DISCS! i write for those who fall hard, rise slowly, and believe that kindness is a superpower. I am the only person who documents the chaos of love. romance, obsession, etc.
could we get more stories about being the grand regent thragg sister and more about their dynamic
CRIMSON HEART ────── Grand Regent Thragg
Start Day. Sat 20-06-2026
Synopsis. In an empire that worshipped strength above all, Thragg found in his sister the only exception to his stone-cold heart. Trained with brutality, loved in silence, you became his balance, his storm, his reason for being. But he can't keep you safe forever.
Pairing. Thragg x Sister! Reader. (Platonic)
Content. MDNI. Grand Regent Thragg (Invincible) She/her. Dark atmosphere amidst the vastness of space. Grief and loss. Extreme possessiveness. Violence. Growing obsession. Masculine vulnerability. Childhooh. brutal training. Tenderness veiled in harshness. Existential anguish. Metaphors of stars and cosmic emptiness. Acceptance of loss. Love as a concept unknown. Overwhelming sensations of emptiness. Emotional firsts (for Thragg). The contrast between physical strength and emotional fragility. Memories that invade the space of the heart. Insistent touches remembered. Whispers recalled in flashes. Obsession (but its Thragg, yk?)
Word Count. 5k
N/A. My friend loves Invincible, and even though I’m not the #1 fan of the comic and the series, I really like it—especially Thragg and Nolan (and Mark, of course 🥴). It’s not very long, and I’m not sure if I nailed Thragg’s personality; I tend to make characters a bit OOC in that regard, and I think philosophy classes are messing with my mental health.
« I'm two in one,
or am i one in two? »
Viltrum is not measured in light-years, but in broken jaws and kneeling planets. That is how we were raised: muscle as the only truth, conquest as the only language, spilled blood as the only poetry. There was no room for subtlety, for nuance, for anything that could not be resolved with a well-placed punch. Love was a foreign concept, a weakness that conquered peoples whispered in their dying tongues before being silenced forever. And yet, you were the error that the logic of our empire could never predict. The flaw in the system. The exception that proved the rule. The whisper in the midst of the roar.
Thragg was born to be the empire's fist. Son of the closest advisor to Emperor Argall, he was raised from his very first breath to be the strongest, the fastest, the most lethal. His cradle was a training ground. His first word was a war grunt. Forged in combat, raised for war. If the empire was a body, he was its armed arm, the blood spilled to keep it alive. There was no childhood in the sense that other worlds know; there was training, discipline, and the absolute certainty that weakness was the only unforgivable sin. His first memory was not his mother's face, but the taste of metal in his mouth after a fall. His first lesson was not love, but pain.
And then, you came.
The Viltrumite Empire has an unwritten law: a single heir per lineage. Blood is concentrated, not diluted. Strength accumulates, it is not shared. But Emperor Argall, in one of his whims, allowed the exception. Two seeds from the same tree. Two halves of the same soul. Thragg did not understand then what it meant to have a sister. He only knew that, suddenly, the void he had felt his entire life without knowing it, began to fill with something he could not name. Something that burned in his chest with the intensity of a newborn star.
He watched you from a distance when you were just a child, more fragile than any Viltrumite he had ever known. You did not share his obsession with combat. While he molded his muscles against real opponents, you molded your mind with maps of forgotten systems and customs of worlds he considered unworthy of his attention. You were weaker, yes—by Viltrumite standards, you were still a force to be reckoned with—but your true strength did not lie in your fists, but in your ability to see what he could not: that an empire is not sustained by destruction alone.
And he, the warrior forged to feel nothing, felt. He did not know how to name it. Viltrumites do not speak of what they do not understand. But when he saw you absorb knowledge like a sponge, when he heard you speak of diplomacy with the same passion with which others spoke of battles, something in his chest tightened. It was not pride—pride was for victories. It was not admiration—admiration was for superiors. It was something deeper, more primal, more voracious. It was the certainty that, no matter how far his fist reached, no matter how many worlds he conquered, there would always be a void inside him that only you could fill.
And Thragg, who had never possessed anything worth protecting, decided that you would be his. Not as a possession, not as a trophy. As an extension of himself. As the only part of his being he could not afford to lose. As the heartbeat that kept his stone heart alive.
Remember the first time you fell. Not in the training ring, where falls were expected and even celebrated as lessons. It was in the gardens of the imperial palace, when you were still a girl with trembling legs and insatiable curiosity. You were chasing a winged creature from a conquered world, your eyes shining with an emotion he had never seen in any Viltrumite. You tripped over a root, and your knee scraped against the stone. Blood, as red as that of any mortal, welled from the wound.
Thragg felt something he could not name. It was not pity—Viltrumites did not feel pity. It was not compassion—compassion was for the weak. It was a cold, deep fury, directed not at you, but at the entire universe that dared to hurt you. At the root that had dared to cross your path. At the ground that had had the audacity to stain itself with your blood.
He walked toward you with firm steps, his small figure already casting the shadow of the warrior he would become. He knelt before you, and for a moment, his fingers trembled as they touched your wound.
—It hurts —you whispered, your eyes bright with tears you refused to shed.
—Viltrumites do not feel pain —he lied, his voice already an echo of authority—. You are Viltrumite. Get up.
But instead of letting you stand alone, he took your hand and helped you to your feet. His fingers closed around yours with unnecessary force, as if he feared the wind might snatch you away. Then, without a word, he carried you to the infirmary. He did not trust the doctors to heal you. He stayed there, watching every movement, every bandage, every drop of antiseptic. His red eyes did not leave your knee until the wound was completely sealed.
—Next time —he said, his voice a blade of steel—, you don't run. You walk with me, or you don't walk.
That was the first lesson. Not the last.
As you grew, Thragg became your shadow, your executioner, and your shield. He trained you with a brutality that would make even the most seasoned warriors tremble. He threw you to the ground again and again, mercilessly, until your muscles burned and your breath became a gasp. But never, ever, did he allow anyone else to touch you.
—Again —he growled, his hand extended to help you up from the floor, during one of those training sessions that had become routine—. That fall was pathetic. A newborn would have laughed at you.
—A newborn wouldn't be reading war treaties while dodging your blows —you retorted, spitting blood and accepting his hand—. If only you'd use that brute force to open a book once in a while.
—And for what? —he let out a dry laugh, but his fingers closed around yours with more force than necessary—. Books don't win battles.
—Books teach you how not to lose them before they even start, brother.
He released your hand, but not before giving you a blow to the shoulder that unsteadied you again.
—Get up. And next time, dodge before you philosophize.
You rolled your eyes, but a crooked smile crept onto your face as you got up. He was no longer looking; he was turning toward the next training round, but you knew him. You saw how his fingers relaxed for just a second, as if he had released a weight he didn't even know he carried. You saw how his shoulders, always tense, slackened a fraction of a second when he saw you smile. And you also saw how his gaze hardened when another warrior came too close to you during breaks.
Remember that day, when you were thirteen and a young soldier, barely a few years older than you, offered you water after a training session. Thragg appeared behind him like a silent storm. He said nothing. He just planted himself between you, his red eyes fixed on the soldier with an intensity that made death itself pale. The young man stepped back, stammered an apology, and disappeared before Thragg had to utter a single word.
—You don't need his water —said Thragg, without looking at you—. I'll bring you water.
—He was just being kind —you replied, a hint of defiance in your voice.
—Kindness is a weakness. And you don't need weaknesses. You have to be strong. Stronger than all of them.
—Even than you?
He looked at you then, and for an instant, something wavered in his eyes. Something he could not name.
—You will never have to be stronger than me —he said, his voice strangely soft—. Because you will never have to fight me. But against the rest of the universe, yes. And I won't always be there to protect you.
—You're always there —you retorted, and there was a truth in your words that he could not deny.
—For now. But the universe is unpredictable. You must learn to survive without me. Even though I don't know how to survive without you.
That was the first time you heard something akin to a confession from his lips. And also the last, for a long time.
Adolescence brought new challenges. Thragg had become the Grand Regent, and his power was absolute. But his obsession with you had only grown, like a flame fed by the wind.
Suitors came, as they always came to the doors of the powerful. Warriors from conquered worlds, dignitaries from allied systems, even high-ranking Viltrumites who saw in you a strategic alliance. All of them disappeared. Not physically, not in a way that could be traced. They simply... stopped trying. A look from Thragg, a private conversation in which the Grand Regent explained with terrifying calm the "consequences" of courting his sister, and the bravest suitor became the most cautious.
Remember the night the son of Xandor's ruler, a handsome and promising young man, had courted you with flowers from his home planet and promises of trade alliances. Thragg had watched him from the shadows throughout the entire evening, with a smile that never reached his eyes. The next day, the young man had left for his world with a haste he could not hide. Weeks later, you learned that his planet had undergone a "restructuring" of its trade routes, and that the ruler had been replaced by a more... malleable one.
—I've heard that the son of Xandor's ruler has an interest in you —Thragg commented one night, his voice so neutral it almost seemed kind—. What do you think?
—That he's a good match —you replied, without looking up from your reports—. His planet controls vital trade routes for the empire.
—And his face? His lineage? —he asked, and in his voice there was an edge you hadn't noticed until then.
—I haven't thought about that.
—Good —he said, and his fingers relaxed on the arm of his throne—. Because I've decided he's not a good match.
You looked up, and saw something in his eyes that made you pause. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly. It was something darker, more possessive. As if the mere idea that someone else could claim your attention were a blasphemy against the natural order of the universe.
—Thragg —you said, your tone both a warning and a question—. What have you done?
—Nothing he didn't deserve —he replied, his smile all teeth—. I just reminded him that his planet is very... fragile. It would be a shame if something happened to it.
—Did you threaten him?
—No. I showed him reality. There's a difference.
You shook your head, but you couldn't help a smile. Because, deep down, you understood. Not because you shared his possessiveness—though, to be fair, you'd had your moments too—but because you knew that his obsession with you was the only form of love a Viltrumite could offer.
And you, who had learned to see the world through the lens of diplomacy and strategy, also had your own dose of inner violence. You were not a fragile flower that needed protection. You were a storm trapped in a body that Thragg had forged with his own hands. When someone dared to insult him in your presence, your smile became dangerous. When a general questioned his orders, it was you who, with a soft voice and a courteous smile, reminded him that the Grand Regent had ears everywhere.
Remember that time a Viltrumite commander, arrogant and stupid, had dared to mock Thragg at a council meeting. He had insinuated that the Grand Regent relied too much on his "womanly counsel." You said nothing at the time. But that night, the commander received a visit. It wasn't Thragg who appeared in his chambers. It was you.
—I've heard you have reservations about my role on the council —you said, with a smile that didn't reach your eyes—. I'd love to hear them. In detail.
The commander, a warrior with centuries of experience, had seen death in a hundred battles. But he had never seen a smile like yours. He had never felt such a deep cold in the gaze of someone so young. He stammered an apology, and never questioned Thragg again.
—Brother —you told him later, as you shared a quiet dinner in his chambers—. You could have been more subtle with the commander.
—I don't know how to be subtle —he replied, shrugging, but his eyes gleamed with something that was almost pride.
—I know. That's why I'm here.
And he looked at you, and in that gaze there was something no other Viltrumite had ever seen: gratitude. The gratitude of knowing he was not alone in the universe, that he had someone who understood his violence and accepted it, who even complemented it. The gratitude of having someone who, like him, was capable of loving in their own twisted, dark way, with the intensity of a star on the verge of collapse.
—You are the only person in the universe who can look me in the eyes and not tremble —he said, his voice a whisper—. The only one who challenges me and lives to tell it.
—The only one who loves you, even though you don't know what love is —you retorted, and there was a challenge in your words he could not ignore.
—And if I don't know what it is? —he asked, and for the first time, his voice faltered—. What does it matter? You are here. That's enough.
And in that moment, you both knew you didn't need words to define what you felt. Because Viltrumites do not name what they love. They only protect it. And Thragg, the Grand Regent, the conqueror of worlds, protected you as he protected the empire: with blood, with fury, with the certainty that if the universe dared to touch you, he would tear it in two.
And then the virus came.
The empire crumbled like a star collapsing in on itself, devouring its own light in a deathly embrace. There were no war trumpets to announce its fall, no victorious enemies raising banners over its ruins. It was a whisper that brought it down. A virus, invisible and silent, that slipped through the veins of the strongest like a river of ice, freezing life from within, cell by cell, breath by breath. The Viltrumites, the conquerors of worlds, the owners of the cosmos, those who had walked among the stars as gods among mortals, fell in silence. There was no glory in that death. There was no honor. Only the void of an empire bleeding out without understanding how, finding no enemy to blame, finding no solace in battle. It was the most absolute defeat: the one that cannot be fought with fists.
Thragg watched the numbers from the command bridge. His face was a mask of basalt, sculpted by centuries of war and discipline, but his fingers dug into the console's metal with such force that the material began to give way, to bend under the pressure of a fury he dared not manifest. Each report was a sentence. Each name crossed out, an echo resonating in the silence of his chambers, another ghost joining the procession of the fallen. Generals fell, scientists fell, the elite soldiers who had swept across the galaxy like an unstoppable tempest now lay in quarantine beds, their bodies consumed by a fever no Viltrumite medicine could tame, awaiting the end with the resignation of those who know their time has come.
But when your name arrived, the world stopped.
