The Red Eagle
Imagine : North Korea wasn’t supposed to be part of the plan. Butcher and the Boys were chasing a lead, slipped over the border, and suddenly every government official in the DPRK decided Butcher was the most wanted man on the peninsula. Worse than Russia. Worse than anything he’s ever dealt with. They want him arrested, interrogated, and locked away forever. And because of that? He can’t leave. At all.
The team is stuck in a freezing, concrete bunker outside Pyongyang, eating canned food and arguing about escape routes that don’t exist. Butcher keeps pacing, keeps cursing, keeps staring at the one photo he has of Ryan—one year old, smiling, reaching for him.
But he’ll never get near the kid again.
North Korea declared him an unfit parent. Vought agreed. The custody battle ended before it even started.
Homelander has full, permanent custody.
---
Back in New York — Homelander’s Victory Lap
Homelander strolls through Vought HQ wearing his full costume:
• Dark blue military-style jumpsuit, gabardine fabric stretched tight over foam-latex molded muscles
• Red-and-white striped cape, weighted so it drapes perfectly
• Red gloves, red boots, eagle epaulets, metallic belt
• The whole patriotic nightmare, polished and immaculate
And against all that armor and ego?
Baby Ryan sleeps like he’s on a cloud.
Homelander’s smirk is dangerous. Full-on smug. The kind of smile that says he knows he’s won and he wants everyone else to know it too.
He adjusts Ryan slightly, letting the baby’s cheek rest against the molded chest piece. Ryan’s tiny hand curls into the fabric. Homelander melts—just a little—then kisses the top of Ryan’s head.
Slow. Possessive. Triumphant.
“Daddy’s got you,” he murmurs, voice low and satisfied.
He doesn’t even try to hide the smirk now.
Butcher is trapped in North Korea.
Ryan is asleep in his arms.
And Homelander has everything he ever wanted.
---
Meanwhile — Butcher’s Breaking Point
In the bunker, Butcher slams his fist against the wall. Hughie flinches. MM tries to calm him. Frenchie mutters something about diplomatic nightmares.
Butcher doesn’t hear any of it.
He’s thinking about Ryan asleep on Homelander’s chest.
He’s thinking about that smug smile.
He’s thinking about the fact that he can’t get out, can’t fight, can’t even try.
North Korea has him caged.
Vought has his son.
Homelander has won.
The sirens didn’t wail for long. They didn’t need to. North Korean security forces poured out of the armored vans like ants from a kicked hill—stone-faced, rifles up, no hesitation. Butcher barely had time to snarl a curse before the butt of a rifle cracked across his jaw. Frenchie, M.M., Hughie, Kimiko—they all went down in a pile of twisted limbs and shouted threats that meant nothing under the Supreme Leader’s laws.
“Enemy agents. Saboteurs. Spies.” The charges came fast, barked through a translator who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Under North Korean law, it was simple: up to fifteen years in the labor camps for each of them. No appeals. No extradition. No clever escape hatch like in Russia. This was the DPRK. Once the cuffs snapped on, you disappeared into the mountains or the mines, and the world forgot your name.
The arrest was broadcast live. State television ate it up, but Vought made sure it hit every American screen too. A “breaking international incident” ticker scrolled across the bottom while drones captured the takedown in grainy, triumphant detail: Butcher’s face slammed into the dirt, the rest of The Boys zip-tied and dragged away like sacks of meat. The feed cut straight to a Vought-approved anchor who called it “a decisive victory for global stability.”
Back in Vought Tower, the massive screen in the penthouse living room played it on loop.
Homelander stood motionless in the center of the room, the living embodiment of his own propaganda. The dark blue, military-style jumpsuit of gabardine fabric clung to the built-in foam-latex molded muscles, every ridge and bulge a deliberate lie hiding the insecure boy beneath. The ultra-patriotic touches were perfect under the soft lighting: the custom-weighted red-and-white-striped cape draped over one shoulder, red gloves resting with predatory calm, red boots planted like he owned the skyline, eagle epaulets catching the glow from the screen, and the embossed metallic belt cinched tight around his waist.
Against his neck slept one-year-old Ryan.
The baby’s small, warm cheek was pressed right into the exposed skin just above the jumpsuit’s collar—right where no one on Earth would dare touch. Not Maeve. Not Starlight. Not even Stan Edgar on his worst day. That neck was a death sentence waiting to happen. But Ryan breathed there softly, tiny puffs of air brushing the vulnerable spot with innocent trust, one little fist tangled in the edge of the red cape. The boy was out cold, exhausted from an afternoon of crawling across the reinforced glass floor while Homelander watched him like a hawk.
