Her name is Avalanche. She’s a newer supe on the scene, a possible hopeful for the Seven, and Vought’s shiny new toy to parade in front of the masses.  You can tell by the way this premiere is going that Vought has big plans for her. Your stomach sours at the way Ashley seems to push her towards Homelander at every opportunity. The paparazzi keep begging them for pictures together and acid begins to rise in your throat when Homelander wraps his arm around her waist to pull her closer. (You can’t bear to think of him as John right now. Your John wouldn’t do this…would he?)

You know it’s PR bullshit. It’s Vought manufacturing a possible romance that they can cash in on later if the reaction is positive. You aren’t public with Homelander, something you insisted on because you didn’t want Vought’s fingers digging into this beautiful, fragile, precious thing that you’d found. You feel like a fucking idiot now. Of course, it’s not like Vought would care even if they knew.  Whichever relationship made them the most money is the relationship they wanted him to have. Some part of you wonders which he’d choose if he had the option. Would he choose a weak human like you? Or would he choose the supe who looks like you? Why wouldn’t he choose the supe who could keep up with him, who he wouldn’t have to hold back with, who was strong and powerful?

Avalanche raises her hands and the crowd loses their fucking minds when snow begins to gently fall from the sky. The flakes catch in Homelander’s hair and they look so disgustingly romantic in this false winter wonderland. You aren’t a jealous person. You take his fame in stride and when fangirls swarm him for selfies and bat their eyelashes, you just shrug. Sometimes you play up the illusion of jealousy because Homelander enjoys feeling wanted but you know that they aren’t true competition. 

This is different. This feeling burns raw in your chest and your throat stings from the thick black smoke of your misery. They look so picture perfect and the gathered crowd seems to agree. He leans in to kiss her cheek and you can’t take it anymore. Unshed tears sting at the corners of your eyes and you tuck your tail between your legs and run. You don’t want him to smell the salt from your tears. You don’t think you can bear his exasperation when he has to abandon his adoring public to coddle his weak human girlfriend. You push your way through the throng of people until you escape the light and noise. You find a dark alley that is blessedly silent. You pray you are far enough away that you can release the valve of your emotion and scream at the wall without him picking up on the sound over the roar of the crowd.

You don’t blame him honestly. You are upset, there’s no denying that, but you know he can’t help himself when he’s in the spotlight. He loathes it as much as he adores it. He needs it as much as it rips him apart. He’ll play whatever part Vought wants him to play before coming home to you and melting into the soft reality of your touch. It’s never been easy with him but you’ve also never felt so completely and utterly needed. So despite the ache in your soul, you’ll go back to that stupid premiere once your tears are dry.

You let out a few weak sniffles as you attempt to compose yourself. You wipe off your wet cheeks with your thumb. You don’t notice the dark figure that makes its way towards you from the other end of the alley. You aren’t a supe with heightened senses after all. Isn’t that the crux of the problem?

Pain flares throughout your body when you are shoved against the wall, your head knocking sharply against the brick. You try to scream, desperately hoping now that Homelander can hear your cries. A hand clad in black leather clamps itself over your mouth before any noise can escape. You struggle but you aren’t strong enough to pull away. You loathe it. How weak you are. She wouldn’t need anyone to save her. You don’t need super senses to smell the stink of fear coming off your body. The thief’s other hand fumbles with your clothes, searching for any hidden valuables until suddenly there’s a flash of heat and the scent of burnt flesh. In that moment you know you are safe, and you resent the fact that you needed saving as much as you are desperately grateful.

You look at the smoldering corpse behind you and you can’t help but shudder at the carnage. You can already tell that Homelander is furious. He’s angry at the man most of all but also at you for wandering off. This wouldn’t have happened if you had just stayed where he could keep an eye on you. Now, he’s going to have to endure Ashley’s inane chatter about his sudden departure as though she had any control over what he decided to do. You’re still shaking from the encounter and you can already feel your eyes welling up as he points a finger at you as though you are a disobedient child. It’s always a toss up as to whether tears will disarm him. He dislikes crying caused unintentionally, he prefers you soft and happy. However, when he feels that you deserve it, you could weep till you were sick and he would remain unmoved until he felt you had been properly chastised. Then he would sweep in to comfort you and expect you to immediately melt into him. 

You fully expect for this to be one of the latter instances. You expect a lecture, a snide “What did you expect?” Instead he seems to deflate for a second. His stare intensifies and you know he’s scanning for any damage that lowlife may have done to you. While he considers emotional pain to be necessary sometimes to keep you in line, he despises seeing any physical harm done to your body. As much as he delights in the fragility of humans when compared to him, he’s all too aware of how easily that fact could take you away from him. You needed him to protect you. 

“I’m taking you home, darling” His tongue curls around the pet name and it sounds like a threat. You flinch. You haven’t gotten over the sting of jealousy and you can’t help but mentally compare yourself to her once more. Your head throbs but the pain is minuscule compared to the tightness in your chest. You nod and let him gather you firmly against his chest before shooting off into the sky.

Once he’s deposited you at his penthouse and he’s convinced that you are out of harm's way, some of the tension leaves his shoulders. He grabs your chin in his hand firmly and gives a little shake.

“Stay!” He orders, as though you are a dog. He intends to go back to his premiere and the thought of him returning to her makes you see red. You poke his chest sharply with your finger.

“Are you going to run back to your girlfriend?” You hiss, finally releasing some of that pent up emotion that’s been brewing the moment you saw him with her. Homelander stills and his face flits through a variety of microexpressions before it lands on a grin so smug that you want to slap it off his face. 

“Someone’s jealous” He purrs. He hasn’t let go of your chin despite you trying to wiggle away.  He’s looking at you fondly. You can’t help but feel flustered. He thinks it’s funny. His anger and worry evaporated in the wake of his ego swelling to dangerous levels. You’re surprised he doesn’t pop like a balloon. The indestructible Homelander is finally brought down by his own self-satisfaction.  You huff angrily.

“I’m not. Why would I care that your hand was practically on her ass the whole night?” You reply. It may be a bit of an exaggeration, as far as you could tell he had kept his hands to relatively appropriate areas. That isn’t the point though. You had to stand and watch as hundreds of cameras captured Homelander’s lips on her cheek. It was going to be all over the news tomorrow and Homelander thought it was a fucking joke. He thought you were a joke.

“It wasn’t but that’s certainly a suggestion. After all, it’s not like I have anyone better to share the spotlight with. I might as well give the crowd a show.” He bares a bit too much fang with his smile and you know that comment was a punishment for your insistence on secrecy. Homelander didn’t like the implication that you didn’t want to be his and he let you know at every opportunity. 

“Go fuck her if you want her so bad. I’ll just pack my bags and leave you to it” You snarl. Homelander’s grip tightens, his fingers digging in right on the edge of painful. He finds your jealousy cute but the mere suggestion of you leaving has him seething. His eyes glow like hot coals. He’d never use his heat vision on you but he’s not above showing off to make a point.

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, missy.” He all but hisses out. “I’ll fuck whoever I want to fuck and you’re going to stay right here.”

He doesn’t actually mean it. He’s being cruel to hide how vulnerable he feels at the thought of losing you. The only way he knows how to process pain is to transfer to someone else. You’ve grown used to this. You’ve adapted. That doesn’t mean the barb didn’t have the intended effect. It doesn’t mean that it didn’t feel like he dug his fingers right into the center of your pain and squeezed with all of his superhuman strength.

You hadn’t wanted this to turn into a fight. You hadn’t wanted him to find out. If she hadn’t looked so much like you, if she wasn’t a fucking supe, then you could have played along fine. You’d have enjoyed the premiere, stroked Homelander’s ego till he was hard as a rock, and let him fuck you to sleep. It would have been fun. Now, he’s pissed at you and will likely remain pissed at you for who knows how long. You’re going to go to bed alone knowing there’s a possibility that he’ll take the easy choice, that he really will fuck Avalanche just to prove a point. Maybe he’ll fuck her just for the fun of it, because he can, and not even think of you at all. 

You’re scared. You can’t lose him. You just can’t. 

“Listen…not with her. I’m begging” You reply softly. Homelander scoffs, annoyed by your fixation. His eyes fade back to blue but his anger hasn’t lessened. His jaw is still clenched so tight that any normal man would have cracked his teeth from the strain. The jealousy was supposed to be an ego stroke, he didn’t expect it to turn into such a performance. 

“Why do you even care about her? It’s never bothered you before. It’s just bullshit made up for the cameras.” He finally releases you, only to pace around the room like a caged lion. 

“She’s a supe.” You admit shyly. You don’t want to let him know about your insecurities. You don’t want him picking at you, using it as ammunition when he’s angry. But you don’t want to fight anymore. So you open yourself up and admit what’s been tearing you apart.

“So?” Homelander’s bewilderment is apparent. He turns to you, hands on his hips, about ten seconds away from hauling you over his knee and spanking the fight out of you. Then you could fuck after and he’d return to the premiere late, basking in the attention when he apologizes for leaving to stop a robber from assaulting a young woman. He’d be the hero, you’d stop being mad at him, and life could continue on as planned. None of this cryptic bullshit and pointless threats. 

“I’m not” 

“I’m aware” His voice is so thin with annoyance that if it was an actual thread then it would have snapped long ago. He knows what you are. He’s faced with it every damn day. He has to see you mill around with those mewling vermin, as though they were your equals. Homelander considers you in the same category as other humans the way that a swan is technically in the same category as a vulture. So yes, he is aware, but you aren’t like them. So in his mind the point was moot. You were you.  

“What if you decide that you want someone like her who can keep up with you?” You whisper, as though voicing it would make it true. Homelander double takes and the laughter that bursts from his chest is both incredulous and relieved. That’s what you were worried about? He’d be concerned about your intelligence if he didn’t love you so much. 

“Sweetheart, you think I’m on the same level as Frosty the fucking Snowwoman? Her power is useless. Is she going to take down criminals by giving them frostbite? Her nemesis is a sturdy jacket. You might as well be worried that I’m going to fuck The Deep. I mean…it’s cute how flustered you got but seriously?” You listen to his rant and the throbbing ache in your chest finally starts to loosen. He’s telling the truth. The scorn in his voice is unmistakable. He’s being an asshole about it. You’re positive Avalanche doesn’t deserve his vitriol, but you’re still chained by jealousy so every mean-spirited comment serves to sooth you.

“I…I just thought. We look alike” You murmur sheepishly. Homelander laughs again, cupping your cheek and looking down at you indulgently. Humans really could be so pathetic sometimes but with you he finds it endearing. He leans in to nuzzle your nose with his and your cheeks heat with a mixture of fondness and embarrassment. 

“Why would I fuck her because she looks like you when I could just fuck you?” It really seems like the most obvious thing in the world when he states it like that. You let him kiss you, soft and sweet, his words swirling through your head like the very snowflakes that had drifted miraculously from the sky.

Homelander loves you the most when you’re like this. You’re leaning into his touch like it’s the only thing you want in this world. His anger dissolves along with yours. It’s not really your fault. You are a human after all. Sometimes he has to be indulgent with you. Who wouldn’t want to be possessive over him? 

“You’re so cute. I mean…you got a little too mouthy for my taste but I’m honestly flattered.”  He sweeps you off your feet, cradling you against him for the second time tonight. Fuck the premiere, Ashley will spin it in his favor or he’ll have her head. He’d rather soak in your affection than deal with the simpering journalists and flashing bulbs that hurt his sensitive eyes. He craves attention from the masses but oh how he despises the hoops he has to jump through when they should be worshiping him like a God without all this pageantry. You don’t need any of that. He just has to exist and you melt into his arms. 

He gently lays you down on his bed and surprises you when he begins to shed his suit. You’d assumed that once you’d been mollified that he would leave, instead he crawls right in after you. You think it’s cute that he prefers to cuddle you skin to skin. It usually ends with him inside you so honestly it’s a win all around. He manhandles you effortlessly until you are cradled against his chest with your legs entwined. You can hear his heartbeat like this and you wish you could hear it all the time, the way he can hear yours. You’re still dressed so Homelander slips his hand under your shirt to caress the warm skin of your back. 

“She really doesn’t look like you at all” He mumbles into your hair, his fingers tracing random patterns against your skin, huffing happily when he can feel goosebumps rising in the wake of his touch. 

“You don’t think so?” You’re not sure if he’s lying for your benefit or if he truly doesn’t see a resemblance. You don’t even care anymore. He’s here with you. He stayed with you. That’s all that matters. You are safe and wanted. 

“Nope…you have nicer tits” He teases slyly, causing you to give him a sharp slap to the arm. He gives you a swat on the ass as a reply and he relishes in the way you squeal. 

“Y’know.” Homelander says casually, “This would have never been an issue if you let me show you off as mine.” 

“I know but Vought…” You try to argue. Homelander doesn’t seem to understand that Vought pulls his strings more than he realizes. He lets Vought pull his strings more than he realizes despite his insistence on control. You’d never tell him this of course, not unless you wanted to deal with his sour mood for days. It does make you wary however. Everything Homelander has ever had has been commodified and turned into a product that Vought could sell. You don’t want to turn into that for him.

“Fuck Vought, I don’t care what they think.” He scoffs. He’d terrorize Ashley if she even breathed in a way that suggested dating you publicly would be a bad idea. If Stan Edgar protested…Homelander would finally show him the true extent of his power

“It’s just…it’s obvious that they are banking on the two of you as a couple. She’s practically a shoe-in for the Seven and if they know about…” You ramble, but before you can finish talking you feel his firm grip on your chin once more. He forces you to meet his gaze which is so brimming with resolve that you know it is pointless to argue. 

“I decide who goes in the Seven.” He insists, frustrated that you would think differently for even a second. He forgives the slip-up but it still takes a moment for him to sheath his claws. He releases you and guides you back down to snuggle against his chest. “If you don’t want her there then she won’t be.”

“I don’t want her there.” You whisper, so quietly  that any average person would not have realized you had spoken at all. It’s a selfish request. Avalanche shouldn’t be punished because of your insecurities. She likely doesn’t even know you exist and you sincerely doubt she’s some sort of boyfriend stealer from your nightmares. Still…you’d feel better if she wasn’t there.  

“Look at me.” He teases as you bury your face in the pillows. You shiver as a warm hand traces down your naked spine. You want to melt into the mattress and through the floor because…seriously? You’re finally living your every fantasy and then your body goes and does that? You’re surprised he hasn’t kicked you out the door in disgust.

“You’re overreacting” He tries to soothe you but you’re too humiliated to respond to his coaxing. You weren’t thinking because he was hitting a spot that was so good you could barely breathe and the moment you lost control…

“Do you seriously think that’s the weirdest thing I’ve encountered during sex? I fucked a supe once who…” You turn around and glare at him. You know he wasn’t celibate before you but you think it’s in poor taste to bring up other partners when you are currently in the throes of misery. You’re pretty sure there’s a difference between strange supe sex and queefing the first time you sleep with him. He probably thinks you’re disgusting. You turn to bury your face back into the pillows.

“Fine, I guess I’m going to do this the hard way.” He grumbles. He firmly grasps your hips before flipping you over with all the ease of someone turning their pillow. Forced out of your hiding place, you try to cover your burning face with your hands before he tuts and holds them down. His eyes are fondly amused despite his cock still hard and dripping between his thighs. That alone should have been a sign that he is way less scandalized then you about the whole thing and is just itching for you to calm down so he can resume fucking you stupid.

“Ugh just laser me through right now. End me.” You groan and you don’t notice the sudden nervous stiffness in his shoulders, like some dirty secret of his had just been found out. His expression twists painfully for a second before his features smooth out like nothing happened. He keeps one hand locked around your wrists while the other tilts your chin and forces you to look at him directly. His grip is just firm enough to bruise.

“You are blowing this out of proportion. You sounded like you were getting fucked which is what I’d like to continue to do to you.” He replies sternly, trying his best to be patient despite the way his balls ache. He didn’t even notice it happened cause the way your cunt wrapped around his cock felt too good to pay attention to anything else. You’re laying underneath him, naked, flushed from sex and embarrassment and you think he’s worried about that when he could be doing all kinds of naughty things to you.

One thing about being a virgin before you met Homelander is that you still clutch your pearls whenever he’s so forward with you. Your cunt throbs at his filthy mouth and the way he’s staring has goosebumps forming all over your body. He chuckles at your scandalized expression before trailing soft teasing kisses down your neck. Your arousal is beginning to overtake the nerves and when his cock brushes your cunt as he adjusts his position you squirm.

“Now, you can keep hiding if you want,” he nuzzles against your collarbone and his lips brush your skin as he speaks, “or I can make you come till you pass out. It’s your choice.”

His hand travels down to teasingly stroke right above your clit, too high for any real stimulation but low enough that you can barely feel the brush of his thumb against your cunt. It’s unfair the way he teases. He nips at your pulse and you jolt, his slick thumb grazing over your swollen clit.

“The second one,” You gasp, too desperate now to care about denying yourself. He tuts at you.

