#dadlander

It was soft comfort. It was safety. It was home.

The first time he noticed was a quiet morning in the penthouse. You’d been curled on the couch with your coffee, still groggy, when your toddler toddled straight past their toy blocks and grabbed at the trailing hem of Homelander’s cape. He’d just returned from a routine patrol, boots still dusty. Normally, he might have frowned—no one touched the suit, not even handlers. But the little fingers clutched the fabric like it was the only solid thing in the world, smoothing down the stripes and rubbing at the soft weave, cheek pressed against it with a sigh so content that Homelander froze.

“They like the texture,” you’d explained softly, watching. “It helps them calm down.”

Homelander glanced from you to the child. They were stroking the stripes rhythmically, little hand dragging up and down, up and down. And for once, he didn’t mind the fingerprints smudging his pristine uniform. Instead, he knelt, letting the cape fall across his lap so it was easier for them to touch.

“Yeah?” he asked quietly, as though testing the waters. “You like that, huh?”

Your toddler didn’t answer with words—just a happy little hum, eyes half-closed, head nestled against his leg. Homelander felt something twist deep inside his chest, something warmer than the spotlight ever gave him.

From that day on, the cape was no longer just a cape.

Sometimes, during tantrums, when the world was too loud and their tiny body shook with frustration, all it took was draping the starry-and-striped fabric across their lap. Their hands would immediately start stroking, smoothing over the seams, tugging lightly at the hem, and the tears would quiet to sniffles. Other times, at bedtime, they’d beg to hold just a corner of the cape while Homelander sat in the chair beside the crib, cape draped within reach, his voice low and steady—the same voice that could silence a whole boardroom, now softened just for them.

And Homelander—Homelander let them. Every time.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

One evening, you were folding laundry while the cape lay across the couch in a heap. Your toddler was already curled against it, tracing stripes with little fingers, soothed.

“They’re attached to it,” you said, smiling faintly. “It’s their way of stimming.”

Homelander leaned back in his chair, clearly familiar with the word, though his brow furrowed. “Yeah, the autism thing. I’ve heard it a hundred times from those doctors. Never thought it would be… this.”

You set a shirt aside and nodded. “It’s common in autism. Other people stim too, but for autistic folks it’s especially important. Touching your cape is how they regulate—it’s what makes them feel safe.”

His eyes dropped to the toddler, tiny hands dragging over the fabric like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a long moment he was quiet, then his mouth curled into a slow smirk.

“So what you’re telling me is… they need me. They need this.” He brushed the fabric where it pooled in their hands, eyes gleaming. “Good. Then no one—and I mean no one—is going to tell them they can’t have it.”

It wasn’t always convenient.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

There was a meeting with the Vought board where Homelander strode in, child in his arms, because you’d been stuck in traffic. They were already fussing from the crowded elevator ride, overwhelmed by the fluorescent lights and the too-loud chatter of the assistants. By the time the board members sat down, your toddler was on the verge of tears.

Without hesitation, Homelander slid into his seat at the head of the table and spread his cape across his lap. Tiny hands immediately found it, smoothing the stripes, tracing over the stitching, tiny fist clenching and unclenching. The board stared in stunned silence as the world’s most powerful man carried on discussing quarterly numbers with a toddler absentmindedly stroking his cape like a favorite toy.

Not once did he look embarrassed. If anything, he seemed smug.

When one of the executives cleared their throat and asked if perhaps the child should be “taken outside to the daycare floor,” Homelander’s eyes narrowed.

“They’re fine,” he said, voice edged with steel. “Keep going.”

And the meeting went on.

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

Another time, it was before a live talk-show taping. Homelander sat in his dressing room, mirror lights glowing, cape draped perfectly. You were beside him, fixing your hair quickly, while the toddler squirmed in their stroller. Too many strangers outside, too much noise, and a meltdown brewing fast.

Homelander heard the first whimper and immediately turned, reaching out. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

The moment he scooped them up, their little fists buried themselves in the cape’s stripes. They pressed their face into the fabric, breathing in the faint, familiar scent until their body finally relaxed. Slowly, the whimpers turned to soft coos. Their shoulders eased.

You smiled at the sight—Homelander, supposed paragon of untouchable strength, bouncing a toddler on his lap while calmly letting them stim on the cape minutes before stepping onstage.

“Maybe we should get them a tiny version of yours,” you teased softly. “Like father, like toddler—already in love with capes.”

