✿°•˚Barley˚•°✿

Your mother worked two jobs to keep your family afloat and took on another to send you to school. The stress of it all weighed on her heart more than anything, but seeing all three of her children thrive–as much as they could under constant societal scrutinity–made it all worth it. Nathan had long moved out and Reggie was finding himself in the Supe world, neither of them living at home anymore. 

She would sit on the plastic coated couch in the living room and run her exhausted hands through your hair every evening after you came home from class. “You’re gonna do some great things, angel baby,” she would say through a yawn, wrapping a strand of your hair around her shaking finger. “Just like your big brothers. Maybe better,” she said with a soft smirk.

When your mother died, she left you three things. She had very few personal items to hand down, no fancy gowns or family jewels she kept after your father’s death. Her will bequeathed you the small house you and your brothers grew up in, her wedding ring, and your brothers, especially Reggie.

Her death broke something in you, so you honored her the only way you knew how. You took care of the house, kept the family together the best you could, and wore her ring religiously. 

The house was small, but mighty. It was an old bungalow with more yard square footage than actual house, but you kept it pristine. You cleaned everyday and never touched mama’s room. Some days, you could almost pretend that she was just sleeping, one of her long, deep naps she always took on her rare days off. 

You tried to keep your brothers in touch, but for one reason or another, they had fallen out. Nathan had his own responsibilities, even more now as a father and with his disability. Reggie was a hero, and despite his fading relationship with Nate, you had managed to secure weekly dinner with him. It was hard, especially after nearly losing his spot in The Seven. He spent a lot of time blocking you out and focusing on work, depriving you of the attention that you so desperately needed. In the end, he feared losing his baby sister more than his job, and both seemed to work out for him. 

He loved being at home with you. He did his best to give you the life you deserved, even if the world had already scarred you. You lived a simple life and he made sure it stayed that way. He paid every bill, fee, and tab that came your way. He played handyman when the sink clogged or the locks needed to be changed. He did it all because he loved you—more than anybody else could, he loved you. When his life was chaos, strife, and agony, he wanted yours to be cushy and painless.

He wanted everything for you and he intended to give it to you. The only thing he ever wanted to take away from you was that damn ring. 

He couldn't place why it made him so upset to watch you wear it around. He knew it had sentimental value to you, but it rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe part of him hated to see your ring finger covered by a jewel he did not give you. Maybe he was territorial over the idea that strangers on the street assumed you were married to someone who wasn't him when they saw it. 

He just knew it had to go.

So, when the weekly dinner at your house came, he struck. He would never steal from you under normal circumstances, all he ever wanted to do was give, give, give to you, but something had to give. You were stirring something on the stove, humming quietly to yourself. 

You felt Reggie slot behind you, holding your jeweled hand and twirling you around like his little princess, which, for all intents, you were. 

“Reg,” you said with a small gasp, flashing him your teeth in a sweet smile, “I didn’t hear you come in!”

“Door was unlocked,” he mumbled against your cheek, pressing a quick kiss to it. “Told you about doing that.”

You ignored his chiding and ushered him to the table. “Go sit, I made your favorite.” Thankfully, when you returned to your spot in front of the stove, you did not realize your finger was bare. 

Reggie palmed the ring, discreetly looking at it in his lap from his chair at the head of the small table, where your father used to sit so many years ago. The ring had some charm, he had to admit. The diamond was dingy from age and petite from its budget, but it was good enough for mama. 

Not enough for you, though, he decided. He would find you something much better than this old antique.

It was only a matter of time before you realized it was gone and he knew it. He was preparing himself mentally for the moment you would ask him about it. Unfortunately for him, your call came in the middle of a meeting, right as Homelander was starting to go on one of his famously terrifying rants.

“Oh, important call, buddy?” Homelander asked disingeniously, eyes going wide with faux-interest. “Should probably pick it up, right?”

Reggie, or A-Train, as he was at work, hesitantly answered his phone, eyes trained at the floor. 

“Hey–”

“I lost mama’s ring,” you wailed over the phone, “I dunno what happened, this has never happened before.”

He almost felt guilty, putting you through so much emotionally, but a small part of him was satisfied. Big brother could only comfort you if you had something to be comforted about. Still, hearing you snivel and cry made his heart skip, especially since he was the one who caused it.

Reggie swallowed and paused, feeling the other member’s eyes drift over to him, watching him. Homelander most of all, staring at him blankly, calculatingly, as if counting each second that he stayed on the line. 

“It’s okay, I can come over and help you look, yeah?”

He could practically hear you shake your head. 

“No, Reggie, you don’t understand,” you said through an inhale, voice shaking and exasperated, “I lost it. I’ve looked everywhere. I–it’s gone, I can't find it. She would be so disappointed in me. I promised her I would take care of it, ‘cause it was so special to her, and I've ruined it all!”

He gave his eyes a soft roll with no real heat behind it, used to your theatrics. “Baby, it’s fine. I’ll come home tonight and we’ll figure something out. I love you, just–” he sighed, feeling the ring in his pocket, “–go lay down for me.”

You gave him a blubbering goodbye and hung up through tears.

“Girlfriend troubles?” Homelander asked, head tilting to the side. Jesus, this guy’s face was unnerving. 

“Yeah,” Reggie said, drawing his answer out a bit, enjoying the way it felt on his tongue, “my girl. You know how it is.”

“It isn't your fault,” he repeated for quite possibly the hundredth time, placing another kiss on your thigh. He had been between your legs for an hour at least, on his knees and looking up at you while you wailed. “Things happen, mistakes get made.”