“And what is option two? Remind me.” He practically purrs. He moves his hand away only to slide his cock over your dripping folds. Your brain stutters for a sec before refocusing on his request. Normally you’d be too flustered to reply but right now you just want him to touch you again.

“I want you to make me come till I pass out,” You manage to gasp as the head of his cock blissfully slides in. Your toes curl at the stretch and all of your previous misgivings are completely forgotten.

“Attagirl” He croons.

Those days you woke up rested, still in each other’s arms with his lips ghosting across your neck, placing a couple soft kisses in between a raspy ‘good morning’. Those were the good nights.

In your time together you’ve also discovered the bad nights.

You wake up to Homelander screaming, crying or thrashing around often enough that you’ve learned to manage it. 

One way or another.

Some nights it requires soft cooing words as you hold him close, rocking him from side to side, taking on the role of a mother soothing a crying child. Another night you hum anything that comes to mind—soft songs and rhythms that put Homelander to sleep faster than you’d expect. 

Some nights neither of you manages to fall asleep again so you sit in the dark of the room, talking in hushed voices akin to naughty kids staying up all night during a sleepover—worried the adults might overhear. While nobody is here to hear the two of you, the fantasy of a lighter moment in time feels too exhilarating to abandon.

You talk about anything and everything those nights. You talk about silly things like favourite colours and why there’s more to life than red, white, and blue—no, gold doesn’t count either.  Have big debates on what are statistically most likely to be people’s favourite meals or drinks—you insist it’s not milk—or what would be the most nutritionally logical food if you could only eat that for the rest of your life. It’s the type of conversations you’ve had with friends instead of studying or working. You’d think they’d be too mundane to entertain and distract Homelander but he’s glowing, immersed in the experience of a low-stakes conversation that won’t matter by the morning. The memory of a peaceful time, however, will.

You make it your mission to give him the sleepover experience he’s never had in those evenings.

You talk about life experiences and events—you even share your most embarrassing moments just to get his mind off things and pretend to pout and get mad when he can’t hold back his laughter. It’s a rare thing these days—you enjoy it fully even if it comes at your expense. 

You introduce him to many games. You play ‘Would You Rather’ for at least an hour. It gets sillier and sillier by the hour.

“Would you rather have the Deep as your best friend or never get another blowjob?”

“Oh Christ, can we go back to when I was picking between a hug and a kiss?”

“Nope, you gotta answer. That’s the rule of the game.”

The 4 am giggles have fully set off by now and you find just about everything funny. The choked noise of disbelief at the question alone sends you into a wheezing fit. Homelander pulls you closer, and you can’t stop the way your laughter makes you shake against him.

“What if it’s a long-distance friendship? I kick him out of the Seven and send him back to Sandusky.”

He’s bargaining and all it does is send you down another spiral of tears-in-your-eyes laughter.

“Still gotta be a best friend though. You’d have to get on the phone with him ever so often.”

“Fuck—okay, define best friend.” 

“Somebody you go to with your deepest, darkest secrets. Somebody to hold you close when you’re upset.”

“Mhmmm, I have you for that.” He nuzzles into your neck, pressing a couple cute kisses into your skin. You’re so sensitive to laughter that the tickling sensation makes you burst into giggles. You make your escape but his iron grip doesn’t let you get far.

“You’d have to go to him too! What if we get into a fight? You gotta talk to your bestie Kevin about that.”

“Please, don’t ever say that—You know what—I mean—pfft—blowjobs are overrated anyway. Handjobs are still on the table, right? We’ll just have to get your hand really wet and then it’s no skin off my back.”

“Wow, okay, I’ll remember this.”

“Babe—”

The petulant tone just sends you into another fit of giggles—you swear your abs are gonna ache in the morning.

“Alright, your turn. Would you rather be skinned alive or burned alive?”

“What?! Those are horrible options. The fact that you’re even making me think about it is mean enough.”

“Exactly—now you know what I’m going through. Not that I’d let either happen. You know I’d save you, right?”

“Yeah, your water bestie could put out the fire.” 

“Alright, now you’ve done it.” 

The tickle fight that ensues makes you scream with laughter, begging for mercy like you’ve never had to before.

That ends the ‘Would you Rather?’ round and you move onto more unique games. You start enjoying Homelander’s powers for silly reasons. You’ve seen them in action, you’ve even seen him abuse them in bed but never have you just… had fun with them.

That night breaks another first for you both.

You’re both lying on your back staring up at the ceiling. Homelander’s using his penetrative vision to see through all the layers of the tower’s rooftop, pointing out the direction of stars he can see.

“How far can you even see?”

“Well, far, but they’re pretty fucking far away. Still just looks like a spec in the sky. Do you want to fly out with me? We can hover in the sky, watch the stars together.” It’s romantic and sweet but you’re more than content with just being next to him here. No great feats or displays of powers necessary—insane eyesight aside. Plus the bed is awfully comfortable and his body is oh so warm against you.

“No, I want to stay here. But let’s do that another night, I think that’s a really fun idea.” 

You tuck yourself closer to him, his arm automatically wraps around you, stroking up and down the side of your arm as he looks in other directions telling you all he can see through buildings and how many layers he manages to see through. You feel him puff his chest out anytime you let out a particularly amazed ‘wow’. 

When his discoveries lend to people getting ready in the early mornings or having sex is when you shut this activity down. But the laughter he’s freely sharing with you just might be worth invading other people’s privacy.

You spend these nights together until the dawn breaks. Both of you end up feeling more tired than usual in the middle of the day, but one knowing look is enough to put a fond smile on your face.

There are, however, some nights that are harder to recover from. His nightmares can leave him shaky and tense in the confusing state of in-between sleep and wakefulness and sometimes words are not enough to untangle the mess in his head.

He lashes out, screams, or pushes you away—seeing you for someone else.

He’s turned away from you. Too frazzled to even seek out your comfort. You know a part of him is worried that he’ll lose control of his lasers and blow two holes cleanly through your skin and bone—he’s said so before. You can’t say that hasn’t crossed your mind before, but he’s not hurt you yet—even accidentally. 

He’s not asleep, you can tell he’s still tense. He’s clutching the shared duvet so tight, it’s a straight line across your bodies. He nearly pinches it entirely off your side. Glancing into the mirror across from him doesn’t help you. While the moonlight illuminates the room, it’s not enough for your average eyes to discern anything more than vague silhouettes.

“Homelander,” you tap his shoulder gently with your fingertips, resisting the urge to pull back when he flinches. “It’s okay.” The rest of your fingers land on his hot, soft skin, slowly lowering your palm fully over his shoulder blade. You rub in slow circles over the tense muscle. He’s almost scorching hot, as if all that pent up frustration and inability to pulverize a target to release the pressure cooks him from the inside out.

“I’m fine—” His voice is hoarse yet one you could barely call menacing.

“Sh, sh, shhh…” You cut in, letting your tone extend into silence as your hand moves closer to his spine stroking your knuckles along the left side of it. “Just focus on me.”

If there’s one thing he’s even more affected by than the messy thoughts in his head it’s touch. Simple press of skin against skin that would mean nothing to anybody else. No matter how long you’ve been together, the novelty of every time you go out of your way to touch him has not worn off. Whether it’s holding his hand or seeking out a hug, he makes you feel like that’s the best part of his day.

You alternate between stroking with the back of your finger across his nape, just about meeting the short hairs and turning down to his back, palming over the expanse of his bare skin.

Anything to get his mind out of the dark spiral you drag your finger in the shape of letters across his back, spelling out a range of words and phrases ranging from ‘Homelander’ to ‘I love you’.

You smile to yourself once you see the tension of his shoulders release with a sigh. Your lips swap shifts with your fingers and you place little kisses across his neck and shoulders, enjoying the way he shudders and leans closer to you.

“Mhmm… closer.” He rumbles softly, his voice more a purr than the tension-strung rasp it was before.

You grin into the kiss you’re placing against his shoulder as you scoot over, your body now firmly pressed against his back. Homelander sighs in relief, the presence of you grounding. Your arm snakes in between his arm and his side as you let it limply curl around his midriff.

It’s not enough for Homelander. He grasps your hand in his own, pressing it firmly against his chest. He releases a heavy breath with the added pressure of your palm in between his pecs. Once he lets go, his own hand now hanging limp and loose with the fatigue of waning adrenaline rush, your hand kneads the pliable muscle and skin, nails making little lines in between the swirly chest hair.

Surprising even yourself, you let out a salacious little heavy breath when your hand goes in to cup his pec from the bottom giving it a squeeze. Without a thought you press your hips against his ass as if you could grind into him from this angle.

Getting a handful of his pec feels obscene enough to him too, except Homelander isn’t shy about the raspy moan he lets out. Feeling encouraged, your fingers give his nipple a squeeze before going back to kneading both of his pecs, one after the other, with a little thrust from your hips against his. Most of it isn’t even conscious, your body just reverts to what it knows best. Comforting one another through sex has always been a reliable remedy.

His body feels so good in your hands. Suddenly you wish he was lying underneath you so you could get two glorious handfuls of his tits, squeezing them and seeing the look on his face as you do. Even with the time passing the room is still too dark for you to make out his expression through the mirror’s reflection.

“You want me to take care of you?” The deep rasp of your voice should embarrass you but the need with which you run your hand across his body takes over.

His nod is followed by a nearly inaudible whimper.

His nerves are long gone but he’s not eager to twist this moment into your usual dynamic. The feel of a phantom hand that he cannot see is a thrilling change to your usual comforts.

Your hand slides down to his stomach, squeezing the side of him before tracing lines across his skin—teasing the line of his waistband.

“It’s okay John, I’ll make you feel so good.” You whisper his name into his ear like a dirty secret. Homelander groans and bucks his hips forward on autopilot—his body used to the naughty sensation of grinding against your silhouette in the middle of the night. This time he doesn’t meet the soft swell of your ass in front of him so he pivots, pushing back against you instead.

Your hand settles over the top of his soft cotton sleeping pants. Part of you is glad he’s worn them today, the feeling of them is divine when you brush up and down his thighs. While the feeling of his bare thighs against your palm is a nicer indulgence you enjoy the way he jumps when you squeeze, not expecting the faint sensation to turn so vivid within half a second.

He’s so jumpy like this. He has nothing to be afraid of nor surprised by. It’s not the first time you’ve touched him by a mile. Yet he’s acting like a virgin hitting third base.

He gasps out loud when your hand slides across his cock. He’s already hard. You wonder what was the first thing that made his cock jump in excitement in your comforting gestures today.

He’s usually more of an active participant in your bedtime activities but today he’s letting you lead. It’s a nice change. His cock is hard and hot through the fabric of his sleeping pants. He’s not wearing any underwear so you get to feel the glorious fullness and heft of his cock through the soft cotton, gift wrapped just for you.

You lose yourself in the feeling of your hand gliding over the thick outline of him up and down. The softness of the material against the pulsating hardness is a fun textural feast to experience. It’s mouth-watering. Homelander always needs, yearns so strongly his body takes over where his words don’t hold up.

“You’re doing so well, baby.” You continue whispering in his ear, kissing tiny little tickling kisses into his neck right under his ear. “Does this feel nice?” You ask, sweet as honey, as you cup his balls through his pants before returning to tapping your fingers across the head of his cock, feeling the wet little patch where he’s soaked through the material stick to your finger each time.

“Do you want more?” You tap your fingers across his considerable length.

“Uh-huh.” His response is clipped and breathy, choking on the way he’s been holding in his overwhelming reactions.

You both hiss in unison when your hand squeezes tight around his cock, feeling the pulse thud confidently against your grip. You rarely get to feel him tent a pair of loose-fitted pants like this. His suit is rigid and unforgiving—removing the fun of feeling his cock ache to be touched directly.

Even though you’re enjoying this soft play a little too much, making your own underwear damp the same way he’s making his pants at the highest point, you want your man to relax. He’s gone back to feeling tense and high-strung. Albeit for nicer reasons.

Your fingertips dance around the thin elastic band, finally slipping underneath and wrapping around his thick cock. The skin of his shaft is velvety soft and smooth, a treat for your hands when you feel the bump of his underside vein throb under your fingertips. You need better leverage to grip him properly and give him a good long stroke.

“Help me out?” You nudge at the fabric.

Instead of just pulling the waistband down enough to give you full access to his heavy cock, Homelander rips the fabric off, letting it separate at the seams and fall in tatters down on the bedroom floor next to his side of the bed.

You can’t deny that the effortlessness of it sends a thrill down your spine. You’ve long stopped him from ripping your clothes off anytime things get heated fast because you got frustrated with having to replace your wardrobe each month—seeing this makes you reconsider.

You let out an airy little laugh, “yep, that’ll do. Thank you.” You reward him with a little kiss on his neck. He preens and exposes more of his skin, letting you nuzzle into him fully. Daringly, you lick a line up the pretty slope and attempt to suck a hickey into the softest part of his neck. You fail—of course—but you’re persistent, surely one of these days it’s going to take.

You finally wrap your hand around his bare cock, forming a fist over the head. The poor man has been diligently leaking pre-cum, thoroughly wetting the head from where he rubbed it against the fabric.

You coat your hand in the substance, rubbing the smooth tip in a circle before you slide down, stroking just over the edge of his tip. It’s a sensitive part of him, you feel his thigh twitch against you involuntarily.

You spread his wetness down his shaft, impressively there’s enough of it for this to be a smooth comfortable slide of your hand. So attuned to each other’s bodies you both groan at the first full stroke of your fist down the entire length of his cock.

Your hand repeats the motion, stroking up and down in a soothing rhythm, neither too fast nor too slow. Just right. Even a simple rhythm is too much for poor Homelander who’s nearly trembling all over at the way your hand twists at the top. 

His cock makes a little wet squelchy noise when your fist runs over the head and closes at the top. It shouldn’t make you as wet as it does but there’s something inherently sexy about his body getting so aroused he’s produced enough pre-cum to slick your hand fully.

Your thumb slides over the tip and across the slit each time you stroke upwards, reaching a faster, heavier rhythm. The thud of your hand is nearly embarrassingly loud in the quiet home as your fist meets his hips at a steady interval.

Homelander’s freely whimpering now—to an untrained ear he sounds closer to sobbing (and he might well be) but you know that his most tortured whimpers equate to the best pleasure. 

It doesn’t even take beyond two minutes in total for him to fall apart. Your hand concentrates at the top of his cock, gliding over the edge of the head seamlessly, sending electric pleasure down his limbs. His cock twitches all over, throbbing heavy and hard in your hand.

His wet choked up moan is all you get as a warning before his entire body flexes and releases, his cock spurting pearly white ropes of come over your fist and his torso. He’s even managed to reach up to his neck. You give him a couple more deep and long strokes, really squeezing it all out of him.

With a heavy sigh he sags against the mattress, all of the fight and stress released out of him. In more ways than one.

“Mhm, that was beautiful.” You lean over and finally give him a little peck on his lips.

“Thankss for….mhmmmm… that.” His speech is slurred and a little heavy but the content smile on his face is all the thanks you need.

“Tissue?” He groans weakly and you nod, turning towards your end of the bed, plucking a wet wipe or two out of the package.

By the time you turn around with the wet tissues he’s asleep, huffing little sleepy breaths as you wipe his chest down off his own mess. Since he’s already asleep you go the extra mile to get out of bed and walk to the nearest trash and dispose of the tissue.

On the way back to bed you notice it’s gone 4am already. Settling back into bed hoping to fall asleep quickly you’re surprised when Homelander turns around, spooning you just like you did him earlier, huffing a quiet sleepy breath and settling his head against the top of your back.

Regardless of how the night goes, you will always have each other to rely on.

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You shift under the covers to reach for him: for the warm body beside you breathing just that little bit too fast. Though you can tell beneath his shirt he’s slick with sweat, which is new this month, and that his limbs give into your gentle manoeuvring with far less resistance than they used to, he still smells and feels like safety to you. Like home.

“Shh…”

Your whisper is absorbed into the black bedroom surrounding you both, where only a moonbeam leaking in through a crack in the middle of the curtains grants you enough light to make out his shape in the bed. As ever – but increasingly so since his world turned upside down – you find his quivering form already curled into yours, so all you have to do is run insistent fingers along his spine, across his shoulders, among the short hairs at the nape of his neck. He whimpers once more at the touches.

“Sweetheart, wake up. You’re having a bad dream. Come back to me.”

For a man no longer gifted with enhanced hearing, the unique cadence of your voice still seems to work like a honing signal. He wakes in similar fashion to you – completely, all at once – with a shuddering gasp that has him jolting in your arms. There he is. You feel him freeze up like something cornered and small, hear his breath hitch to almost nothing, and then he’s trying to tug himself free from your hold as though it might belong to someone else.

Your chest tightens automatically – there’s an unpleasant surrealism to witnessing him react this way to you, which helps you better understand why being feared was always so intolerable to him – but you release his body before he can truly start to panic. In a well-practiced motion, you grasp his chin in one hand to tilt his face up to yours. It’s as easy as positioning a doll, and he gasps again.

