…”

“Nice to see you too, Butcher.”  

The crowbar is bent against his abdomen, unable to do anything more than rip the red webbed pattern of his suit.  He locks it in a tight grip.

“You really don’t wanna do this, bug.”  

“No, you’re right.”  Ben sighs.  “I really don’t.”

Behind him comes a breathy, boastful laugh.  

“I win…”  Comes Homelander’s nasally gasp.  “I—I win!”

“Shut up,”  Ben turns and points a finger right in his bloodied face.  “For ten fucking seconds, just shut up.”  Oh, how badly he wants to grab Homelander by the shoulders and just shout see!  See what you’ve done!  To rub salt in the wound that his arrogance has been his downfall as it was always going to be.  A god?  A fucking god!?  

“Be a good lad and let me finish this.”  

The crowbar tugs in Ben’s hold, but he doesn’t release it.

“It’s already finished.”

Then comes that sly look the fucker has always given those who defy him.  That shitty little smirk settles in.  But what can he do?  He’s human again.  At most he can sit there and call Ben a cunt all day and bitch a fit, but that’s all.

“Not till he’s breathed his last, it ain’t!”  He tries to shove the bug to no avail.  “You know what he took from me!  You know what he did!”

“I do.”

Just then, Ben notices the camera on the floor.  “Hold on.”  He shoots a web and yanks it over close enough to crush it beneath his foot.  Nobody needs to hear or see this.  It’s bad enough it caught all that it already did.

With a sigh, Ben reaches for his mask and pulls it off.  For the first time, he looks upon Butcher with his own eyes instead of the ones Vought bestowed upon him years ago.

“Fuckin’ hell, you really are just a kid.”

“Almost thirty,” the bug snorts.  “Look.  I can’t change what he’s done.  Ain’t a thing in the world that’s gonna undo all this bullshit.”

Homelander’s wheezed breaths are the only sounds between his words.

“He’s a fuck up.  But you kill him now, he isn’t getting punished.”  He tries his damndest to make sure Butcher hears him.  There is no world where killing Homelander brings real punishment.  “You put this crowbar through his head, that’s it.  He dies and that’s all he’s gotta do.”

“Load of fuckin’ bollocks!”  Butcher points a finger right in Ben’s face.  “Coverin’ for him like a good lapdog ain’t getting him out of this.  He’s earned it.”

“Probably.  But look at him.”  Ben turns just enough to restore Butcher’s view of Homelander.  “You just took his life.  Second you made him human, you took his life.  Think about it.  He’s never been anything else, you know.”  It pains him to say these things in front of John.  “You already took his life.  Let him live without it.  See how he likes it.”

“What the fu—”

“Let mom and dad talk, would you.”  He hisses to Homelander, then turns back to Butcher.  “You let him go, he ends up in a cell for the rest of his days.”

He can feel the raw panic brewing behind him now.  John’s second biggest fear…

“He gets to rot to death in it.  You kill him now, he ain’t suffering.”

The more Ben sweetens the pot, the more Butcher lets up on trying to take back the crowbar.

“You let him live; he suffers.”  The bug shakes his head.  “Not even I can get him out of what’s coming.”

That’s a lie.

For a moment, Butcher is quiet.  Benjamin can see the gears turning, the way this nut of a man sits there and weighs the lovely idea of Homelander rotting to death as some weak, pathetic shell of who he was.  

“Alright.”

The bug’s heart skips a beat, and then his head—

“I’ll tell you what.  That’s all well ‘n good, but it’s no fun for me.”

His body moves on its own, just like it’s done so many times now, and he kicks forward and collides his head with Butcher’s so hard he’s scared he killed the man with how he ragdolls to the floor.  But he didn’t, and Butcher in turn didn’t kill Homelander.

“Y-You do—”  Comes the same gasping stutters that have been quivering behind him.  “You came…”

“I did,” Ben says, kneeling before the bloody mess of a man he still can’t help but love.  “And we’re gonna get going.”  He pulls out his phone and fires off a text.

“B-But I can’t—I can’t fly us out…”

The telltale whoosh blows behind him.

