Art by the wonderful @homelanderbutbig , who i couldn't have done this without <3
Should god have to beg? Must he line up at the heel of some master, perform his little tricks and pray that scraps would fall his way? Where is his dignity? Where is his worth?
Where is his rage?
Where, under layers of conditioning and desperation for approval, is this dogâs teeth? Â
When they stripped the first parts of him away, they did so in a lab. Controlled and concise, they chiseled him into perfection. Do as we say; bark on command. Bite not the hand that feeds, but, rather, bite for it. Where we point, you must goâ tail between your legsâ and do all that we instruct. Only then will you have earned it. Â
Only then will this dog get to eat. Only then will god earn his scraps.
Always with the promise of love, he performs. Vogelbaumâs love, a nonexistent, virulent thing. Something that bites as much as it rewards. Â
A father.
A father who wanted a perfect son. A creature built to withstand, a child strapped to a critical nuclear reactor. The boy drowned in boiling water by day and incinerated by night. Carved and cut, poked, prodded, injected.
More, more, more⊠All for the love of a father.
The fists of supes, gods in their own right compared to that little boy, beating him senseless all to nurture him. The hands of doctors, invasive and uncaring, all to manufacture him.
When will he earn it?
Did the young man, overwhelmed by the world, crying fifty miles down the highway earn it? Did he thrill the investorsâ make the company look good? Were his lines delivered with poise and elegance, but not so much that he was too synthetic?
Why hasnât he earned it?
Maybe, he thinks, heâs meant to earn something different. Pretty lips and soft, golden locks of hair. Firm and unwavering in her treatment of him. Direct and to the point, with something in her voice heâs never heard before. She is new, she is unfamiliar, and she is what he must earn. Â
Her approval. Her good graces. Her love.
Promised for yearsâ for more than a decade. Â
Jump through this hoop. Say this line. Good boy. But donât touch. You have to knock, you have to wait, you have to be patient.
He did it all for her. Watched her climb higher and higher because of everything he ever didâ all for herâ but she never took him with. Merely held his lead and kept the carrot too far from his desperate, starved fangs.
You cannot be bad.
But he wasnât! Heâs done everythingâ everything! Â
Shouldnât it be enough?
It was supposed to be enoughâŠ
But when does it all become too much? When does this trained dog finally gnaw himself free of the leash and tear its anchors from his very bones?
When does the little boy in the lab finally free himself?
When he is stripped of everything, when god has his makeshift throne pulled out from under himâ thatâs when.
Edgar tells him plain and simple, with Madelyn by his side.
âYouâre out.â
She does nothing to protect him.
But he doesnât believe it. How could they discard their most loyal dog? Sure, he quakes and whimpers, but his bite is still fierce. Heâs tested the boundaries so many times, but heâll still rend flesh from bone to protect them. He can still do every trick asked of him.
He doesnât believe it when the construction crews disassemble his penthouse. Even watching the fabrication of his personality ripped from the walls, he doesnât believe them. Theyâre merely redesigning things, of course! Something new to represent him. Something better.
When his âretirementâ is announced, he still doesnât believe it. He must be taking over a new teamâ a better team. One that was made for him. One that was worthy of him.
But it never comes.
They demand the suit be returned in exchange for something more⊠human. He denies, of course. He is their crown jewel. Why would they want to take that away?
Too much, too much, too muchâ
He flees to the cabin, but even that is gone. Flattened earth and sealed pipes, tread tracks leading away from whatever machine tore down his solitude.Â
âIâm The Homelander! You canât just do this to me!â Â
âNot anymore.â Was the only response Edgar gave him, coupled with that disapproving gaze. Like he was a nuisance, a beast of burden that had long since outlived its usefulness.
The next day, his fingerprints no longer registered in the security scanners. Â
His funds had dried out. There would be no breakfast at whatever cafe he chose to grace with his presence after being refused service at the tower.
Card declined. Card declined. Card declined.
Madelyn wouldnât pick up.
Edgarâs line was forbidden from outside callers.
Card declined. Card declined. Card declined.
Too many stares. Too many whispers.
His first attempt at normalcy.
They even took that away.
They took everything.
They took fucking everything.
That poor little shop is the first to feel his wrath. Cashier lasered in two, customers reduced to pulpy piles of viscera, the front of the building decimated from the deafening boom of his takeoff. Â
He rips through the sky toward Vought. There are no thoughts when he pierces through the building. He doesnât even know what floor he picked, only that heâs there and thatâs all he needs to know. His eyes stay primed, indiscriminately mowing down every petrified code monkey or researcher who dared cross his pathâ or simply was unfortunate enough to be there.