“Hey, hey – look at me. You’re okay. You’re safe.” You find his eyes by focusing on the glint of unshed tears in the darkness. “It’s just me. We’re in bed. You were dreaming.”

You stroke your thumb over the trembling line of his jaw, where the prickle of hair greets you. He hasn’t shaved since Easter morning. Mirrors have been avoided like Medusa’s stare. In the dark, his damp eyes widen as they try to focus on yours in return. There’s recognition there, you’re relieved to notice. You pay attention when his mouth opens and closes, faltering on half-formed words.

“Can’t feel– M–My head–”

That fucking crowbar.

You shush him softly, your gaze drifting above the fearful caverns of his eyes to his forehead. It’s too dim to make out right now, but the dip in the centre you’ve often doted on in quiet moments is marred by an unmissable gash. It reminds the both of you what very nearly happened a month ago. The mark is healing at a snail’s pace – some last act of spite from its inflictor, you imagine – and your mouth twists at the memory it dredges up. Your eyes sting.

That fucking crowbar.

Still cradling his jaw, you lean in and kiss the place where William Butcher tried to pierce Homelander’s skull.

“Can you feel this?” you ask, voice so quiet you worry he might not hear you.

Feel me. Feel how much I love you.

He whines in response, gulping in air. His arms lock themselves around you rigidly, clinging like he’s in danger of falling from some great height – but you know he’s already done that. You don’t mind the greedy way his fingers dig into your back; you’re privately glad he no longer has to be so mindful of his strength when seeking comfort. More than anything, you’re thankful he remains a physical presence in the world. That he is alive. You kiss his forehead again and again and again.

“Your head is just fine, see?” you continue between your kisses. “Same as when you went to sleep. I promise.”

As far as you’re concerned, no one else is getting this close to his head for the rest of his life. You don’t care what their intentions are. You couldn’t possibly risk it.

Swallowing the urge to cry, you trail more kisses up into his hairline – where in the lighter hours his grey roots are becoming increasingly visible. His scalp is a touch greasy, his hair unkempt and un-styled like he’d never have let it remain for long before Easter, but you really don’t care. What’s a bit of grease compared to blood and brain matter? Sniffling, both of your hands shift to cradle his face properly, mindful of the still-healing bones and bruises. You return to the mark at the centre of his forehead, nuzzling it.

“This place was made for me to kiss, nothing more,” you tell him, practically embedding the words into his skin. “It belongs to me.”

You feel him nod against you. He burrows silently into your neck.

He knows.

With your assurances, his posture has gradually loosened, his shaky breaths growing steadier, tickling your neck. His eyes flutter open when you draw back enough to peer at him again in the dark. He fixes his gaze on you like you’re some sort of life raft. An angel, perhaps – though the religious connotations of that have you instantly suppressing a shudder. His lips part in an unspoken afterthought, tongue resting at the opening of his mouth.

You take this as your sign you can wrap your arms around him safely.

There is no ego to him when he’s in this state: he becomes an unworldly deer caught in the headlights of a vehicle he can’t compel or even discern will stop in time to spare him. You breathe with him, because it’s all you can do, and one of your hands resumes its gentle tracing along his spine. The other strokes the hair at his temple, and he leans into it, eyes fluttering.

He is alive right now, you think, and that is the only fact that matters. His heart beats with yours; you feel it thrumming against your chest.

After a long moment, he sighs. You recognise it as a transitory sound, one of frustration and relief. You watch awareness flicker and burn inside his damp eyes, which he scrunches shut as tears begin to leech out.

“Fuck.”

His voice is choked, crushed by the weight of losses so all-encompassing that part of you is amazed he can bear them at all. But this man of yours is a survivor – you’ve always known that – so you simply nuzzle your nose to his, kissing away the salty tracks wherever they form.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I’ve got you.”

It’s only when he leans in too and starts mirroring your kisses that you realise you’ve also started crying. You let yourself enjoy the sensation of his exploratory softness against your cheeks, thinking back through all the times and places you’ve felt his lips upon your skin before and the feelings that inevitably follow. Meanwhile, he’s moving on to your nose, kissing a path to your forehead.

Yours is a stubborn, sometimes infuriating man, but he is safe in your arms. You hum, sliding your hand at his temple into his hair. His scalp is warm and comfortingly solid under your palm. You try not to cry harder.

“You know I love you, right?” you ask stupidly.

He pauses in his efforts long enough to tilt his head back and offer you a nonplussed look. “And here was me thinking you slayed my archnemesis just to be nice. You’re telling me you had an ulterior motive?”

He kisses you on the lips, and you roll your eyes.

“Asshole.”

“Hm. Guilty as charged.”

He returns to his trail of kisses, finishing at your forehead, where his lips briefly tremble. His arms are still locked around you, so you wrap one of your legs over his hips and are rewarded with a chuckle.

“You got me?” he whispers.

“I got you.”

Approval rumbles in his chest, and you feel him relax against you properly. There may no longer be a Homelander flying high above New York city, but there is a man snuggled up to you in bed. A month ago, you wouldn’t have placed a bet on experiencing even this fragile instance of normality ever again.

~*~

The irrevocable events of the day don’t come to a head until Easter evening, after the sun has withdrawn her golden light, leaving the world an impenetrable abyss.

“Happy Easter.”

When they do come to a head, you’re both on the floor of this cabin’s modest-sized bathroom: a couple of exhausted ants spotlit under a fluorescent bulb. The stark white highlights only too keenly the bloody christening the space has undergone since you arrived the best part of two hours ago.

“A day commemorating Jesus, who, as we all know, was tortured, stripped of his dignity, and killed.”

Considering the day you’ve both had, you’ve done well to make it this far without addressing any of it. He sits before you, bare-chested, hugging his knees in silence, the odd twitches of expression on his injured face sluggish and strange as you disinfect his wounds. He hasn’t so much as whimpered while you’ve been tending to him.

“And that’s all well and good.”

He’s been trying to be good, you think.

Only twelve hours ago, the tender skin you feel under the pads of your fingers was near unbreakable – few souls could’ve pried the blood eagerly nestling into your pores from his veins, in fact – but today these elements of him that were supposed to be sacred were split and spilt like they were nothing by the unrelenting fists of one human man.

One now dead human man, you remind yourself. And may the powers that be grant you the luxury of wiping away his wrathful mark, though you know his ghost will have to linger for some time yet. The beatdown was bad.

Above you, just to the side, the tap at the sink drips once in taunting.

In your peripheral vision, you can still see pink smears inside the basin, where you got him to rinse his mouth out upon first staggering in here. His laboured breathing had hitched at the sight of his own semi-congealed blood splattering the enamel, and he’d whined out a quiet “Oh, God…” as you hushed him gently and wiped the excess from his face with a damp cloth.

That single whimpered phrase remains the most coherent speech you’ve gotten from him since the White House broadcast went dead this afternoon. You’ll admit a distant part of your mind finds his choice of words hopeful.

“America, I am the Lord. Your saviour.”

How do you console a man who has fallen so violently from grace?

“I am your God.”

Since then, he’s taken his aforementioned position on the floor, and so have you. You have a vague recollection of halting your attempts to clean up the gash on his forehead to help him out of the top half of his suit; his trembling hands had started pulling at it uselessly, and you’d pivoted without thought. It is a strange new world the two of you inhabit in this bathroom, where his hands are weak and yours are strong. You wonder, fleetingly, if he already resents you for it.

You also remember realising – around the time you were dabbing carefully at the mark by his right eye – that the reason he’s chosen to curl up on the floor, rather than claim the slightly more dignified position on the closed toilet seat, is because he’s avoiding the mirror above the sink.

You can’t remember the last time he put in a proper appearance.

If the situation were less severe – if you could tolerate leaving him huddled alone for five minutes – you’d dash around the cabin right now to cover up every reflective surface there is, but becoming America’s most wanted fugitive in the course of one afternoon has not made an ER visit so feasible for the country’s former sweetheart-turned-overlord, and you don’t want to take your eyes off him with the shape he’s in.

But he’s not fainted, you remind yourself. He hasn’t been sick. His pupils, whenever he deigns to grant you a glimpse at the bloodshot blue of his eyes, are the same size, and you’ve observed them react normally, if slowly, to the light.

While you’re certain the man currently folding into himself in front of you has never bled so much in his entire life, you’re also certain he’s still very much alive beneath his concussion. He is not dying as an afterthought to all that horror on your watch. You simply will not let him.

Maybe, despite it all, everything will actually end up alright. You press another cotton pad doused in antiseptic over his left cheek, and he flinches. It’s the barest reaction, and so is the whimper that sneaks out amidst the focused breathing he’s been doing, but it’s enough to trigger that memory for you.

“Pleeeease...”

You don’t need this now, for heaven’s sake.

“Please stop!”

Not even after the worst of his nightmares about the lab have you ever seen him as young and scared as he was this afternoon. The first impression you got on entering the Oval Office was that his lips were coated so thickly with blood they appeared black. You wondered for a split second if you were existing in some kind of sick alternative reality funhouse.

“Madelyn, you promised me… it’s not real…”

The sight and sounds of what happened in that room will probably be scorched on your retinas and pounded into your eardrums for the rest of your life. This will be the cross you bear for loving him.

“You can’t fucking do this!”

What had his last words been before you fired the gun? You can’t… you don’t think you can remember. What if he’d died and you couldn’t fucking remember?

“No, no…”

Your hand shakes as you withdraw the pad from his face, the white cotton now blooming red with yet more of his precious blood. His left cheek twitches. You stare at the split skin on the swell of the cheekbone. He probably needs stitches there, and a proper splint for his nose, and scans of his head, and real doctors. The best you can offer are band aids, medical gauze, and antiseptic.

Your mouth is dry when you swallow. You can hear your heart beating in your ears.

You realise very suddenly that all you really want to do is drag the both of you to bed and hold him as close as you can.

Tonight, the two of you will be safe from immediate danger. You should be after the number of getaway vehicles you coaxed him in and out of to get out here, not to mention how long you’ve been quietly planning in case of something like today. It would scare you how much easier this safety net has been to orchestrate without his knowing since… certain things occurred… if his distractedness hadn’t turned out to be such a blessed relief.

Yes, you are safe.

Part of him must know it too, of course. Enough time has passed for the initial adrenaline to wear off. You can hear the soft breaths he’s taking in through his mouth slowly becoming less deliberate, more natural. Really, then, it makes sense that another part of him – the part that reared up to defy William Butcher and deny reality, even as it came swinging straight for his face – feels emboldened to rationalise the truth away once again now.

And as tired as you are, you should’ve seen this coming.

The events of the day finally come to a head when you reach for the laser wound on his chest, over his heart. He frowns and pulls away from you, hugging his blue-padded knees closer.

“No.”

Praise be, he talks. You thought you’d lost him for a moment. You’re used to this man’s petulance at the best of times, but right before the night’s last hurdle is testing. The part of you that loves him enough to go through this hell for him tries on a sympathetic smile.

“I know it hurts. I’m sorry. But this is the last one. Just this and you can rest.”

You know the wound isn’t as bad as it could be – he sustained it while still a supe, after all – but it’s been mushed together with sweat and grime and microfibres in the hours since then. You wouldn’t say so to him, but you’re sure it’ll scar. It’s an angry, bubbling thing.

And it’s his parting gift from Ryan.

He’s shaking his head, scoffing now.

“No, no – you think I need...? No.”   

His voice has that slightly slurred quality to it you recall from the Oval Office, like he’s talking to you through a faulty connection. He smiles without humour, and the lines around his eyes cut into the inflamed, swollen skin currently making up much of his face. The action looks painful; if you’re not mistaken, it makes him wince.

“I don’t need any of this,” he says.

You sigh and shift from your knelt position into a sitting one. You might as well spare your knees. “What don’t you need, huh? Please enlighten me.”

He narrows his eyes at you over the top of his legs, as though you’re playing a trick on him.

“This, obviously.” He gestures vaguely around you both. “What? You think I of all people need– need saving? Think you’re better than me just ‘cos…”

You should probably be more concerned about him losing his train of thought, but your world has gone eerily, dangerously still. In any case, it doesn’t seem he’s so much lost his train of thought as had to stop talking to rub his aching jaw. He exhales in curt frustration.

“I’m a fucking superhero.”

You can’t tell if that’s your heart beating in your ears now or the screams of a thousand silent women stood beside their delusional men.

“I’m– I’m God! God doesn’t need this!”

He meets your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt the full force of his contempt barrelled in your direction, but it doesn’t feel quite real, somehow. Like you’ve unknowingly stepped into a pocket reality where nothing matters anymore. The rules have changed.

“Those who accept my truth will be welcomed into a land of milk and honey, for I am your fath–”

You laugh. You actually laugh at him.

It’s loud enough that he flinches, his superior façade faltering for a flicker. Have you ever made him flinch before today?

What the fuck are you doing?

“Right,” you hear yourself saying. “Right. God. We’re still going with that, are we? Okay. Well, tell me then, does God want to die of sepsis?”

His jaw clenches, but you can tell he’s confused now as much as he is pissed off. You raise your eyebrows.

“What– Why are you saying it like that?” he asks. “I am God. You witnessed my ascension.”

You sigh. “Homelander–”

“No! No, for Christ’s sakes, you were one of the first fucking people I told!” He’s growing pale again, like he was in the Oval Office, even as his own words betray him. His eyes have gone wild animal scared. “You– You believe in me. You have to.”

“Babe, it’s… it’s over now. You have to stop.”

“Excuse me!?”

This is not how you’d hoped this conversation would go. You had hoped he’d be on the mend, calmer, and not concussed, for a start. You had hoped you’d be feeling nothing but sympathy – you know he’s not been well, you know that – and you had hoped this simmering rage for all the time you’ve spent walking on eggshells around his mania would be but a bad memory. But you are so, so tired. You are human.

And the indignation in his expression is driving you up the wall.

“Oh my God, I fucking killed a man for you today, and you still don’t get it!”

He frowns, proving your point. Your eyes stray, unbidden, to the crimson gash in his forehead where William Butcher’s crowbar glanced him as his dead body fell. He opens his mouth to reply, and you hold up a finger.

“And don’t you dare fucking tell me that means nothing to you. I am talking now, alright? Me. And you are going to listen. For once in your life, you will listen.”

Your eyes blur with tears, and you growl under your breath. Fortunately, for both your sakes, his mouth snaps shut. You close your eyes, trying to organise how you’re going to say this.

“Madelyn Stillwell–” You can barely get her name out without retching. “–did not come and visit you about your destiny. She is no fucking angel. You had a psychotic break.”

There. You’ve said it.

You open your eyes and force your gaze to remain on his, even as his eyes empty of everything, their light receding far away. The bathroom fills with a noxious silence that seems to stretch on and on – then his lips part, and he scoffs a little too lightly.

“Wow. Even you, huh?”

His voice strains low and bitter, his jaw working despite whatever discomfort it brings him. You catch a flash of one of his pointy canines as his face oscillates between fake smiles and trembling sneers. He settles on a thin-lipped mask of barely concealed rage, his eyes filling back up again with hot tears.

“How dare you. How fucking dare you. All this time I thought you understood my calling, that you accepted my truth as your own, when really you’ve been planning for this.” A deep hurt flashes over his face before he wrestles it under control. His expression darkens, teeth baring. “You lied to me.”

You count to five in your head.

It’s not that you’re particularly shocked by his reaction, but the unfair sting of it – after everything you’ve been through today, yesterday, the past you don’t know how many months – isn’t something you could’ve ensured you were immune to. Not completely. You’re half-surprised he hasn’t called you Judas yet. Why not make this the ultimate melodrama? His blue eyes are full of impotent hellfire, but you’re feeling pretty volcanic yourself.

“I did what I had to do to make sure you wouldn’t get rid of me,” you shoot back, unapologetic. “That is the only reason you’re still alive right now.”

And that is the truth.

He shakes his head and groans instantly at the movement, then chuckles: a wheezing, hysterical sound that catches as much in your chest as his, no matter how mad you are at him. He’s slipping again, and you’ve not even got near his chest wound. What a fucking rotten evening to suit a fucking rotten day.

His head tilts back until he can stare at the ceiling, evidently reaching for something beyond the cheap plasterboard to ground him – for her, your mind supplies unhelpfully – but you and he both know his eyes don’t double as x-ray machines anymore. The heavens are blocked from him. An uneasy furrow forms between his eyes as he seems to realise this.

“Look. I know you’re in shock.” You sigh, casting your eyes over the pitiful first aid supplies you’ve been working with. “If you let me clean up your chest, I’ll–I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night. I just want you to rest.”

Another lie, you reflect glumly – there’s no way you’re leaving him totally unmonitored with the injuries he’s sustained. But, as ever, he doesn’t appear to be listening.

You watch him curl impossibly tighter into himself. The padding in his trousers creaks with how hard his left hand is squeezing his leg, while his right hand grasps at the tender skin of his brow without thought, then jolts away gingerly. His breathing hitches, turning shallow and fast.

“Homelander…”

“No, no. It’s alright,” he mutters. “This is a test. Madelyn–”

“Never loved you,” you interrupt evenly, earning a venomous glare in response – one you’re sure would’ve proved fatal if he’d delivered it earlier in the day.