You leaned back into the couch and threw your hands over your face roughly, taking an extra deep breath. 

“Do you think mama and papa would be mad at me?” you asked meekly, trying to calm yourself down and be less unintelligible.

“No, baby, of course not.” He pulled your arms down and pressed a kiss to each of your fingers, rubbing over your hands with his thumb. “You know what mom used to say: things are just things. You’re still their best girl, and mine too, you know.”

You hummed and sniffled again. “Thank you, Reg. It’s still a shame, though, ‘cause it was so nice. Always felt pretty when I wore it.”

“I thought you would say that.” Like the hero he was, Reggie was there to save the day again. He pulled a small box from the pocket of his sweatpants and held it out to you. “It’s not the same, but I found a little something for you. Take a look.”

You felt your breath hitch in your throat when you pulled the ring out. It was ornate, to say the very least. At least five carats with a diamond clearer than a summer sky. You had so much to say, you wanted to turn it down, to tell him it was too much, that you couldn't accept something so nice, given how you just lost the most sentimental item you owned, but he shut you up by slipping it onto your hand. You practically felt your hand dip down from the sheer weight of it. 

Oh, Reggie was so smug. This made it all worth it. Watching you marvel at the stone he put on you, entranced by how it sparkled and shined. When you wore it to class or went to the store with that rock on your finger, he knew people would stare. More importantly, he knew that when they asked who put a boulder like that on your finger, you could say your big brother did. 

“I don’t know what to say…” you tried to blink, but you were too afraid that it would all disappear if you did. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Quiet. That’s exactly what you deserve. Looks better on you than collecting dust in a jeweler’s anyway.” He placed one hand on your thigh and traced it gently, urging you to spread for him. “Nothing is too good for my sissy.”

“Oh, Reggie!”

Reggie had just barely scraped by in the race of the century, beating Shockwave by mere inches, millimeters, even. He was still coming down from his high, Compound-V still racing through his veins, but he had to see you. He may have been rough with you last week, pushing you away to mentally prepare himself for this career defining moment, but you were still is baby sister, and he would be damned if you pushed him away.

He knew exactly where to find you, you never went anywhere else. After Nathan got married, Reggie became a serious hero, and your mother passed from years of stress and overexertion, you were left alone in the small house you all grew up in. It was the only thing your mother could leave you, that and her engagement ring from papa. 

You knew Nathan loved you, but you were so far apart in age and he had his own kids to deal with. You were never too close growing up either. Reggie, though, he was different. Reg and Nate may have been best friends growing up, but you were everything to him. You were more than his sister: you were his blessing. His lucky charm, his reason to become a hero. 

He used to call and visit everyday, back before he joined The Seven. He would bring you gifts with the new money he accrued from side gigs and overage from his Godolkin scholarships, fix up the house for you, and constantly remind you that even though he was busy, he was still yours.

Then things got serious. He was drafted into The Seven and he had bigger things to focus on. Not better, but bigger. His calls were weekly in the beginning of his career, and visits were kept to the major holidays. Then weekly calls were replaced by monthly texts, and visits were replaced by video calls. 

Nowadays, he visited maybe twice a year.

He knew you resented him for it, but he did his best to still support you. What money didn't go to his necessities was wired to you, every two weeks, like clockwork. He sent you rare pieces of his merch and Seven memorabilia to sell and hundreds of dollars worth of girly little plushies, flowers, and clothes to tide you over.

You appreciated the gesture and how he kept the power on, but it wasn't enough. You couldn't light his money on fire; on nights where you were cold and alone, you wanted your big brother to cuddle up next to. Not cash. 

You tried to voice this to him, but his guilt made him brush you off. He wasn't ready to face how he made you feel—still too immature. You sent him a long, harsh text a week or so ago, explaining how you were lonely, how it was hard to be a young girl without her brother to protect her, how you missed him, and mama and papa, and even Nathan. You said that if he truly loved you, he would visit more, and how you cooked dinner for two every night, just  praying he would show his face.

He saw your message, mindlessly scrolling through his phone before a meeting. He sighed, trying to think of what to say. He simply marked the message as 'read' and wired you a thousand dollars, then texted you something half-hearted about being busy. 

No apologies. No promises. No real emotions. Just excuses and money, two things you had no use for.

"I told you not to come around here anymore," you said, barely peeking through your cracked front door. "You made yourself very clear, Reg."

"C'mon, baby, let me in," he pleaded at the front door, wedging his hand between the crack and forcing it open a bit. You always admired how strong your big brother was, how easy it was for him to protect you. Now, his strength was just a nuisance. "Didn't you want me to visit?"

"No! Go away!"

You tried to push back, to shut him out just as he had done to you, but he easily opened the door, slipped in, and locked it behind him in the blink of an eye. 

"Talk to me," he cooed, wrapping you tightly in his arms and pushing you against a wall. "What's wrong with you lately, huh?"

Your bottom lip jutted out, quivering under his gaze. You had missed being this close to him, behind held and coddled by him. Now that you had it, it was almost too much to bear. 

"You're the problem, Reggie," you wailed softly, feeling a sob start to break in your throat. You hit against his chest weakly, trying to push him away. "You know what you're doing, you always do this to me."

He pressed his weight against you, snuggling into your body. He lifted you up, slotting against you perfectly with his arms under your knees.

"And what's that?" he asked, moving closer to get a deep huff of your scent. He placed his head on your shoulder and sniffed, feeling warmth bloom in his stomach. God, when was the last time he even saw you, let alone smelled you? A year? 