There was no clamor, no explosion, no grand announcement to mark the moment. Just the beat of his heart—that muscle he had believed tamed centuries ago, that organ he considered a mere blood pump in service to his muscles—hammering against his ribs with the force of a dagger, with the urgency of a cornered animal. He was given the report. He read it three times. The fourth, he simply held it between his fingers, feeling the weight of those words as if they were molten lead, as if each letter burned his skin.
—Confirmed? —he asked, and his voice did not tremble. It never trembled. It was the voice of the Grand Regent, the roar that had made entire planets kneel, the sound that preceded the death of empires. But there was something in it, an imperceptible tension, a barely audible vibration that his generals, trained to detect fear in their enemies, dared not name.
—Yes, my lord. Your sister has contracted the primary strain. Symptoms are advanced. Survival probabilities do not exceed...
—Leave —he interrupted, without raising his voice, without altering his tone—. Now.
The scientist hesitated a second, just long enough for Thragg to look up. It was enough. Those red eyes, those eyes that had seen the death of thousands, that had witnessed the collapse of entire civilizations without blinking, settled on him with a coldness so absolute, so devoid of all mercy, that the man felt his skin freeze, his blood stop in his veins. He left without another word, not daring even to breathe until the door closed behind him.
Thragg was left alone. The report was still in his hands. He read it once more, as if repetition could change its content, as if the universe, seeing him so obstinate, so stubborn in his refusal to accept reality, would decide to grant him a miracle. But miracles do not exist in the Viltrumite empire. There is only will, power, the brute force of those who refuse to fall. And yet, there he was, the strongest of all, holding a paper that weighed more than any star, and he could do nothing.
When he entered your room, the air smelled of death. Not the violent death he knew, the one of battlefields and mutilated bodies, of broken skulls and blood spilled on foreign soil. It smelled of something more subtle, more insidious, more cruel. It smelled of defeat. Of surrender. Of the slow fading of a flame he had not known how to protect. He found you in bed, your skin pale as the moon of a dead world, eyes closed and lips slightly parted, breathing with the fragility of a wounded bird that knows its flight is over. The monitors showed vital signs bleeding out in ever-lower numbers, like an hourglass counting the last grains of your existence.
He sat beside you. He didn't touch you. He didn't dare. For a long moment, he just watched you, his gaze fixed on the barely perceptible movement of your chest, on the tremor of your fingers on the sheets. His mind, trained to calculate movements and anticipate attacks, to find the weakness in any enemy and exploit it mercilessly, found itself in unknown territory. There was no enemy to defeat. There was no strategy to devise. There was no fist to raise nor word to speak that could change the course of events. There was only you, his sister, the only person in the universe who had managed to make him feel something more than the cold satisfaction of conquest, the only one who had managed to make his chest expand with something other than the pride of battle.
—You were negligent —he said finally, his voice neutral, as if he were reprimanding a soldier for a tactical error—. You should have informed me at the first symptom.
—I was going to tell you —you replied, your voice barely a whisper, a breeze fading before reaching his ears—. When I found the cure.
—There is no cure.
The silence stretched like an open wound, like an abyss opening between them. Thragg clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grind under the pressure. His hands rested on his knees, still, but he felt his nails digging into his skin, blood welling in small red dots he didn't deign to look at, seeking a release that didn't come.
—I know —you whispered, and he hated the acceptance in your voice. He hated that you gave up so easily, that you didn't fight, that you didn't roar against fate as he would have—. But I didn't want you to worry.
—I don't worry —he lied, and the lie was so evident that even he felt its weight—. Viltrumites don't worry.
—Of course not —you laughed, a weak, broken laugh, like the crack of a branch snapping before falling, and he felt his chest contract, something twisting inside him—. You just inspect my wounds as if they were battle reports. You just show up in the hangar every time I return from a mission. You just...
—Shut up.
It wasn't a growl, wasn't an order, wasn't the voice of the Grand Regent. It was a plea disguised as authority, a plea his lips would never have uttered in any other context. You opened your eyes and looked at him, and in your gaze there was something he had never seen before. Understanding. The understanding that his armor was cracking, that the most feared warrior in the universe was, at that moment, just a brother who didn't know how to say goodbye.
—I've seen you face entire armies without flinching —you said, your voice so low it seemed to come from far away—. But you can't look me in the eyes when I tell you I'm fine.
—You're lying.
—So are you.
There was no response. Thragg averted his gaze, fixing it on the window that showed the vastness of space, the immensity of the cosmos he had sworn to dominate. The stars flickered indifferently, oblivious to the drama unfolding in that room, to the tragedy being consummated in the bed of a woman who had been his only anchor in the storm. The universe continued its course, planets kept spinning, empires kept falling and rising, and he, the owner of all that, was unable to stop the clock.
The following days became a downward spiral, a slow and painful descent into an abyss he could not name. Thragg abandoned his duties. The war councils, strategic decisions, the demands of the empire, reports of new infections... everything was suspended. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense. He didn't leave your room. He slept in a chair beside your bed, without falling asleep, watching your vital signs fluctuate like the tides of a dying ocean, rising and falling in an ever-slower, ever-weaker rhythm.
—Do you remember when you tried to teach me to fight? —you asked one night, your voice so low he had to lean in to hear you, to feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek—. You threw me to the ground again and again, and I couldn't get up.
—You were pathetic —he replied, and in his voice there was a hint of something that almost seemed like tenderness, a nuance no other Viltrumite would have recognized—. You didn't even know how to hold a fist.
—You were a tyrant —you laughed weakly, and he saw your lips curve into a smile that barely illuminated your face—. You hit me as if I were a training bag.
—And yet, here you are. Still here.
—For now.
The silence that followed was heavier than any defeat. Thragg felt his hands tremble, his fingers clench on the fabric of the sheets, seeking a grip in the storm.
—And now? —you whispered, and he felt your trembling, weak hand seeking his—. What am I now?
Thragg didn't answer immediately. He took your hand in his, feeling the fever consuming your skin, how your fingers barely had the strength to hold his. He held you with the same delicacy with which he would hold a crystal about to shatter, with the same care with which he had never held anything in his life.
—My sister —he said finally, and those two words weighed more than any empire, more than any conquest—. You will always be my sister.
The end came without clamor, like the virus. One night, in the stillness of the ship, while space stretched beyond the viewports like a cloak of black velvet, the monitors traced a straight line. No spikes, no warnings, no final breath for him to hear. Just a silence that stretched like an ocean of ice, enveloping everything in a cold he did not know. Thragg was sitting beside you when it happened. He saw your eyes close forever, saw your chest stop rising, saw your fingers relax between his. And he did nothing. He could do nothing.
He remained motionless for hours. He didn't cry—Viltrumites don't cry—but something inside him tore, something he didn't know existed until he lost it. He stayed there, holding your now-cold hand, feeling the warmth escape your body like the light of a dying star. And for the first time in his life, he understood the true dimension of the void. It wasn't the absence of enemies, wasn't the lack of battles. It was the absence of you. It was the silence of a voice that would never answer him again.
When the doctors entered to remove the body, he lifted his head. His gaze was a bottomless abyss, a well of darkness where all trace of light had been lost.
—Leave her —he ordered, and his voice was a blade of steel, but also a barely perceptible tremor—. She's resting.
No one dared to contradict him. They left in silence, without a word, and Thragg was left alone, with your inert body, with the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears, with the memory of your laughter floating in the air like a ghost.
A week later, he ordered mass incineration. He couldn't allow the virus to spread. He couldn't allow his empire, what remained of it, to crumble completely. He himself supervised the operation, standing in the ship's hangar, his face expressionless, his fists clenched at his sides. He watched them slide your body toward the ejection hatch, wrapped in the white shroud of the fallen. He watched the void claim you, watched you become another point in the constellation of corpses floating in the eternal cold, a flash of light fading into immensity.
And when the hatch sealed, when no trace of you remained in the universe, Thragg turned and walked back to the command bridge. He didn't look back. Viltrumites don't look back.
But that night, in the solitude of his chambers, Thragg sought no comfort in objects or sounds. He spoke no word. He sat on his throne, the same throne from which he had ruled the empire, and did nothing. He just existed, breathing the void you had left behind. His hands rested on the arms of the throne, still, but his fingers opened and closed as if still seeking your hand in his.
Finally, he stood. With slow, heavy movements, as if the weight of the entire universe rested on his shoulders, he walked to the viewport. The same viewport from which he had so often watched the stars beside you, listening to your theories about distant worlds and forgotten cultures. Now, the stars flickered indifferently, oblivious to his loss.
He placed his hand on the cold glass, feeling the cold of space seeping through the surface. His reflection in the glass was that of a broken warrior, a king without a kingdom, a man who had lost his reason for being. But he said nothing. He didn't whisper promises into the void, didn't swear vengeance against the universe. He just watched.
He watched the stars, one by one, as if in each one he could find a glimmer of you. As if the vastness of the cosmos could return what he had lost. And as he watched, something in his chest quieted. It was not peace, not acceptance. It was something simpler, more primal. It was the relief of knowing that, somehow, you still existed.
Because Viltrumites did not know the meaning of love. They had no words to name it, no ceremonies to celebrate it, no gods to beg for it. Love was a foreign concept, a weakness they had eradicated from their culture millennia ago. But even if they didn't know its name, even if they couldn't define it or understand it, Viltrumites did know what it was. They knew it in the beat of their heart when they saw someone important. They knew it in the tremor of their hands when that person was in danger. They knew it in the void left by their absence.
And now, Thragg knew it better than anyone. He had loved. He had loved with the intensity of a star, with the fury of a black hole, with the obsession of one who has nothing left to lose. And even though he had never spoken the word, even though he had never fully understood what it meant, his love had been real. As real as the blood running through his veins, as real as the empire he ruled, as real as the void he felt in his chest.
And in that reality, in that love that needed no name, you had become eternal. Because love, even the twisted, possessive love of a Viltrumite who could not name it, was stronger than death. Stronger than the virus. Stronger than time and space and the immensity of the universe.
Thragg kept watching the stars, and in his silence, in his stillness, there was something no words could have captured. It was not resignation. It was not sadness. It was the acknowledgment that, although he would never see you again, although he would never hear your voice or feel your hand in his, you had existed. And that existence, that brief flash of light in the darkness of the cosmos, had transformed his stone heart into something that beat.
Something that, now, beat for you.
And while the stars flickered in the immensity of space, Thragg, the Grand Regent, the conqueror of worlds, the terror of entire galaxies, stood there, in silence, without a word on his lips. Because words were unnecessary. Because the love he felt didn't need to be spoken to be true.
Because, in the end, the only thing that mattered was that you had been loved.
My head is killing me, I have terrible aches from working, and on top of that, I have little hope that Spain will beat France in the semifinals. Some people suffer for love, and I suffer waiting to see if I'll ever get paid—most likely on some very distant day. At least Thragg got to be happy with his sister during the time they lived together and Marvel Rivals got an update 🙌
Synopsis. You were just another overworked, underpaid PR grunt at Vought, until Homelander noticed you. What began as a predator's idle curiosity quickly became a suffocating obsession. Promoted against your will to his personal handler, stripped of every support system, you find yourself trapped in his gilded cage. When your freeloading cousin Marta becomes his final obstacle, Homelander decides to remove her — permanently. In his mind, it's not cruelty; it's love. And for a lonely god who was never taught how to love, love justifies absolutely anything.
Pairing: Obsessed! Homelander x Stressed! PR! Reader
Content: M D N I. Homelander (The Boys). smut dubcon. Size kink. bulge kink. Dark corporate atmosphere in Vought Tower. Workplace harassment. Obsessive surveillance. Extreme power imbalance. Psychological manipulation. Maternal neediness projection. Forced isolation. Non-consensu Sal touching. Coercion. Murder of a secondary character (off-screen). Blood (mild). Emotional kidnapping. Dominant/submissive dynamics. Intense, dark intimate sessions. Making out. Sustained eye contact. Provocative and possessive language. Pet names (little ant). Extreme possessiveness. Subtle jealousy. Power display. Prolonged pace. Overwhelming sensations. Male vulnerability revealed in intimacy. Personal space invasion. Home invasion. Insistent touching. Whispered words. Growing, destructive obsession. Pathological narcissism. Dark ending with no redemption.
Word Count: 8k
N/A. Truth is, I've never had this much trouble with a draft before. I know it's your standard Homelander fic, but hey, I had to join the party 👍
« But you're everything to me.
You deepen the red of my blood »
Twenty-two hours. That was the cursed number that governed your existence, the official schedule—or rather, the administrative sentence—imposed on you by the Public Relations Department of Vought International. Twenty-two hours a week that, on paper, were supposed to translate into a salary decent enough to allow you the luxury of renting a decent apartment, filling the fridge with food that wasn't made of plastic, and perhaps, with a bit of luck, treating yourself to the occasional indulgence. But reality, like almost everything in that damned glass tower of corporate mirages, was a cruel joke wrapped in bureaucracy. The salary turned out to be laughable, barely a trickle of red ink in your bank account that evaporated before you could blink, leaving you trapped on a perpetual hamster wheel of financial anxiety while you watched the company's real heroes earn more from a single soda commercial than you would in your entire working life.
As if that financial tightrope weren't torture enough, fate had decided to add dead weight to your already tottering balance. You had your cousin living at home. A thirty-year-old woman you hadn't seen since the blurry days of childhood, when both families still pretended to get along at Christmas gatherings. You had taken her in out of a gesture of compassion that now seemed like the worst miscalculation of your adult life. She didn't work. She didn't look for work. She didn't seem to have the slightest intention of lifting a finger to ease the burden her presence represented. She had settled on your sofa like a wilted, demanding fern, an emotional and financial parasite that consumed your resources without offering anything in return. And there you were, trapped in the impossible role of sole provider, taking care of a fully functional adult as if she were a teenage daughter, looking after two people when you could barely keep yourself upright.