Your heart knocks at your ribs, but his glares aren’t fatal now, and you know you can’t let him sink into another fantasy just because challenging it might cost you his love. Not any longer. The time for bathing selfishly in his good grace is over. You push on.

“She was afraid of you – she told you that herself.”

His screws his eyes shut and turns his head away from you.

“Stop it.”

Shifting back on to your knees, you edge closer to him. “Everything she ever did was to further her own career, to keep you exactly where Vought wanted you. You know that.”

“I said–”

“Why on earth would she come back to help you? You murdered her in front of her own son.”

“For fuck’s sake, Y/N! ENOUGH!”

His beaten face whips back in your direction, and suddenly his ragged breath is warm on your cheeks. His damp eyes are chasms.

“But no matter what I do, some of you people will never accept me into your hearts.”

His left hand is at your throat.

“Never love me, never believe in me.”

You blink. For a moment, even he looks surprised that the instinct still comes so naturally to him, though he’s never done this to you. His wide eyes are furious and devastated as they flit rapidly over your face. You keep expecting him to ask you why, why are you making him do this, but he doesn’t. His hand flexes weakly around your throat. He’s so weak.

Instead, he smiles at you. You can see every line, every wrinkle, every cut and bruise and pore of his skin.

“And to such heretics, I offer oblivion.”

“This is a test, Y/N,” he says again, like he’s trying to convince a young child.

His voice is softer now, but this isn’t the seething hiss from earlier; it wavers as he blinks back the moisture gathering on his lash lines. You see it: there is no fire burning underneath this declaration, just the cracking of a divine flame sputtering out.

“A test. Like Ryan was, and m–my– and Soldier Boy, and–and–”

“And those who seek to destroy me? You will die the most horrible of deaths, as befits your wickedness.”

His smile flickers out as you reach with both hands to take hold of his slender forearm, where your fingers inadvertently brush the bumpy scar his lasers and the V1 injection have left on his inner wrist. He brought today on himself, you’re well aware. Your eyes still water when he twitches at the contact.

“And know this – I will prevail.”

“Not everything in life is a test from above,” you tell him.

You think about the boy in the lab waiting for merciless doctors to announce if his pain meant he’d passed or failed as you swallow against his grip. One of your hands settles over the back of his, caressing the veins you find there, the taut joints of his fingers. You watch a tear breach containment and leak steadily down his cheek.

“This is real, Homelander. You have to face it.”

“My reign will last forever and when this world is cold and dead, I shall remain.”

His hand slips away from your throat with little fanfare, his fingers still flexing aimlessly. You’re not sure which of you pulled it back. You let go of him.

“Eternal.”

For one awful second, his face goes blank, and he stares at you like you’ve seen him do countless other inconveniences he’s deliberating squashing. For one awful second, you weigh up how best to subdue him if he tries to attack. For one awful second, he is a stranger to you.

“God of the ashes.”

You hold your breath.

And then, without warning, his face crumples into pure, unguarded misery. The gearshift change is so abrupt it temporarily jams up your own reactions, and you find yourself crouched in front of him in startled incomprehension. He’s sobbing before he’s even choked a word out, his voice pitching high.

“You hate me.”

…What?

He sounds like that young child he was trying to convince of his higher purpose only a minute ago. There’s nothing accusatory to his tone – he isn’t lashing out at you – he’s simply aggrieved. Massively, inexplicably, aggrieved.

“I’m sorry?” you splutter.

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

“I know you do, ‘cos you saw,” he whines, gagging on the last word, as though there’s some deep meaning embedded there that you’re both privy to.

“Hold on–”

But his gagging has already turned into dry heaves. His legs flop down flat on the bathroom floor beside him, so he can double over properly.

“You saw everything,” he whines between empty retches, one hand pressed against the tiles. “You– You know – oh, God – I tried to keep it from you – from everyone – but now–”

Your brain finally kicks into action despite the emotional whiplash, and you reach over with the intention of rubbing his back. Whatever anger and exhaustion you’ve been feeling has evaporated, your worry for him returning with a vengeance. He isn’t speaking clearly, but you think you’ve got an inkling of what he’s referring to. It makes your guts twist.

“Hey, hey – slow down – you’re gonna make yourself sick–”

But at the mere suggestion of your approaching hand, his body twists to latch on to your elbow first. Your arm freezes in midair where he clings to it, a crazed terror swallowing his watery eyes as he gazes up at you.

What the fuck?

“I’m sorry,” he gasps out, hiccupping. “Please don’t turn me in. They’ll fucking kill me, Y/N. Please, no.”

His throat convulses on a sob, and he lowers his head from your gaze like he can’t bear the weight of it, his eyes and broken nose both running. You can’t believe what’s happening. He surely can’t think you’d ever do that? You got him out of the White House!

“Homelander.”

You say his name incredulously, trying to reel him back to whatever sanity he has left. He only flinches, like the name itself is a weapon, and releases your elbow to sink further down and clutch desperately at your legs. You hear his breath catch on another sob.

“Please, please. I love you. You’re my– my life – you’re my soul.”

The love of your life is grovelling at your knees.

Your spine goes ramrod straight. You can feel those weak, shaky hands trembling on your thighs, the face you’ve been working so delicately to patch up nuzzling just as insistently wherever he can make contact, as though pain doesn’t even register. He kisses frantically just above your knees.

“I–I can still be good for you, even like this. I’ll do whatever you want, Y/N, anything – please – just tell me!”

That does it.

“Just tell me!”

You heard this tune mere hours ago. You don’t want a personalised rendition.

“I’ll fucking suck your dick! Please! I'll do anything.”

You vision tunnels at the memory. You think you might be sick. Why does your mind insist on remembering it so vividly? Why is he insisting on re-enacting it? Does he really think he has to?

“You want me to eat shit? I’ll eat your fucking shit! I’ll eat your fucking shit on live TV!”

He thinks you hate him for this. He thinks you didn’t know how scared he’s always been beneath that corporate veneer. He thinks he’s disappointed you. Isn’t Homelander supposed to be the strongest man in the world?

“Stop,” you plead.

It registers as barely a whisper, and his ears are no longer that adept.

“Whatever– Whatever you want–”

He’s still begging, like the televised horror show never ended. His head is still bowed, pressed to your knees. When you said he had to face reality, you did not mean this.

“I–I promise. I can learn. I can be better!”

Your mind flashes to another Homelander: a crucial pebble down the mountain leading to this.

“I am BETTER!”

You need to fucking do something. You can’t just sit here and let this play out in front of you like a TV episode you have no control over. The tears are coming and your throat is burning. All you can smell is blood and ash and–

“No – no – stop it!”

Your voice comes out harsher than you mean for it to, and he freezes at once. Your own stuttering breathing is the loudest noise in the bathroom now. You hate that you don’t automatically know how to end this madness, how to calm him and yourself, how to tell him this is not what you want. He shakes like he’s expecting some terrible verdict to match the height he has fallen from, and you want to scream and scream and scream.

You swallow and glance down at him: really take in the cowering body crouched prostrate at your knees. He’s all exposed, this man of yours; he’s lost. He can’t find his way home. What’s worse, he thinks he’s alone in this, and that – that is unacceptable.

“My poor, sweet man,” you murmur. “Shh… don’t be afraid.”

Because all you’ve really wanted to do since he lost his powers is hold him, you settle for the closest thing you can think of in this moment and rest one hand on top of his head. He whimpers as your fingers thread through the dishevelled locks of his hair and leans into the touch like it’s a blessing. And it is. You try to blink yourself back into normality. You can fix this. It’s just a bad, bad day.

“Look at me – properly.”

He raises his head with an obedience that unnerves you. Your hand moves from his head to cradle his jaw, where your thumb strokes along the inflamed skin there as gently as you can. He relaxes a little. His breathing is still too shallow, still too fast, but you notice his eyes are actually searching yours now rather than looking through you into some endless abyss. You wonder if he can see the same wild fear in you.

“Stop treating me like I’m him,” you say. You can feel your resolve to be the strong one crumbling. “Please. I can’t stand it.”

His tongue moves, almost peeking from his mouth like he plans to speak, but nothing comes out. In its place, his brow pinches, and you wonder how a man in his mid-forties manages to look so young sometimes. You suck in a breath and cradle his face with both hands, leaning closer.

“I don’t hate you. Christ. I love you. I love the fucking bones of you.” His lower lip wobbles at your quiet ferocity and more tears slide down his cheeks. You have a feeling you’re a mirror image. Your voice sounds thick and shaky, even to your ears. “You don’t have to beg like that. Not ever. You understand? C’mere…”

You slide back into a sitting position and your hands shift to pull him towards you. To your relief, he crawls into your lap more than willingly, claiming his spot in paradise before any mirage can fade. He slumps against your chest where you support him, your arms slipping around his trembling, broken body as naturally as they did when he seemed to be made from steel. His bare skin is not as warm as you remember it being yesterday, and it gives more under your fingers. Even so, he presses into you, starving.

He’s your fragile doll of a man: red with blood, white with fear, blue with bruises. You’re both crying while the warmth of him finds home again in the warmth of you. It feels like forever since you last held him and knew he was present. Unlike a doll, he is alive. You stroke along his shuddering back and kiss the top of his head. He is alive.

“I love you,” you whisper, wishing that sentiment alone could be enough to soothe all that has happened to him.

He responds by kissing your collarbone. He knows. In this moment, he knows.

Drop by drop, your tears collect in the brittle blond strands of his hair. You know there are grey roots buried beneath them and that they have never been as well-hidden as he’d like. Today has been a dye stripper on his soul; your tears won’t cool that burn, no matter how many you cry. You swallow around the lump in your throat. What was it he called you amidst his panic?

“You’re my soul.” You kiss his head again, inhaling the scent of him deeply. He doesn't smell like ash to you. “I can’t live without my soul.”

He smells alive.

You sense your words have settled when the whimpering against your chest softens into a quiet gasp. His hands rise up together to clutch the front of your shirt, childlike – or maybe in prayer. He whispers your name like it’s a revelation, and you whisper his name back to him. You try to fill it up with personhood.

He is alive tonight. His heart beats in time with your own. He is imperfect, but he is here, and that is all that could possibly matter.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper.

Homelander gets confused and frankly offended if you aren't coming to him for the use of his powers every time something or someone is bothering you. You tell him you don't want to take advantage of him, you don't want him to think you're using him, and he's just baffled.

"But I want you to use me," he says, surprising even himself at the clarity of the sentiment. "What the fuck else am I here for?"

"I don't know, to be loved by me and love me back in return?" you offer, cupping his flexing jaw with one hand.

He huffs softly, lowering his eyes for a moment, still baffled but also annoyed now by the sliver of vulnerability he feels creeping in.

"I will always come to you before anyone else, baby," you tell him. "But you're not my slave. You don't have to jump when I say so."

He nuzzles into your palm, his eyes closing properly. "But I want to," he whines, and you chuckle and kiss between his brows.

"Jeez, mister. What are you like?"

"I'm yours."

He looks back up at you again with a longing, twisting his head to kiss along your palm. It makes your breath hitch.

"Please... Let me show you I'm yours... Don't wanna be anyone else's..."

There's a tear leaking from the corner of his eye. You catch it with your thumb.

"Look at me, Homelander," you say softly, and he does, as though expecting chastisement. "You want to be mine? You want me to... control you?"

He nods, almost shamefully. A faint smile flickers across your lips, and you use your free hand to take one of his.

"Come with me then, sweet boy. I have something you can do."

For a second, he's confused at what you might mean, still swimming in that needy space that suggestion cannot permeate, before a devilish smirk unfolds on his face. With it, just like that, he's composed again, calm and assured, though the tear mark on his cheek still catches the light.

You’re paying attention to the stupid game. He finds it cute enough when you play with Ryan—as long as you involve him. He doesn’t like feeling left out. You tend to pick him as a playable character at least, usually immediately followed by Ryan’s pitiful whine of ‘that’s not fair—dad always wins!’

Still, you have the real—much better—thing right here.

“Sorry hon, just this last fight—we’re trying to get to the top of the league.”

He never expected he’d have to compete for your attention with a computer version of himself. Well, better a computer version of him than any other subpar superhero.

He’s sitting next to you while you’re clutching the controller for dear life, biting your lip in concentration.

“A fucking somersault mid-air? I fly for fuck’s sakes. I’m gonna need a word with whoever made this garbage.”

“Noo, it’s a great move! With your flight it moves you across the field faster. And look—ha! there goes half his health. See, it won’t take long.” 

It’s already taken long enough. He’s not a patient man at the best of days. And today his free alone time with you is running out minute by minute. He really needs to work hard for anything he wants. Homelander takes great pleasure in the way you squeal, holding onto your controller while he pulls you into his lap. 

“Oh my god! Impatient much?” Were you anyone else, they wouldn’t be more than a pile of flesh after taking such a tone with him but he lets you get away with a lot—he tends to like you a little bitey. Keeps things interesting.

You flail around before you find your footing, finally sitting down with your knees spread around his legs, still facing the TV wall. The flailing cost you a couple of health points, but you recover.

“Just wanting entertainment of my own. So play your game alllll you want, missy.”

He places his already gloveless hands on your hips, sliding them up and down your sides, enjoying the willing, breathing presence you bring into his life. You don’t subconsciously flinch away from him—you lean in.

He used to feel like he had to fall on his knees begging to receive even the smallest crumbs of attention from people—you give him the whole pie instead. You love him freely—him and his son. You tell him you miss him anytime he’s gone. You don’t use your affection as a bargaining chip. Instead you love to have him touch you. You’re constantly seeking it out. At night you always pull his arm over your waist if he doesn’t beat you to it. During the day you hold his hand, kiss his cheek or hug him before he leaves. 

He’s gotten to know your body’s song. It’s always been his favourite lullaby.

But it’s not always sweet and soothing. Sometimes, it’s electric—like now.

You’re buzzing underneath his hands.

“You gotta stop that—ah! You know I’m ticklish.” 

“Do I?” He drums his fingertips against your skin in a soft, barely-there pattern that has you swaying from side to side—still impressively focused on the screen.

“Please!” Your embarrassing desperate little squeak makes him pause, his hands instead grip your waist tight and pull you flush to his chest.

He wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into your back. You feel like a soft teddy bear he never had. He squeezes you like one—or, well, as much as he knows you can handle. He doesn’t want to break his toy. He’s quite attached to you.

Even if you’re still ignoring him for the stupid game. Even with his eyes closed, head still resting on your back, he hears the game sounds and the snappy lines he has a vague memory of recording once.

“Sorry honey, I’m neaarly done, I promise! This guy is just a slippery bastard. Can’t land any hits on him.” 

He hums, not concerned with your game. He’s playing his own.

His hand slides down your stomach, down in between your spread legs. You’re wearing jeans, unfortunately. He much prefers when you wear a thinner material. That way he can tease your pussy through the fabric until you soak through both layers. You always look so pretty and bashful when he points out how much of a mess you’ve made for him.

He can’t help but grin against your back when he firmly presses your clit through the jeans.

“Homelander!” You yelp in surprise, trying to sit up on your knees to escape the shocking touch, but the steel-grip arm around your waist doesn’t let you. He grins wider.

“Jesus, you caught me off guard,” your chuckle is sweet and embarrassed. “Fine, I hear you. Loud and clear—”

“Nope. You play your game and stay exactly where you are.” He holds you firmer to stop you trying to wiggle away from his fingers. He just might leave a little bruise or two.

“But—”

“Come on now, can’t let me lose after all the ruckus about needing to win.” 

“B-but I can’t focus like this.” 

“Yes, you can. You’ll figure it out. I won’t make you come if you lose.”

“That’s not fair! You’ve started this.”

“Mhm, not true.”

He can smell your cunt getting wet, but he can’t feel it. And that’s no fun.

“Ass up,” he prompts, easing up his grip on you so you can actually move. Effortlessly, he pinches the fabric of your jeans from each side and rips it like tissue paper. The fabric disconnects down the middle until you’re left with a crappy jean imitation of leg warmers. 

You don’t even shriek this time. Maybe he’s getting too predictable because all you end up doing is complaining.

“I liked these jeans.” 

“So did I—they made your ass look great.”

“Does it normally not look great?”

“Somebody’s fishing for compliments, again.” He chuckles to himself, not actually answering you as he pats your ass. “Sit down again.”

Back on his thighs again he sighs happily into your back. It’s always good to have you close. His hand goes back to rubbing your clit. He hums to himself when he can finally feel the wetness soaking into the fabric of your cotton panties. 

“That’s more like it.” He muffles into your back.

He was going to drag this out. Rub you slowly and gently until you’re begging to make you come but he’s already had enough of his time wasted today. As a father, he no longer has the luxury of fooling around whenever and however long he wants.

He slips his fingers underneath the scalloped edge of your cotton underwear, two of his fingers brush up and down your slit, smoothly gliding across the surface with the occasional little squelch.