You gasped softly when his lips connected with the side of your throat, peppering gentle kisses over the skin. You had dreamed about this in his absence, but you were far too emotionally charged to enjoy it as much as you knew you should have.

"You leave me. You go away and act like I don't exist," you sobbed, gripping his costume between your fists, "like you're too busy for me. You stop loving me, stop coming around."

He hummed softly, still kissing your neck. "You know that's not true," he said. "I take care of you."

"No," you whined, "not enough."

"Greedy girl. What more do y'want from me, huh? Big brother keeps your bills paid, tuition, all of it. You don't struggle for anything, do you?" His eyes were expectant, looking at you with purpose. When you huffed at him, looking away, he gave your hair a soft tug. "Do you?"

"No..." You tried to hide the moan that followed your words, but he saw right through you. 

"Why do you think I do that? 'Cause I 'don't love you'?" he asked, keeping his grip on your hair. "No. It's 'cause I love you more than anything. You know what I put up with everyday? Fuckin' looked down on, fighting for my life with those bastards I work with. I do it—"

He cut himself off, pushing his mouth against yours. He held you with one arm as his other explored your hair, chest, and finally snaking down to rest between your thighs.

"—'cause I love you the most. More than anybody ever will. You think it doesn't kill me to leave you?"

You sniffled and shook your head, face getting hot from how his fingers worked at your clit through your pants. 

He put you down and flipped you, gently smooshing your pretty face against the wall and lifting your hips up. He undid his belt and pushed his way into your cunt. 

"Reg," you groaned, bucking your hips backwards onto him. You tried to get him to go faster, harder, something, but his firm hands grabbed you and kept you in place. "Please, I need it."

"Nah, we're not doing that," he said, giving one of your asscheeks a little pinch. "Big brother's gonna do all the work and you're gonna like it, yeah?"

It was rare for the fastest man alive to move so slowly, but with his little sister, he had to be easy. You were so fragile in his eyes, that's why he had to clearly let you know how much he loved you. 

For years, this was all Butcher wanted. A taste of power over the Supe who had single-handedly ruined his life. Hundreds of sleepless nights, looking at his empty mattress with a mix of disdain and heartache, waiting for a knock on the door that he knew would never come. He knew there was no justice in this gruesome world, that he would have to seek it himself, and now? The fruit of the last ten years had miraculously bloomed in front of him.

He pawed his trusty crowbar with thinly veiled excitement. He knew the optics on this weren't painting him in the best light, but the audience at home could wank off for all he cared. He had The Homelander in the palm of his calloused hand, pathetic and whimpering without his powers. 

Billy snorted softly at the pleas that escaped the writhing scum before him—he had heard it all before. "I'll do anything," people would beg. "Whatever you want." Empty promises, all of them. This time, though, it felt a little different.

"Please," Homelander sobbed, looking more like a sniveling baby the more he begged. "What do you want? You want money?"

"Oh, darling," Billy purred, the electricity of this moment pumping through his veins, "I'm hurt. You know that's not it."

"I'll do anything—fuck, anything! I—" he hacked violently, starting to choke on his own blood and snot, "—I'll suck your dick!"

Again, a small huff of laughter. "You're a pathetic, little bastard," he said, teeth gleaming behind his twisted grin. "Wee bit of blood and you offer that mouth of yours?"

Again, Homelander let out a broken sob. He wanted so badly to wipe away the blood that poured from his mouth like tap water, coating his bruised chin, but God—hell, did he really believe in God now, of all times?—only knew what Butcher would do at the slightest movement.

"Don't do this to me, I'm begging you," he said through a retch, physically sickened by the near-certainty of his death. "William, please."

"Let's ask the folks at home, huh? Get ourselves a poll going?"

Yes, it was cruel. But so, so deserved. He spent years mourning the day Becca's life and innocence was stolen from him, and now he had the chance to get even. If he played his cards right, he could rightly get a good deal more out of the bargain too. 

"Ah, resounding yes," Butcher said, content as could be. If he weren't so into this little power play, he would see how horrified Hughie was from behind the doors, struggling to break through them. "But I think we need a little insurance here."

With one swift, sick crack to the face, a solid handful of Homelander's front teeth came loose. Bloodied little pearls flew from his mouth with an anguished scream. 

"Much better," Billy hummed, positively relishing in the groans of agony he was met with as he unbuckled his belt. "Won't feel so tempted to get nippy now, will ye?"

With one hand still holding his crowbar and the other gripping tightly on Homelander's hair, Butcher bucked his hips with a force strong enough to suffocate. There was no give in his pace, no shred of kindness that lessened the burn in Homelander's throat. It didn't even feel good, but that was far from the point. 

It was a message. A clear, direct message to not only Homelander, but to all of America—to all of the world: he was no God. No all-powerful being in the slightest. He was nothing but a pitiful, crying cunt and a lackluster cocksucker. Letting that be known felt better than any mediocre head could ever feel. 

Though, if he were being honest, the bloody mess of Homelander's mouth oiled his cock up pretty well, enough to fill the room with obscene sounds. Slick, wet gurgling and gagging, loud enough to pick up on camera, Butcher was sure. 

"I must say, you've never looked better than this," Billy said through deep sarcasm, biting his lip and giving his thick eyebrows a raise. "Couldn't'a been a pornstar instead? Need a little practice, but you get the job done, love."

If he had any dignity left, any at all, Homelander would have bitten down hard enough to rip Butcher's dick right in half. The only problems were that he had no such dignity and no such teeth. 