The emergency alarm blares just loud enough to rattle his head.
He severs the elevator cables. Pries the doors clean off the shaft entrances and goes to work. Screams echo as the cars plummet, growing softer and softer until the massive bang at the end leaves him closing his eyes in satisfaction.
If he canât escape his doomâ his undoingâ then why the fuck should they be able to?
There were more screams to snuff out. More roaches who have seen his glory and declared him unworthy, who have rescinded their adoration with such telling, instinctual noises of terror.
They donât love him.
They never did.
He zips out and around the building, targeting a structural support this timeâ barreling clean through it, but only one. Just enough to make them all feel exactly how he felt when the world was pulled out from under his feet. Unsteady. Afraid. Â
At least he could fly when everything crumbled.
They cannot. He will rise when they fall, which is exactly how it was always meant to be.Â
His eyes roll back into his head with the next wave of shrieks. The steel beams creak and moan under the imbalanced weight and the building itself seems to sway. He picks a random level of windows and unleashes his lasers with an intensity heâs never used before. They pierce through everythingâ glass, concrete, steel, anything at all that could have been holding Vought Tower together. They rip through to the next building over and the screams of terror, the gurgles of bloodâ it all fills his ears like a symphony.
The world is so loud, but, for once, itâs truly all for him. The sirens, the wails, the crying and pleadingâ itâs all his.
One in particular calls to him.
Her.
She screams his name as though she deserves to utter itâ calls out to him, begs for mercy.
But did she show him mercy? Did she show him anything of the sort when making him jump through hoops and do his little song and dance? For every time he fabricated stories of his nonexistent family, for every lie about a baseball birthday cake or every tear he ever cried imagining what couldâve beenâ what shouldâve beenâ did she ever show him mercy?
Every touch and caress was to get what she wanted. Every teased kiss and wandering hand was simply bait to keep her dog obedient.
No more.
He flies inside, bursts through the windows and takes her by the neck. His eyes burn a raging crimson, sizzling away with tears that could never shed past the heat of his fury.
âDid you show me mercy?â He grits, hand tightening around her airway. âDid you show me love? Did you!?â
âIâ I do loââ She gasps helplessly, nearly inaudible over the concerto of terror.
âOh, please.â Homelander scowls, teeth bared. âYou loved what I could do for you. You loved what I could fucking help you gain!â
He drags her through shattered glass. For all of her thrashing, she could never escape his grasp, and he can see the moment she realizes she shouldnât want to. He dangles her over the ledge, watching through blazing eyes as her heels plummet to the streets below.
Ninety-nine floors up.
âOh g-god!â Madelyn squeaks out, gripping desperately at his wrist. âP-Please!â
He likes the sound of that.
âGod help me!â
He lets his eyes flutter shut and blows a breath through his nose before letting a contented smile creep onto his face. He brings her close enough to whisper, close enough to see hope flicker in her eyes when sheâs above solid ground.
âWhy would god help you⊠when youâve abandoned him?â
Watching the hope rot in her eyes was delicious.
She falls.
She screams.
And then sheâs nothing more than a mark on the pavement. His heart twists for but a moment, and then heâs off to visit a few others.
Stan.
Easily his favorite moment of the day. He leaves that office tossing the decapitated head between his hands like a ball. His only regret was that he didnât draw it out long enough to hear Edgar beg for his life. Â
He sets it on the ground before a gaping hole in the side of the tower, winds up, and kicks it as hard as he can. Sure, the head is practically mush upon impact from his god-like strength, but the thought of it arcing across the city, maybe even going into orbit, is glorious.Â
Heâd never be looked down upon again.
Never.
His next visit is to the man he called father. He feels sorrow in droves as he presses his heel to the old manâs headâ perhaps even more so when his fingers pierce through the muscle and sinew surrounding his spine. It was the screaming he didnât like.
Ever the authority figure, Jonah Vogelbaum was not a man who cried out from pain. In turn, he expected his test subjects to be the same. To scream was to be punished for being so weakâ whether because of fear or pain that his body hadnât quite learned to protect against.
He almost flinches in preparation for the floor grates of his cell to charge with enough electricity to incapacitate him.
But that was then and this is now. He stands upon freshly waxed linoleum, not metal grates. The walls are lined with books and photos of great minds his father found inspiring, not blank white panels. On the wall ahead is the painting of God creating Adam.