“Three of us?”  Seeker’s eyeroll is loud as ever in her voice.  “You really owe me, bug man.”

“Terribly,” Ben hums, gathering Homelander in his arms like some sort of battered princess.  “Can you get us to the tower garage?”

“Probably.  Might be a little off with three, but I can try.”

“Do it and I’ll owe you for the rest of ever.”

“God, fuck!  Enough!”

Ben had gotten them out of the state and then some, all the way to a cabin he’d bought ages ago for when he really needed to be away from everyone.  They’ll be hiding here for a while.

“You gotta let me do it, pumpkin.”

Pumpkin…

“It fucking—”

“Yeah, it hurts.  I got it.”  Ben’s patience is low, but there’s still that insatiable need to be gentle with him.  Even now, even after everything.  He dabs at yet another cut with the peroxide soaked cotton ball.  “It’s gonna feel like shit til we get it cleaned up.”

There’s a weepy quality to Homelander’s voice.  A dam that’s cracking and will be bursting very soon.  He’s not sure how he’s going to manage it.  Certainly, there will be screaming and crying—hell, he might even just throw up.  He imagines there will be a lot of unpleasantness until Homelander adjusts, but this is the cost of his arrogance.  For whatever reason, he’s willing to help foot the bill.

Even later, sharing the bed—because of course he didn’t have a spare one here yet—he still can’t help but feel some degree of warmth despite it all.  The tears on his shirt have dried and the man responsible for them has cried himself to sleep.

It’s a miracle to be able to hold him at all, the bug supposes.  Not like he ever thought he’d feel this again.  Tomorrow, he’ll be tossing the TV into the shed and ordering a shit ton of books to occupy John.  No internet, no TV, no outside world—nothing that can dig deeper into the rotten wound of his live broadcasted unmaking. 

What Benjamin holds in his arms now is the shell of the monster that was.  Maybe someday the little boy hidden within will poke his head out and embrace the world like he tried to so long ago.  And maybe someday that boy’s heart will heal from all that the man he is has suffered.  Hell, with any luck, they’ll both heal.

Until then, they persist.

It’s all they can do.

Not for danger.

For you.

“Did you see it?” he asks, voice carefully controlled, almost hopeful. “I stopped the plane from crashing. Not a single casualty.”

You hesitate. Maybe you’re tired. Maybe the words don’t come quickly enough. Maybe you simply don’t react the way he expects.

And the change in him is immediate.

The air grows heavy, charged with something unspoken. His smile falters, just for a second, before slipping away entirely. The city lights flicker across his face as disappointment settles in, fragile and terrifying in equal measure.

Imagine the most powerful man in the world stepping closer, uncertainty creeping into his posture.

Then, slowly, he kneels.

Not out of humility.

Out of reverence.

His gloved hands hover near you, as if afraid to touch without permission. When he finally looks up, his expression is raw—eyes shining with unshed tears, desperation barely contained beneath the surface.

“Tell me I’m good,” he whispers, voice trembling with need. “Please.”

The plea hangs in the air, fragile and suffocating.

Because you know he doesn’t just want praise—he needs it. Your approval is the axis on which his entire world spins. Without it, the adoration of millions means nothing.

Imagine him resting his forehead lightly against your hand, seeking comfort like something lost and wounded, despite the unimaginable power he holds.

“I’ll do anything to deserve it,” he murmurs. “Anything you want. Just… don’t look at me like I’ve failed.”

And in that moment, it becomes terrifyingly clear:

The world may belong to Homelander.

But Homelander belongs to you.

-“If those numbers aren’t on my desk by tomorrow morning, I swear to God—” Then the line had gone dead. So now you were here. Alone. Again.

You pushed into your office with a sigh, dropping your bag beside the desk before bending to search through the disaster of paperwork scattered across the surface.

The storm outside rattled faintly through the windows.

Your phone buzzed. Maya. You answered immediately, relieved for the distraction.

“Hey.”

“You’re still there?” your friend asked. “It’s ten at night.”

“I forgot the reports.” “Again? Jesus. That place is killing you.” You laughed weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “Tell me about it.” You could hear traffic on her end, muffled music in the background.