Homelander’s head was tilted just enough to accommodate the child, his own chin hovering protectively above Ryan’s fine brown hair. On the screen, Butcher was hauled upright, blood on his lip, eyes blazing with helpless fury as the North Korean officers read the charges again for the cameras. Fifteen years. Maybe more if they felt like it.
The smirk that spread across Homelander’s face was slow, full, and viciously satisfied. It wasn’t for the cameras this time. There were none in the penthouse. This was pure, private glee.
He lowered his lips to the top of Ryan’s head and kissed him—slow, deliberate, lingering like a seal on a contract. “Look at that, buddy,” he whispered against the baby’s scalp, voice syrupy with triumph. “Daddy’s only monster now. No more Butcher. No more filthy little gang coming to steal you away. Fifteen years in a North Korean hellhole. They’ll be old, broken, or dead before they ever see daylight again.”
Ryan made a tiny, contented sigh in his sleep and nuzzled deeper against Homelander’s neck. The spot no one would dare touch. The spot Homelander had once nearly lost his mind over when a doctor got too close during a checkup. But this? This was different. This was his son. His blood. His future. The only person allowed that close.
The news ticker updated: “Butcher and associates sentenced under DPRK anti-espionage laws—lengthy prison terms expected.”
Homelander’s smirk widened until it showed too many teeth. One red-gloved hand came up to cup the back of Ryan’s head, thumb stroking in slow, possessive circles along the baby’s spine. The weighted cape shifted with the movement, brushing Ryan’s little legs like a lullaby.
“Sleep, little man. Right here where you belong. Against Daddy’s neck. Safe. Wanted. Mine.” He kissed the baby’s head again, eyes never leaving the screen as the feed showed the vans carrying The Boys disappearing into the gray Pyongyang streets. “The world’s smaller now. Just you and me. One monster. One family.”
Outside the penthouse windows, New York glittered like it had been gift-wrapped for him. Inside, the only sound was the soft breathing of a one-year-old pressed trustingly against the most dangerous neck on the planet—and the low, satisfied chuckle of the man who finally had everything he ever wanted.
Butcher’s season was over.
Homelander’s had just begun.
The penthouse screen flickered as the live broadcast from North Korea cut to black, replaced by a Vought-branded graphic: “Justice Served – American Heroes Safe from Foreign Threats.” The ticker at the bottom lingered on the final update: Butcher and associates sentenced to 15 years under DPRK labor laws. No parole. No appeals. Homelander hadn’t moved an inch through the entire segment. He stood like a statue carved from his own propaganda, the dark blue military-style jumpsuit of gabardine fabric stretched taut over the foam-latex molded muscles that masked every crack in his fractured psyche. The custom-weighted red-and-white-striped cape hung still behind him, red gloves clasped loosely at his sides, red boots anchored to the marble floor, eagle epaulets gleaming, embossed metallic belt catching the glow from the dying broadcast.
Ryan stirred.
The one-year-old had been dead asleep against that forbidden territory—first the right side of Homelander’s neck, where the collar of the jumpsuit met vulnerable skin no living soul would dare brush. Now, as consciousness returned, the baby shifted with a soft grunt, tiny body wriggling in the cradle of those red-gloved arms. His small face burrowed deeper, pressing fully into the left side of Homelander’s neck. Cheek flush against the warm, untouched skin just above the gabardine line. Nose squished. Breath coming in quick, awake little puffs that tickled the exact spot that would have earned anyone else a laser through the skull.
Either side. Nobody would touch either side. Not ever. Not Maeve with her bitter sarcasm, not Ashley with her trembling schedules, not even the sycophantic doctors who knew better than to let their instruments linger near the supe’s throat. That neck was a kill switch wrapped in godlike fragility. But Ryan? Ryan owned it now.
Wide awake.
The baby’s eyes—bright, curious, the same sharp blue that mirrored the man holding him—fluttered open. No fussing. No tears. Just pure, trusting alertness as he kept his face buried there, like the left side of Daddy’s neck was the safest place in the world. One chubby hand fisted tighter into the edge of the weighted cape, tugging it against his own chest with a contented babble that vibrated straight against Homelander’s skin.
Homelander’s smirk returned, slower this time, deeper. It wasn’t the public grin. This was the private one, the one that said the board was cleared and the game was finally, permanently his. He tilted his head ever so slightly to the left, accommodating the boy without dislodging him, letting Ryan’s face stay exactly where it was—buried, warm, alive against the one vulnerability no one else would ever be allowed to see.