Ironic, you sometimes thought while rubbing your temples in front of the computer screen in the empty office, how you had become everyone's pillar when your own foundations were silently crumbling. No one saw it, of course. No one noticed the cracks in your professional smile, the slight trembling of your hands as you poured your third coffee of the day, the dark circles you covered with cheap concealer before facing the most narcissistic superheroes on the planet. You were the image expert who kept everyone else's façade flawless, while your own fell apart behind the closed door of your tiny apartment. And the worst of all was that growing feeling that someone—someone with eyes too blue and a smile that never reached his gaze—had begun to notice the fissures.
The first time Homelander noticed you, it wasn't because of your looks, or your voice, or even the position you held in the tower. It was because of the smell.
He was flying over the administrative wing, a pastime he cultivated when boredom gnawed at his skull, when his superhuman sense of smell picked up a distinct chemical signature amidst the cheap perfume of the hallways. Cortisol. Adrenaline at almost clinical levels. A cocktail of stress so pure and concentrated it was nearly intoxicating. He descended a few meters, hovering silently like a bored god, and located you through the glass walls. You were hunched over a tiny desk, your fingers pounding the keyboard with mechanical fury, your jaw so tight he could almost hear your teeth grinding. Your heart was beating like a trapped bird against your ribs.
He smiled to himself. What a pathetic creature, he thought. Barely a bundle of nerves with an ID badge hanging around her neck. And yet... she's still there. Still fighting. He liked that contradiction: the most absolute fragility that refused to break. It was like watching an insect trying to lift a crumb of bread too big. He decided to remember your face.
The second encounter was deliberate. A leak to the press about one of A-Train's nocturnal excesses had put the Public Relations department under siege, and Homelander decided to honor the crisis room with his presence. Not because he cared about the speedster's fate—whom he considered little more than a defective tool—but because he wanted to see you under real pressure. He wanted to know if that chemical symphony from the other night was your natural state.
He arrived without making a sound, as always. The door opened and his silhouette outlined against the fluorescent light was enough to make everyone in the room hold their breath. Everyone except you. You didn't even look up from your tablet, too absorbed in damage timelines and press releases. That annoyed him. And he liked it.
—Is someone going to explain to me why my time is being interrupted by the incompetence of a drug-addict runner? —he purred, sweeping his gaze over those present until he fixed it on you.
You were the only one who answered, with a tired but firm voice that didn't tremble when addressing him:
—With all due respect, Mr. Homelander, if we manage to contain this before noon, your time won't be affected at all. We're on it.
Mr. Homelander? The formal address rang in his ego like a pleasant bell, but it was the lack of fear in your tone that truly captured his attention. Almost all employees stammered in his presence, sweated, averted their eyes like prey before a predator. You, on the other hand, were too exhausted to be afraid. Your pulse had barely altered when speaking to him. It was insolence born of exhaustion, not courage, and that made it delightfully genuine.
He leaned toward you, invading your personal space with calculated slowness. The scent of your stress was more intense up close, an invisible cloud enveloping him. He could smell the stale coffee on your breath, the lack of sleep on your skin, the cheap perfume that tried to mask desperation.
—Do you have any idea who's talking to you? —he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.
—Perfectly —you replied, finally raising your eyes. Tired. Beautiful in their devastation—. That's exactly why I need you to let me work.
No one spoke to him like that. No one. Fury and pleasure tangled in his chest like two serpents. He wanted to punish you. He wanted to rip out that insolent tongue and collect it in a jar. But he also wanted, above all, for you to look at him like that again, with that mix of indifference and loyalty to a cause as insignificant as saving Vought's reputation.
—Alright —he said at last, straightening up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes—. Work. And don't disappoint me.
From then on, he became your invisible shadow. Not in an obvious way, of course; he was too cunning to stoop to following a mere human through the hallways like a lapdog. Instead, he used his senses: he listened to your conversations through walls, smelled your mood swings from entire floors away, watched your routine with the patience of a feline observing a lame mouse.
He discovered that you worked twenty-two hours a week, a figure that struck him as ridiculous and almost insulting. Was that all you were worth to the company? A miserable salary and cut hours? The injustice, curiously, didn't outrage him out of empathy—he was incapable of feeling it—but because it placed you on such a low rung that you almost escaped his radar. He didn't like that. If you were going to be his new distraction, his little pastime, you needed to be in a visible, controllable place. He would have to fix it. A transfer, perhaps. A forced promotion to his personal image team. After all, wasn't he Vought's greatest asset? His image was that of a god. He deserved someone dedicated exclusively to polishing it.
And then there was the matter of your cousin. That parasite who vegetated in your apartment. He listened to her one night, while floating outside your window, invisible among the shadows of the sky. Your voice, tense, begging her to look for work. Hers, indolent, complaining of imaginary aches. The anger rising up your throat, the tears you held back because you couldn't afford the luxury of falling apart. Homelander clenched his fists. It wasn't compassion he felt; it was possession. How dare that useless woman add more weight onto your shoulders? Those shoulders were his now. The exhaustion, the dark circles, the tears you didn't shed, all of that belonged to him. No one else had the right to cause them.
One night, after a charity event where you had coordinated every detail with surgical precision—and where he had pretended not to look at you from the stage—, he intercepted you in the underground parking lot. Your heels echoed against the concrete with a limping rhythm; you had twisted your ankle at some point during the evening and the pain added to your litany of miseries. He appeared out of nowhere, the flag waving on his cape even underground, his superstar smile firmly in place.
—You did a good job tonight —he said, blocking your way with his mere presence—. I've been watching you.
You stopped, leaning against a pillar to relieve the pressure on your ankle. —Thank you. I try to do my job well.
—Oh, I know. You work like a damned slave for a few coins and an apartment infested with useless relatives. —Your expression of surprise drew a soft, almost paternal laugh from him—. Don't make that face. I know a lot of things. I know you don't sleep, I know you eat junk from vending machines, I know that bruise on your left wrist you got from bumping into a filing cabinet last Tuesday, during your break.
The fear that finally appeared in your eyes was the sweetest of nectars. At last, at last, you broke that façade of indifferent professional. You stepped back, but he took you by the chin with the tips of his fingers, a touch light as a caress and firm as a threat.
—You're weak —he murmured, delighting in the word, savoring it—. Fragile, exhausted, about to break. But that's okay. I like it. Fragile things are easier to possess. And you, my little ant, need someone to possess you. To take care of you. To push all those parasites sucking the life out of you out of your way so you can thrive.
—I don't need... —you began, but his thumb lightly pressed your lower lip, silencing you.
—Of course you do. You just don't know it yet. But don't worry. I have a loooot of patience with things that interest me. —He tilted his head, his blue eyes piercing you from an unattainable height—. You are inferior to me in everything that matters, but that doesn't mean you can't be useful to me. In fact, I think you're going to become my favorite project.
His smile widened, white and perfect, and in that gesture was all the narcissism in the world: the certainty of a god who has decided to take a fancy to a mortal and expects, of course, absolute gratitude.
—Now, go home. Rest. I don't want my favorite toy to break before I start playing with it. Tomorrow we'll talk about your new position. You're welcome, in advance.
And with a swirl of his cape, he rose into the night, leaving you alone under the hum of the fluorescents, with your heart galloping and the terrifying certainty that the most dangerous predator on the planet had just set his sights on you. The worst wasn't the fear. The worst was that tiny, almost imperceptible part of you that, for one fleeting second, felt seen.
That night, after the encounter in the parking lot, you barely managed to get the key into the lock. Your hands trembled like leaves in the wind and your ankle throbbed with a dull ache that climbed all the way to your hip. When you opened the door, the smell of stale popcorn and cheap cologne hit you in the face. Marta was sprawled on the sofa, wrapped in a faded flannel robe, watching a cooking competition on TV with the volume far too loud.
—Watching that again? —you murmured, dropping your bag to the floor with a dry thud.
—Well, honey, there's nothing else on... These damn superheroes hog every channel. On channel one, on two, on three... Even on the paid ones! Homelander saves who-knows-who, Queen Maeve opens a shopping center... What a load of crap! —she grumbled, turning off the television with a theatrical gesture—. They used to show reruns of 'Médico de familia', which was a proper, decent series.
You let yourself collapse into the dining chair, rubbing your temples. The terror you had felt in the parking lot was still there, lodged in your chest like a cold stone. And Marta, with her chronic uselessness, was the only person in the world you could share it with. Paradoxical. The thirty-something cousin who never lifted a finger, who lived off your miserable salary, was your only confidante.
—Marta... —you began, your voice broken—. I think I've gotten myself into a really serious problem.
She half sat up, propping herself on one elbow. For once, the chronic laziness on her face gave way to a spark of attention.
—Were you fired? Because if you were fired, I know a guy who sells some really good creams online, and we could...
—No, Marta, I wasn't fired. It's... —You swallowed. The words burned in your throat, but you had to let them out or you would choke—. It's Homelander. The real Homelander. He's been following me. He says he's been... watching me. He knows where I live, he knows about my schedule, he knows about you.
—He knows about me? —Marta's tone sharpened with almost comical indignation—. And what's he going to know about me if he doesn't know me at all? Look, I haven't done anything wrong! I've got enough with my arthritis and my migraines without some guy in blue pajamas coming to meddle in my life.
—Marta, you don't understand. He's dangerous. Really. He told me I'm his... his toy.
There was a silence. Marta blinked twice, processing the information with the slowness of an old computer. Then she got up from the sofa, dragging the fuzzy slippers she had stolen from you, and came over to you. She knelt beside you —with some difficulty, because the arthritis was real, not made up— and took your hands with an almost tender clumsiness.
—Look, I don't like those heroes. They're fascists, hoarders, a bunch of... sons of bitches. But you're my cousin. And I might be useless, which I am, and a parasite, which I also am, but I'm not going to let some guy in a cape make you feel like this. —She squeezed your fingers harder than you expected—. From now on, I'll take care of the house, okay? And the shopping. And if that show-off with laser eyes shows up around here, I'll give him a piece of my mind, because I may have a lot of ailments but in my youth I handed out slaps like they were bread.
You almost laughed. The image of Marta confronting Homelander was as absurd as it was endearing. For the first time in months, you saw in her tired, failed-housewife eyes a spark of genuine loyalty. Marta wasn't a bad person. She was just a woman broken by life, a mediocre survivor who had gotten used to drifting aimlessly. But there she was, squeezing your hands, offering you the only thing she could give: her useless company and her sincere indignation.
—Thank you —you whispered, and it was a real thank you.
It was then that you felt it. A chill on the back of your neck, an icy tingling that ran down your spine. You looked up toward the living room window, the one that faced the street, the one you always left without curtains because there was no money for blinds. And there, floating in the darkness like a malignant star, two points of an almost white blue returned your gaze.
Homelander was outside. He hadn't left. He hadn't left at any point.
He was smiling. Even in the dim light, you could see the white curve of his teeth, the impossible stillness of his body suspended in the air, the cape waving slowly like a flag of conquest. He made no move to leave. He simply stayed there, watching you through the glass, savoring your terror with the calm of someone who has all the time in the world.
Because he did. Of course he did. And he wasn't going to leave.
You didn't sleep. You spent the night wide awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, with the curtains drawn and your mind repeating over and over that smile floating in the darkness. Marta fell asleep on the sofa, hugging a cushion like an old cat, oblivious to the danger lurking beyond the windowpanes. You didn't have the courage to look out the window at dawn, for fear of still finding those two blue points waiting for you in the gray sky.
At eight in the morning, with irritated eyes and yesterday's wrinkled clothes, you arrived at Vought Tower. The receptionist stopped you before you could take refuge in your cubicle.
—Ashley wants to see you. Right now. In her office.
The tone left no room for argument. Something had changed.
Ashley Barrett, the vice president of hero management, greeted you from behind her glass desk with a smile that was meant to be warm but couldn't hide the chronic panic that lived in her pupils. She had her phone glued to her ear, as always, but hung up as soon as she saw you enter.
—Oh, thank God you're here! Sit down, sit down. —She pointed to a chair with a nervous gesture, smoothing her coppery hair—. I have news... well, news. Important. Very important.
—Did I do something wrong? —you asked, though deep down you already knew. It wasn't punishment what was coming. It was something worse.
—Wrong? No, not at all! On the contrary. —Ashley let out a high-pitched giggle, the kind she used to disguise bad news—. There's been a... restructuring. Homelander has personally requested the creation of a Public Relations team dedicated exclusively to his image. And he has also personally asked that you be the one to lead it.
The word "lead" echoed hollowly in the office.
—But I'm the lowest on the ladder. I have no experience in... —you began, but Ashley interrupted you with a wave of her hand.
—Nonsense! You've demonstrated extraordinary resilience, a commitment to the company that doesn't go unnoticed. Besides, Homelander himself has praised your work. Do you know how hard it is for him to praise anyone? It's an honor! A privilege! —Her voice cracked for an instant, betraying the underlying terror—. And, well, there's a small detail: the team consists of you alone. There's no budget for more. Image crisis and all that. But I'm sure you can handle it. He trusts you.
He trusts you. The words tasted like poison to you.