He glanced at you in the mirror, smirk tugging at his lips. “What can I say? My kid’s got good taste.”

When the stage manager knocked, announcing it was time, Homelander stood smoothly, still holding the child. They had the striped fabric balled in their hands like they might never let go.

“You ready, champ?” he murmured.

The toddler only gave a happy little grunt, tugging once more at the stripes. Homelander chuckled. “Yeah, me too.”

∘₊✧──────✧₊∘

At home, in the quiet moments, it was softer still. Sometimes you’d wake in the middle of the night to see the glow of the city spilling across the bed, and there he was—Homelander, lying on his side with the cape spread like a blanket. Your toddler nestled against him, tiny hands moving in slow, sleepy strokes across the cloth, occasionally brushing the little stars at the top. His eyes would meet yours in the dim light, and he’d lift a finger to his lips.

“Shh,” he’d whisper. “They’re settling.”

He went quiet then, listening closely to their soft little puffs of breath, steady and warm against his chest. The world outside could roar all it wanted, but in that moment, all he heard was the sound of his child sleeping safe.

It was almost surreal, seeing him like this. The same man who could terrify executives, silence entire rooms, and smile for cameras with unnerving perfection—soothed by the weight of a toddler curled against his cape.

“Figures they’d latch onto your cape,” you murmured once, watching them both drift off. “It’s soft, it’s always around, and it smells like their dad.”

Homelander’s lips quirked faintly. He didn’t answer, but his hand found yours under the sheets, squeezing gently.

Because maybe the cape wasn’t just a symbol of power anymore. Maybe, in the quiet, it was proof that he could be more than what the world demanded. That in the small, rhythmic strokes of a toddler’s hand, he’d found something far greater than adoration or fear.

He’d found trust. He’d found love.

And he would never let go.

“Daddy, look!”

It was a simple word that John was never going to take for granted. A word that his super-hearing could pick out of a thousand voices from miles away. If any -fucking- one would ever dare lay a hand on his beautiful and pure daughter - John swore he was going to -

“John, get out of your head.” You smiled at your lover, America’s most powerful superhero, the man that you called your husband. He lounged on the patio of your spacious mansion in Long Island, American flag waving in the wind, overlooking the big green gated garden in which your baby girl Jane was playing and running around. At last, he was finally enjoying a day off from all of those idiot cocksuckers at Vought, his words.

John’s stoic face snapped into a broad smile, accompanied by a million micro-expressions when you joined from the kitchen, bringing freshly baked chocolate cookies into the scene. Honest to God, he had everything that his pained heart missed in front of him: a perfect wife, his son Ryan, and his baby Jane. The young girl’s eyes widened, and she ran like a speedster to the source of the smell.

“When your daughter asks you to look, you better look.” You grinned, placing a soft kiss on his unruly blond locks, taking a bite from one of your cookies. John grinned to himself, and reached out his strong arms to his daughter, inviting the girl in his arms. She didn’t hesitate to jump right in his lap. “Here, a flower for daddy.” Jane giggled, placing a pink flower in his blonde hair.

The combination of a pink flower decorating his hair, and the violent background that he possessed was quite a hilarious contrast. The Supe didn’t give two fucks about that, he’d let his daughter put a whole fucking flower crown on his head. Anything she wanted was law. Your children were incredibly spoiled, because John wanted everything for them that he’d never got to experience. He had a rocky start with Ryan, but John had learned patience in time, much against his own nature.

You weren’t related to Ryan in any way, but you knew what had happened 5 years ago when he first released his heat gaze. He went through traumatic stuff, and you were always there to comfort him. His dad taught him how to harness his growing powers over the years, but he was too shy to get introduced to the Seven and Vought and all that shit. Vought was a huge fan in pushing Ryan to follow in Homelander’s footsteps, to become the next commander of the Seven. However, John quickly realized that his son expressed little interest, so he zapped that idea down (much to his own pain).

To the outside world, Homelander was still the same heroic figure. To Vought, he was the same nightmare to deal with.

But you loved him.

All of him. All of his insecurities, his simultaneous God complex, his devious desires and his bloodlust. He was convinced that his kind was the master race, but you, a mere human, held a special place in his heart. You were his darling girl that was able to give him a home, and accepted him for the fucked up man that he was. He had already incinerated and executed people for you. It’s a way he showed his devotion to you.