“Look at you,” Homelander murmured, voice low and velvet-rough with satisfaction. One red-gloved hand rose, cupping the back of Ryan’s head with infinite care, thumb stroking slow circles along the fine brown hairs. “Wide awake already. My strong little man. You feel that? The world just got a whole lot quieter for us.”
He dipped his chin, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Ryan’s head, lips brushing the soft spot where the baby’s skull met his own neck. The news footage replayed silently on the screen behind them—Butcher’s bloodied face shoved into a prison van, the rest of The Boys chained and hooded like animals. Fifteen years in the camps. Mines. Starvation. Cold. Whatever the DPRK decided would break them slowest.
“They’re gone, Ryan. All of them. That animal who called himself your father? He’s rotting in a hole he can’t crawl out of. No more running. No more screaming. No more trying to rip you away from where you belong.” Homelander’s free hand adjusted the cape so its weighted stripes draped gently over the baby’s back like a shield. “This is permanent. You and me. Daddy’s got full custody, and nobody—not courts, not supes, not that pathetic little gang—is ever changing it.”
Ryan responded with a happy gurgle, face still fully buried in the left side of Homelander’s neck. He nuzzled harder, almost like he was trying to burrow into the safety of it, tiny legs kicking once in excitement against the molded chest of the jumpsuit. The eagle epaulet brushed his knee. The baby’s breath stayed steady, warm, fearless against the skin that could level cities if it felt threatened.
Homelander chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into the boy. His smirk sharpened into something feral and content as he stared at the frozen image of Butcher on the screen. One monster left standing. One family intact.
“Stay right there, buddy,” he whispered against Ryan’s hair, another kiss following the first—reverent, possessive, sealing the moment. “Buried in Daddy’s neck where no one else gets to be. Either side. Ever. We’ve got all the time in the world now.”
Outside the reinforced windows, New York kept glittering, oblivious. Inside the penthouse, the only sounds were a one-year-old’s wide-awake babbling against the world’s most dangerous throat and the soft, triumphant hum of the man who had finally won everything that mattered.
The Boys were done.
Homelander’s season stretched out forever—father and son, neck to cheek, cape and custody, unbreakable.
The penthouse lights had dimmed automatically after the broadcast ended, casting long shadows across the marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a New York skyline still pretending everything was normal. The massive screen had gone dark, but the echo of the news lingered in Homelander’s mind like a victory anthem: Butcher and the rest of that pathetic crew hauled off under North Korean law. Fifteen years in the labor camps. No escape. No rescue. No more threats to what was his.
Homelander remained a living monument in the center of the room, the dark blue military-style jumpsuit of gabardine fabric molded perfectly to the foam-latex muscles that armored his insecurities. The custom-weighted red-and-white-striped cape draped down his back like a conqueror’s banner, red gloves steady at his sides, red boots planted wide, eagle epaulets sharp and gleaming, the embossed metallic belt cinched like a final seal of authority.
Ryan, now fully wide awake, shifted again in those unyielding red-gloved arms.
The one-year-old’s small face, still warm from sleep, slid downward from the left side of Homelander’s neck with a soft, determined wriggle. Chubby cheeks dragged across the vulnerable skin until the baby’s nose and mouth pressed directly against the front of his daddy’s throat—the exact center, the most forbidden stretch of all. Nobody would touch either side of that neck. And the throat? That was suicide. Not for Maeve’s sneers, not for Edgar’s calculated barbs, not for any technician’s trembling hands during a suit fitting. One wrong brush and cities could burn. But Ryan nestled there without a care, tiny breaths puffing warm and rhythmic against the thin, exposed skin just above the jumpsuit’s high collar. One little fist stayed tangled in the weighted edge of the red-and-white cape, tugging it closer like a favorite blanket, while his other hand patted absently at the molded chest beneath him.
Homelander’s breath caught for the briefest second—not in fear, never that—but in that deep, possessive thrill that only this child could awaken. His smirk bloomed slow and full, spreading across his face until it sharpened into something feral and complete. He tilted his head back just enough to give Ryan room, never once pulling away, letting the boy stay buried exactly where he wanted. The baby’s wide-awake eyes peeked up briefly, bright and trusting, before he nuzzled harder into the throat, a happy gurgle vibrating straight against the spot that could end worlds.