Normal life.

Outside life. For a second, you envied her so badly it hurt.

“You still coming tomorrow?” she asked. “Brunch. Eleven. Don’t cancel this time.”

“I won’t.”

“You said that last week.”

“That was different.”

“You always say that.” You opened your mouth to answer—

—and froze.

There was someone standing outside your office.

Tall. Broad shoulders, still as a statue behind the glass wall. Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.

The hallway lights reflected faintly off the blue of his suit.

Homelander. You stopped breathing.

Maya was still talking through the phone. “…and if your boss says anything, tell her to go fu—” You hung up instantly.

His eyes followed the movement. Even through the glass, you could feel it. That unbearable pressure of his attention.

Then he smiled. Slowly. And pushed open the office door.

“Hi.”

Your throat tightened immediately. “H-Homelander.” He stepped inside casually, glancing around your office like he belonged there. Maybe he did.

Everyone in the building belonged to him in some horrible way. “You’re here late,” he said.

You forced yourself to straighten. “Just finishing reports.”

“For Ashley?” You nodded. A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. Displeasure.

“She works you too hard.” The way he said it made your skin prickle. Not sympathetic. Possessive. Before you could answer, he glanced toward your phone still sitting on the desk.

“Who were you talking to?” “My friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

Too fast. You hated how fast you answered. His smile widened slightly.

“Good.”

The room suddenly felt very small. You tried to laugh politely, but it came out thin and nervous. “Did you need something?” Homelander walked slowly around your desk instead of answering immediately, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood surface.

Calm. Relaxed.

Like a predator already certain the prey wouldn’t run. “I noticed you’ve seemed stressed lately.” Your pulse started climbing. “I’m okay.”

“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” He stopped beside you. Too close. You caught the clean, expensive smell of his suit, something sharp beneath it like static in the air before lightning strikes. “You look tired,” he continued quietly. “You skip lunch half the time. Your shoulders tense every time your phone rings. And every morning you come into this building already anxious.”

Your mouth went dry.

Because those were things no one should know. Things no one could know unless they’d been watching. Homelander tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer.

“I pay attention to you.”

Something cold slid down your spine. The storm cracked outside, thunder rumbling through the glass.

You took a careful step backward.

“I should really finish these reports—”

“Ashley screamed at you today.”

You froze.

His expression didn’t change.

“She made you cry in the bathroom afterward.” Your heart started pounding so hard you could hear it.

How did he—

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and the softness in his voice scared you more than anger would have.

You swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”

“No,” Homelander murmured. “It isn’t.”

The office lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the windows, lightning flashed silver across the city skyline. Then Homelander reached up and touched your face.

Gentle. Careful.

His thumb brushed just beneath your eye like he was handling something fragile. You should have moved away.

You knew you should. But shock rooted you in place. His voice dropped lower.

“People are very cruel to you.”

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he was right. Because nobody had ever said it out loud before. Everyone always acted like you were overreacting.

Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak for the industry.

And now the most terrifying man on earth was looking at you with something dangerously close to tenderness.

“I can take care of it,” he said softly.

Alarm shot through you immediately. “No.” His eyes sharpened slightly.

“No?”

“You don’t have to… do anything.”

Silence. Then that smile returned. Pleasant and artificial.

“You’re scared of me.” Your stomach twisted. Because denying it felt impossible.

Homelander watched your expression carefully, and for one horrible moment you saw something wounded flicker underneath his calm facade.

Not guilt, neither shame. Loneliness.

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. The words should have comforted you. Instead they made your pulse spike harder. Because you suddenly understood that he wanted you to believe him.

Wanted it badly. You stepped away from his hand carefully. “I should get back to work.”

For a second, the room went still. Completely still. Then Homelander smiled again and stepped back.

“Of course.”

Relief flooded you so fast your knees almost weakened. He moved toward the door.

Stopped. Without turning around, he asked:

“Why do you flinch every time someone raises their voice at you?”

Your breath caught and he glanced over his shoulder. Those bright blue eyes pinned you in place effortlessly.

“I hear things,” he said softly. And then he walked out.