He stares at it as he wraps his fist around his fatherâs spinal cord and rips it clean out.
His ears ring.
He, too, has sinned against his creator; however, he had been damned from the start. There was no Eden for him. Not unless he took it.Â
When he finishes, he leaves a trail of bodies. Workers, supes, emergency teamsâ anyone he came across. Not even The Seven was spared his fury.
The only one he makes it quick for is Noir.
The rest of the world isnât so lucky.
He wipes the Pentagon off the map entirely. Targets military installations around the countryâ torches them all and leaves nothing but craters and ash once heâs done.
The little boy once strapped to a nuclear reactor is a force greater than anything they can throw at him. He practically giggles when he walks off the first atomic bomb. Heâd been just south of San Antonio when they lobbed it at him.
The pilot who dropped it wasnât so lucky. Nor the town a few miles away.
He takes out every missile silo his x-ray eyes can find. Chokes out every detail he can from every soldier with rank worth a squirt of piss until heâs squeezing it out of politicians.
Eventually, even the president. Â
He paints the White House red.
Kicks his feet up on the desk, utterly drenched in gore, as he declares himself Americaâs new leader over the emergency broadcast networkâ the formerâs head rests beside him on the table. He promises the world will be his. He vows.
The UN scrambles. Every nation considers their options.
He laughs.
When they come for himâ when heâs eviscerated every supe or cockroach with a gun who dares to think of challenging his ruleâ he simply smiles. He laughs and laughs as he litters Americaâs streets with carcasses of soldiersâ of tanks and aircrafts.
He even dives down to find the submarines, pulling them deeper and deeper until the oceanâs pressure devastates their hulls and crushes everyone inside. He sinks the boats, throws the jets into space, destroys everything until his path of destruction leads him to the front door of every world leader who even so much as humored the thought of taking what was rightfully his.
He makes sure to present the corpses in broad daylight. He wants everyone to see.
Some cheer. Tyrants dangled above their heads, blood dripping over the masses.
He is their savior.
Others jeer.
Their heads roll.
He thins the herd of every nation in this way. Reminds them all of who they serve now, of what god has seen fit to free them of their spineless rulers and protect them.
All he demands is their love.
That they fall to their knees and pray to him in their time of need. That they respect the natural order, revere those who have been elevated above them and tear down those who would seek to destroy it.
He reminds them: he can hear everything. He can see through everything.
He will know.
God will know.
Months later, he has them adorn him the way he should have been all along. He hosts a competition from his new throneâ from the tower now stable and powerful once more. A testament to his glory.
âThe winner earns my favor.â He told them. Thirty costume designers tasked to create a suit worthy of a king. Something regal, something fierce.
Something for him.
He cuts down those who put forth no effort, offering only designs rotten and abysmal, unbecoming of their god. They should have known better.
They serve as a warning.
One by one, he rages about how they must see him. Ugly colors, a lack of originality, stupid designs. One by one, he hands out punishments in abundance.
Until one designer in particular approaches him. The very last one. A steely eyed old woman who had worked for Vought for some time. He recognizes her from his first ever fitting. She designed the one he wears now.
Before him, she holds a piece of paper and an item covered by fabric. Homelander chooses not to spoil his own surprise. Had it been anyone else, heâd have assumed it was garbage beneath that covering, but that look in her eyes dared to differ.
She doesnât kneel the way the others did. Doesnât sputter through justifications on what she shows him or why she thinks it would look best. She simply hands him the paper and waits.
âAnd where is this suit?â He asks with a hint of excitement.
âAll good things in time, my lord.â The woman replies. Instead, she extends her arms and offers him the covered item. âFor now, I have this.â
A grin carves into his face, eager and pleased with such a creation. Something fitting for a king. Something he shouldâve had all along. Carved laurels and gems of deep crimson nested in that touch, that flair heâs been missing this whole time.
For what is a king without his crown?
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
This all started with a simple idea that @sehtoast and I were spitballing together, and I am impressed at how incredible our little project turned out! We worked our asses off together and I am so proud of us. I am proud of you man! You are such an amazing writer!!
I want Overlord Homelander viscerally. I can picture his evil little facial expressions so clearly in my mind from your writing. I don't know how you make me want to give him a snuggle after killing so many people, but you did it!!
I hope we can do something like this again in the future. đđ«
i loved collabbing w you and i will do it again in a heartbeat đ« overlord homie will always be so special not just bc he's the specialist boy, but bc i got to work with someone so incredibly talented and kind. 111000/10 would do again
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