“That’s my boy,” Homelander whispered, voice a low, velvet rumble that Ryan would feel more than hear. One red-gloved hand rose with deliberate gentleness, cupping the back of the child’s head, thumb tracing slow, adoring circles along his spine. “Wide awake and claiming what’s yours. Right there against Daddy’s throat. No one else gets this close. Ever. Not on either side. Not here. Just you.”
He dipped his chin carefully, pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of Ryan’s blond hair, lips brushing the soft strands while the baby’s face stayed flush to his throat. Another kiss followed, then a third—slow, reverent, each one a silent vow. On the dark screen behind them, a faint reflection still showed the frozen last frame of the news: Butcher’s bloodied scowl as the prison van doors slammed shut. Fifteen years. The DPRK didn’t play. They’d break him in the mines, or the cold, or whatever fresh hell they cooked up for “enemy agents.” The rest of The Boys would rot alongside him. No more interference. No more attempts to rip this family apart.
“You feel that, little man?” Homelander murmured against the baby’s head, his smirk never fading as Ryan kept his face buried deep, tiny legs kicking once in pure contentment against the gabardine jumpsuit. “The world’s finally quiet. Just one monster left. Me. And I’ve got permanent custody of the only thing that matters. No Butcher. No team. No one coming to take you away while you sleep—or wake up—right here against my throat.”
Ryan babbled softly into the skin, the sound muffled and joyful, his warm breaths a constant, fearless reminder of the trust no one else would ever earn. The eagle epaulets brushed the baby’s shoulder as Homelander adjusted his hold, the weighted cape shifting like a protective shroud over them both.
Homelander’s chuckle rolled deep in his chest, vibrating through to the boy at his throat. He stared out at the glittering city that now felt smaller, conquered, irrelevant.
“Stay right there, Ryan. Buried where nobody else would dare. We’ve got forever now.”
The penthouse fell into a hush broken only by a one-year-old’s wide-awake sounds and the triumphant hum of the last monster standing—father and son, throat to cheek, cape and custody sealed tighter than any North Korean prison cell.
Ryan’s Awe — Big Blue Eyes Locked on Daddy
Homelander is sitting on the edge of the bed in the penthouse, cape draped behind him, jumpsuit immaculate, blond hair perfectly combed. He’s quiet, thinking, the room still after days of chaos and news broadcasts.
And then he feels it.
That tiny, unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He turns his head slightly.
Ryan is sitting upright in his lap, tiny hands resting on Homelander’s chest emblem, big blue eyes locked on Homelander’s blond hair like it’s the most magical thing he’s ever seen.
Ryan’s mouth is parted in awe.
He isn’t blinking.
He isn’t moving.
He’s just staring.
Homelander freezes.
Not out of fear.
Out of surprise.
Then something warm spreads across his face.
A smile.
Soft.
Real.
Proud.
He tilts his head, blond hair shifting slightly, and Ryan’s eyes widen even more. He reaches out with one tiny hand and gently touches a strand of Homelander’s hair.
Homelander’s breath catches.
No one touches his neck.
No one touches his hair.
No one touches him without permission.
But Ryan?
Ryan does it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Homelander whispers, voice low and warm:
“You like Daddy’s hair, huh?”
Ryan doesn’t answer.
He just stares, mesmerized, tiny fingers brushing the blond strand again.
Homelander feels every ounce of that awe — and it hits him somewhere deep.
He shifts Ryan slightly, supporting his back, letting the baby lean closer. Ryan’s cheek brushes Homelander’s neck again — the right side — the side nobody would ever dare touch.
Homelander doesn’t move away.
He lets him.
Ryan’s face is glowing with fascination:
• Big blue eyes wide open
• Tiny mouth parted
• Hands reaching for Homelander’s hair
• Cheeks flushed with excitement
He looks like he’s staring at the sun.
Homelander chuckles softly.
“You’re awake. Really awake.”
Ryan blinks once, then reaches again, touching Homelander’s blond hair with both hands this time.
Homelander’s smile deepens.
“Alright,” he murmurs. “You can look. Daddy doesn’t mind.”
Ryan leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against Homelander’s jawline, still staring upward in awe.
Homelander wraps an arm around him, protective and proud.
“You’re my boy,” he whispers. “My little one.”
Ryan coos softly, still staring at the blond hair like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
Homelander’s heart melts.
Ryan is sitting upright in Homelander’s lap, tiny hands still resting on the chest emblem. But now he leans forward, eyes huge, blue, glowing with fascination.
He reaches up.
Slow.
Gentle.
Curious.
His tiny fingers touch Homelander’s cheek.
Not the suit.