—

Three days later, Ashley disappeared. Nobody explained it. One minute she was storming through meetings throwing binders and screaming at assistants, and the next her office sat empty with the blinds drawn shut.

People whispered about scandals.

Transfers. Rehab? Nobody knew.

But the new department head smiled at you too much and approved your vacation request without even reading it. And every time you passed security downstairs, people suddenly avoided eye contact.

Like they knew something you didn’t.

By Friday, you couldn’t sleep. Every tiny sound in your apartment made your heart race. You kept remembering Homelander’s hand against your face. That awful gentleness.

The way he’d said “I can take care of it.” You told yourself it was coincidence, because it had to be-...It had to be.

Until Saturday night.

You were standing in your kitchen making tea when your phone buzzed with a text from Maya.

you:

Running late. Some creep followed me off the subway lol

You frowned immediately.

you:

What?

No response. You stared at the screen. One minute. Two. Then your phone rang. You answered instantly. “Maya?”

Static and heavy breathing. Then a man’s voice.

“Cute friend you got.” Ice flooded your veins. “What the fuck—”

The line disconnected.

You grabbed your coat so fast you nearly dropped the phone, panic rising sharp and ugly in your chest as you rushed toward the apartment door—

—and found Homelander standing outside it, making your entire body lock up instantly. He looked immaculate as always. Cape draped perfectly behind him. Hair untouched by the rain. Like he’d stepped out of a commercial instead of into the hallway outside your apartment at eleven-thirty at night.

“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.

You stared at him in horror. “My friend—”

“She’s fine.”

“How do you know that?” He smiled slightly. “I handled it.” your blood ran cold once again.

“What did you do?”

“He scared her.” Homelander shrugged. “So I scared him more.” The hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly narrow.

You backed away instinctively. “Did you kill him?Homelander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

Not anger.

Confusion. Like the question itself was unfair. “He touched someone important to you."

The word hit hard enough to make your stomach twist. “You can’t just murder people!”

“Why not?” The sincerity in his voice terrified you. Genuine confusion. As if morality simply worked differently for him.

You shook your head, breathing unevenly. “You can’t solve everything like that.” Homelander stepped closer slowly. “You were terrified when you opened that door.”

You said nothing. “And then you saw me,” he continued softly. “And part of you relaxed.” Your chest tightened immediately because he was right. You hated that he was right. He watched realization cross your face and smiled faintly.

There it was again. That look. Like he was learning you piece by piece.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he murmured. The rain battered against the apartment windows behind you. Your pulse hammered painfully. Homelander reached up carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with unbearable softness.

“I take care of the things that hurt you,” he whispered.

And standing there in the dim apartment hallway with fear tangled so tightly with relief you couldn’t separate them anymore— you realized that was exactly how he wanted it.

The first thing you noticed was that the building had become quieter around you. Not all at once. Not enough to alarm you immediately.

Just slowly, subtly, over the course of a few weeks after Ashley disappeared. Conversations stopped when you walked into break rooms. Coworkers who used to dump work on your desk now smiled too quickly and told you not to worry about deadlines.

People moved out of your way in the hall.

Even the security guards downstairs straightened when they saw your ID badge, suddenly polite in a stiff, nervous sort of way that made unease crawl beneath your skin every single time.

At first, you tried convincing yourself it was coincidence.

Then one morning, you overheard two assistants whispering near the elevators.

“—I’m telling you, he watches her.”

“Shut up, are you insane?”

“I saw him leave her floor last week—”

The elevator doors opened before you could hear more. The moment they noticed you standing there, both women went pale. One of them physically stepped back.

Like you were dangerous too.

By the time you reached your office, your hands were shaking hard enough that you spilled coffee across your desk. You stared at the spreading stain blankly. Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Because deep down, beneath all the rationalizing and denial, you already knew.

Homelander. Everything kept leading back to him. The promotions. The sudden kindness. The fear in everyone else. You pressed trembling fingers against your forehead. This was insane- You needed distance, and space- and something normal.

Which was why, by six-thirty that evening, you were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant downtown across from Maya, trying desperately to force yourself back into reality.