Instead, he relaxed his throat the best he could and silently whimpered to himself, letting his tears mix with dried blood down his cheeks. He kept his hands between his thighs, pitifully rubbing over his half-chubbed cock. What did it say about him that a small part of him was getting off on this? Before he could ponder that further, Butcher took notice.

"Oh, look at that," he cooed with a slow whistle, quickly pulling his dick out of Homelander's mouth. "Gettin' a stiffy, mate?" His amused tone shifted quickly, almost unnoticeably fast, into one of pure disgust and lividity. He rubbed the tip of his boot over the lump in Homelander's costume, tracing it with a furrowed brow. He swiftly stomped on it, crushing the once powerful Supe's cock against the cool, linoleum floor. 

"Get up."

"F—fuck, please," he said, slumping forward in agony. Going from never feeling pain to feeling the highest form possible, it rocked John to his core. He never imagined such suffering existed, let alone that he should ever feel it. "I can't," he said through sharp wails, clutching his beaten genitals. "I c—can't!"

Pulling him up by his overly dyed hair, Butcher slammed John's body against the wooden desk. He clawed through the costume, ripping the impenetrable fabric with wild strength. John's body was so soft underneath the padding, so human. 

Maybe it would have made another man think about his actions—consider how heinous it was to treat another person this way. Butcher was not that man. The exposed, pudgy flesh on Homelander's body begged to be marked and scarred. To be ravished.

That. 

That was the man Butcher was, sick as it made him.

"Is this how she felt?" Billy demanded, wrapping his hand around John's throat and forcing his head back to a sickening degree, nearly snapping it backward to look at him. 

He had gone, perhaps, a bit too far with this, but he would be damned if he stopped now. He was drunk on it—the sweet catharsis of revenge and justice. Was it really justice, though, if the vengeance neared outweighing the original crime?

When he forced John against the desk, he wasn't sure of his plan. He wanted to strike him, to cut him, or impale him, but none of that would be enough. Butcher's mind was made up the second he heard John's chants of "no" and "please" when his hand lingered over his ass in thought. 

He shoved himself into his clenched hole, stretching his tight ass with only drying blood and leftover spit coating his length to ease the entry. An eye for an eye, he told himself, pounding away into John's bleeding rim.

"Answer me," Billy repeated slowly, tightening his grip on John's neck. He gave a sharp strike against his Adam's apple.

"Just—" John hacked up a fat wad of blood and spat it out, watching as it dribble down the length of the desk, "—just fucking kill me, for the love of God." 

When pain becomes too much to bear, the brain will often shut down completely. John's neural pathways fought to stay active, but between the throbbing pain in his gums and the tearing of his asshole, he was struggling to keep his grip on reality. 

He wanted to faint, he could see the dark haze pleading to overtake his eyes, but he knew there would be hell to pay if he did. Maybe he would wake up limbless, forced to eat pieces of his pathetic body. Maybe Butcher would cut out his tongue and make him swallow it. It was all very agonizing to think about, yes, so death couldn't come soon enough. 

He wished he had lived a better life just to save him from this anguish. If he was given a sign, any indication that this was to come, he would have let Billy crack his head open and kill him on the spot. There was no universe in which hell was any worse than this. 

If God, he thought, were real and as merciful as people say, He would have struck him with lightning now and killed him off. 

Too bad that the only omnipotent force in the room was Butcher, and he was not merciful in the slightest. 

"Is this how my Becca felt?" Billy asked, letting his eyes meet John's swollen, exhausted face. "Is this what you did to her? You raped her, took her body and made it a trophy on yer shelf?"

"Kill me, William," John said again, letting his face fall against the desktop. His nose was already leaking enough blood to drown a small country, what could another hit do? "If you have any decency, please. Fucking kill me."

Butcher hummed in thought, rubbing a soft circle between John's shoulder blades. 

"I think," he paused, leaning his full weight on John's back, "we're far past decency. You still owe me, you know."

God, please, please. Take him. Take John's soul in your hand and crush it, sprinkle it over the flames of hell and stoke the fire with his spine if you must, but take him. He thought he maybe remembered how to pray, some muscle memory from years ago. 

'Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell.'

"Matter'a fact, we're just getting started, love."

For being a man with such a notoriously filthy mouth, Butcher had it in him to be gentle in small ways. He was a gentleman when it mattered, you supposed. 

He kicked off his blood soaked boots outside of your door when he came to visit, refusing to track it through your lovely little apartment. He'd clear his plate and praise your cooking when you would make him dinner. Held doors for you, let his shoulder get drenched in the rain so you could be fully covered by the umbrella, and always walked on the edge of the sidewalk closest to the road.

Given that, you didn't mind too much how he played fast and loose with his words, cursing in ways that would make a sailor blush. At first, it startled you, but as you fell for him, it just became another part of him. That was just your Billy. It was funny, almost, how he could use more expletives in a sentence than normal words.

He liked the basics: "fuck you," "fuck that," "fuck this," "fucking hell," "for fuck's sake," of course. Sometimes he would sprinkle in a "shit," or more commonly, "shite" with his darling accent. His all time favorite word, though? Well, it had to be "cunt." 

Everyone was a cunt. Homelander? Super-cunt. Frenchie? Snail-eating, frog-cunt. Some guy crossing the street? Pedestrian cunt. 

Strangely enough, though, he never used that word to describe your actual cunt. No, he thought a word like that was too ugly for such a sweet thing. He had his alternatives for you.

"That's real pretty, love," Butcher cooed gently, blowing on your swollen clit. He had teased you for so long, your poor bud was aching for relief. "Poor girl, can't handle a mean old bastard's teasing much longer, can ye?"