Not the cape.
Not the molded muscles.
His face.
Homelander freezes.
No one touches his face.
No one gets that close.
No one even tries.
But Ryan?
Ryan does it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Homelander’s breath catches.
Ryan stares at him — at the blond hair, the jawline, the eyes — like he’s looking at a literal angel.
---
Ryan Says It — “Dada!”
Ryan’s mouth opens.
He coos softly.
Then, clear as day:
“Dada!”
Homelander’s ego doesn’t just rise.
It detonates.
His chest swells.
His smile goes smug and soft at the same time.
His eyes warm instantly.
He whispers, voice low and proud:
“You… you said Dada.”
Ryan giggles, still touching his face, still staring at the blond hair like it’s magic.
Homelander’s ego skyrockets because Ryan has always called him Dad — the calm, steady version.
But Dada?
That’s baby language.
That’s attachment.
That’s instinct.
That’s pure, emotional recognition.
That’s Ryan choosing him.
---
Homelander’s Reaction — Ego + Emotion
Homelander lifts a hand and cups the back of Ryan’s head gently.
“You’re calling me Dada now,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride. “My boy.”
Ryan pats his cheek again, tiny fingers exploring the skin, the jawline, the blond hair.
Homelander melts.
He leans forward and kisses Ryan’s forehead, slow and warm.
“That’s right,” he whispers. “Dada.”
Ryan squeals happily and presses his forehead against Homelander’s cheek, still staring at him in awe.
Homelander’s ego is now somewhere in the stratosphere.
---
Ryan’s Awe — Daddy Is Everything
Ryan keeps staring:
• At the blond hair
• At the blue eyes
• At the face he loves
• At the man he just called Dada
His expression is pure wonder.
Homelander strokes his back, cape shifting behind them.
“You’re mine,” he whispers. “My little one.”
Ryan coos again, soft and sweet, and touches Homelander’s face one more time.
Homelander’s smile is unstoppable.
North Korean Prison — Butcher Hears the News
The guards don’t speak English, but they watch American news. They play it on a tiny TV in the hallway outside the cell block. Butcher hears the broadcast through the bars:
“Baby Ryan was seen calling Homelander ‘Dada’ for the first time.”
Butcher freezes.
His blood goes cold.
His hands curl into fists so tight his knuckles crack.
He steps toward the bars, staring at the flickering screen. The footage shows Homelander holding Ryan, the baby touching his face, staring at him in awe.
Then Ryan says it.
“Dada!”
Butcher’s heart stops.
Then it shatters.
He slams his fist into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The guards shout something in Korean — he doesn’t understand a word — but he doesn’t care. He’s seeing red.
“NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—”
His voice cracks.
He grabs the bars and shakes them violently.
“That’s MY boy! He’s MY—he’s—he’s—”
He can’t finish the sentence.
Because deep down, he knows the truth:
Ryan doesn’t see him as Dad.
Ryan doesn’t even remember him.
Ryan sees Homelander — the monster — as Daddy.
Or Dada.
Or Papa.
Or whatever baby word comes next.
And Butcher can’t do a bloody thing about it.
---
Back in New York, Homelander sits in the penthouse, Ryan on his lap, tiny hands touching his blond hair again.
Ryan stares at him with those big blue eyes — awe, love, recognition.
“Dada,” he coos again.
Homelander’s smile is soft and smug all at once.
“That’s right,” he whispers. “Daddy’s here.”
Ryan presses his cheek against Homelander’s neck — the right side — the side nobody would dare touch.
Homelander wraps an arm around him, proud and possessive.
In Butcher’s mind, Homelander is:
• A killer
• A manipulator
• A narcissist
• A monster wearing a patriotic costume
But to Ryan?
He’s:
• Daddy
• Dada
• Papa
• Safe
• Warm
• The man whose hair he touches
• The man whose neck he sleeps on
• The man he stares at in awe
And that contrast destroys Butcher.
He sinks to the floor of his cell, breathing hard, shaking, staring at the concrete.
“Monster,” he whispers. “He’s a monster. And the boy… the boy thinks he’s his bloody father.”
He presses his forehead to the cold floor.
“And I’m stuck here. I’m stuck. I can’t get to him. I can’t—”
His voice breaks.
Ryan didn’t say “Dad.”
He didn’t say “Father.”
He didn’t say “Papa.”
He said “Dada.”
Baby language.
Instinctive.
Natural.
Affectionate.
Chosen.
And Butcher knows exactly what that means.
Ryan chose Homelander.