The restaurant smelled like garlic and wine and fresh bread, warm light glowing softly from little candles on every table, and outside the rain drizzled steadily against the windows while traffic blurred red and gold across the wet streets.

It felt normal. And safe. Thank god. Maya was halfway through complaining about her boss when she stopped abruptly and frowned at you over the rim of her wine glass.

“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”

“Sorry.”

“You look exhausted.” You stared down at your untouched pasta. The knot in your chest had been there for days now. Tight. Constant. Every time your phone buzzed. Every time someone looked at you strangely at work. Every time you imagined blue eyes watching from somewhere above the city.

Maya leaned forward slightly, concern softening her face.

“Is this about Vought?” You hesitated. Too long, thats what makes it obvious. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh my God. It is.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

You laughed weakly, but it came out strained. Maya lowered her voice. “Did something happen?” You opened your mouth. Then stopped.

Because how could you even explain it?

I think the most powerful man in the world has become obsessed with me.

It sounded delusional. Worse—it sounded impossible. And yet every instinct in your body had been screaming danger for weeks. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I need to quit.”

Maya blinked. “Then quit.” “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not?” Because he would notice. The realization slid into your mind so naturally it made you feel sick.

Homelander would notice, because he noticed everything. The thought alone made your pulse jump. Maya stared at you carefully now, really looking. Then her expression changed. Not fear. Recognition. “You’re scared.”

You looked away immediately. Outside, headlights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. “I’m just stressed.”

“No.” Maya’s voice softened. “You look terrified.” Something sharp tightened painfully in your throat. Because she was right. You were terrified. Terrified in that exhausting, constant way where your body never fully relaxed anymore, where every shadow felt watched and every silence stretched too long.

And somehow the worst part wasn’t even fear of what Homelander might do to you. It was fear of what would happen if he suddenly stopped paying attention altogether. That realization horrified you enough that your stomach twisted. Maya reached across the table and touched your hand gently.

“Hey. Talk to me.”

Warmth spread suddenly behind your eyes. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone normal to touch you. Someone human.

Your voice came out small. “I think something’s wrong with me.” Maya frowned immediately. “What?”

“I keep…” You laughed shakily. “I keep thinking about him.” The words tasted poisonous. Maya went still.

“Who?” You already regretted saying it, but exhaustion cracked something open inside you.

“Homelander.”

Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind. Maya stared at you for a second like she genuinely thought she’d misheard. Then

“…Homelander?” You nodded once, humiliated instantly.

“He keeps showing up and talking to me and I know it’s weird and I know I should report it or something but every time he looks at me I feel like I can’t think properly anymore—”

You stopped abruptly, breathing unevenly. Maya’s face had gone pale.

“You need to stay away from him.”

“I know.”

“Y/n, I mean it.”

“I KNOW.”

Several people glanced over, making you lower your voice immediatly, and Maya leaned closer across the table.

“Listen to me very carefully. Men like that— men with power like that— they don’t get attached normally.”

Your stomach dropped once again, because attached was exactly the word you'd been searching for- Not 'interested' nor 'flirting'.- attached. Like something tightening around your ribs day by day. Maya squeezed your hand harder.

“This is how it starts.”

Fear curled sharply through you, traveling from your toes to your chest.

“How what starts?”

But Maya never answered- because suddenly the restaurant went silent. Instantly.

With conversations getting cut off and forks being set down, the air itself seems to tighten, and your blood turned to ice before you even looked up. Maya’s grip on your hand loosened slowly. Around you, people stared toward the front windows. Toward the figure descending from the sky outside the restaurant in a blur of red, white, and blue.

Your heart stopped.

No.

No no no—

The entire restaurant watched as Homelander landed lightly on the sidewalk beyond the glass, cape settling behind him in perfect waves despite the rain- People immediately started reaching for phones. Someone whispered- “Holy shit…”

Maya looked at you. Really looked at you. And the horror that crossed her face made your stomach lurch. Because she understood instantly.

Homelander smiled the moment he saw you through the window. Not at the restaurant, but at you. That terrifyingly soft expression spread across his face like he’d finally found what he’d been looking for.