He used his thick, calloused fingers to part your lips. He gave a sloppy lick over your warmth and groaned softly. 

"Too much," you mumbled, letting your smaller hands thread through his hair. "Careful."

"Oh, of course," he said in that delicious, sly voice, clearly intending to be the exact opposite of careful. "This precious cunny can only take so much, hm?"

He spat a fat wad directly onto your clit and licked it back up, using far too much pressure with his tongue. He huffed a short laugh at the way you tried to shut him out with your thighs. It was funny to him that you even thought to try. You knew well enough that a man like him didn't like to be interrupted while eating, especially not when dessert has just been served.

He easily pried them back open with a strength that just worked to make you even wetter. With one hand kept firmly on each of your thighs, he pressed back into your warmth. 

You felt him tongue you for a while, bringing you almost to the edge of release, before pulling back and spitting on your clit again. It was a vicious, hazing cycle that trapped you. The undertow of a lick here, the backflow of his tongue abandoning your clit and shoving its way into your hole.

You felt his head pause between your legs for a moment. You were confused at first, then mortified as you felt him take a deep huff between your legs.

"Billy!" you squeaked, trying to push his head away. "That's so gross, stop that!"

He snickered and let you push his head up slightly, looking up at you with blown pupils and spit and your essence running down his chin. "Don't be like that, love," he said, running the pads of two of his fingers tightly over your clit. "Your sweet little twat's my favorite scent."

"You're so gross," you said through a stifled moan, still embarrassed.

"Ye? Well, I guess that means I'm your gross, old man," he said with a hint of genuine happiness in his voice. 

It was rare for him to show so much emotion—he'd had his joy taken too many times to not be wary. But between your legs, and more importantly, in your presence, he really was happy. 

"Now, let's see about that arse of yours," he said, pushing your legs towards your chest.

Your life was complete and utter shit. You were poor before, yes, but you still had respect for yourself and a moral code that you tried to uphold. Now, you were nothing but a government prop at best and a walking fleshlight at worst.

You had always hated Supes. Sure, maybe as a kid you had a slight crush on Drummer Boy, but as far as you were concerned, it was just plain creepy that superhuman freaks were uplifted and idolized by greater society. It seemed, in your eyes, an atrocity against God. Blasphemy in the flesh, decorated in capes, stripes, and armor. Even now, you still held your beliefs: Supes were strange.

Especially your husband, The Deep, or Kevin, as you strictly referred to him as. 

Seeing his stupid, perfect face on magazine covers and those terrible commercials made you cringe. Everything about him disgusted you. His polished smile—veneers, by the way—his overly sharp jaw, and those evil, beady eyes meant to look "approachable." Vought had spent millions trying to rebrand him in the public's eye after a sexual scandal involving an aquatic animal of sorts. It took a lot of work to transform his image from beastiality craving pervert to lovable scamp, but thanks to you, they made it work. 

Who knew all he needed was a wife? A pregnant one, at that. You were the perfect fresh start, a redemption arc. God, the thought made you sick, but what were you to do? A poor, struggling woman in a big city with nothing but your good looks and a hunger for better to your name?

You weren't chosen specifically, really. You were needed and you were found, and that was the end of it. When Vought fat-cats handed Kevin a folder labeled "Relatable Family Image," he had the city searched for someone desperate but still fuckable.

Did you want to say yes? Obviously not. Life with Kevin was as close to hell as a living person could get, but now you had a lovely penthouse, filled with expensive furniture, jewelry, and enough money to physically burn without worry. 

You hated yourself for how quickly your desire for survival and comfort overpowered your dignity, but hey, a girl has to eat, doesn't she?

Every day with him, though, reminded of you why you so dearly hated Supes. They were arrogant, narcissistic, self-absorbed, impatient, overgrown toddlers with super strength. They were far from Gods. Just demons wearing designer cologne and despite how much you hated your husband, you knew he was far from the worst of them. 

Your were beyond irritated at this point. Kevin had left his phone at home, again. You noticed it as soon as you walked into the kitchen, his homescreen was impossible to miss. Some selfie he took at the beach, trying to look sexy. What a narcissist. 

Normally, it would be fine. He was quite busy at work anyways, usually never having time to be on it. Today, though, he had called you about twenty times from some poor intern's phone, each voicemail growing concerningly more impatient and angry. Something about important classified information and "secret Seven business." The fact that he thought you gave enough of a fuck to want and explanation nearly made you snort. 

Either way, you found yourself eight months pregnant, exhausted, and sitting in the back of a Vought-issued SUV, glaring out the tinted windows in jealousy of the simple passers-by. Not to mention your poor swollen feet! You promised yourself that once you had this baby, you would set the whole city on fire in honor of pregnant women everywhere.

Once you arrived at the Vought Tower, you were faced with twenty excruciating minutes of  questioning by security personnel that looked at you like a convicted terrorist. 

"Identification."

You slid your I.D. over, wincing at the last name that stared back at you from the shiny little card. Moskowitz. Mrs. Moskowitz. Honestly, you wished one of the guards would have just shot you where you stood. It would have been better than being Mrs. "The Deep." 

"Purpose of visit?"

You sighed and held up the cellphone. "Just bringing my husband his phone."

The guard looked at another, then nodded. They ran you through a few metal detectors and screenings before escorting you to a large elevator. You rode your way up to the ninety-ninth floor, feeling like you had just escaped some type of work camp. 

There security was nearly suffocating. There went your dream of someone coming to assassinate your dumbass husband. They'd never make it past the lobby, damn it.