Ashley handed you a folder with the new contract, the salary increase —generous, far too generous— and the schedule: exclusive dedication, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Absolute availability for the Seven. For him.
—Oh, and you have a private meeting with him —Ashley added, lowering her voice as if she feared the walls had ears—. Right now. On the ninety-ninth floor. He's waiting for you.
The elevator rose in a sepulchral silence. The digital numbers climbed toward the sky while your stomach plummeted in the opposite direction. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine. The doors opened with a soft hiss, revealing a hallway lined with dark marble and a single double door at the end, guarded by the Vought eagle emblem.
You pushed the doors open with trembling hands. Homelander's private office was a temple to himself: glass walls that dominated all of Manhattan, a mahogany desk the size of a football field, giant screens projecting his image on a loop. And at the back, his back to you, silhouetted against the dawn light, his silhouette. The cape waving gently from the air conditioning. Hands clasped behind his back. The feline stillness of a predator in no hurry.
—Come in —he said without turning around. His voice was velvety, almost affable, but vibrated at a frequency that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end—. And close the door. I don't want interruptions.
You obeyed. The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot.
Homelander turned around slowly, savoring the moment. His eyes were exactly the same as the night before, blue to the point of nausea, bright like magnifying glasses focusing on an ant. He was smiling.
—Did you sleep well? —he asked, and it was obvious he knew the answer.
You remained standing by the door, unable to move forward. Words stuck in your throat like sand. He raised an eyebrow, amused.
—You don't need to tell me. The dark circles speak for you. It doesn't matter. From now on you'll sleep better, I promise. —He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance with unbearable slowness—. Did you like the news? Your own team, your own office, a salary that finally lets you live without counting coins. And all thanks to me. Aren't you going to thank me?
The question hung in the air. He tilted his head, expectant, like a child waiting for a gift. But his eyes weren't a child's. They were a wolf's.
—I... I didn't ask for this —you managed to articulate.
—No, of course you didn't. That's why it's so wonderful. The best things aren't asked for, they're taken. Or received. —He stopped a meter from you, raising a hand to caress the edge of his own jaw with a thoughtful gesture—. Look, I know you had a little chat with your cousin last night. Marta, right? Picturesque woman. Very... how shall I put it? Useless? But with a certain character. I liked what she said. "I'm not going to let some guy in a cape make you feel like this." Verbatim. She's got guts, I admit. Bad taste, but guts.
Your blood ran cold in your veins. He had heard everything. Every whispered word, every confession, every clumsy promise from Marta.
—Don't do anything to her —you begged, and your voice sounded more broken than you intended.
Homelander let out a brief, genuine laugh.
—Do something to her? To that sack of arthritis and TV reruns? Please. I couldn't care less. —He waved a hand in the air, unconcerned—. You matter to me. What she said, what you told her... That does interest me. You talked about me. You described me. Do you know what that means? That I occupy space in your head. That even when I'm not here, I am.
He leaned toward you, reducing the space until you could smell his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and power.
—You've been promoted because I want it. Now you're mine. Every minute of your workday, every thought, every drop of stress you secrete. Everything. —His voice dropped to an intimate, almost tender whisper—. And you're going to do an excellent job, my little ant, because you know what happens when someone disappoints me. Right?
You nodded, because there was no other choice. Because he was the sun and you an insignificant planet trapped in his orbit. Because the nearest window was ninety-nine stories above the ground and, even if you jumped, he would fly faster.
—Good —he purred, straightening up with a triumphant smile—. Now, sit down. We need to plan my next charity dinner. I don't want my image to suffer. And I don't like repeating things.
You took a seat opposite his desk, your hands clasped on your lap and your heart hammering against your ribs. He occupied his mahogany throne, contemplated you for a moment with the quiet possession of someone admiring a newly acquired object, and began dictating his demands.
The following days dissolved into a suffocating routine that didn't belong to you. Your life ceased to be your own and became an appendage of his, a tiny satellite trapped in the gravity of a sun that didn't share its light but devoured it all for itself.
Homelander took you everywhere. There was no executive meeting, press conference, or shopping mall inauguration he attended without you one step behind, tablet in hand and your pulse racing. He introduced you as "my new head of image," and the words sounded less like a professional title than a mark of ownership. The other Vought executives noticed, of course. Ashley averted her gaze. The members of the Seven pretended not to see you. No one said anything. No one dared.
Your breaks ceased to exist as private spaces. The first day, when you tried to slip away to the staff cafeteria to eat a sandwich in solitude, his voice boomed from the communicator he had given you that very morning —a tiny device you wore pinned to the collar of your blouse like a collar of submission—.
"Come up to the penthouse. I ordered sushi for two."
It wasn't an invitation. It never was. You went up to the penthouse, a private dining room overlooking Central Park that reeked of luxury and a god's loneliness, and found him seated at the head of an endless table, pointing to the chair on his right with an imperial gesture.
—I don't like eating alone —he said, while unrolling a maki roll with the precision of someone dismembering something alive—. And you need to eat better. You're all skin and bones. I don't want my investment to depreciate.
You ate in silence, feeling his eyes fixed on you with every bite. When you left a piece of ginger on the plate, he speared it with his chopsticks and brought it to your lips.
—Open up.
You trembled, but obeyed. The ginger burned your tongue and he smiled, satisfied, as if he'd given you a piece of candy.
From that day on, every meal, every coffee break, every minute you used to use to breathe was relocated to his side. He took you to his private dressing room while he changed suits for charity galas, without bothering to close the curtain, talking to you about image strategies while his bare torso gleamed under the spotlights. You looked away, but he came closer, leaned over your shoulder to point something out on the tablet, and his chest brushed your back. The contact was deliberate, millimeter-perfect, and you remained rigid like an animal caught in headlights.
His hands. That was the worst. His hands were everywhere, always, without warning and without asking permission. A palm that settled on the curve of your waist as you walked down the hallway, guiding you with firm pressure. Fingers that tucked a strand of hair behind your ear in the middle of a meeting, in a gesture so intimate it froze the room. The thumb that grazed the nape of your neck when you bent down to pick up some papers, tracing slow circles on your skin, as if calibrating how much pressure he could exert before breaking you.
One night, during the review of a script for a corporate commercial, you were alone in his office. You were reading the proposed lines aloud, seated on the edge of a white leather sofa, and he interrupted you by raising a hand.
—Come here.
You looked up. He had reclined in his armchair, legs slightly apart, the lazy smile of someone who expects the world to kneel.
—Closer. I don't bite. —He paused, tilting his head—. Today.
You stood up on legs of jelly and positioned yourself in front of him. But it wasn't enough. His hand reached out, took you by the wrist, and pulled you until you fell seated on the armrest of his chair, leaning over him, your faces mere centimeters apart. His other hand found your knee and stayed there, warm, heavy, owning.
—Keep reading —he ordered, his eyes half-closed.
Your voice came out trembling, broken, as you tried to ignore the thumb that was now drawing lazy circles on your kneecap, rising barely a millimeter with each pass. He listened without listening, absorbed in the trembling of your hands, in the frantic beating of your jugular, in the perfume of your fear. When you finished, he took you by the chin and turned your face toward him.
—You did well. I'm proud of you. —The words should have been praise, but his tone was that of a master petting his dog—. Tomorrow I'm taking you to the premiere in Los Angeles. Wear something nice. Something I'll like.
You didn't ask him what he liked. There was no need. The next morning you found a dress on your chair, black, form-fitting, with a price tag you couldn't afford even in your dreams. You put it on because there was no other option, because refusing was unthinkable, because you had learned in barely two weeks that saying "no" to Homelander was like saying "no" to gravity.
On the private jet, he sat you next to him, so close that his thigh pressed against yours. During the flight, his hand found yours on the armrest and intertwined his fingers with terrifying naturalness. You looked out the window at the passing clouds, wondering if you would ever set foot on solid ground again.
Marta called that night, late. You were in the hotel bathroom, the dress crumpled on the floor, the marks of his fingers still imprinted on your waist like an invisible seal. You answered in a whisper.
—Are you okay, cousin? You haven't been home in days. —Her voice, for once, lacked its usual laziness. She sounded worried. Frightened, even.
—I'm fine —you lied, because you couldn't say anything else, because the communicator was still on your neck and you never knew if he was listening—. I have a lot of work. We'll see each other soon.
You hung up before she could insist. You looked at yourself in the mirror and saw a stranger: pale, haggard, with eyes too wide. The shadow of a smile that wasn't yours formed in the reflection just before the bathroom light went out and, from the adjoining room, his voice came like a purr through the half-open door:
—Don't fall asleep yet. I want you to read me tomorrow's headlines. And bring me a glass of milk. You know how I like it.
You closed your eyes. You inhaled. You opened them again.
And you went for the glass.
The first night he forced you to sleep by his side, you understood that you were not just a toy. You were a substitute.
It happened after a charity gala in Chicago. The private jet brought you back to New York in the early hours, and when you tried to say goodbye in the tower lobby, he held you back by the wrist.
—Tonight you're staying here.
It wasn't a question. He led you to his private apartment, a penthouse at the top of the tower where everything was white, sterile, and impersonal, like the cell of a lonely god. The bed was immense, dressed in sheets of a cold blue that smelled of fabric softener and of him. He indicated that you should lie down on the left side. You obeyed, rigid as a corpse, staring at the ceiling.
He slipped under the sheets with the naturalness of someone who has always slept alone and never learned to share space. He turned off the lights with a blink of his eyes and darkness swallowed everything. Then, his voice emerged from the shadows, softer than you had ever heard it.
—Madelyn... she used to stay late. She listened to me. She cared... but it turned out she was a liar.
Stillwell's name floated in the gloom like a ghost. You swallowed, not daring to respond. There was no need. He wasn't seeking dialogue; he was seeking an audience.
—I was raised in a lab —he continued, and his tone grew deeper, almost childlike—. I had no mother. I had no father. Just white coats and needles and cameras. Do you know what it's like to be observed without being seen? To be measured without being loved?
His hand searched for yours under the sheets and squeezed it with a force bordering on pain. It wasn't affection. It was possession. It was the desperate need of a child that never existed clinging to a breast he never had.
—You see me —he murmured, turning his face toward you in the darkness—. You're weak, you're small, you're insignificant... but you see me. And I need you here. Every night. From now on.
You wanted to refuse. You wanted to scream, to flee, to claw at the white walls until you found a way out. But his arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you against his chest, caging you like a human teddy bear, and his chin rested on your head with a sigh of satisfaction.
—Talk to me about yourself —he ordered in a whisper—. Tell me something I don't know.
And you did. You told him about your childhood, about your parents, about the summers you spent with Marta when you were both little girls and the world hadn't crushed you yet. You told him things you hadn't shared with anyone, fragments of yourself that you gave in exchange for nothing, because his warmth was fake but his threat was real, and in that freezing bed there was no option to stay silent.
When you finished, a thick silence filled the room. Then, his voice, barely a breath against your hair:
—See? You're not so alone anymore. Neither am I. We have each other.
He closed his eyes and his breathing became slow, regular. He was sleeping. He was sleeping like a monstrous child clutching his new stuffed toy, and you remained awake, counting the hours, feeling the weight of his arm like a tombstone.
The next morning, you woke to his absence. The hollow in the bed was still warm and on the empty pillow there was a handwritten note, in surprisingly childish handwriting:
"You slept well. Don't leave without having breakfast. H. ♡"
The shaky lettering, the solitary initial, the order disguised as courtesy. Everything in that note oozed the lack of someone who never learned to love without possessing, who sought in you the mother they took from him, the confidante he murdered, the mirror to reflect his greatness without ever seeing his monstrosity.
And that night, when you returned home for the first time in three days and found Marta asleep on the sofa with a cup of cold coffee waiting for you on the table, you knew that this wasn't going to end. Because Homelander didn't want you as an employee. He wanted you as a witness. A witness to his life, his pain, his glory. And witnesses, in the trial of a god, are never released.
The communicator on your neck vibrated softly.
"I miss you. Come back."
You closed your eyes, kissed Marta's sleeping forehead silently, and walked out the door. Because there was no other option. Because he always won. And because the most terrifying thing of all was that, in some dark corner of your chest, his need made you feel something akin to pity. And pity, when it came to Homelander, was the antechamber of hell.
That night, the summons came later than usual. The communicator vibrated just when you had surrendered to the idea that, for once, he would let you rest.
"Come up. Now."
The elevator spit you out into the dimly lit penthouse. The lights of Manhattan flickered on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside everything was shadow and silence. You walked forward barefoot —you had taken off your heels in the lobby, without quite knowing why— and found him standing by the sink of the open bathroom, leaning over the marble, rubbing something off his face with a white towel.
The towel was stained with crimson.
Your heart stopped for an instant. He looked up at the mirror and caught your reflection, your eyes fixed on the bloodied cloth, your body paralyzed in the doorway. He smiled wearily, almost tenderly, as if he had just returned from an exhausting day and not from... whatever he had done.
—Don't make that face. It's not mine. —He passed the towel over his cheek one last time and tossed it into the sink with disdain—. A matter that required my attention. It's been resolved.
He turned toward you. Under the dim light, his face was clean, but there was a dark trace under a fingernail, a shadow in the crease of his ear. The blue of his eyes shone with a different intensity, wilder, less rehearsed. He smelled of ozone, sweat, and something metallic you preferred not to identify.
—You took your time —he said, approaching with slow steps—. I almost started to think you wouldn't come.