The sound of your body eager to be around him makes his cock throb. It’s only been a day at most but fuck he needs to be inside you again. His cock feels heavy in his hand when he pulls it out of his pants, pushing your ass up just a little bit so he has the room to move the tip right against your cunt.

He makes a quick work of your underwear, ripping the fabric down the middle. If you’re gonna be a brat about making this harder for him, he’ll treat you like one.

He’s still holding you up with one hand, the other holding the base of his cock as he dips himself into your wetness. He’d play around with you had you given him the time. You would have been treated like royalty—he would have taken his time with you on bed, eating you out till you begged to be fucked. But you robbed yourself of this. Instead he doesn’t even get to stretch you. His cock parts your lips fully and slowly pushes into you.

Homelander licks his lips when you gasp. You’re a big girl, you can handle a little bit of a stretch.

He might not though, your cunt’s as tight as ever. His dick is nearly getting strangled, each throb in his shaft feels so visceral when you squeeze around him. 

He seats you fully in his lap, giving your ass a little rub when you wiggle from side to side to really settle down.

He only wanted to tease you a bit, let you play the stupid fucking game while you feel him inside you, feel how much you’re missing out on. The real treat comes when you take the initiative.

In a motion that steals his breath, you slide up and down, using your knees as a leverage for smoothly gliding his entire length in and out of you.

It doesn’t take long until you’re multi-tasking; riding his lap and playing a game. If he didn’t have to curl his toes and squeeze his fists to stop himself from coming inside you so fast he’d find it nearly impressive.

“Christ, I forget how much of a slut you can be.” He’s barely coherent enough, speaking low and breathy, like each word takes concerted effort to get out.

“That’s not—ahh, mhm fuck—very nice.” 

“Nice doesn’t get your pussy this wet now, does it?”

He sounds pathetic even to his ears, his tone lacking all bark and bite. He might as well be sobbing.

“I’m nearly there, baby.” He doesn’t know if you’re talking about the game or your own orgasm but the victory music playing in the background nearly makes him weep from joy.

He turns you around, face down into the couch, his own body slotting right over your back as he pumps into you properly. He really doesn’t think he’s going to make it. It takes every gasp and breath, every grind of his teeth to hold back from succumbing to the tight pull in his groin, the pressure climbing and climbing until it feels unbearable.

But he promised you an orgasm, so he angles his cock in a way that he’s learned works wonders, his hand wraps around you, rubbing your clit from the underside.

Just as he thinks he won’t be able to hold back you moan pretty for him, whimpering out his name, almost in time with his last few victory thrusts before he allows himself to come. He doesn’t stop immediately, fucking both of you through your respective orgasms, wanting the burn of the high to feel endless. Until the fire eventually burns out, your bodies comfortably warm and melting into one another.

He ends up slipping out of you, too tired to put himself back together.

“We gotta get up and clean this place.” You speak up after a while.

“Mhm.” He’d rather fall asleep and enjoy a little cuddle.

“Come on, at least slide off—or-or levitate off. I can’t have Ryan come back to this.”

“He’s seen worse.” He mumbles into the leather of the sofa once you manage to push him off, sliding from underneath him, your bare feet padding across the cold floors.

“What?!” He hears you from the other room, pulling a drawer out and rummaging inside—probably to swap your tattered pants out.

“He’s got my senses babe, hard to hide anything from him.” He’s not really sure you can hear him. He’s barely aware of what he’s saying. He manages to finally tuck himself back into his pants, zipping them back up.

“That's—no. No, I can’t listen to this. No more sex at night. At least when he’s home. What if he’s awake and able to hear.”

“It’s normal. He understands.” He finally sits back up on the sofa right as you come back with some paper towels and cleaning spray, acting as if you’ve both left behind a crime scene.

“Absolutely not. I don’t want to traumatize the poor boy!” You wipe up any residue that he may have sloppily left behind, covering it in so much disinfectant that it immediately burns his nostrils. 

“Oh, come ooon, you’re just being dramatic.” He rolls his eyes. You scrub the leather harder than you need to. If anything, you need to take a shower. The smell of sex is stuck to your every pore, his too.

“I mean it, listening to your parents have sex is just not good for a growing boy’s mind.” 

His heart skips a beat.

“Parents?”

You stop your cleaning.

“I meant his father and… his father’s girlfriend, I guess. That felt like a mouthful.” You sit down next to him. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to overstep. I know I can’t just be that for Ryan. I just care for the boy.” Your little smile has him pulling you closer, kissing your temple as he wraps his arm around you.

“I like it. Parents. Ryan needs a mom.” His heart pangs at the framed image of a happy family. Mother. Father. And their son.

“Doesn’t mean I can just force that on him, it has to be his choice.” You shatter the family picture in his head. He wants to shake his head, push the pieces back together.

“My boy knows how to make the right choices, don’t worry.” 

“Well, let’s not rush anything, okay? I don’t want to get my ideas in his head so he feels like he has to accept them. He’s a sweet and polite boy. I’d hate for him to not feel comfortable at home.” Homelander is stuck in his own head. He vaguely hears you talk about taking a shower when you pat his thigh and stand up, already walking towards the bathroom.

He daydreams about the visions of a happy family and a white picket fence. A real one this time, not the one Ryan grew up in. Maybe a sibling or two on the way—Ryan needs more friends. The perfect family. 

He doesn’t understand how it took him this long to find you. Maeve never could’ve been the mother he needed her to be. You… are perfect. His job now is just to make sure that nothing stands in the way of his family dream.

Whatever it takes.

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

A wood stove crackled steadily in the kitchen, filling the cabin with a comforting heat that chased away the damp chill pressing against the windows. Golden light from a nearby lamp pooled across the hardwood floors, and the scent of simmering chicken soup drifted from the kitchen. The warm scent mingled with cedar smoke, while the smell of rain-soaked earth clung to the air whenever the wind found a crack in the old cabin.

There was a black cat sprawled shamelessly across the center of the couch. Since you and John had made this cabin your home, the cat kept showing up on your doorstep. Until one day, he never left.

Its glossy fur rose and fell with every contented breath as it slept, completely unconcerned with the weather or the fact that it had taken over half the available space.

John didn’t seem interested in arguing with it, though. He was curled beneath a thick blanket, one arm draped protectively around the cat’s middle while the other rested across his stomach. His blond hair was tousled from sleep, falling messily across his forehead. His cheeks carried the faint flush of fever, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes from a restless night.

For someone who had once stood above the entire world, he looked remarkably fragile.

You paused in the kitchen doorway for a moment just to watch him. Two years ago, the sight would’ve been unimaginable. Homelander had always seemed larger than life. Untouchable.

Now he was simply John. A man with a cold, who hadn’t slept properly, and who had spent most of the morning wrapped in blankets, wallowing over his sore throat but insisted he wasn’t complaining.

Since losing his powers a few months ago, John’s body had been playing catch-up with the rest of the world. For most of his life, he’d never had to worry about things like getting enough sleep, building endurance, or catching whatever bug happened to be going around. His body had simply existed above it all.

Now it seemed like every week brought some new discomfort or inconvenience. A pulled muscle from chopping firewood. Sore feet after a long hike into town. A headache from staying up too late. And now, his very first cold. Leaving the United States and hiding away in a remote corner of the world hadn’t exactly helped the transition either. He was constantly surrounded by unfamiliar foods, unfamiliar environments, and countless little things his body had never been exposed to before.

Sometimes, watching him navigate it all felt strangely similar to watching someone discover life for the first time. He was frustrated, stubborn, occasionally overwhelmed, and quietly fascinated by things most people took for granted.

And somehow, you loved him more now than you ever thought possible.

As if sensing your gaze, his eyes slowly opened and the moment he saw you standing there, something softened in his expression. It happened every time.

The tension he usually carried seemed to ease the second he looked at you.

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he spoke, “There you are.”

His words were simple and ordinary, but they carried a warmth that immediately settled in your chest.

You crossed the room to sit beside him on the couch, and the cushions shifted beneath your weight. Without hesitation, he immediately leaned closer until his shoulder pressed against yours.

The movement was so natural now that neither of you commented on it.

A few years ago, John never would’ve sought out affection like this. Physical touch had always been something complicated for him. Something tangled up in power, expectation, or performance. People touched Homelander because they wanted something from him, because they were afraid of him, or because they worshipped him.

Genuine affection had been so rare that he hardly knew what to do with it when it appeared. It was easier to keep people at arm’s length. Better to convince himself he didn’t need comfort, didn’t need closeness, didn’t need anyone.

But somewhere between quiet mornings, shared meals, sleepless nights, and the countless ordinary moments that made up a life together, something had changed. The walls he’d spent decades building had begun to crumble.

Now, he reached for you without even thinking. Like his hand finding yours across the couch, or his arm snaking around your waist while you cooked. Or your head leaning on his shoulder during a long afternoon by the fire. It was all of the little things that mattered so much. It was the kind of affection most people took for granted. For anyone else, it would have seemed insignificant. To him, it was trust in its purest form.

If it were months before he might have acted embarrassed or pretended it wasn’t intentional.

Now he accepted the comfort and he accepted you.

You interrupted his thoughts when you brushed a hand through his hair. The reaction was immediate and his eyes closed. The rest of his body seemed to relax beneath your touch. As you looked his body up and own once more, it dawned on you all at once. The sight of him like this never failed to affect you. There was something heartbreakingly vulnerable about it.

This man had once terrified entire cities, and here he was, practically melting as you played with his hair.

“How are you feeling?” you asked quietly.

John groaned in response. A dramatic, exhausted sound. “Terrible.”

“Still?”

“I think it’s worse.” He sniffled pathetically.

“You said that three hours ago, baby.”

“Because it keeps getting worse.” He opened one eye and looked up at you. “I swear my skin hurts.”

A laugh escaped before you could stop it. You knew he wasn’t trying to be funny, but you couldn’t help it. His expression immediately brightened despite himself.

That happened often too. He liked making you laugh, more than he’d ever admit.

“You think that’s funny?” He said with a playfully offended look on his face.

“A little.” You said, leaning forward and giving him a soft kiss on the cheek. Even that was enough to give John butterflies.

“You are cruel.”

“Hey, I’m taking good care of you.” You defended yourself.

“Exactly. You’re luring me into a false sense of security.” You shook your head at him. Before you could argue back, the cat chose that moment to stretch and climb fully into John’s lap.

Without even thinking about it, his hand immediately found its back. His long fingers moved slowly through soft black fur, and the cat began purring so loudly you could hear it over the rain.

He glanced down. “See? He’s manipulating me too.” You rolled your eyes, smiling at him, “You’re the one that feeds him. Just admit that you adore him.”

“I feed him because he’ll scream outside the bedroom door all night if I don’t.” John said. “I tolerate him.”

The cat responded by nudging its head into his stomach. You raised an eyebrow at him, and John looked away.

“…Maybe I adore him a little.”

The smile that spread across your face was impossible to stop. He caught it immediately, and his cheeks somehow managed to turn slightly pinker.

Though that might’ve been the fever.

Or maybe not.

The room fell back into a comfortable silence. Outside, rain continued to tap gently against the windows while you both watched. The fire crackled softly while the cat purred against John.

His hand eventually found yours where it rested on the couch, and he threaded your fingers together absentmindedly.

Not even looking. Just reaching for you.

Seeking you out.

You squeezed his hand gently and he squeezed back. There was a long moment after this neither of you spoke. You just enjoyed the presence of one another. You were lucky he was even here with you, despite the number Butcher did on him. He was safe with you now.

Suddenly his thumb brushed across your knuckles, slowly. You noticed his gaze hadn’t drifted from the window.

Toward the endless rain beyond the glass.

His expression had changed now, and he’d gone quieter. He had a distant look in his face, like he was somewhere else.

You knew that look. “What are you thinking about?”

John didn’t answer immediately. The silence stretched for a few moments. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded softer than before.

“I still expect to wake up sometimes.” He said quietly, “And have all of this be gone.”

You frowned slightly, but kept quiet and listened to him speak. His eyes remained fixed on the storm outside.

“The cabin.” His thumb continued tracing absent circles across your hand. “You, the cat, everything.”

Your chest tightened. When he went still like this, staring at nothing for a little too long, you didn’t try to fix it. You just stayed close, offering the only thing you could: something steady enough to hold onto when everything else felt uncertain.

John swallowed. “I know that probably sounds stupid.” A humorless laugh escaped him, tears forming in his tired, blue eyes.

“It doesn’t.” You said back, still holding his hand tightly.

“Sometimes I think about who I was.” He continued. The words seemed difficult for him to say. Like they sat heavy, somewhere deep in his chest. “I spent my entire life chasing things I thought would make me happy. I wanted everyone’s approval so bad.” His gaze dropped. Another pause.

“I craved power and being loved. Looking back, I realize I never actually had any of it.”

This was the kind of truth that only surfaced on quiet days. The days when rain softened the edges of everything.

You shifted closer until your leg rested against his. He immediately leaned into you, almost unconsciously. His head eventually settled against your shoulder.

You rested your cheek against his hair. Neither of you spoke for a while.

As the storm carried on outside, the cabin remained warm. You were both safe, in a world of your own.

Finally, John broke the silence. “You know what’s funny?” His voice was almost a whisper.

“What?” You looked at him, studying every detail of his face like you might forget who he is.

“I thought losing my powers and everything would destroy me.” You listened quietly. “But I think losing this would.”

John stared down at your intertwined hands. At the simple gold band around your finger. Then he looked at the cat asleep in his lap.

He was amazed at the life the two of you had somehow built from the wreckage of everything that came before.

When he looked back up at you, there was no arrogance left. There was no cape or performance to put on. It was just love, and it was deep, honest and frightening in its sincerity.

His hand lifted to your face, fingertips brushing gently along your cheek. “You know I love you, right?”

Your breath caught and a small smile formed across his lips. The smile that only belonged to you.

“You’re my favorite thing that’s ever happened to me, baby.” He said.

“I love you too.”

The words settled softly between you. Then you leaned forward and kissed him slowly. John sighed into it, a sound that carried months and years of trust, healing, and finally allowing himself to be loved.

When you pulled away, he didn’t move an inch. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you closer until there was hardly any space left between you.

The cat grumbled at being disturbed, moving to the end of the couch where it could lay peacefully again.

As the rain continued to fall outside, John rested his forehead against yours and closed his eyes. You both were tucked beneath blankets in front of the fire.

The drive took four hours through winding mountain roads that grew progressively darker as civilization fell away behind her. Her mind raced, replaying every moment of their relationship since that day he'd saved her from a collapsing building. Since he'd looked at her with those steel blue eyes and decided she would be his. She’d loved him through the murders, through Stormfront, through every terrible thing he'd done. She’d loved him because beneath the god complex and the cruelty, she saw a broken boy who just wanted someone to stay.

And now, finally, he was just a man.

The relief that flooded through her felt so intense it bordered on guilt. She would never wish for his downfall, never wanted him humiliated or destroyed. But this? This stripping away of the power that had twisted him into something monstrous? It felt like salvation.

The cabin began to materialize through the trees as she pulled into the secluded driveway. It was tucked deep in the woods where no cameras could find him. She used the key he'd given her months ago, a gesture that had felt like a marriage proposal, especially coming from someone who trusted no one. The metal was cold against her palm as she turned the lock.

Inside, the air hung still and silent. No hum of super-hearing tracking her heartbeat from miles away. No casual floating or careless strength. Just emptiness pressing against her eardrums.

After quietly wandering through the cabin for a few minutes, she found him in the bedroom.

He sat hunched on the edge of the mattress, staring at his hands. His bare hands. No gloves. His suit was torn, stained with blood that had dried to rust. His own blood, she realized with a jolt. He'd never bled before. Not like this.

"John," she whispered, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

He didn't look up. His jaw clenched, muscles twitching beneath skin that suddenly looked so fragile. Mortal.

"You shouldn't be here." His voice was rough, stripped of its usual commanding resonance. It sounded almost human.

"Where else would I be?"

She crossed the room slowly, carefully, the way one might approach a wounded animal. When she reached him, she knelt between his spread knees, her hands coming to rest on his thighs. He was solid and warm. He was real in a way he'd never been before.

He flinched away from her touch. "Don't." The word came out strangled. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm..." He couldn't finish. His hands curled into fists, knuckles white with tension. "I can't hear your heartbeat. I can't sense if you're scared or lying or about to run. I'm nothing now. Just... nothing."

Something fierce and protective surged through her chest. "John." She reached up, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Look at me."

He did, and the devastation in those blue eyes nearly destroyed her. Eyes that had once burned through steel now held only fear and shame, along with something that looked dangerously close to despair.

"I'm glad," she whispered.

He went absolutely still.

"What?"

"I'm glad your powers are gone." The words tumbled out, dangerous and true and impossible to take back. "I'm glad you're not a god anymore. I'm glad you can't kill someone by accident, can't hear everything, can't fly away from me. I'm glad you're just... you. Just John. Just mine."

For a moment, he didn't move. Didn't breathe. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.

Then something shifted in his expression. Something dark and desperate and hungry.