You knocked on the thick, tall door hesitantly, almost afraid that the wood might swallow you whole if you got too close. "Kevin, honey," you called, tasting grime left behind by the disingenuous nickname, "are you in there? You had left your phone at home, so I brought it for you." 

The second the door opened, all conversation stopped right in its tracks. You tightened your grip on Kevin's forgotten phone. The room somehow felt colder than the rest of Vought Tower. Every member of The Seven looked mildly irritated to find a civilian standing in the doorway.

None more than your husband. Homelander was a close second, though. Eyes slightly twitching at the sound of the door creaking open. His fist clenched slightly, jaw growing tight, until his gaze shifted downwards towards your stomach. Interesting. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something—?"

Kevin's face twisted. "What are you doing in here?"

You swallowed back an eye-roll. You hated him, but you would never embarrass him at work. "You told me to bring it to you." You held the phone up. "Don't you need it?"

Kevin crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "I obviously meant leave it at the front desk. Seven meetings are strictly confidential."

Several members of The Seven looked away awkwardly. You weren't surprised; Kevin loved an audience, especially when Homelander was watching. Anything to impress him. 

"Just leave it, and go home. There's no room for a civilian here, alright?"

You knew him far too well, could read all of your precious Kevin's signs. He  wasn't talking to you, he was performing and trying to get a laugh. Trying to prove he wasn't whipped, to prove he was still one of the guys, one of The Seven, and not some married pansy whose entire image was being rehabilitated through forced family branding.

Heat rose to your cheeks, anger flooding your mind. Not a hint of gratitude, not a speck! If you did not have so much restraint, you would have snapped his phone in half and hurled it at him, but you were smarter than that. Just barely.

You opened your mouth to speak, but another voice cut you off.

"Enough," Homelander said. He hadn't raised his voice. He didn't need to. The energy of the room obeyed him, which was helpful, but Jesus, it was off putting. 

"Homelander, I—"

"I know what you're doing. Enough." He leaned back in his chair, expression shifting slightly. He looked at you again. You wished it was a look of anger or disgust, but it was worse. It was intrigue. 

It made your skin crawl.

"You know," he said, looking back at your husband, "most men would be grateful."

Kevin blinked, absolutely dumbfounded. "What?"

"A gorgeous, pregnant wife kind enough to drive across the city to hand deliver something you stupidly forgot."

The room remained deathly silent. 

"And you're yelling at her in front of everyone, right?" Homelander tilted his head. "Right?" he asked again, sharper.

"Yes, Homelander."

"Stand up." The order rang out like a gunshot, clear and precise. 

"What?"

"Stand."

When Homelander's expression did not falter, Kevin slowly rose from his chair. 

Homelander extended his hand forward and gestured him out of the way. "Give her your chair."

You thought for a second Kevin might have argued—he wouldn't piss on fire to put you out, after all—but then you remembered who he would be arguing with, and it didn't seem so possible anymore.

With a clenched jaw, he moved to the side. Homelander wordlessly urged you to sit, and though your body screamed for you not to, you did. 

The meeting had technically resumed, but nobody was paying attention anymore, not after Homelander's interruption.

You sat awkwardly at the conference table, clutching Kevin's phone in your lap and wishing a meteor would strike you down. 

The discussion continued around you, something about quarterly projections or crime statistics.

You weren't really listening, mostly because you were painfully aware of Homelander's attention drifting back toward you every few minutes. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to be noticed.

You adjusted slightly in the chair and Homelander immediately spoke, interrupting A-Train. 

"Comfortable?"

Every head turned towards you, again, and you suddenly wanted to die.

"Uhm, yes. Of course."

His brow furrowed. "You don't sound sure."

"I'm fine."

"Hm." Homelander leaned back, still unconvinced. His eyes dropped toward your feet. "Have you been standing all day? The security checkpoint, elevators, walking across the building."

"Well, yes. I suppose so."

His expression became one of mild disapproval. "You poor thing." You would have taken his tone for mockery if he weren't staring directly at your tits while he said it. Then, he looked toward Kevin.

"Your wife should be relaxing."

Kevin immediately straightened. "Right."

"And yet she's sitting here in heels."

Honestly, you'd forgotten you were wearing them, but they certainly weren't the most comfortable shoe ever. 

Kevin opened his mouth and closed it again.

Homelander smiled and looked at you. "Take them off." He gestured casually. "You'll be more relaxed. You must be exhausted," he said, something about his tone making you nauseous. "You should get more comfortable, especially after such a long drive."

"I'm okay, I promise," you said, trying and failing to sound reassuring. 

"Nonsense." His smile widened, but never touched his eyes. A vacant, painted look that drilled into you. "A woman who's expecting deserves to be pampered. Take your shoes off."

Everything he said sounded less like a suggestion and more like a direct order, so, reluctantly, you slipped your shoes off beneath the table.

The meeting continued for approximately thirty seconds before Homelander spoke again.

"Deep." He spat. "Why are you still standing there?"

Kevin frowned softly. "What do you mean?"

"Your wife's feet hurt."

The realization slowly dawned across Deep's face. Seeing Homelander's face start to sour, he immediately crouched beside your chair.

You almost felt bad for him. Keyword: almost.

Now, Kevin had never once hit you, but after that display, he was uncomfortably close. Once the meeting had adjourned, he gripped um your wrist tight enough to bruise and dragged you out into the hallway, ignoring stares from the others who walked by. You barely had time to slip your shoes back on before he grabbed you.

"What the hell was that?" he barked, holding your wrist against the wall.