Then he walked inside. The atmosphere changed the second he entered. The restaurant owner rushed forward nervously. People stared. Nobody breathed properly. But Homelander ignored all of them. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, fully focused.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, panic clawing up your throat, “don’t say anything.”

Too late.

Homelander reached your table smoothly, smiling down at you like this was some perfectly ordinary surprise visit.

“There you are.” Your pulse hammered violently. “How did you know I was here?” He tilted his head slightly.

“You told someone at work you were getting dinner downtown." Jesus fuck, had he been listening then too?

Maya slowly pulled her hand away from yours under the table. Homelander noticed immediately. Of course he did.His gaze flickered briefly toward her before returning to you.

“You left work early,” he said softly. “I was worried.” Worried. The word wrapped around your lungs like silk. You could feel the entire restaurant staring. Maya sat rigidly beside you now, fear written plainly across her face.

"i have to use the bathroom." She excuses herself quietly. Traitor, leaving you with him. Homelander noticed that too. And smiled. Not in a polite way, just Patient. Like he understood something she didn’t yet.

“You seem tense,” he murmured to you. No shit, your voice barely worked. “I’m fine.”

“No,” he said gently. “You’re frightened.” The way he said it made heat creep shamefully into your chest. Like he was the only person observant enough to notice. Like fear itself had become intimacy between you.

Homelander crouched slightly beside your chair then, bringing himself closer to eye level, and the entire restaurant seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.

“You know I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and your throat tightened.

Because part of you believed him completely. That was the worst thing. Not the fear. Not even the obsession. It was the unbearable safety you felt whenever he appeared. Like no matter how terrifying he was, nothing else in the world could possibly touch you while his eyes were on you.

Homelander saw something change in your expression then. He saw it happen. His smile softened with slow, terrifying satisfaction.

“There she is,” he whispered.

And you realized with sudden horror that he was watching you become dependent on him in real time.

Just waiting.

By the time Maya returned to the table, your head already felt strange, Like the entire evening had slipped sideways into something unreal while you weren’t paying attention.

Homelander had moved back slightly by then, posture relaxed again, one arm hooked lazily over the back of your chair as if he’d always belonged there, as if seeing the most powerful man in the world sitting in a tiny downtown restaurant beside an ordinary Vought employee was somehow normal.

But nothing felt normal anymore. Not the way people stared at you now. Not the way your pulse reacted every time his attention settled fully onto you. Not the awful, humiliating relief spreading slowly through your body whenever he spoke in that low, gentle voice.

Maya sat down carefully, eyes flicking between the two of you. You could tell she’d been crying in the bathroom. Shes always been an emotional person. Her mascara looked slightly smudged beneath the dim restaurant lighting. Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. Because she looked scared.

Not for herself, but for you.

Homelander smiled at her pleasantly. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” she answered too quickly. You noticed she didn’t look at him anymore when she spoke. Only at you, like she was trying to communicate something silently.

Run. Leave. Wake up.

But then Homelander’s hand settled lightly against the small of your back beneath the table and every thought scattered instantly. The touch wasn’t forceful, and that was the problem. His fingertips barely rested there at all through the fabric of your dress, warm and steady and impossibly careful, yet the moment he touched you, your body reacted before your mind could.

The tension in your shoulders loosened, your breathing slowed and Homelander felt it happen. You knew he did because his thumb stroked once, slow and approving.

A tiny movement. Still your stomach flipped violently. Maya saw your expression change.

Horror flashed across her face immediately, if thats even possible at her current expression anymore. You looked away from her first because you hated yourself for that.

Dinner ended not long after.

Nobody argued when Homelander quietly insisted on taking you home.

How could they?

Outside, the rain had gotten heavier, pouring silver beneath the city lights while crowds gathered along the sidewalk behind barricades and security trying desperately to catch a glimpse of him. Phones flashed constantly. People shouted his name. But Homelander barely acknowledged any of it.

His focus stayed on you as you stepped outside beside him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cold night air. The second the rain touched you, Homelander frowned.

Then his cape settled around your shoulders, making you feel warmer immediately. It smelled like him.