"You're glad?" His voice dropped to something dangerous and predatory, despite his powerlessness. "You're glad I'm weak?”

"You're not weak. You're..."

"I'm fucking human." He spat the word like a curse, like the worst insult imaginable. His hands shot out, gripping her arms hard enough to bruise. Hard enough that before, he would have shattered her bones without meaning to. "Is that what you wanted? For me to be pathetic? Powerless? Safe?"

"I wanted you to be mine without worrying you'd accidentally kill me. I wanted..."

He kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. His mouth crashed against hers with bruising force, teeth catching her bottom lip, tongue demanding entry like he was trying to devour her whole. His hands tangled in her hair, gripping tight, and for the first time in their relationship, he didn't hold back. He didn’t have to carefully modulate his strength. He kissed her like a man drowning, like she was oxygen itself after he'd been suffocating for years.

When he pulled back, they were both panting.

"Mine," he growled against her mouth. "You said I'm yours, but you're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours."

"Again."

"I'm yours, John. I've always been..."

He stood abruptly, hauling her up with him, and then she was falling backward onto the mattress with his full weight coming down on top of her. The breath was punched out of her lungs. He was heavy. Solid muscle, bone, and heat, pressing her deep into the mattress in a way he'd never been able to before without risking her life.

"Fuck," he breathed, and there was wonder in his voice beneath the desperation. "I can actually... I won't break you."

His hips ground against hers, and she felt him hard and thick through his torn suit. His hands were everywhere, pulling at her clothes with shaking fingers, tearing fabric in his haste. Her shirt ripped and the bra underneath snapped. He made a sound low in his throat when her breasts spilled free, immediately ducking his head to capture one nipple between his teeth.

"John... oh..."

"Tell me you love me." He sucked hard, possessive, leaving marks that would bloom purple by morning. "Tell me I'm enough like this. Tell me..." His voice fractured. "Tell me you won't leave."

"I love you." She arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders through the torn fabric of his suit. "I'm not leaving. I'm never..."

He bit down, and she cried out. Not quite pain. Not quite pleasure. Something desperate in between that made her core clench with need.

"I'm going to fuck you," he said against her skin, his hands already working at her jeans, yanking them down her legs along with her underwear in one violent motion. "I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll feel me for days. You'll know exactly who you belong to."

"Yes..." she gasped out.

"I'm going to put a baby in you." His pupils were blown wide, face flushed with arousal and something that looked like mania. He looked feral. Unhinged. Beautiful in his desperation. "Right here, right now. I'm going to fill you up until it takes. You'll be mine. Completely mine. No one else will ever..."

"John." She cupped his face, forcing him to focus through the haze of need. "I'm already yours."

Something broke in his expression. His forehead dropped to hers, and his breath came in ragged gasps that bordered on panic.

"Am I still good enough?" The question came out small. Broken. Childlike. "Without the powers, without... am I still..."

"You're everything."

He made a choked sound, and then he was kissing her again, softer this time but no less desperate. His hands trembled as they mapped her body, learning her all over again, without the filter of super-senses. He pressed his ear to her chest, listening to her heartbeat the only way he could now. Close, intimate, human.

"It's racing," he murmured, something like awe coloring his voice.

"Because of you."

His hand slid between her thighs, fingers finding her wet and ready. He groaned like he'd been struck.

"Fuck, Y/N. You're soaked." He circled her clit with his thumb, and her hips bucked involuntarily. "Is this for me? Even like this? Even when I'm just..."

"Especially like this."

He worked her with his fingers, watching her face with an intensity that made her feel stripped bare in ways that had nothing to do with her nakedness. He was learning her, cataloging every gasp and moan, every place that made her arch and whimper. Without super-hearing, he had to pay attention. Had to be present with her in a way he'd never needed to before.

"I need..." He withdrew his fingers, and she whined at the loss. "I need to be inside you. I need..."

"Yes. Please, John, please..."

He fumbled with his suit, finally managing to free himself. His cock was flushed and leaking, and when he lined himself up at her entrance, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely hold himself steady.

"I won't last," he admitted, his voice rough with shame and need. "I can't... it's been so long since I felt anything this intense, and I..."

"I don't care." She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him closer. "I just need you."

He pushed inside in one brutal thrust, and they both cried out. He was thick and hard and real, stretching her almost to the point of pain. He didn't give her time to adjust, didn't ease in carefully. He just took, claimed, possessed.

"Mine," he growled, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. "Mine, mine, mine..."

The bed frame creaked under the force of his thrusts. He fucked her like he was trying to crawl inside her skin, like he could somehow merge their bodies into one if he just went deep enough, hard enough. His full weight pressed her into the mattress with each thrust, and she could feel the sweat building between their bodies, could smell the salt and musk of pure human exertion.

"You feel... fuck... you feel so good." His voice broke on the words. "So tight. So perfect. Tell me... tell me I'm your good boy. Tell me I'm..."

"You're perfect," she gasped out, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave marks. "You're my good boy, John. You're so good, so... oh god..."

He adjusted his angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside her that made stars explode behind her eyelids. Her walls clenched around him, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper.

"I'm not going to last," he panted against her neck, his breath hot and ragged. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't..."

"Don't apologize." She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling him into a kiss that was more teeth than tenderness. "Come inside me. Fill me up. Give me everything."

"Fuck..." His rhythm faltered, becoming erratic. "I'm going to... I'm going to get you pregnant. Right now. I'm going to pump you so full of my cum that... that..."

"Please," she begged him.

"You'll never leave me then." His voice turned desperate, almost manic. "You'll be stuck with me. Trapped. Mine forever. You'll have my baby and you'll... you'll..."

"I'm already yours forever," she promised, and she meant it with every fiber of her being.

That was all it took for her to break him.

He buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a broken cry, his whole body shuddering. She felt him pulse inside her, felt the warmth of his release flooding her, and the intimacy of it, the pure human vulnerability, pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm rolled through her in waves, her inner walls clenching around him, milking him for every drop.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He stayed buried inside her, his face pressed against her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. She could feel his heart hammering against her chest, just as fast and frantic as her own.

"Don't leave," he whispered finally, and he sounded so small. So scared. So unlike the god he'd been just hours ago. "Please don't leave me now that I'm... now that I'm nothing."

"You're not nothing." She held him tighter, one hand stroking through his sweat-dampened hair. "You're everything. You're mine. And I'm never leaving."

He made a sound that might have been relief, and his arms wrapped around her with crushing force. Not enough to hurt. He was still being careful, even now. But enough that she knew he meant it. Enough that she felt the depth of his need, his fear, his desperate love.

"I love you," he breathed against her skin. "I love you so fucking much it terrifies me."

"I love you too."

He finally lifted his head, and his eyes were red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before. He looked young. Human. Real.

"I'm going to keep you here," he said, and there was an edge of possessiveness creeping back into his voice. "In this cabin. Away from everyone. Where no one can look at you or touch you or..."

"John..."

"I know, I know." He pressed his forehead to hers. "I'm being crazy. I just... I need time. To figure out how to be... this. How to be human with you."

"We'll figure it out together."

He kissed her again, softer this time. Tender in a way that made her chest ache. And when he finally pulled out of her, he immediately pressed his hand between her thighs, keeping his cum inside her like he could somehow make his fantasy real through sheer force of will.

"Stay like this," he murmured. "Just for a little while. Let me... let me pretend."

She didn't argue. She just held him as he curled around her, possessive and vulnerable and entirely, completely human.

For the first time since she’d met him, Homelander was just John.

To a point that you’re just grateful to all the powers at play that he’s still next to you today.

But you understand wanting things to feel normal. At your usual pace. Like the whole world hasn’t witnessed… well, that. So with a soft, sweet smile you let him have this. Letting him push you on top of the bed sent a little thrill up your spine. His strength could never compare to what it used to be and yet that’s the best part. You’re mindful enough to understand that he’s not ready to hear that you prefer him this way.

His strength is no longer a threat, it’s a thing you get to enjoy without that tiny flicker of doubt at the level of fine control he possesses. If somebody asks you? This is your happy ending. With the dirty, infectious claws of Vought dislodged from his shoulders, you can finally breathe again.

You just want him to see it that way too.

But it’s not that simple on the other side—you’re sympathetic to that.

You thought starting with kissing was a good idea, he’s always been fond of the act. Being stripped of his powers doesn’t take the joy of the mundane away. The kisses started off slow. Cautious of his bruised skin you didn’t pull him in the way you usually would. So you let him lead the pace, let him lie on top of you kissing you delicately as if you were the injured one.

Eventually he slides off you to get a better angle as his hand slips down your body.

You whine pretty for him when he kisses your neck with tongue and teeth, his smile tactile against your skin. That’s when you loosen up. The worry of what he built this moment up to is gone—you just get to enjoy the feeling of his lips on your skin and his hand down your body.

Homelander’s hand slips under your pyjama shorts and lucky for him you’ve already forgoed underwear. You sigh when his fingers dip into the centre of you, wetting them before coming back up to rub your clit.

“Mhm, that feels really nice.” Your breathy tone should tell him everything he needs to know.

It does feel really nice. You melt into the mattress, enjoying the pleasurable tingles migrating into every limb. Once Homelander stops kissing you, instead focusing mental energy on how his fingers play your tune, you turn your head to the side, kissing his unbruised shoulder before lying it back down again to close your eyes.

He feels great—just like usual—but it’s not the rushed dizzying pace he used to put you through. This feels like a fantastic massage more than a race to an orgasm.

You like it that way. Homelander less so.

It’s dark—he insisted on it—so you barely see when the issue starts, let alone when it turns into a full-blown meltdown.

His hand stills, pointer finger tapping your clit in slow succession.

“I–uh—I used to be good at this.” Your eyes shoot open and your head snaps to your right.

“What?”

“Making you feel good. I used to… I used to be able to feel you better. Every pulse, every breath. It’s—it was—second nature. I could hear your heartbeat riight here.” He taps your clit again, almost disappointed. You can only imagine the face he’s put on.

All the pleasure drains from your system. You don’t know how to approach this. 

He lets out a humourless chuckle, “I used to be able to look through you and find exactly where to touch you.”

You can’t help but snort, “I wish you hadn’t done that.” That was the wrong thing to say. You see him snap his head to you. One choked-up breath is enough to sink a heavy weight in your gut. 

“Well thank fuck you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” His voice caught in his throat, soft and vulnerable.

“Homelander—oh baby, no no no, that is not what I meant.” You pull yourself up, leaning over to click the bedside lamp on while his hand slides off your body and with a soft thud it hits the bedding. Homelander sits up.

“Hey look at me,” you put your hand on his arm after he angrily wipes his tears. “Do you think I’m not enjoying myself? Or that you’re—that you’re not… enough?”

Your hand goes up to hold his jaw, softly rubbing below the cut on his cheek. The residual tracks of his tears wet your thumb.

He looks away from you, your hand is left hanging in the air. He turns his body, legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

“You’ve always been… ecstatic, euphoric, over the fucking moon anytime we fucked. But that’s gone, huh? I’m no longer a god. I never was.” He visibly swallows, his chest heaves with a sob.

“You know I’ve never cared for power.” Softly you slide up behind him, arms wrapping around his torso from behind with slow motion—testing the waters if he’ll let you.

He does. You press a lingering kiss against his spine.

“I love being with you, and I always will. You don’t need your senses to touch me right. You’ve done it a million times. It’s muscle memory. Today may have just been a little too fast for us.”

He huffs a dry laugh. “Maybe not a million.”

You take the moment of lightness and nuzzle your face into his back. He’s wearing an old tattered T-shirt you found in the closet. You really need to get him to pick some nice clothing he’ll like.

“Alright, smartass, plenty enough.” You smile against his back and kiss him there again.

You sit like this in silence for a while.

“You don’t have to be gentle with me, you know? I know I’m useless but you’re still not stronger than me.” He sniffs a little bit but you can tell he’s getting some of his voice back.

“You’re not useless.”

“Right.” His scoff is sharp, accusatory.

“Your strength, your senses, any of it… it’s not why I’m with you. Them being gone isn’t a loss for me, it’s just different.”

“Yeah, different bad.”

“No. Just different. Things will have to change, but I’m happy to have you. Can you turn around for me honey?” You sit back a bit to give him the space, relieved when he turns around and pulls his legs back on the bed, facing you.

“I love you. No matter what. No matter how this changes our lives, you have me.” Your hands naturally itch to hold his face again, but the quiver of his lip makes you act further. So you lean into him, hands sneaking under his arms as they bring him into a hug.

Oh, how it feels good to feel him against you. Still alive. Still there with you. You feel the burn of brimming tears but you blink them away. Rubbing his back takes your attention away from the pain of what could have been.

“I love you so much.” You say it again, your lips speak close to his ear before you rest your head back on his shoulder. Homelander puts his arms around you too, squeezing you softly as if you could still shatter under his hands. If it makes him happy you don’t mind playing along with his fantasy.

“We don’t have to do anything today. Let’s take it slow and wait for it, okay?” He pulls away, near offended.

“B-but—I want to. I want to… feel something good. I want to make you feel good. Like I used to.”

“You still do. You’ve never stopped.” You reassure him, pulling on this hand and pressing it in between your breasts. “You may not hear it anymore but you can feel it, can’t you?” Your heart rate is slightly elevated.

“You can feel me like this. Like you used to.”

His hand presses into you gently, feeling your heart rate. 

He nods shakily, this gesture means something to him. You understand why his powers felt like such an innate part of him. What do you do when you feel like you’ve lost all your senses? Anything that felt even remotely like you? You don’t know, but you’re sure as hell gonna find out for him. With him.

Homelander kisses you with shocking passion. It steals the breath right out of your lungs. His hand stays firmly pressed against your ribcage, hungry lips devouring your words of adoration. Just like the hug and the hand over your heart you let him. You want him to have this.

Part of you feels relieved. In the couple days since the event, things have been rocky—rightfully so. To see just a glimmer of his confidence back fills you with so much excitement you can’t help but grin into his kiss.

Your heart rate is going up, winded from the gasping breathy kisses. He feels it too. He doesn’t need his super senses. You’re gonna teach him how to use the tools he has at his disposal just to feel even a sliver like himself.

Anything it takes.

“I want to—Can I?” He sounds desperate, just like the many times he has before. The fact that he can even think that you don’t see him the same way you did before is crazy. It’s never been about the powers, or godhood. It’s always been just him. 

The slow mornings rolling around in bed, just talking lazily about the world, about plans, and the future—bright visions of your life together. You used to talk about the colours you’d paint the walls of the living room, or the pictures you’d put up along the staircase. 

Or the romantic or passionate evenings, nights spent clutching the sheets or holding onto each other. The jokes and the laughs, the meaningful conversations. Even the coworker gossiping sessions. You loved everything that had to do with spending time together.

The powers never played a role. You’ll just have to show him how to wield his new ones. While mundane in his eyes, you still see him as extraordinary. And that didn’t happen thanks to a title change nor his power set.

“Yes. Yes you can.” 

He goes to take off your top, discarding the garment off to the side. Homelander’s lips go down from your neck to in between your breasts. You expect him to latch onto your nipples for comfort but he stays there, kissing the soft skin in between your breasts. You stroke the back of his neck, fingers playing with his hair. 

Once his fingers reach the hem of your shorts, he stops, pulls back and looks at you with an expression so uncertain it makes your heart ache.

“What if I don’t know how anymore?”

It’s a silly worry to have but you understand the underlying question. All the what ifs are swimming in his mind, thinking ‘what if you won’t love me the way I am anymore?’

Homelander’s always been a master at drowning his sorrows in pleasure. Any fight you’ve ever had ended up getting solved through touch and affection, however heated at the time.

He reduces his value to numbers. Score on a leaderboard. Stats on a supe sheet. Just how Vought tracked his yearly revenue, he tracks the numerical value he brings to your life.

But he’s always been so much more than that. And you will spend the rest of your life making him believe it.

“Then we’ll learn together.” And you mean it. With all the hiccups and blockades on the way.

You shimmy out of your shorts, feeling confident when his lips part, taking in a little gasp.

“Let me, baby.” You tug at his sleeping shirt, letting him take it off.

“Let me make us feel good.” Hands sliding down his fuzzy chest, over his soft tummy and down to his underwear. He’s already half-hard. Instinctually your hand squeezes him through the fabric, enjoying the lewd little moan he lets out.

He’s so sweet when he lets you treat him for once. Giving up the power, the status, and the performance for the sake of something real.

With his help, you pull his underwear down, giving his cock a couple of strokes before you sit over his lap and guide him right to your wet entrance. It’s so good to feel him in you again. It feels right. Being as close to him as humanly possible has always been essential—now more than ever.

You fully sink down on his lap with a happy sigh. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you ground yourself in the reality that is his warm body holding yours. After the nightmares you’ve had, you’ll take any reminder that he’s still here.

You don’t move. The light is still on and you can see every injury out in the open. Even when vulnerable, he’s beautiful—because he’s yours. Your fingers silently trace featherlight lines across his face. You don’t notice yourself smiling until he mirrors your expression.