"What was what?"

"Don't play stupid," he said, voice growing sharper. A few interns scrambled away after seeing the scene, suddenly deciding they were needed elsewhere. "You made me look pathetic in there. Do you know how humiliated I am? Rubbing your fucking feet in front of everyone?"

With a scoff, you ripped your hand out of his grasp. "Me? I didn't do anything wrong, Kevin." You pointed your finger at him, tip-toeing your way into his face. "I do everything you ask of me, and you decide to treat me like shit in front of your little band of costumed creeps? Don't blame me because your boss is unstable, at best."

"I can't stand you, you—" before he could fix his mouth to finish, a blue of red and blue flashed from your peripherals.

One moment, your husband was bitching at you, the next, he was slumped on the ground with a busted lip.

You gasped softly and your hands flew to your stomach instinctively, terrified for your unborn baby.

"You never stop whining, do you?" Homelander stood next to you, looking down at Kevin with a disgusted sneer.

As Kevin struggled to push himself up, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, Homelander pressed the heel of his boot against his side, sending waves of paint through Kevin's gills.

Just moments ago, your husband was screaming at you, and now his eyes were lowered to the floor and his jaw was clenched in pain.

"Go clean yourself up, cocksucker." Homelander waved him away, curling his lip. "Get out of my sight."

Kevin didn't argue or complain, he didn't even look at you. He staggered to his feet and limped away as quickly as his injuries allowed, and within seconds he was gone, leaving you alone with Homelander.

The realization settled heavily in your chest and suddenly the hallway felt far too empty for comfort.

The sound of your own heartbeat pounding filled your ears when Homelander's attention shifted from the retreating Deep back to you, or rather, back to your stomach.

You slowly tightened your arms around it, clearly uncomfortable with how he stared at you. Your movement caught his attention immediately.

It was strange for him to see first hand. He knew that mother's were meant to protect their children with their lives, to fight for them and love them with all their might, but it was foreign to him. Exotic, like a tropical fruit in a desert. He wanted a piece of that himself, a sliver of protection and love from the most divine creature there was: a mother. He got everything he wanted, and easily, except for one of those.

Maybe he just had to take it for himself. Patience, of course, was a virtue. He had nothing but time.

"Everything alright?" he asked in that overly saccharine, too-good-to-be-true voice. It was fake and sappy, dripping over you and coating your nerves in discomfort like honey.

"Fine."

"Are you sure? Things seemed a little tense before I showed up."

You swallowed thickly and gave an equally fake smile. "Certain."

His gaze started to linger and he stepped forward, confidently. He was a couple of feet away. Close enough to make you sweat, but not enough to be fully afraid. Not yet, at least.

"How far along are you?"

The question sort of caught you off guard. It was the kind of thing old women in the grocery store asked you, not the world's "greatest" superhero. Especially not with his eyes trained on your tits.

"Seven months."

"Hm." He nodded slowly, letting his tongue dart out to wet his lips. "Boy or girl?"

"We don't know yet. We wanted it to be a surprise."

A strange smile appeared, thinly veiling slight annoyance. He hated how you said "we," how you even associated yourself with a pathetic worm like The Deep. So what if he was your husband, he wasn't here. He wasn't important.

"That's nice," he said, the words sounding rehearsed, as if he was trying to imitate what a normal person would say. "When are you due?"

You answered this and a few more of his seemingly regular questions, but each time you were met with the same thing. That same thoughtful hum. The same unbroken stare.

You were becoming increasingly aware and disturbed by it all. He hardly ever blinked, and when he did, his eyes flashed. His chest was unmoving, and you could not hear a single breath escape him. It was terrifying.

You shifted uncomfortably, but his eyes followed your every movement. Something about the way he was looking at you just felt plain wrong, dangerous and invasive.

You folded your arms across your chest to try and soothe yourself, and you felt it. A wet warmth beading through your top. A dark stain had begun to spread through the fabric of your shirt. Pregnancy had gifted you with countless humiliations and apparently it had decided to add another to the tally.

Your eyes widened. "For fuck's sake!" You crossed your arms tighter over your shirt, feeling your face flush in embarrassment. "Please excuse me, I need to go."

You had barely taken a step backwards when an eerily strong hand wrapped around your waist.

His gaze dropped briefly to where your arms were folded across your chest before returning to your face. "Stay." The word was gentle and soft, which made it all exponentially worse.

Despite how much you abhorred Kevin, with his stupidly handsome face and immature, self-righteous, narcissistic bullshit, you wished he hadn't left.

Standing alone with Homelander felt infinitely worse than tolerating your douchebag husband.

"If they didn't taste so good, I'd wanna stick my dick between these beauties," Homelander said between brief pauses, suckling away at your tender breasts. "Can't waste a drop."

You didn't want this, at all. The slight ache from his overly eager mouth was nothing compared to the hot embarrassment that came with him violating you right in the hallway. Luckily, nobody had yet walked by, but dozens of offices and break rooms sat on this floor. 

It was only a matter of time before some intern or security guard spotted you and looked away, unwilling to help you despite you sobbing. The idea made you sick, but you couldn't blame them. Who in their right mind would challenge this psycho?

This strangely attractive, forceful psycho?

You mentally told yourself that if you weren't pregnant, if you did not have so much to lose, that you would have tried to fight back or push him off. You knew that was a lie, though. He was far stronger than any man you had ever encountered, there was no universe in which you would be able to escape from under him.

He wasn't Kevin. When he tried to take you, you were almost always able to fight him off: he had his weak spots. You could shove your fingers down his gills and whatnot, but Homelander? Impenetrable. 