—I always come —you replied, and your voice sounded firmer than you felt.
—I know. That's why I like you. That's why I need you here. —He stopped in front of you, so close that his breath grazed your forehead—. Tonight... tonight was long. And I don't want to be alone. Not after what I've done.
You didn't ask what he had done. You didn't want to know. But he needed to tell it, as always, to project onto you the echo of his acts so they would exist, so someone would validate them. His hand rose and caressed your cheek with a sweetness that was a thousand times more terrifying than his violence.
—You understand me —he whispered—. You're the only one who understands me. The only one who doesn't leave.
His thumb traced your lower lip, and something in his gaze changed. The childish need you had seen other nights was still there, in the depths, but now it was tinged with something darker, hungrier. The blood he had cleaned from his face hadn't sated anything. It had only whetted his appetite.
—Come —he said, and it was at once a plea and a sentence—. Stay with me. For real. Tonight I need you more than ever.
He took you by the hand and led you to the bedroom. The bed received you with its blue sheets, cold like the sky before dawn. You sat on the edge, and he knelt before you —him, kneeling!— to look into your eyes from below, like a feline feigning submission before pouncing on its prey.
—Don't be afraid —he lied, and his hands began to travel over your arms, your shoulders, the contour of your neck with a veneration that chilled your blood—. Tonight I'm going to show you how important you are to me.
The gloom of the bedroom was barely broken by the distant glow of the skyscrapers, a canvas of cold lights that silhouetted him against the windows. He was still kneeling before you, and in that almost devout posture there was something profoundly unnatural, like seeing a lion prostrate itself before a lamb. His hands, the same ones that minutes before had gripped something you preferred not to imagine, now removed your shoes with a liturgical delicacy. The tips of his fingers traced the arch of your foot, your still-aching ankle, the curve of your calf, like someone caressing the edge of a relic.
— Look at me — he whispered, his breath warm against your knees.
You raised your eyes. His burned in the darkness, two blue embers where the smoldering glow of the recently committed violence still danced. He smelled of iron beneath the cologne, of sweat beneath the sandalwood, of something wild that the superhero suit couldn't tame. When his mouth brushed against the inside of your wrist—right where your pulse raced—a shiver ran down your spine. It wasn't just desire that vibrated between his parted lips. It was hunger. It was possession. It was the certainty that you were about to be devoured by a god who didn't distinguish between love and annihilation.
His fingers traced the outline of your waist, descending over your hips with agonizing slowness. Each caress was a signature, a mark of ownership written on your skin.
— Tell me you're mine — he repeated against the skin of your neck, and this time it wasn't a command, but a poorly disguised plea, the voice of a child demanding what he fears losing.
— I'm... yours — your lips formed the words before your mind could stop them, and something broke inside you as you spoke them.
He exhaled a trembling, almost ecstatic sigh, and his forehead rested for a moment against your collarbone, as if he needed to regain his composure. Then he sat up, his eyes roaming over your half-naked body with a mixture of adoration and ancient hunger.
— Look at me — he whispered, cupping your chin between two fingers. — Don't close your eyes. I want to see you while I have you. —
His lips trailed down your sternum, leaving a warm, wet trail. He continued kissing your soft, sweat-stained skin down to your belly, while his strong hands gripped your hips, turning them red from the pressure he was applying.
— You’re the only good thing I have — he murmured against your skin, and there was a strange honesty in his words, a confession not directed at you but at the entire universe. — The only thing I don’t want to break. —
You were terrified as he removed the last of your clothes. You could barely think. What were you doing? You were letting the man—no, the god—who had made you submit to his will do whatever he wanted with you.
You clenched your jaw as he rushed to grasp your breasts, squeezing them and licking your nipples as if you were a baby. You let out a choked, almost timid moan as the blond man’s hands rubbed your pussy, wetting it with the pressure he exerted on you.
You tried to stifle your moans, but he stopped stimulating you and looked at you with crushing seriousness.
— You'd better keep moaning unless you want me to rip out that pretty tongue of yours — he said, before continuing his work.
You felt compelled to respond to his intimate touch and the tension he was putting you under. He began to insert one of his large fingers inside you, making you moan more and more. However, even though you didn't want to be noisy, you couldn't help it; he knew exactly where to touch you, where to make you cry.
He began to fill you with one finger, then two, then three, withdrawing again and again, each time faster and louder, filling the room with the sound of your sloshing cunt.
— How sensitive you are — he said, separating from your nipple with a thread of saliva connecting it to the reddish ring he left on your breast.
— I-I, oh god — you moaned as he moved his fingers faster inside your tight interior.
— The only god you should moan for is me —he said sarcastically.
Before you could even pull away, he withdrew his fingers, which were stained with your vaginal juices. He gently placed them in his mouth, smiling as he felt your fluids drip onto his tongue.
— How sweet you are when you're only mine — he murmured.
You were trembling as your lubricant still trickled down your thighs. He positioned himself over you, his hot breath circling your ear.
— Like that... like that —he panted close to your ear, his voice a deep purr, a vibration that resonated through your chest. — Don't pull away from me. Not now. —
Homage's breath caught in his throat as he removed his underwear, just enough to free his cock. You'd seen him do this a few times before, shamelessly changing in front of you, but this time was different, because he was going to be inside you. His penis was huge, too big, and you hadn't seen many in your life. It was red with arousal, and pre-ejaculate was spurting from his slit.
— You're so big... — You breathed deeply, in a scared whisper that made him laugh at your surprise.
Homelander slowly pressed the blunt tip against your pussy, penetrating you with a gentleness that almost made him feel romantic. The thickness made you shudder with pain and moan as he filled your pussy, sliding into each of your wet rings. He thrust forward, filling you completely until he reached the very depths of your being. He didn't give you any time to adjust, and began to pound into you despite the pain that coursed through you as you clung to his very thick length.
— You're so small — he growls and thrusts hard again, not even letting you breathe.
— Shit — you cry as he cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him, to see what he's doing to you. An obscene bulge forms in your aching belly as he forces you to maintain eye contact with his blue eyes, which occasionally turn a bright red with excitement.
He hits your G-spot with a force that tears you apart inside, until your vision blurs with your own tears and the white sheets are ruined.
— You feel me, don't you? Deep...inside you — he says, laughing as he thrusts forcefully into your insides.
His hand finds yours on the pillow and intertwines your fingers with a firmness that almost hurts. It's an anchor, a chain, a silent promise that he will never let go.
— Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? — His breathing becomes ragged, his movements deeper. From the moment I saw you in that hallway. From the moment I smelled your fear. You were already mine and you didn't even know it.
He kept moving hard as you began to feel spasms. You didn't even respond to what he'd said. Your whole body started to tremble, your thighs clenched, and your belly tensed tightly.
And then it happened. You came.
You came hard while he was still inside you.
— Oh, fuck! — you cried as your nails dug into his back.
He kept fucking you even after you'd had your orgasm, searching for his own. You were still trembling from your orgasm around him when he finally let out a loud groan and spilled inside you in hot, heavy pulses, letting his strands of semen fill your aching womb. His whole body shuddered with his climax, his hips thrusting down until he was empty inside, buried deep within you, where he belonged.
— Don’t go — he moaned afterward, still inside you, his face buried in the hollow of your shoulder. —Don’t leave me alone. Not like the others. —
His voice had become small, almost childlike, and for a moment he wasn’t Homelander, the god feared by millions. He was a child in a lab, an experiment who had never received a hug, a monster he had just killed and was still waiting for someone to tell him he was okay.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you lied, stroking the back of his neck with trembling fingers, because it was what he needed to hear, because it was what kept you alive.
The following silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and your intertwined breathing. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his arm on your waist like an invisible chain. He, propped on one elbow, watched you with a strangely placid, almost beatific expression, as if he had just received communion.
His free hand played with a strand of your hair, twirling and untwirling it around his index finger.
—See? —he murmured, and his voice was a purr—. This is how it should always be. You and me. No interruptions. No... interference.
Something in the way he said that last word made you turn your face toward him.
—What do you mean?
Homelander sighed, almost with annoyance, as if you were forcing him to give explanations he considered obvious.
—I mean it's done. —He shrugged, such a mundane gesture for what he had just confessed—. That woman. Martha. The one who was sucking the life out of you while you worked yourself to the bone. The one who watched reruns and complained about me. She's gone.
Your mind took a few seconds to process the words. When it did, the world opened up beneath you like a crack in the ice.
—What... what did you do to her? —Your voice was barely a whisper.
—What I had to do. —There was no remorse in his tone. Only the quiet certainty of someone who has pulled a weed from the garden—. I went to your apartment while you were coming back from the office. I wanted to talk to her, explain the situation. Tell her that from now on, you would live here, with me, and that her services as a parasite were no longer needed. But, honestly, she got really belligerent. She started screaming, calling me a fascist, a control freak... What was the other thing she said? Ah, yes. A son of a bitch. —He smiled, reminiscing—. Your cousin had quite a mouth on her.
Tears welled up before you could contain them. They weren't from sadness, not yet; they were pure horror, disbelief, the atrocious certainty that this man-god had just described a murder as if detailing an administrative task.
—Martha hadn't done anything to you... —you sobbed.
—She was in my way. You were in my way with her. Always worried, always looking after that useless woman. —His expression darkened for an instant—. I need you whole. Complete. Not at half-throttle because you have to go home to take care of an adult who doesn't know how to wipe her own ass. Now there's no home to go back to. Now your home is this. Our home.
You tried to sit up, to flee, but his arm tightened like a steel band and kept you pinned to the mattress.
—You don't understand, little ant. —His voice regained that sickly sweetness—. I did it for you. For us. She was killing you. Stealing your energy, your money, your patience. I've liberated you. Now you can focus on what matters. On me.
You turned to him, and he must have read something like hatred on your face, because his gaze hardened.
—Don't look at me like that. Not after what we just shared. —His hand moved up to your throat, not squeezing, just reminding you of his presence—. Martha was a waste of oxygen. You are my oxygen. I'm not going to apologize for breathing.
You couldn't speak. The words choked you along with your sobs, with the image of Martha asleep on the sofa, her cold coffee cup waiting for you on the table, her clumsy promise to protect you from the man who now held you prisoner.
—Starting tomorrow, you're settling in here. Your clothes, your things, I'll buy you everything new. You don't need anything from there. —He paused, and in his eyes appeared a flash of childish pride—. I've thought of everything. I even ordered a new closet for you. See what I do for you? See how I take care of you?
He closed his eyes, satisfied, and pulled you back against his chest. His heart beat slow, steady, the heart of a man who had just committed a heinous crime and felt at peace with himself. The communicator lay on the nightstand, mute, useless. The nearest window was a hundred floors above the ground. And Martha, the only person you had left in the world, the useless cousin who had promised to defend you, no longer existed.
—Now we're truly alone —he murmured against your hair, and his voice was almost a lullaby—. You and me. As it should be.
You didn't answer. You couldn't. You just closed your eyes and let the tears soak the pillow while he held you, absolute master of your life and your death, convinced that this was love.
Because for him, it was. And that was the problem.
I’m sorry for my absence: I know there are pending orders, that I haven't uploaded new content. I’m not here to offer grand excuses; I simply want to honestly explain why I’ve been away.
I’ve been dealing with a very heavy case of stress that hasn't come from just one thing, but from several that have piled up: work, which is customer-facing and consumes all my energy and time without the proper financial compensation; a very close friend who abruptly fled her home and is now living with me when I can’t stand shared living situations, especially with people who are still immature; constant monetary pressures; and the feeling of not finding a single minute to disconnect and clear my head. All of this combined has left my time and my spirit in "pending update" mode.
I understand that this doesn’t fix the delays, the silence, or the inconvenience I may have caused; I am truly sorry for the uncertainty and the frustration, especially toward those who were waiting for a response. I don’t expect automatic understanding; I only ask for a bit of patience while I try to pull myself back together without adding any more empty promises.
I can’t give firm dates right now because I depend on regaining a minimum level of calm, but I do promise that as soon as I have a real breather, I will get back on track: I’ll prioritize the most urgent orders, resume posting. If there is anything that needs immediate attention, please send me a direct message and I will handle it before anything else.
I’m very sorry that this is still a very small Tumblr blog and that I can't give my account the love it deserves yet.
I was looking up stuff about Homelander and, one thing leading to another, I almost choked on my water and had a fit. Anyway. I survived, moved on with my life, and that's when I came across Plutonian.
And what an absurdly good character.
There's something about him that I find far more interesting than the simple idea of the “corrupt superman.” He doesn't just rely on cruelty or excessive power: what's unsettling about Plutonian is the way he embodies the collapse of a perfect image. He's not scary only because of what he can do, but because of what he represents when someone built to be a symbol, hope, and an almost sacred figure breaks from within.
He has a very particular presence: elegant, devastating, almost tragic. He's not just a dark character; he's a character who seems written from disillusionment, from fragility turned into a threat. And I think that's precisely why he's so fascinating. Because he doesn't feel empty, or flat, or simply cruel for shock value. He feels like a long, bitter, brilliantly uncomfortable fall to witness.
The more I read about him, the more I asked myself the same question: why doesn't he have the popularity he deserves?
I really don't get it.
He has design, concept, symbolism, narrative weight, and a presence that lingers in your head long after. He's one of those characters who work not only because of what they do, but because of everything they suggest.
Anyway, I hope to write about him someday.