That smile alone tells you that it will all be okay, regardless of how long it takes to get there.

Taglist (you can add(or remove) yourself to be tagged when I publish a new fic):

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. 

Word Count: 2892 --------------------------------------

The Nation Mourns

You prayed. 

You prayed and you prayed for a power that would be useful and not disgusting or embarrassing. You didn’t quite know what you wanted, you just knew Butcher was coming, and Homelander was looking forward to it for some deranged reason. 

“My… fellow… Americans…” 

His voice came through the speakers of the bathroom, where you held a needle to your arm, the bright green liquid staring up at you with judgment. 

A week ago, Homelander had made you swear you wouldn’t do it. 

“Look at what happened to Butcher,” he’d said. “I can’t… I can’t have you fall sick, I can’t let you be taken—” 

You hugged him to stop him. 

“You’re all I have left,” he said softly against your shoulder. “Don’t… please don’t do something stupid.” 

“I won’t, okay?” you said. “I just wanted to… protect you.” 

He pulled back, eyes shining. “You want to protect me?” 

“Why are you saying it like that?” you asked. 

“Sweetheart,” he laughed. “I am immortal.” 

“That French guy was working on a bomb to wipe the V1 out of you.” 

“Please, that’s wishful thinking,” he shrugged. “I’ll be fine. You just have to stand there in that room and let them witness my ascension. That’s all you need to do. I’ll take care of everything else, okay?” 

You nodded. 

You loved him, but you also knew him. Control was his safety. If anything happened that made the control slip, he’d be a deer caught in headlights. Not that you’d ever tell him that… he would think you considered him weak. Incompetent. 

Nothing. 

He kissed your forehead just before entering the Oval Office. 

“I uh—I just have to go to the bathroom for a sec, I’ll be right there.” 

He frowned. “Can’t you just… hold it? I’m about to address the country.” 

“Just… two minutes, I swear. Please? Go on in, I’ll be right there.” 

He didn’t like that. He would have been angrier if he hadn’t been preoccupied. 

“Just… ugh, fine.” 

He huffed and entered the office. You turned on your heel and ran to the nearest ladies’ room. Shut and locked the door and emptied out your purse. 

Now, here you were, trying not to shake as you held the needle to your arm. 

“It’s just… one time,” you told yourself. “One time. God, please, please don’t make my fucking pubes grow.” 

You made contact. Pushed the plunger further in and watched the green disappear into your system. 

You took a deep breath. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, exactly… light-headed? Super strength? Heat? Cold? Pain? 

The answer came seconds later when your heart began to pound violently in your chest. 

“Oh, what the fuck…” You tried to regulate your breathing. It felt like the amount of blood in your body had tripled. You sank to your knees and clawed at your clothes. 

“A day commemorating Jesus,” Homelander’s voice continued on the speakers. “Who, as we all know, was tortured, stripped of his dignity, and killed. And that’s all well and good.” 

You choked on nothing as you convulsed and stared up at the ceiling. 

Please. Please. Please. A good power. Teleportation, maybe. Or laser eyes. Starlight’s power. Please not The Deep’s… 

“AH!” you screamed as something in your body felt like it was snapping. 

And then… silence. A calm descended over you, as if your body had adjusted to new clothes. 

You got up off the floor and felt… wonderful. 

“Okay…” you said to yourself. You were still light-headed, so you stood still to orient yourself. “Okay, okay… what’s the power, then?” 

Nobody answered. Who the fuck would? 

“Not just to be the world's greatest hero but to save all humanity…” Homelander continued. 

You knew he’d get irritated soon if you didn’t show. But… fuck, what was the power? 

You moved towards the door and nearly slammed into it. 

What? 

You took a few steps back. You walked ahead and, again, nearly ran through the door.

You looked down at your feet. 

Okay. This would take a minute.  

***

“Shock and awe, my son…” came a voice over the speakers, violently British and insufferably cocky. “Blood and fucking bone.” 

Now, you thought to yourself. 

Before Butcher could get another word out, you slammed into Homelander’s body and ran him out of the White House, past the lawn, past the Washington Monument, further and further and further, in the blink of an eye. 

Super speed. 

Thank. Fucking. God. 

You kept running, air filling your lungs, your body feeling unleashed. You almost closed your eyes with the euphoria of it until you realized you were carrying precious cargo. 

You reached your destination—his cabin in the woods even Vought didn’t know about—and dropped him to the ground. 

He fell like a human. 

You winced at the sound he made. 

He stayed down for a few seconds while you caught your breath. The world around you seemed… fuller. Brighter. Every particle of dust felt visible to you, every insect, every leaf moving in the breeze, every tiny sound—

“What the fuck did you do?” came his voice from the ground. 

You looked down at him. Bleeding, but not damaged. You’d gotten to him just in time. Well… you could have been faster, he might have still had his powers, but if you miscalculated, you would have lost your powers too, and that would just be stupid, and you were not stu—

“Answer me!” 

You realized your thoughts were running a mile a minute. 

“Sorry…” you said, snapping back to attention. “I—I took Temp V, I’m sorry, but see, it was good I took it!” 

He shook his head. “You’re… you’re going to die.” 

“I won’t die from one hit, Butcher took like 20 hits.” 

“Listen to you. You’re talking about it like it’s heroine.” 

“That’s not the point,” you said, bringing him back. “John… your powers…” 

He sighed, broken and defeated. He teared up. 

“Oh… baby…” You said softly. You moved to the ground slowly and wrapped your arms around him. 

He felt… fragile. The usual brick wall you were usually met with, raw power rolling off of him in waves, was no longer there. Or maybe it was your newfound strength… which you were trying not to enjoy too much. 

He let out a breath, shaky and afraid, against your neck. 

For a second, you thought he might actually sob.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He just sat there in your arms, stiff as a corpse, breathing like he had forgotten how lungs worked.

“It’s fine,” you whispered, though you had no idea if it was. “It’s okay. It’s… over.”

He didn’t move.

You swallowed, rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “Maybe this is a gift.”

That made him pull back. He looked at you like you had said something so insane his body had to reboot just to process it.

His eyes found yours. Red-rimmed, wet, furious. Terrified. Human.

“What?” he asked.

You almost flinched. “John—”

“Go to Vought.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You have super speed. Go to Vought,” he said again, voice low and sharp. “Get me Compound V.”

You stared at him.

Then laughed once, because surely he wasn’t serious. Surely you had misheard him, or your super ears or whatever the fuck had scrambled the words on the way in.

“Are you actually serious?”

His jaw twitched. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

“You just got out alive.”

“I have unfinished business with Butcher.”

Oh.

There it was.

The name still came out of him like poison. Like a chain still wrapped around his throat.

You sat back on your heels and looked at him. Really looked at him. Blood smeared down the side of his face. Dirt on his cheek. His hair mussed. His lip trembling despite his best efforts to stop it.

For the first time since you’d known him, Homelander looked… small. You saw the boy and what had been done to him rather than the mythology he had made himself into. 

“John…” you said carefully. “Aren’t you tired?”

He looked away. “Don’t.”

“No, seriously. Aren’t you tired?”

“I said don’t.”

“We could stay here,” you said, softer. “You have money. Like, a stupid amount of money. We could go anywhere. Somewhere Vought and Butcher will never find us.” 

His eyes flicked back to you.

You reached for his hand. He didn’t give it to you, exactly, but he didn’t pull it away either. You counted that as a victory because you were not emotionally equipped to count anything else right now.

“We can start fresh,” you said. “Please.”

His face tightened. “Fresh.”

“Yes.”

“You think there’s a fresh for me?”

“I do.”

He gave a weak scoff and pushed back from you.

Or tried to.

It was barely anything. His hand pressed against your shoulder, but there was no force behind it. No effortless strength, no warning in the movement. Just a man trying to create space and realizing, in real time, that his body no longer obeyed him like it used to.

The realization hit him, too. You saw it happen in the way his eyes widened slightly and his hand faltered. Your heart broke for him. 

And he hated that you saw it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he snapped.

“I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m looking at you because I love you.”

“Fuck off.”

“John.”

“I said fuck off.”

“No.”

He looked at you then, startled despite himself.

You took a breath. Your heart was still beating too fast. Not Temp V fast anymore. Something else. Fear, probably. Love, definitely. Maybe both were the same thing when it came to him.

“I can’t watch you go back to Butcher,” you said. “I can’t watch you walk right into him again. I can’t watch him depower you again. Or kill you. You only just made it out alive.”

His expression hardened. “You weren’t there.”

“What?”

“At the address.”

As usual, Homelander scrambled for something to blame when he felt like the spotlight was too harsh on him. 

He stared at you. “You were supposed to be there.”

“I was coming—”

“You weren’t there because you were shooting yourself up with Temp V?”

You went still.

He smiled, but there was nothing happy in it. “You promised me you wouldn’t do it.”

“And you promised me you’d be careful.”

His eyes flashed. For half a second, your whole body braced for heat vision that wasn’t coming.

That would never come.

God.

“I had to do it,” you said again, quieter this time. “It was one time. I couldn’t… I couldn’t just stand there like a fool and do nothing.”

Your voice cracked before you could stop it. 

“If I had to just stand by and watch Butcher take you from me... I couldn't live with myself..."

Silence.

The forest moved around you. Leaves whispering. Bugs screaming. A bird somewhere singing, having no respect for the emotional weight of the moment.

Homelander stared at you, the anger drained from him finally. Something in him shifted. Something awful and tender and raw.

Maybe he finally got it.

Maybe, for the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like to stand outside the glass. To watch power happen to someone else. To be too slow, too soft, too powerless to make a difference. 

His throat bobbed.

You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand. “I know this isn’t ideal, but…”

A laugh tried to come out of you and died halfway.

“It’s a second chance,” you said. “We can have everything we wanted without the burden of Vought or politics or the Seven.”

He looked at you like you were speaking another language.

Then, very softly, he said, “I don’t know who I am without all that.”

Oh.

That hurt worse than the blood. Worse than the horrible second where you had grabbed him from the White House.

“You’re you,” you said. “Loving. Protective…”

His face crumpled into something ugly. “Not fucking protective now, am I?”

“Protection isn’t just punching holes through people, John.”

He stopped.

“You have a whole, normal life ahead of you to figure out what you are outside Vought,” you said. “You have me to help. I’m not going anywhere.”

He stared down at your hands.

“You sure?” he asked bitterly. “You could take off in a second and I wouldn’t be able to follow you.”

“Why would I do that?”

His laugh was small and vicious. Mostly aimed at himself.

“Because I’m nothing,” he said. “No power, no V, no God, no father, no son, I’m fucking useless.”

“Homelander, you were never useful to me.”

The second it left your mouth, you wanted to grab it out of the air and stomp it to death. His face went blank.

“Gee, thanks.”

“That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

“Yes. Obviously. Jesus Christ, you know what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I mean I didn’t love you because you had a use.”

His eyes flickered.

“And I still love you because it’s not about your use.”

He looked away. Fast. Too fast. Like if he didn’t, whatever was building in his face would betray him. You reached for him again and tugged at his head lightly so he’d rest it against your chest. 

Normally, when you did that, he would listen to your heartbeat. It was as loud as a drum to him. Now… it was soft. You could feel him feel the loss of it. 

He breathed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times. 

You wrapped your arms around him and held on.

“I’m scared,” he said.

It was so quiet you almost missed it. 

“I know,” you whispered.

“I don’t want to be.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“Me neither.”

He huffed against you. It might have been a laugh if either of you were less devastated.

“That’s reassuring,” he said. 

“I know, I’m very wise.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m your idiot.”

His fingers tightened in your shirt. Weakly. Humanly.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are.”

Your eyes burned.

You kissed the top of his head, careful, because he seemed breakable now, and you hated that. Not that he was breakable, just that nobody had ever treated him so gently or taught him that breakable could still be happy. 

A strange heaviness settled into your bones.

At first, you thought it was the emotion of it all. Which, fair. You were in the middle of the woods holding a depowered superhero in your arms after injecting yourself with science heroin. 

Anyone would be tired.

But then… the world dimmed.

Leaves became leaves again. Not a thousand sharp, trembling details. The bugs became background noise. Your blood stopped singing in your ears. The impossible energy in your legs, the thing that had made the whole world feel too slow, began to drain.

“Oh,” you said.

Homelander lifted his head. “What?”

“I think it’s wearing off.”

His expression changed instantly. Panic, sharp and immediate. “What?”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not—what if—what if it does something to you?”

“John.”

“What if your heart stops?”

“John.”

“You could start bleeding or get those fucking tentacles Butcher—”

“Baby.”

That shut him up.

You smiled weakly. “I’m okay, I swear. It just feels like I’m coming down from a hangover or something.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you.

You shifted, trying to sit more comfortably, and the movement made your whole body ache. Not a superhuman ache… just the ordinary, miserable ache of muscles being overused and adrenaline leaving the system.

You laughed under your breath. “Ow.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Nothing. Just… knees.”

“Knees?”

“I have them, apparently, and I used them too much today.” 

He stared at you.

Then, suddenly, unbelievably, he laughed.

It was a short, broken laugh, almost wet around the edges, but it was real. You almost started crying then, because apparently that was the thing that was going to break you. 

Laughter. 

His laugh died quickly, but the ghost of it stayed on his face. He looked younger with it. Lost, yes. Terrified, yes. But younger. 

You leaned back against the tree behind you and pulled him with you.

He resisted for half a second. Pride, probably. Habit, definitely.

Then he gave in.

His head rested against your chest, and you held him there as the last of the V slipped out of your body like a tide going out.

Maybe tomorrow would be awful. Maybe the world would come looking. Half the nation would mourn, the other half would rejoice. Vought would likely spin another tale for the public to eat up. 

But… good things would follow. 

Sure, some days Homelander would wake up furious, grieving, unbearable, terrified of every bruise and paper cut and cold morning. But… he’d have peace. He’d have a life far away from Butcher and Vought and the whole rotten machine that broke him before it made him into the perfect little weapon. 

He snuggled into you further, if such a thing was possible, and let out a soft breath. 

“I’m just John,” he said, as if informing himself of the fact. 

You held him tighter and pressed your lips to his temple.

“Just John is brilliant.” 

His fingers threaded through yours. 

You exhaled, feeling the last spark of Temp V vanish from your blood.

Human. Normal. 

That made two of you.

----------------------------------------

This time there’s a tension in his jaw you’re unfamiliar with. As if he’s biting back from saying something or doing something too early. He still flies at a slower speed, knowing your human body isn’t capable of handling the speeds he considers leisurely.

He still holds you in a bridal carry. A carry he’s particularly fond of as he gets to hold you close and tight and you have no choice but to wrap your arms around his neck, seeking his warmth and support. Just how he likes it.

He slowly lands on top of one of the Chrysler building gargoyles. Presenting a view that adorns many postcards. It’s the all-too-familiar skyline that you already get to see from the floor to ceiling windows of his penthouse, but now you’re right in the middle of it.

“We’re here?” You ask, still holding tight onto him, unwilling to stand on your own feet. Just the thought of being one wrong move away from your demise has your stomach rolling with anxiety.

“Yup. What, not impressed?” He chuckles, retracting his arms from underneath your legs.

“That’s not—Wait wait wait! I’m gonna fall.” Your heart drops when you no longer feel his steel grip around you and you’re forced to stand your feet on the structure underneath you.

For a second that to you feels an eternity long you’re barely breathing or moving, getting the sense that any odd breath will make you fall off.

Heights aren’t usually an issue when you fly with him but suddenly being responsible for your own survival feels a lot more nerve wracking.

“You’re not gonna fall.” He turns you around, your back flush against his chest, his steel grip back around you again as his arm wraps around your middle, grounding you in that secure hold.

“There ya go. Come on now, don’t worry. You seriously think I’d let you fall?”

“No! Of course not. There’s just not a lot of space here.” You let out a nervous chuckle. Your voice quivers just like your legs do when you look down. Your feet are only a few inches away from the edge and instead of admiring the view in front of you, you’re laser focused on keeping them as far away from the ledge as possible.

“Well you better keep close then. Wouldn’t want anything to happen.” And like the asshole he is he shakes you in your place with his arm still securely wrapped around you. That doesn’t mean it stops you from shrieking loud and shrill at the feeling of losing the security you were just thinking of getting comfortable with.

If you were anywhere else, you’d be swatting him across the chest for his cruel move but here your legs feel like jelly and your lower body feels like it’s gotten off a theme park ride. Your gut is in knots and you only feel it untangle itself when he’s comfortingly rubbing the bare skin of your arm up and down all while nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

With the warm summer day having just passed you’re still sporting the same dress Homelander gifted you, but with the drop in temperature in the late hours you already feel the goosebumps appear with each shiver. The cold leather just makes it worse as the goosebumps become more pronounced and you let out a full body shiver right against him. You would have changed if you had known about this impromptu night adventure but he scooped you up and set off into the night without as much as a word.

“It’s cold up here.” You look down at the bustling city still bursting with energy at this hour but little of its sound travels all the way up here.

“Hmm, don’t worry, I’m gonna warm you riiight up.” He rumbles right in your ear.