So, you accepted your fate and watched helplessly as he groped your left tit and sucked sloppily on the right. 

You felt your body be pushed back against the wall. Not the harsh shove you were expecting, but a gentle movement, with hands softly guiding your hips back. Homelander shifted and got on his knees, looking up at you from the floor.

His face—God, you didn't know how to explain how it made you feel. He was chiseled like a marble statue, built to perfection by Vought. Behind those disgustingly perfect features, though, you could see the faintest outline of pain. For a brief second, when he looked up at you, your instincts screamed "protect him," which was ridiculous! Not only was he a perfectly capable grown man, he was the one actively hurting you, taking advantage of you, but somewhere in your brain, your weak, empathetic pregnancy hormones were churning about. 

He started to look less like a man and more like a defenseless child the longer those sad, blue eyes watered. Damn your motherly disposition! This whole pregnancy thing really ruined your self-preservation skills.

With deep hesitation, your hand glided down to cup his face. His skin was freezing, like he had never once felt another person's touch, but he leaned into the warmth of your palm. 

He mumbled something under his breath about you being a good mommy while he rubbed his face into your hand. You figured this scene would look insane to any outsider. The Homelander on his knees, crying, being petted by a topless pregnant woman in the middle of a hallway.

He pressed his forehead against your bump, leaning into it as he did your hand. He let one palm raise up to grope your tit, and rolled the milk droplets between his fingers. 

A voice echoed down the corridor, followed by sluggish, slow steps and pained groans.

"Homelander?" The Deep moaned from down the hall, still bleeding profusely. "Are you still there?"

Homelander looked up at you, still bleary eyed and tugged your shirt, like a little kid. You sighed and wiped his face with your blouse, wiping off all his spit and tear streaks. He rose to his full height, but not before stealing another mouthful of your milk. Greedily, he lapped your breast before gesturing for you to fix your shirt.

Kevin practically crawled down the rest of the hallway, a look of pure pain and confusion on his face when he saw how close you two were standing. Homelander walked over to him and gave him a playful punch on the shoulder, which, of course, was much harder than it needed to be. 

"You're a lucky man, Deep," he said coyly, smirking down at him. He hadn't even bothered to wipe the last of your milk that dribbled down his chin. 

And just like that, he whistled away, parlaying down the hallway like he owned the place. 

Ben was strict, but he was a good man to you. He had his rules, you were a good girl so you followed them. Very rarely did you get yourself in trouble with him, there was simply no reason for you to act out of turn. Being bratty and pushing boundaries never landed you anywhere fun, especially not on nights when daddy was exhausted from being the public's own Soldier Boy. 

No, what Ben wanted to come home to on his hardest days was an obedient, respectful, dutiful little doll. So when he had gotten into it with some random jerk-off from The Seven, he was grateful to see you all ready sitting in front of the couch, waiting. Hair pulled back, plush tits on display, cunt wet and grinding against the carpet, throat ready for him. 

"Mm, you been waiting for this, or what?" Ben asked you rhetorically, watching as his dick disappeared down your throat. 

When he got him, he barely had time to kick his boots off before you were clawing at his thighs like a bitch in heat. You were needy, but still his sweet girl. When you looked up at him with those sad, round eyes, how could he deny you a fat cock in your mouth? You asked for so little, but he gave you so much. 

"Looks like y'gonna take the whole thing this time." One of his calloused, big hands gripped the back of your head, not so gently guiding you down the rest of his length until your nose brushed against his pubes. He huffed a short laugh when you pulled away and choked on your own spit. "Come on, don't stop now."

You rested your head on his thigh for a second, catching your breath. "Yes, daddy. Jus' need a second. Can make you feel good still, promise." 

Your hand wrapped around his cock and gave tender strokes. Pairing your hand with a few kitten licks along the bottom of his cock, you felt him kick in your palm. Probably pretty close you figured, but you weren't quite done yet.

He mostly let you do whatever you wanted to him. Ride him, sit on his face, deepthroat his cock, kiss, bite, and paw at him, but there was one place on daddy that you hadn't yet explored. 

You weren't sure how he would feel, as you had never asked about it, but you were pretty sure his ass was off limits. It just did not seem like his thing, a macho, overly-masculine man like him probably hated stuff like that, but you could try if he was all ready close to finishing! He would be far too immersed to intervene, you thought.

When Ben's legs started to tremor slightly, you took you chance. Quickly, you slid one shoulder under his leg, shifting his body just enough to give you access to his hole. 

"F—fuck are you doin'?"

You continued to pump his cock, but let your tongue dip further. You eased into it, giving his taint a few testing kisses and licks, but that was far from enough! You knew it wasn't allowed, but you had watched a few pornos online of stuff like this, and the way it made you feel was unreal. You needed to try it yourself.

You needed your tongue in daddy's ass.

God, you were sloppy. 

One taste and you were hooked. You could have sworn you audibly whined the moment your tongue ran over the rim of his hole, but that also could have been him moaning himself. He tasted so good, and he sounded so fucking sexy. 

You had never been praised like this before, and considering the anger you expected from him, it was a welcomed surprise. 

"Oh God, doll. You got a mouth on you, you know that?" Ben stilled his hips, trying to keep himself planted, but your tongue chipped away at his dignity. You tried to slip your tongue in, but he pushed you back by your forehead. "Stop, that's enough."

He came in two uneven, milky spurts, coating his stomach. With a pant, he pulled his leg off of your shoulder.

"Did that feel good for you?" you asked sweetly, still buzzing.