“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.

The crowd noise seemed distant suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world had narrowed down to the warmth wrapped around you and the terrifying softness in his eyes.

You should have refused.

Instead your fingers clutched the edge of the cape tighter around yourself automatically.

And Homelander smiled. God, that smile. Not public, an' not performative. Atleast he makes you think that.

Maya stepped closer quickly before you could move.

“Text me when you get home,” she said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to remind you of something. You nodded immediately. “I will."

Homelander looked between the two of you, quietly observing, or rather analyzing. Then he asked softly-

“Do you always worry this much about her?” Maya stiffened.

“She’s my best friend.”

At that, something unreadable crossed Homelander’s face, its gone almost instantly. But you felt his hand press slightly more firmly against your back. Possessive.

Maya noticed too, And you could see fear rise behind her eyes again. Then Homelander smiled warmly at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

The words should have sounded reassuring.

Instead, they landed like a threat.

Maya heard it too. You saw it in her eyes.

But before either of you could say anything else, Homelander’s arm wrapped around your waist. The movement was smooth and natural enough to almost seem casual. Except the second he pulled you against his side, your entire body locked up from the sheer overwhelming awareness of him.

Strong.

Not human.

His hand rested securely against your hip while the rain poured harder around you, the city glowing gold and red beneath blurred stormlight.

“You ready?” he asked softly near your ear. Your throat tightened. What is he talking about?

“For what?” His smile deepened slightly, and then the ground disappeared. A startled sound tore from your chest as the world dropped violently beneath you, wind rushing past in freezing waves while the city exploded into dizzying lights below. Your fingers grabbed his suit instantly. Instinct.

Homelander laughed quietly at the reaction, one arm tightening around you effortlessly as he carried you high above Manhattan. “Easy,” he murmured. The sound of his voice vibrated through his chest beneath your hands. You couldn’t breathe properly.

Not from fear alone, no-...just, from him. From the overwhelming closeness of him.

Rain whipped through the air around you while clouds swallowed the city lights below in silver haze, and you buried your face against his shoulder automatically as another gust of wind hit.

Immediately, Homelander’s expression softened.

“There you go,” he whispered, too soft for a disgusting Manipulator. Like he liked seeing you cling to him. Like he wanted it. The realization made heat twist low in your stomach despite the terror.

You hated- no, despised- how safe he felt.

Hated how his arms around you made the rest of the world disappear completely.

The penthouse came into view slowly through the rain.

Massive windows glowing gold high above the city.

Isolated & untouchable. Your stomach flipped hard at the sight. Because suddenly, horribly, it didn’t feel like he was taking you home. It felt like he was taking you somewhere that belonged to him.

Somewhere above everyone else. Into his Nest.

Homelander landed smoothly on the balcony, barely jostling you despite the force that cracked faintly beneath his boots.

But he didn’t let go immediately afterward.

His arms stayed around you.

Keeping you close against him while rainwater slid down the sharp line of his jaw and the city glittered endlessly beneath the storm behind him.

For a second, neither of you spoke, not being able to.

You became painfully aware of your hands still gripping the front of his suit.

Of how close your bodies were.

Of the way he was looking at you.

Not hungry. -actually, hungry. Really fuckin' hungry. Your pulse stuttered unevenly.

“I should go home,” you whispered.

Homelander’s eyes searched your face quietly.

Then very gently, he brushed wet hair back from your cheek.

“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”

The words wrapped around your exhausted mind so softly that for one horrible second, you almost nodded.

Because after weeks of fear and confusion and pressure and loneliness—

the thought of leaving him suddenly hurt. He saw the exact instant your expression weakened, and something dark and deeply satisfied flickered behind his eyes.

Not victory, just ownership. His thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone.

“Come inside,” he said quietly, knowing just what tone to use. Not a command- worse. An invitation he already knew you wanted to accept.

Lightning flashed across the sky behind him, illuminating the enormous penthouse windows glowing gold in the dark like something beautiful and dangerous waiting with its mouth open.

And after a long, trembling hesitation—

you followed him inside.