I need to know if I'm the only one obsessed with this idea: Batfamily x neglected Starlord reader. ✨
I love the contrast of a reader who is always the last option for her family on Earth, but finds comfort in space That transition from being invisible at home to finding solace among the stars
What do you think? Would you like to read something like that, or is it just me wanting to write something?
Synopsis. Raised under the obsessive protection of several powerful and dangerous men, you begin to seek independence. However, their possessiveness soon reveals itself to be far darker and more controlling than you ever imagined.
Content. MDNI. Dark themes. Yandere behavior. Platonic obsession. Extreme possessiveness. Isolation. Parental murder implication. Violence in front of the reader. Breaking moral codes. Forced pregnancy termination. Stalking. Overprotective fathers. Manipulation. Emotional and physical control. Power imbalance. Psychological tension. Blood and gore. Obsessive protection. Loss of autonomy. Dark romance elements. Viltrumite culture. Superpowered characters. Unhealthy family dynamics. Jealousy. Gaslighting. Moral corruption. And More, but, you know how this mens are.
Word count: 7k
N/A.It took me quite a while to finish this because I’m in the middle of exams, and on top of that, work has been very busy with the arrival of summer. I even had to rewrite it because it ended up being way too long. Still, I can say my favorite part is Thragg’s. I hope you like it.
Homelander
John remembered with an almost painful clarity the day he first saw you. He didn’t usually attend young heroes’ competitions; he considered sitting on a jury to be an unnecessary humiliation. However, public image demanded his presence, and he always did what public image required.
Until he saw you.
You were on stage, with your mother beside you offering silent support, wearing an improvised suit that unintentionally mimicked the colors he himself wore. In that instant, something inside him tightened. It wasn’t just the coincidence of the colors. It was the way your powers manifested: identical to his. Exact. Unmistakable.
Doubt turned into certainty when the presenter compared your abilities to his. A coincidence, they said. A simple genetic chance. But John didn’t believe in coincidences. His paranoia, sharpened by years of lies and control, whispered that this could not be the result of mere chance.
When your victory was announced, he made a decision.
He didn’t enter the dressing room right away. He stood motionless in front of the door for a few seconds. John was not a man who doubted; he took, possessed, claimed. And yet, with you, he felt something different. A strange curiosity. Deep. Almost dangerous.
When he opened the door, he found you still wrapped in the excitement of your victory. Your mother was beside you, leaning toward you. You, on the other hand, were radiant. Your eyes bright, cheeks flushed, wearing that open, pure expression that only children possess.
So innocent.
So genuine.
So different from anything he had ever known.
Your mother was the first to notice him. The stiffness in her shoulders betrayed her shock. John observed her for only a second before turning his attention back to you.
And then you smiled.
Not with rehearsed admiration, but with that pure, childish emotion of someone standing before someone they had idealized. You approached him with clumsy enthusiasm and began speaking to him in a rush, telling him how much you admired him and how long you had wanted to meet him. Your words were fast and disorganized, filled with such absolute sincerity that for a moment, John could only stare at you.
And then you hugged him.
It was a spontaneous, impulsive gesture. Your small arms wrapped around him with complete trust, as if your innocence had decided he was a safe place. John remained still. Time seemed to suspend itself.
In that very moment, he knew.
He would adore you forever.
It didn’t matter what secrets lay behind your existence. The only thing that mattered was the fierce certainty that settled in his chest: he would never allow anyone to take you away from him.
Days later, John no longer needed more proof.
He had investigated on his own. Vought kept secrets the way one keeps weapons. And among them, he found what he was looking for: his semen, extracted years ago, had been stored in the company’s sperm bank. A sample used in a confidential procedure. Why? Nobody knows. Maybe a mistake
The result was you.
You were his. Of his blood. Of his legacy.
He said nothing. He asked no questions.
He simply appeared one morning accompanied by Vought personnel. With only a few curt orders, he integrated you into his world. Your mother had no choice but to accept.
He installed you in the tower, in one of the highest and most protected residences. John officially presented you to the world: you were his daughter. His blood. His legacy. From that moment on, you were rarely separated from him. He kept you constantly by his side, showered you with gifts, and watched you with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the coldness he showed everyone else.
But everything came at a price.
He kept you away from everyone. Especially Ryan. He never allowed his son to get too close to you. He wanted his little girl to remain pure, untouched, completely his.
And for a while, it worked.
Until the public discovered you.
At first, John tolerated the attention. But when he saw how people looked at you with affection, how they cheered for you and sent you gifts, something dark stirred in his chest. Jealousy. He couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else claiming you, even innocently. Because you didn’t belong to the world. You belonged to him. Only him.
John didn’t usually lose control like that.
But that afternoon, when he returned earlier than expected and discovered you had been with Maeve, something inside him broke. He had left you with strict orders that no one was to disturb you. Yet Maeve had spent the entire afternoon with you.
When he opened the door to the room, the atmosphere changed completely. He was covered in blood. Fresh. Dark. Stains splattered across his white suit, marking his hands and part of his face. Blood dripped slowly from his fingers onto the floor.
Maeve stood up immediately. John didn’t raise his voice. He simply took a step toward her and spoke with terrifying calm:
“Stay away from her. If you come near her again, there won’t be a second chance."
Maeve didn’t argue. She gathered her things and left without looking back.
The door closed.
You were looking at him with pure, silent terror. John stood there, soaked in someone else’s blood, watching you with ragged breathing. He wanted to explain that everything he did was for you. But he didn’t.
He remained silent for several long seconds, staring at you with an expression that held no trace of tenderness. Then he spoke, his voice low and sharp:
“I gave you one order. Just one. And you disobeyed it.”
You began to cry, pleading with that broken voice only children have when they’re terrified. John didn’t soften. He took a step toward you and grabbed your arm with force. The pain came quickly. His fingers tightened until they left a dark mark on your skin, a bruise that would form within minutes.
“Don’t cry,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Now you only have me. Only me.”
He didn’t mention your mother. He didn’t need to. The fact that he had returned covered in blood and that no one spoke of her anymore said everything. Your mother no longer existed.
He slowly released your arm. The bruise throbbed. John knelt in front of you, ignoring your sobs, and looked directly into your eyes.
“You’re mine,” he repeated, with absolute possessiveness. “And no one else is going to have you.”
The blood continued to drip from his hands. And you, marked and crying, no longer had anyone else.
Only him.
Clark Kent
If there was one weakness for the Man of Steel, it was you.
From the very moment he first held you in his arms, Clark understood that the entire world had shifted on its axis. It no longer revolved around Metropolis, nor around crises, nor around cries for help from the other side of the planet. It revolved around you. Around your small laugh. Around your hands clutching his shirt. Around the way you searched for his face the moment you heard his voice.
You had grown up on the farm in Smallville, surrounded by the scent of wheat, golden sunrises, and the constant warmth of a home that, to anyone else, would have seemed perfect. Lois raised you with intelligence and firmness; she taught you to think for yourself, to never let anyone intimidate you, and to speak clearly even when the world didn’t want to listen. Clark, on the other hand, loved you in a much quieter and more overwhelming way.
He was always there.
When you were little and ran through the fields, he would watch you even while repairing the fence or helping Martha in the kitchen. If you tripped, he was already at your side before you hit the ground. If the wind blew too hard, he would wrap you in a blanket even when you insisted you weren’t cold. If you got sick, even with just a mild cold, he would stay awake by your side all night, listening to every breath with almost painful attention.
“Clark, she’s fine,” Lois would say tiredly when she saw him enter your room for the third time in the middle of the night. “She’s just sleeping.”
He would nod, but still return to your bed, adjusting your blankets with reverent care, as if even the air itself could hurt you.
Because to Clark, you were never just his daughter.
You were something far more fragile and far more sacred.
The happiest days of his life were almost always the simplest ones. The mornings when you sat on the kitchen counter while he made breakfast. Your small hands stealing pieces of fruit before they were ready. Your endless questions. Your laughter when he pretended not to notice that you had stolen a piece of toast.
“Dad, what if one day I can fly with you?”
Clark would smile, that soft, warm smile the world only ever saw in pieces.
“When you’re older.”
“You always say that.”
“Because I want to do it right.”
And he said it like a solemn promise. As if even something as beautiful as flying with you could become dangerous if he didn’t handle it with enough care.
Sometimes he would carry you out to the porch at dusk and sit with you, watching the horizon while you rested your head on his shoulder. Other nights, when you couldn’t sleep, he would lift you with infinite patience and walk across the farm under a sky full of stars. You would talk to him half-asleep, telling him whatever nonsense came to mind, and Clark would listen as if every word deserved to be kept forever.
He adored you in a way that bordered on devotion.
And at first, when you were a child, it seemed natural.
You reached for his hand everywhere. You wanted him to read you stories, teach you how to ride a bike, and carry you when you pretended to be too tired to walk back home. Lois would smile when she saw the two of you together, though sometimes she watched him with a more difficult expression, as if even then she could sense that there was something excessive in Clark. Something that went beyond simple paternal love.
Because when he held you, he didn’t seem like just a father holding his daughter.
He seemed like a man clinging to the only thing in the world he couldn’t afford to lose. His soul.
Over the years, however, childhood began to fade.
And Clark noticed it before anyone else.
He noticed it in the way you stopped running to the door every time he came home. In how you started spending more time locked in your room. In those afternoons when you preferred going out with friends instead of walking with him around the farm. In your increasingly short answers, in your growing need for space, privacy, and a life that didn’t always revolve around your parents.
It was normal. Lois knew that. She even celebrated it to some extent, because it meant you were growing up.
Clark did not.
Every step you took toward adolescence felt like a loss to him.
He didn’t say much about it. Or at least, not at first. He simply watched you more. Listened more. Paid attention to the smallest changes: a door closed harder than usual, a distracted smile while looking at your phone, any excuse not to have dinner with them. He could hear screams from the other side of the planet, hearts stopping, buildings creaking before they collapsed… and yet, none of those things unsettled him as much as the silence of your room when you chose not to speak to him.
“Clark, you’re suffocating her,” Lois told him one night in a low voice, thinking you were asleep.
He stood still by the sink, his jaw tight.
“I’m just looking after her.”
“No,” Lois said, looking at him directly. “You’re trying to keep her as if she were still eight years old.”
Clark didn’t answer. But the way he lowered his gaze, the almost wounded hardness in his expression, showed something Lois couldn’t fix.
Because she was right.
And that was exactly why it hurt.
So when you insisted on going on a short vacation to the center of Metropolis with just one friend, Clark refused immediately.
He didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to discuss it. Didn’t want to consider it.
Metropolis was too big, too loud, too unpredictable. There were dangers on every street, every corner, every unfamiliar face. How could you even think of leaving like that, as if the world were harmless? As if he had no reason to worry?
“Dad, it’s only a few days,” you said, trying to sound calm. “I’m not going to the end of the world.”
“To me, it’s far enough.”
“Clark,” Lois intervened with that firm patience only she could maintain with him, “you can’t keep her locked up here forever.”
He turned his head slightly, looking at her with contained tension.
“I’m not trying to lock her up.”
But even you knew that wasn’t entirely true.
Because Clark did want to keep you. Not in a room, perhaps, or behind visible bars, but inside a space where nothing could touch you without going through him first. A reduced, safe, clean world where you would still look at him with the same trust you had as a child.
In the end, he gave in.
Or at least pretended to.
He let you leave with a smile that was too stiff, a kiss on the forehead, and an absurd list of instructions you repeated from memory with tired resignation. Don’t walk alone at night. Text him when you arrive at the hotel. Don’t go into quiet streets. Don’t trust strangers. Don’t separate from your friend. Don’t…
“Dad,” you murmured, almost embarrassed, “I’ll be fine.”
Clark held your gaze for a second too long.
“I hope so.”
But he didn’t believe it.
Not even a little.
From the moment you left, Metropolis stopped being just the city he swore to protect. It became a living, immense, unbearable threat. Clark continued responding to emergencies, continued smiling for the cameras, continued being Superman to the rest of the world. But a part of him remained fixed on you. On the hotel where you were staying. On the streets you walked. On the heartbeat he would recognize even among millions.
He watched you from afar.
Not in a clumsy or obvious way. He never let you see him. Sometimes he would descend onto a nearby rooftop just to make sure you had entered a café safely. Other times he would listen to your laughter mixed with your friend’s and force himself to stay still, reminding himself that he couldn’t interfere every time someone approached you. But the need remained there, constant and fierce.
He saw you buying ridiculous souvenirs in a tourist shop. He saw you taking photos of the skyline with a genuine smile. He saw you stop in front of a bookstore window, excited about some special edition you would probably end up buying even if it no longer fit in your suitcase. And for a moment, just for a moment, he almost seemed calm.
Because you were happy.
And yet, even while watching you laugh, something tormented him.
You weren’t happy with him.
Not in that way.
You no longer reached for his hand to cross the street. You no longer turned around expecting to find him behind you. That light, carefree joy was given to other spaces, other people, a life that was beginning to exist outside his reach. And Clark resented it in silence, with a sadness so deep it almost felt like anger.
The night of the incident, the air in Metropolis was heavy and humid, as if the city itself sensed something was coming. You and your friend had gone out after dinner. Nothing serious. Nothing particularly reckless. Just two teenagers wanting to stretch their freedom a little longer. Laughing. Walking. Feeling older in a bright, enormous city that promised more than it should.
Clark was already uneasy before he found you.
He had gone too long without hearing your voice up close. Your heart was beating faster than normal. Not from joy, but from fear.
And then he found you.