And before you question it he does. He unzips the side of your dress, leaving the zipper open where it ends by your hips. His gloved hand slides right in, getting a handful of your right breast. The shock of the cold leather on your skin is quickly replaced by the heat creeping up your body to the tips of your ears.

“Homelander! Wha-what the fuck?!”

“What’s the problem sweetheart? Look at that, you’re already warming up.” He hums and shoves his hand underneath the cup of your bra, moving it askew. The leather pinches around your nipple forcing a squeak out of you.

Just like that you feel like you’ve been put on display for the whole world to see. Your body may not be exposed but you doubt anyone wouldn’t be able to put two and two together and realise Homelander really just took you out here for some adult fun.

“P-people will see.” You say in a hushed whisper as if anyone could hear. All the potential onlookers are too far to see what’s going on yet you feel like you’re surrounded. The quiet hum of the city below suddenly feels overwhelmingly loud. Your eyes move back and forth between buildings, streets or windows as if your ordinary human eyes could make out anything but the lights dotting the skyline.

“Hmm, lucky them.” He sounds as smug as can be and you feel the tension he’s been carrying dissipate and if anything, transfer itself onto you. Your legs are shaking. Not from fear. Not from the chill in the air. The embarrassment has your body responding in ways you’re not used to.

“Ooor do you not think they'd be lucky to see you like this?” You feel his sharp grin against the soft skin of your neck as he’s messing with you. He’s nipping at it, kissing it sweetly, knowing exactly how to get you to melt into his embrace when he wants you to do things you’re reluctant to. He knows you’ll enjoy this. He’s doing it for you, really. With that he adds. "I know I feel pretty lucky."  

“We—ah—really shouldn’t be doing this.” You do your best to dissuade him from exposing you in public but he’s set on what he’s come here to do and you’re not one to easily say no to the man. 

“Babe, I can do whatever the fuck I want. We can do whatever the fuck we want.” He pulls his hand out from underneath your bra cup. Instead he pulls up the fabric of the back of your dress up, pinning the bunched up swell of it above your ass and in between both of your bodies.

Unable to resist he greedily squeezes your ass with the hand that’s not holding you stable, groaning into your neck. You feel his hot breath and the wet lick of his tongue when he draws a line from the base of your neck to your ear earning himself a delightful moan. It's those natural sounds you make that make him harder than anything else. When you squeak out your little whimpers and whines or when those pretty moans spill out freely from your lips it’s like you’re serenading him a song you wrote just for him. 

And fuck, he can’t wait any longer. 

His hand lands on the waistband of your underwear and he squeezes the dainty lace fabric in his fist. 

With a quick snap of his wrist he pulls at the fabric, ripping it off your body and throwing the tatters of it into the wind.

You yelp in shock, both of your hands landing on the arm he has wrapped around your middle as if clutching onto him for more support. You don’t try to catch the ruined panties when he throws them, caring for your life more than the embarrassment of some stranger stumbling across your ruined underwear once it lands somewhere in the city. 

It’s not that, neither it is the feeling of him rubbing up against you that makes you clutch your pearls. You usually only get to feel the hard shell of his suit anyway. No. It’s the familiar hiss of his zipper that beyond your comprehension invokes a pavlovian response in you, already wetting your cunt, rolling the heat from your gut straight to your throbbing clit. 

He can smell this change in you, inhaling deeply as if he finally got a breath of fresh air he’s been so desperate for.

“There’s my girl. I knew you’d enjoy this too.” You don’t have to turn around to know exactly what kind of pleased, self-assured face he’s pulling. You’ve seen it each time he’s introduced you to all the kinks of his you’ve ended up loving. Sometimes even more than him. It’s clear he’s hoping this to be another one.

You feel him pull out his cock, pushing it right against your ass. Albeit not new the feeling still makes you blush. Being out here, potential seen by anyone with a keen eye sends a strange thrill down your spine now that you’re not the only one who’s exposed.

While he’s got your mind occupied with the arousing feeling of his cock against your bare ass, he slips his hand down the front of your dress. He graciously keeps the front of you covered from too many prying eyes, though it’s not hard to tell what he’s doing when he squishes himself closer. His cock sitting warm and snug in between your cheeks, his head resting right on your shoulder and the hand he’s not holding you with is already toying with your clit in a way that has your knees buckle.

“Don’t stop, don’t ssstop.” You hiss with pleasure and for a moment you forget where you are and that the breeze comes from being 300 metres high in the air. The familiarity with which your body responds to him is comforting. You let yourself sing for him freely as he rubs your clit expertly, his teeth nipping at your ear when he’s not whispering how he wants you to cum for him. How he wants you to cum all while anyone can catch a glimpse of your unravelling. 

And with the precision of a man who’s spent many hours with his hand in between your legs he rubs you into an orgasm. The peak of it has your legs shaking to the point where he lifts you up a little, giving you the chance to really just relax into the way your body quivers and tingles from the mouth watering climax. 

And just when you think he’s happy and done after having debauched you for the whole world to see he puts you down, pulling his hand back, bending a little in the knees so he can slide his cock right in between your thighs.

The surprise of it strangely has you moving right against him rather than away. Your thoroughly soaked cunt finds its happy place right on top of his cock, coating the top of it with a generous amount of slick.

And just like you typically sing for Homelander, he has his own tune made just for you. He whines needily, not even trying to hold back as he pulls you closer. One hand on your hip, the other still securing you around your middle while he drags his hips back and forth, the wet slide of his cock deafeningly loud. 

His cock rubs the whole length of your cunt, the tip of it poking at the fabric of the front of your dress each time his hips are flush with yours.

The head of his cock catches on your clit with each slide, normally an incredibly pleasant and warm sensation but now it’s piercing hot as it stimulates your burning clit to lengths you’re not used to.

A whine breaks out past your lips in desperation.

“It’s too much, too much, p-uh-please, Homelander!” 

“Just a little longer, you can do it for me. Can’t you?” He sounds just as wrecked as you. His voice quivers, his thrusts stutter. You know he’s not gonna last long. A fact you’re partially grateful for as the force with which he douses your clit with furious friction is making you lose your mind.

You let out a little affirmative sound that resembles a sob and you let him use you how he seemed fit. The unrelenting pressure you can’t seem to escape is nothing you’ve ever been able to achieve yourself.

The novelty of it catches your body off guard and the burning feeling spreads all the way down your limbs as you orgasm on his cock, giving in to the intense sensation one more time. And while he can’t feel your cunt pulsating around his cock like he’s used to, he still feels you convulse and throb against him. 

Which is more than good enough for him to reach the finish line.

Once you collect your thoughts again you watch as he thrusts a few more times in between your thighs. His cockhead pushes against the fabric of the front of your dress each time, now wetting it with long dribbles of cum.

You watch as the fabric takes on a darker colour where it’s soaked in his cum. If you weren’t out of your mind with your own pleasure you might have reflected on the debauchery you just partook in but instead you blankly stare at the droplet of cum that lands on the surface you’re standing on. You’ve got half a mind to crouch and wipe it down with your already ruined dress but you don’t feel like tempting fate with a fall to your early death.

Surely the rain will get it. And at this point you couldn’t care less. All you want to do now is get flown back home and wrapped up in your hero's arms. 

And per usual, your hero is more than happy to oblige. Just like you’ll do anything for him, he does the same for you.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander fic):

@infinetlyforgotten @rafecamsgirlll @nervoussystemss

“Don’t worry we’re all weird behind closed doors,” You assured Homelander with a kind smile, watching your employer pace in front of you. You were sitting alone with him in his condo, unsure of how to behave. This was supposed to be an interview and formal meeting, and it felt not at all like one, it was too personal, too intense.

Even with the sour look he was giving you, you remained unbothered, after all his anger didn’t truly affect you, and you weren’t new to rude, angry, or snarky people like him. Putting up with his standoffish attitude was second nature to you. “Yeah well, my weird isn’t like anybody else’s weird. I’m the Homelander.” He emphasized, his brows raising as he gave you a tight lipped smile.

“Right… well perhaps in time you can come to tell me, but I’m fairly flexible.” You assured softly, unsure if he was so rigid from embarrassment, or dislike for you. “Everyday when you get into work I want you by my side, I don’t want you near any other of the Seven. Next, you’re the only one from now on touching me, fucking tired of all the makeup and hair people putting their filthy hands on me, your job now.” He pointed his gloved finger at you, pacing slowly in front of you.

Homelander huffed out a breath slowly stopping abruptly, his hands folded behind his back and beneath his cape. “I don’t need anymore workers planning schedules, cooking meals, or cleaning my room. I have enough of those.” You raised your brows at his softened tone, nodding slowly as you mulled over what he was saying. “Well what should I do?” You asked carefully, your hands folded in your lap as you watched him watch you.

“I need someone who can handle personal tasks… helping me with a bath for example. Eating with me, stuff like that,” Homelander mumbled reluctantly, crossing his arms, making him look petulant. Despite the desire to question him on why he needed these things from a paid employee, you nodded in agreement, quickly making up in your mind that I really wasn’t that bad of an ask. Especially considering you were working with one of the most famous men globally.

“Yeah okay, that sounds good. So hair, makeup, eating with you and drawing baths?” You summarized with a lifted brow, watching as he slowly nodded his head as you listed each one off. “And anything else that.. I may need from you..” Homelander trailed, waving his hand in circles as if it’d help him think of what else he wanted to say. “Right, anyway, you’re hired, up an’ at-em, eh?” He clapped smiling brightly, but it was clearly fake.

“Ashley wants me down at the news station for an interview, you’ll be coming with me.” You nodded eagerly standing at the ready while he began his walk through the living area, leading you both out.

Homelander wasn’t expecting you to do so well, having you by his side was seamless. Every morning you came in with a drink for him, something with way more milk than necessary, you brought these cute things to him you found, which despite himself he liked.

There was something refreshing about you bringing him an extra desert you made, or an oddly shaped rock you found while walking. It was little instances like those that showed him whenever you weren’t with him, you still thought of him.

You’d once gotten swarmed by reporters after Homelander was caught lasering someone to death. They surrounded you, overwhelmed you shouting questions and crude assumptions. And yet you kept your cool all throughout.

The way you excused him, was so you, empathetic; seeing the justification in wrongs that you probably shouldn’t have. Homelander felt his heart skip rewatching the scene on the news.

‘We have to understand he’s not like you and I,’ Your voice said nervously through the flat screen; a breath of fresh air, to Homelander the acknowledgment of the inherently different beings humans and supes were. ‘You don’t have to concern yourself with laser powers or super strength whenever you’re angry. Homelander does, and despite the sad civilian loss I don’t think he’s a monster for something he can’t always control.’

The amount of pride he felt with you defence of him, and you didn’t even have to be told or threatened. You simply did. And when he asked why the following day, you gave him a simple answer with the sweetest smile he was sure he’d ever seen. You cared for him.

Despite himself, he softened up to you. And your kindness didn’t end. You spoke to him so affectionately, you touched up his TV make up, you fixed his hair with gentle touches, and you didn’t mind sitting with him in the bathroom as he bathed. The lonesomeness he didn’t know he felt started to lessen with you near.

And yourself? You enjoyed every second with Homelander. You found yourself lucky enough to join him in meetings were he always had a seat reserved for you at his side. You thought he was naturally hilarious, and you were always smiling at him at laughing at his little jokes; even other members wouldn’t.

Homelander even spent a night with you listening to you speak about sappy things like beauty of the world, and when you professed your jealousy over his ability to take flight, he swiftly jumped in, offering to take you above the clouds and around the city.

Of course you did, though it took a significant amount of assurance from him before you finally held onto his body, allowing him to take you through the sky. Unlike others he flew, he was slow; careful. He held you against his body like you were the most precious thing he’d seen, he couldn’t help how breathtaking he found you in the night sky with him, under the stars.

He flew you home that night, lingering by you longer than he should and when he finally left, he already made up his mind to make you his.

The next day you came in he was freshly dosed with cologne, and giving you a smile no one else but you saw, and the look you gave him back was the best part of his day.

“You smell good,” You complimented with a smile, meeting Homelander at his condo like you did every morning. “Thank, wore it for you yknow.” Homelander slyly winked, his hand finding the small of your back, guiding you forward. “Oh, that’s sweet, but I think you smelt okay before… if you were worried about smelling bad that is. Can you even sweat?” You rambled allowing him to guide you to the living room.

Homelander was amused by your chatter, anyone else would’ve gotten the boot, but he found your voice entirely alluring. “Under certain circumstances I can sweat, but not due to physical exertion.” He commented, which sounded a bit like bragging, not that you cared. “Cool, I wish I didn’t sweat, grey tops would be so much easier to wear.” You commented half heartedly looking over at him as he sat you down.

“Ah,” He waved sitting beside you. “You probably look great all sweaty.” Homelander grinned, tossing his arm around the back of the couch. You scoffed, shaking your head with a smile. “Definitely not, but thank you.” You hum oblivious to his body language and flirtatious tone. “Yknow you could live in the tower.” Homelander casually drawled his voice low.

“Oh I couldn’t ask that of you,” You huffed brows lifting as you rubbed your neck. “Unless you wanted me to?” You blinked curiously, making eye contact with Homelanders heavy lidded blue eyes. “I want you around all the time,” He chuckled, his eyes flickering down to your lips. “Like a spouse.” He grinned laughing charmingly, or more like, laughing to cover up how flustered he felt.

You smiled laughing brightly, unbothered by the remark. “Really, you’re the type who wants to get married?” You asked, his suggestion, specifically to you, wooshing over your head. Homelander scoffed, shaking his head at you. “No, not really, but you make me think of it.” He smirked, but still you only smiled. “I’m glad I inspire that thought. Why though?”

Homelanders expression fell, a part of him unsure of whether you were fucking with him or not, though he knew you were ocassionally socially unaware it was natural for him to second guess people’s intentions. Homelander figured silly innuendos wouldn’t suffice for you. “Ah, nothing. Let’s go before Ashley’s up my ass being annoying.” Homelander groaned standing with him.

From there on Homelander tried his hardest to get you to see how he wanted you, he did stupid cheesey stuff, flowers, teddy bears, chocolates, but sadly, you didn’t connect the dots. You always thought he was being kind, giving back to you for all you did for him as a personal assistant.

It was frustrating for him, but he also loved the way you reacted and the lack of realization on your end made him somewhat comfortable. No risk for him, as loving you gave him plenty of emotions he wasn’t equipped to deal with.

—

Homelander could have anything he wanted, he kept telling himself that as he arrived at your place, wearing nothing but civilian clothing. Homelander was a global celebrity and it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn’t approach you as a global celebrity or your boss, or as Homelander at all.

Homelander stood in front of your door, costume gone, feeling vulnerable. But if he was going to get you to see he liked you, he needed to take a new approach. “Homelander?” You blinked opening the door in awe. He looked good, human, and he was dressed so casually which you wouldn’t have assumed would make you ogle more at him, but it did.

Homelander smiled uncertainly, shifting on his feet. “Can I come in?” Homelander murmured, and before you could even think about a reply, you were moving out of the way for him. “What brings you here?” You asked, closing the door behind him, watching him as he observed your humble home, something much different from what he’d gotten used too

“I wanted to tell you.. something important.” You blinked at him a bit worried. “Are you okay?” You instantly say, concern in your voice. That alone made Homelander pause, his eyes softening as he looked at you with a fondness. “Yeah yeah,” He waved nonchalantly before continuing.

“Have you noticed the things I’ve gotten you?” Homelander hummed, his hands folded behind his back, though the position looked so different without his supersuit and padded muscles. “Like the chocolate?” You murmured tilting your head, thinking back to all the little things he’d done. “Yes,” You followed up quickly nodding your head.

“Why do you think I was doing all that?” Homelander asked in a low tone, his unbroken eye contact making you a bit nervous. “I don’t know, to be kind?” You guessed laughing a bit with nerves and slight humor. “I’m never kind,” Homelander rolled his eyes, walking up directly in front of you.

“Hopefully this is clear enough,” He grumbled under his breath taking off the baseball cap he was wearing to grab your face between his fingers, your lips puckering slightly under the pressure on your cheeks. Homelander pulled your face forward, molding his lips to yours.

Your mind spun when you felt his lips, everything happening so fast you barely caught up, but the surge of emotion that hit you forced your movements before your brain caught up.

Clinging to his sweater, you pressed into him following the guide of his lips against yours. The submission made Homelander make a dark noise at the back of his throat, dropping his cap to let his hand snake down your spine, the other that stayed around your jaw, shifted back to lightly hold your neck.

Homelander pulled back roughly, his face pulled into what looked like a sneer, confusing you as you looked at him dazed from the passion. “I think I’ve been clear enough now?” His tone was frustrated, like he was restraining himself. “You want me?”

Homelander rolled his eyes again, even after the kiss you still had to question; though he found himself reluctantly fond of this aspect of you. “Yes, I want you as my partner, I want you living with me, sleeping in my bed, being publicly mine.” Homelander flatly said but his lips twitched upward, listening as your heart rate increased.