He did it. You're his perfect girl now.

You died is what you try to say, but the words grow too large. No matter how you try to push them out, they catch in your throat and choke you until all you can do is cry. Loud, ugly sobs that turn to sharp pain in your chest. It was so real, you want to tell him. Your brain was all over the floor.

You’d scream if you could stop sobbing long enough to gather the air. He’s scared now. His arms are too tight around you, but you’d claw your way back in if he tried to let you go. Your nails rake his bare back, pressing against impenetrable skin, desperate for something to cling to. No blood. He doesn’t even wince. You press harder, trying to hurt him. You can’t. It wasn’t real.

A noise of anguished relief leaves you. You don’t recognize the sound of it. You’ve never heard something so animal come from your own throat.

He doesn’t know what to say, or how to soothe you, so he squeezes you to his chest. Your heart hammers against his, your tears wet his neck. At some point he starts to rock. The motion isn’t smooth nor practiced. How could it be? It’s jerky; the uncertain movements of a child that has never been rocked to sleep, but knows the principle of it as an adult.

Still, it works. His even breaths give you a baseline to gradually match your fitful gasps to. His heart, beating just as strong and loud as yours, reminds you with every pulse that this is real, and what you saw was…

“Just a dream,” he whispers in your ear. There's a weight of understanding in those words. You’ve said the same to him when he’s needed it. When it was his head cradled in your arms, his tears wet on your skin. The nightmares are usually his. “Can’t hurt you. M’here.”

Sniffling, you run your fingers through his hair, thumb smoothing over his forehead. Even now, your touch makes him shudder. Despite the visceral realness of your nightmare, his skin is unmarred beneath your touch. You map every familiar line and slope of him, a part of you still terrified to find some hidden place where he is broken, but he is blessedly whole.

You close your eyes, sagging in relief. The exhaustion that follows the gradual release of your every clenched muscle is almost enough to knock you right back into unconsciousness. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm and still faintly minty on your lips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you whisper back. The sound of it is hoarse and small.

“Thought you’d lost it,” he says quietly. “Was it Barney again?”

That gets a huff of laughter out of you. You have one weird dream about a purple dinosaur forcing you to eat mattresses, and apparently you’ll never live it down.

“No. It was…”

You died. It was so real. Your brains were all over the floor.

Your eyes burn. The words are still too big.

“You.”

“Me? I made you eat mattresses?”

“No, stop,” you groan, thudding your fist halfheartedly on his shoulder. It feels good to do. It reminds you of how solid he is. “You weren’t Barney. You were… You were hurt. Bad. It was… It was so bad,” you say, the humor in your voice fading, more sobs threatening the frayed edges of it.

For a moment, you think he might laugh at you. Remind you he’s invincible. For all of his insecurities, modesty is not a condition that Homelander suffers. Any implication of his own vulnerability, of weakness, has always made him bristle. Instead, his playful expression sobers. He doesn’t know what to say. He presses his lips to your forehead, your temple, your cheek.

You close your eyes, sinking gratefully into his impossible strength. His hands roam your body without intent, ghosting the same path your own had traversed upon him. He nuzzles your throat, conveying in touch what he doesn’t have the words to say.

Each kiss feels like a promise.

I’m here. 

I’m not going anywhere.

Feel me. 

I’m real. 

I’m yours.

He lays you down on the bed, settling his head upon your chest. You exhale a shaky breath, tangling your fingers in his hair. His arms slip around your waist, somehow both protective and vulnerable. He turns his head to press one last kiss to the spot just above your soundly beating heart.

“People don’t usually… worry about me. Getting hurt,” he says, glancing up at you. You stroke his cheek, admiring the crystal clear blue of his eyes. “Unless it's because they want to hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Ever.”

He smiles.

“I know.”

You cup his cheek. He leans into your palm, closing his eyes.

“I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

You trail off. The words aren’t too big, they’re just too terrible to give life to.

He kisses your palm.

“I love you, too.”

You close your eyes, finally letting yourself be soothed back to sleep by the gentle, persistent press of his lips.

I’m here. 

I’m not going anywhere.

Feel me. 

I’m real.