The alley was half-hidden, far from the illuminated avenues. Your friend lay on the ground, motionless, far too still, and in front of you stood two men. One was holding you roughly while the other smiled with the miserable confidence of someone who believed they had control for a few seconds.
Clark landed without making a sound.
But by the time they saw him, it was already too late.
There was no warning. No speech. No trace of the firm compassion the world adored in Superman.
There was only fury.
Pure, ancient, and irreparable.
The screams didn’t last long. Afterward, only silence remained. A heavy, horrifying silence broken only by your trembling breathing.
When he finally looked up at you, Clark had already crossed a line from which he could never return.
His hands were stained. His chest rose and fell with controlled slowness. And his eyes… his eyes were not those of a hero who had arrived in time.
They were the eyes of a man who had almost lost the only thing he loved more than his own morality.
You took a small step back.
That tiny movement hurt him more than any weapon could have.
“Look at me,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t an order spoken harshly, but it didn’t sound like a request either. You were shaking. There were tears in your eyes. And yet, you lifted your gaze.
Clark approached slowly, as if any sudden movement could break you. With trembling hands, he brushed a strand of hair from your face, checking your features, your arms, your shoulders, searching for signs of injury even though he already knew, from the sound of your heartbeat, that you weren’t seriously hurt.
“You’re okay,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
Then he pulled you into an embrace.
A tight one.
Too tight.
Not like a father comforting his daughter, but like a man desperate to make sure that what had almost been taken from him was still his, tangible, real. His hand sank into your back, holding you against him as he pressed his face into your hair.
“Don’t ever do this to me again,” he whispered.
And that sentence, spoken in a broken voice, was perhaps more terrifying than everything else.
Because he wasn’t talking about danger in general.
He was talking about himself.
About what your absence did to him. About how the simple fact of not feeling you close was enough to unravel him from the inside. About how he had broken his code, his principles, and the entire image the world had of Superman, simply because someone had dared to touch you.
He pulled back just enough to look at you again.
There was relief in his expression, yes, but it was twisted by something deeper. Something possessive. Something almost feverish.
“I told you Metropolis wasn’t safe,” he said, his voice soft but every word carrying unbearable weight. “I told you not to go so far.”
“Dad…” your voice came out weak and broken.
And then something worse happened: his expression softened.
Not because he was any less agitated, but because he seemed convinced of something. As if everything that had happened had confirmed a truth he had been denying for too long.
“It’s over now,” he murmured, stroking your hair with a tenderness that, in that moment, felt almost suffocating. “It’s over. I’m here.”
But it didn’t sound like comfort.
It sounded like a sentence.
Because what Clark had understood that night wasn’t just that the world was dangerous.
It was that letting you go had been a mistake.
A mistake he had no intention of repeating.
After that, there was no real distance between you anymore. Although he tried to maintain some sense of normalcy for Lois’s sake, something in him had changed irreversibly. He began treating you with the same gentleness from your childhood, perhaps even more so. He would bring you breakfast in bed when you stayed home. He would leave books and small gifts on your desk without saying they were from him. He would sit beside you on the porch at night like he used to when you were little, calmly asking how your day had been, even though he already knew the answer.
And yet, beneath all that tenderness was constant surveillance.
If you took too long to reply to a message, he had already noticed. If someone new approached you, he knew their name before you even mentioned it. If you seemed uncomfortable with someone, even for just a second, Clark would become quieter, more attentive, more present.
Closer.
Always closer.
As if he wanted to forcefully rebuild the version of you that once ran to him without hesitation. As if he could shrink you back into the little girl who believed everything was safe as long as he was there.
But you were no longer that little girl.
And perhaps that was what made it even more terrifying.
Because Clark still saw you that way.
His daughter.
His most precious weakness.
The only part of the world he was unwilling to share.
Nolan Grayson
Nolan Grayson adored his daughter from the very moment she was born.
If Mark had been his first attempt at seeing how far his Viltrumite blood could go on Earth, you were something else entirely: a certainty. A living promise. And when, at barely four years old, you manifested your powers for the first time, something inside him settled with a silent and fierce satisfaction. He always remembered it clearly: your small body lifting slightly off the ground, your eyes shining with excitement, and him standing there, watching you with a pride so intense it bordered on devotion.
He adored you.
In a deep, almost unsettling way, though he would never have admitted it out loud.
He was always attentive to you, to your progress, to your strength, to every small sign that confirmed how special you were. He worried about you with an attention he rarely gave Mark. While he usually treated his son with a certain distance, as if he were still waiting for something from him, with you it was different. There was an unusual patience in his voice, a softer firmness in his gestures, and a constant need to watch you and shape you with his own hands.
Debbie noticed, of course.
The difference was too obvious to ignore. Nolan could overlook Mark’s frustrations, his insecurities, or his need for approval, but he never let anything concerning you slip by. If you fell, he was already there. If you trained, he watched you with absolute attention. If you doubted, your voice was the first one he listened to. And although he never stopped fulfilling his role as a father on the surface with both of you, it was impossible not to see that there was something about you that pulled him with greater force.
Perhaps because you were the early proof that his legacy had not been in vain.
Perhaps because in you he saw a cleaner, more promising reflection of himself.
Or perhaps because, quite simply, Nolan had decided very early on that you were his in a sense that went far beyond paternal affection.
Time passed, and the little girl he used to carry in his arms eventually became a woman.
You grew up strong, brilliant, and confident. And although Nolan continued to look at you with the same stern pride as always, he also began to feel something harder to name: a silent discomfort with your independence. You were no longer the little girl who followed him everywhere, who looked at him as if he were invincible. You had grown up. You had formed your own opinions. And although you still cared for him, you no longer orbited around him in the same way.
He didn’t like it.
He tolerated it, because he had no choice, but he didn’t like it.
That was why, when Mark finally gained his powers and began taking his first steps as a hero, Nolan quickly assumed that you would do the same. In his mind, it was natural. Correct. Inevitable. You were his daughter, after all; you had shown your abilities long before Mark, with an ease he would never forget. If his son was destined to rise, then so were you. Perhaps even better than him.
And deep down, that idea awakened a dark and possessive pride in Nolan.
Because it wasn’t just about watching you fly.
It was about watching you take the place he believed belonged to you.
But everything came crashing down one day.
Your eighteenth birthday dinner proceeded with apparent normalcy. Debbie had prepared your favorite meal, Mark joked with his usual clumsiness, and Nolan… Nolan watched you from across the table with that calm, calculating gaze only you knew how to interpret.
He had been looking at you more than usual all night. As if he somehow knew that something was about to change.
When you finished blowing out the candles and the applause died down, Debbie smiled at you warmly.
“So, what are your plans now that you’re officially an adult?” she asked, pouring herself a little more wine.
You hesitated for just a second before answering. You had rehearsed the sentence several times in your head, but even so, saying it out loud made it sound more final than you expected.
“I’ve decided to accept the scholarship at the University of Atlanta.”
The silence that followed was brief but heavy.
Mark looked up, surprised but not particularly alarmed.
“Atlanta… really? That’s pretty far.”
Debbie blinked, processing the information.
“Atlanta,” she repeated, forcing a smile. “It’s a good university. When were you planning on telling us?”
You took a deep breath.
“Also… I’m going to move in with my boyfriend.”
The sound of Nolan’s fork against the plate was barely noticeable, but enough to make everyone go still. He slowly lifted his gaze, and for the first time that night, his expression lost every trace of warmth.
Nolan didn’t say anything at first.
He simply looked at you.
That look he usually reserved for enemies, not his daughter. His eyes, normally serene and controlled, darkened in a subtle but unmistakable way. His jaw tightened, and although he kept his posture relaxed, his fingers gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Debbie was the first to break the silence.
“Your… boyfriend,” she repeated, clearly taken aback. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
“A few months,” you answered, trying to sound confident. “He’s from Atlanta. That’s why I decided to accept the university there. We’re going to move in together.”
Mark glanced sideways at Nolan, as if expecting his father to say something. But Nolan remained silent, watching you with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavier.
Finally, he spoke.
His voice was low. Too low.
“Move in with him?”
You nodded.
“Yes. We’ve already talked about it. It’s the most practical option.”
Nolan let out a short, humorless laugh. He leaned back in his chair and looked at you directly, completely ignoring the worried glances from Debbie and Mark.
“Practical?” he repeated, as if the word offended him. “You think moving in with some boy on the other side of the country is ‘practical’?”
“Nolan…” Debbie tried to intervene, but he raised a hand without taking his eyes off you.
“No,” he said with dangerous calm. “I want her to explain it to me.”
You swallowed, but held his gaze.
“Dad, I’m eighteen. I can make my own decisions.”
Nolan tilted his head slightly, studying you as if he were seeing you for the first time. There was something in his expression that chilled you from the inside. It wasn’t just disappointment. It was something deeper. More possessive. As if you had just taken something he considered rightfully his.
“Eighteen years old,” he repeated slowly, savoring the words. “And you think that means you can walk away from this family? That you can go live with a stranger?”
“He’s not a stranger,” you replied, though your voice came out weaker than you wanted.
Nolan smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was cold. Almost cruel.
“To me, he is.”
The silence that followed was thick. Debbie looked at her husband with concern while Mark shifted uncomfortably in his chair. But Nolan only had eyes for you.
And in that gaze was something that made you understand, with uncomfortable clarity, that your father wasn’t angry about your independence.
He was angry because you were pulling away from him.
The silence that followed your announcement was broken by your own voice, firm despite the tension hanging in the air.
“Ray is a good man, Dad. You don’t know him, but I do. He’s kind, responsible, and he supports what I want to do. I’m going to go to university, I’m going to study what I’ve always wanted, and I’m going to live a normal life. I’m not going to stay here just because you prefer it.”
Nolan stared at you. His eyes, normally cold and calculating, now burned with something much more dangerous. A muscle tensed in his jaw.
“A normal life?” he repeated, his voice dangerously low. “You think you can have a normal life with some random human? That you can just… leave?”
“Yes,” you answered, not looking away. “Because I’m not a child anymore. And because I want to follow my dreams, even if you don’t like it.”
Nolan let out a brief, humorless laugh. He leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
His tone was no longer that of a father arguing. It was that of someone used to things going his way.
You shook your head, keeping your calm even as you felt the pressure in the room increase.
“I’m going with Raymomd. And I’m going to live my life. Even if you don’t like it.”
That was what finally broke Nolan’s control.
In one swift movement, he slammed his palm down on the table. The impact was brutal. The wooden table split in half with a dry crash, and the floor beneath it cracked violently, sending fissures toward the legs of the chairs. Plates and glasses fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.
Debbie let out a choked scream and pushed her chair back, pale with terror. Mark froze, staring at his father with wide eyes.
But you didn’t.
You looked him directly in the eyes, with pure anger.
Nolan was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he stared at you with a mixture of fury and something much darker. Something possessive. Something that went far beyond paternal concern.
“You’re not leaving,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with contained rage. “You’re not moving in with that boy. You’re not going to Atlanta. You’re not walking away from this family.”
You slowly stood up from your chair, never breaking eye contact.
“I’m going to,” you replied clearly. “And you can’t stop me.”
You turned and walked toward the door.
Nolan shot to his feet so fast that his chair fell backward.
“Don’t you dare walk out of this house!” he shouted, his voice echoing with a force that made the windows rattle. “Get back here right now!”
But you didn’t stop.
You opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, feeling the cool night air hit your face. Behind you, you heard Nolan scream your name with a mixture of anger and desperation you had never heard from him before.
“Come back here! You’re not leaving!”
You ignored his shouts.
You walked down the steps of the house and continued along the driveway, your heart pounding hard in your chest. For the first time in your life, you had openly defied your father.
And although you didn’t look back, you could feel his gaze burning into your back — heavy, furious… and dangerously possessive.
Nolan Grayson wasn’t used to having what he considered his taken away from him.
And certainly not by his own daughter.
Days later, you continued with your plans.
You had spent the last few days avoiding your father as much as possible. Although Nolan hadn’t brought up the subject again in front of the others, his silence was far more dangerous than his shouting. He watched you constantly, with that calculating gaze that followed you even when you thought you were alone. Still, you refused to back down. You had packed your bags, organized your university documents, and that afternoon, you were at Ray’s house, finishing packing the last of your things.
You were carrying a heavy box in your arms when you stepped out the front door.
What you saw outside froze you in place.
Raymond was on his knees in the garden, his face bloodied and his expression dazed. Standing in front of him, dressed in the red and white suit of Omni-Man, was your father. Nolan was holding him by the neck with one hand, as if he weighed nothing. Before you could react, Nolan twisted his wrist with a sharp, brutal motion.
The sound of Ray’s skull cracking was horrifying.
His body fell lifeless to the ground, his head deformed and blood quickly spreading across the grass. Nolan stood over him, unfazed, as if he had just crushed an insect.
You dropped the box.
“Dad…” your voice came out broken, caught between disbelief and rage.
Nolan slowly turned his head toward you. His expression was calm, almost serene, as if he hadn’t just murdered your boyfriend in front of your eyes. Blood stained his glove.
You felt fury rise in your chest. Without thinking, you dropped the box and ran toward him.
“What did you do?!” you screamed, hitting him with all your strength against his chest.
Nolan didn’t move. Your blows did nothing to him. When you tried to hit him again, he acted quickly.
His free hand rose and struck you with an open palm.
The impact was brutal. You felt your nose break with a sharp crack. The pain was immediate and intense. Blood poured down your face as you staggered backward. Before you could fall, Nolan grabbed you tightly, pulling you into an embrace that pinned you against his chest.
“Don’t worry,” he said in a low, almost gentle voice as he held you against him despite your struggles.
The blood from your nose stained his suit. He held the back of your neck with one hand, keeping you trapped in his embrace with a strength that didn’t allow you to escape. His other hand stroked your hair with a sickening tenderness, contrasting sharply with the violence he had just shown.
“Soon it will be just the two of us,” he continued with terrifying calm. “When Earth finally accepts its fate, there will be nothing and no one left to stand between us. No boyfriends. No universities. No normal lives.”
You tried to pull away, but he only held you tighter, ignoring your attempts to free yourself. You could feel how calmly his heart was beating, as if all of this were perfectly natural.
“Just you and me,” he whispered against your hair. “Father and daughter. The way it was always meant to be.”
Blood continued to drip from your broken nose, staining his red suit. Nolan held you even tighter, as if he feared that even now you might slip away from him.
And in that moment, you understood with horror that your father no longer saw Ray as a simple obstacle.
He saw him as the first step toward having you completely to himself
Thragg
Over the years, Thragg stopped being content with watching you through glass and screens.
At first, his visits were scarce. Brief. Calculated with almost surgical precision. He would enter your chambers without making a sound, accompanied only by the weight of his presence, and stop a few steps away to look at you with that silent severity that seemed to fill the entire room. He was never a man given to visible tenderness, especially not with you — not because he loved you any less, but because he considered you far too valuable to be treated with weakness.
The first time he began appearing before you regularly, you were no longer a child crying for a familiar face. You had grown up in discipline, silence, and isolation. The machines had taught you obedience, knowledge, and control; but it was he who began to shape something far more important in you.
Character.
You remember not saying anything the first time you saw him cross the threshold and stand before you, enormous and imposing, with his arms behind his back and that cape falling like a shadow of war. You looked at him without fear. Without hesitation. As if, somewhere inside you, you had always known there was someone on the other side of the walls.
Thragg noticed.
And that pleased him more than he would have ever admitted.
“So you don’t tremble,” was one of the first things he said to you.
His voice was deep, dry, with no trace of warmth. But there was no disapproval in it either. Only observation.
You lifted your chin with a stillness that didn’t entirely match your age.
“I don’t see why I should.”
For a moment, silence stretched between the two of you. And although Thragg’s face barely changed, something in his gaze sharpened with a deep and dark satisfaction.
Because you weren’t just strong.
You were worthy.
From then on, he began visiting you more frequently. No longer as a distant figure lurking in the shadows, but as a constant and rigorous presence. He personally oversaw your training, correcting your posture, your responses, even the way you held your gaze. He taught you the history of Viltrum not as a lesson, but as a heritage. He didn’t speak to you of ruin or loss with sadness, but with a stern devotion that turned every word into a command.
He showed you star maps, records of conquest, names of fallen generals, and worlds brought to their knees under the weight of a race that had once been unstoppable. And you listened in silence, motionless, with such perfect attention that even he found himself watching you longer than necessary.
There was something almost disturbing about the seriousness with which you absorbed everything.
You didn’t interrupt with unnecessary questions. You showed no sentimentality. You weren’t distracted by the weight of blood or the magnitude of what had been destroyed. You listened as if every fragment of the empire belonged to you by right.
As if you understood it.
As if you had been born for it.
That pleased Thragg in a dangerous way.
Little by little, he began taking you out of your chambers. First to internal corridors, then to command chambers, strategy rooms, and hangars where the organized ruins of what had once been the heart of an immense empire still remained. What little remained of Viltrum was not beautiful in a human sense; it was severe, functional, wounded. Metal, silence, and memory. And yet, when you walked beside him through those structures marked by war and decay, Thragg felt something close to pride.
He didn’t allow anyone to walk at his height.
Except you.
The few who still served under his command soon understood your position. Thragg didn’t need to announce it openly. It was enough to see him stop to wait for you. Enough to see how his attention shifted toward you before any commander. Enough to notice the absolute coldness with which he responded when someone spoke to you without permission.
You were his daughter.
The first.
The only one he looked at not as a tool, but as the untouched continuation of something he refused to let die.
On one occasion, while walking through an observation room from which fragments of destroyed fleets could be seen floating in the void, one of his subordinates — too slow, too clumsy — interrupted with a poorly presented report. Thragg barely turned his head to listen. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t make any sudden movements. He simply pointed out the mistake with a calm so lethal that the soldier froze instantly.
You didn’t look away.
You watched everything with the same impassive expression you used for anything else. Without horror. Without discomfort. Only attention.
When the man left, trembling with shame, Thragg turned slightly toward you.
“Misplaced compassion weakens judgment,” he said.
You took a second to respond.
“Then it isn’t a virtue. It’s a defect useful only to enemies.”
That time, Thragg did smile.
It was a minimal, brief, almost imperceptible smile. But in someone like him, that was equivalent to immense approval.
“Correct.”
From that moment on, he began showing you more. Not only the structure of the empire, but its logic. The order. The hierarchy. The necessity of strength, purity, and obedience. He wanted you to understand not only what Viltrum had been, but what it needed to become again. And every time he saw you standing beside him, with an impassive face and a steady gaze, the idea became more firmly rooted in his mind.
He wasn’t just introducing you to a legacy.
He was preparing you to inherit it.
There were moments, rare but revealing, when even he seemed to forget his own reserve. Watching you respond harshly to a disrespectful officer, noticing the precision with which you analyzed combat reports, confirming that there was no unnecessary softness in you — Thragg felt a satisfaction so intense that it bordered on obsession.
Because he didn’t see only a daughter.
He saw confirmation.
Proof that something pure still remained in the universe. Something worthy. Something his.
And the more he integrated you into what little remained of the empire, the clearer a truth became — one that no one around you dared to name:
Thragg didn’t just favor you.
Thragg had reserved a place for you that he would never allow anyone else to occupy.
It didn’t matter how many children he had fathered. It didn’t matter how many descendants carried his blood. None had been watched like you. None had been preserved like you. None walked beside him with the same silent closeness that made others fall quiet the moment you entered a room.
You were his fiercest pride.
His favorite daughter.
And in many ways, the only thing he regarded with something close to reverence.
With time, Thragg decided that you were no longer just his daughter. You were a soldier. You needed a position.
He named you general.
It wasn’t an empty title. Thragg placed you in a position of power within the Viltrumite fleet, and to ensure you were prepared, he put Kregg in charge of your training. He was one of his most loyal and competent warriors, someone he trusted enough to leave you under his guidance. Thragg believed that with Kregg by your side, you would be protected and well-trained.
What he didn’t imagine was that Kregg would become attracted to you.
At first, the advances were subtle. Looks that lingered longer than necessary, words that brushed the edges of military respect, small gestures that a normal Viltrumite wouldn’t have noticed. But you noticed them. And instead of rejecting them, you felt curious. You had never experienced anything like it. Viltrumites didn’t speak of romance or affection in that way; for them, relationships were something functional, almost nonexistent. However, the way Kregg looked at you awakened an interest in you that you didn’t know how to handle.
You didn’t see anything wrong with it.
Without Thragg knowing, you began spending more time alone with Kregg. What started as training gradually turned into something more. It wasn’t a romance like those that existed on other planets; it was something clumsy, silent, and filled with tensions that neither of you knew how to name. But for you, it was enough. You liked the way Kregg treated you, as if you were more than just Thragg’s daughter. As if you were someone he could desire.
For weeks, you kept it a secret. You slipped away from his gaze when you could, met with Kregg in secluded areas of the main ship, and allowed his hands to touch you in ways your father would never have permitted. To you, it wasn’t betrayal. It was simply something that belonged to you.
What you didn’t know was that Thragg, although he trusted Kregg, never stopped watching you.
And sooner or later, he would discover what you were doing.
Because even though he had named you general and given you power, Thragg still considered you his absolute possession. And he was not willing to share you with anyone.
Not even with one of his own warriors.
But Thragg didn’t suspect anything at first.
He was satisfied with your progress as a general. He believed Kregg was fulfilling his duty by training you, and that you were fulfilling yours as his daughter. However, as the weeks passed, something began to change in you. You became more reserved, avoided his direct gaze, and kept a distance that hadn’t existed before. Thragg noticed, but attributed it to the weight of your new responsibilities.
Until one day he asked you to come closer.
He wanted to personally check your physical condition, as he used to do when you were little. When you stood in front of him, Thragg observed you carefully. And then he saw it.
The slight swelling in your abdomen.
It wasn’t something that could be mistaken. As a Viltrumite, he immediately recognized what it meant. You were pregnant. And not by just any Viltrumite.
By Kregg.
Something dark and violent ignited inside him. Thragg had planned to repopulate his race, yes, but never like this. He had never imagined that another Viltrumite would dare to touch you, to taint you, to leave his seed inside what he considered exclusively his. The idea of his daughter carrying the child of another filled him with a cold and silent rage.
Without saying a word, he took a step forward and wrapped his arms around you in a firm, almost crushing embrace. His large hands rested on your back, holding you tightly against him. For a moment, the silence was absolute.
“Everything is going to be fine,” he murmured against your hair, his voice low and controlled, in stark contrast to the storm raging inside him. “I’m going to fix this.”
You felt his embrace tighten slightly, as if he feared you might slip away. Thragg closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his mind already began mapping out the path he would follow. He would not allow that creature to be born. He would not allow Kregg’s legacy to mix with his blood. He had raised you to be perfect, strong, and loyal only to him. He would not allow anything or anyone to contaminate you.
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. His expression was serious, almost solemn, but his eyes burned with a dangerous obsession.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” he continued, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “After this, everything will return to order. You will only have to continue being a good soldier… and a good daughter. That is all that will be asked of you.”
His voice was calm, almost reassuring, but the words carried an oppressive weight. There was no room for discussion. No room for choice. Thragg had already made his decision.
So he thrust his arm through your stomach, becoming completely covered in your blood.
"You'll recover, don't worry."
Because Thragg was not willing to share you with anyone.
Not even with your own child.
Have I been too violent? I mean, I feel like the warnings might be an understatement.
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Content. MDNI. Platonic Yandere. Extreme possessiveness. Obsessive protection. Isolation. Stalking. Home invasion. Emotional manipulation. Gaslighting. Jealousy. Overprotective behavior. Trauma bonding. Forced proximity. Watching from the shadows. Invasion of personal space. Soft-spoken threats. Heavy angst. Dark atmosphere. Multiple yanderes. Brother complex. Reader is constantly monitored. Psychological tension. Creepy comfort. Unhealthy attachment. “You’re safest with us” mentality. Slow descent into captivity. No romance. Childhood trauma. Violent training. Lab experiments. Deep guilt and obsession. Forced dependence. Emotional blackmail. Overbearing protection. No escape.
Word Count. 3,1k
N/A. I'm fucking bored u.u
Homelander
John doesn’t remember a single day of his childhood in which he didn't need you.
The Vought laboratories were cold, white, and eternal. Each of you had your own room: windowless white cells with a single metal bed and a light that never fully turned off. You were only allowed to see each other every fifteen days, and it was always for the experiments. The scientists would gather you in the same testing room and subject you to simultaneous pain, as if they wanted to study how you reacted while the other was suffering.
And John always reacted the same way.
He would put himself between you and the electrodes. He would let himself be hit first. When they screamed at you, he screamed louder. When they injected you with something that made you cry, he would grab your hand so tightly that he left marks, whispering in your ear in a sweet and encouraging way while you both trembled:
—I’m going to be stronger someday. I’m going to be so strong that no one will ever hurt you again. When I get out of here, I’m going to take you far away. Somewhere no one can find us. I promise you. I promise.
You were his only proof that he could still feel something other than rage. His only connection to something resembling humanity. When the experiments ended and they separated you again, John would stand staring at the door through which you were taken until he could no longer see you. Then he would sit on the floor of his cell and repeat your name in a low voice before sleeping, like a prayer, before falling asleep in his blanket, dreaming of you, of both of you.
When they finally escaped—or rather, when Vought decided they were too dangerous to kept locked up—John didn't hesitate for a second, knowing exactly what he had to do.
He took you out of there in the middle of the night. He took you so far away that even he didn't know exactly where they were at first. An isolated house in the mountains, surrounded by forest and snow for months. No neighbors. No nearby roads. No one.
There he hid you.
And there he kept you.
Every time he returned from a mission or an interview, he would arrive with stained hands and his cape in tatters, but the first thing he did was look for you. He would find you in the kitchen or by the fireplace reading a book—as you had no television or any possible form of technology—and he would kneel in front of you, leaning his forehead against your stomach as if he needed to remind himself that you were still there.
—No one knows you exist—he would tell you in a low voice, almost reverent. —And no one ever will. You are mine. My sister. My twin. The only person who saw me when I was weak.
His voice was soft when he spoke to you. Almost tender. But there was something in the way he looked at you that reminded you that this tenderness had very dangerous limits. If you ever mentioned wanting to go out, see people, or even be a hero, his expression changed completely. His eyes would turn cold and his smile would vanish.
—No—he would say simply. —You’re not going out. You’re not going to be a hero. You’re not going to let the world touch you. I am the only one who can protect you. The only one who knows how.
And although he hugged you carefully, as if you were made of glass, there was a silent promise behind every gesture: if you ever tried to leave, he would find you. Because for John, losing you was not an option. It was the end of the world.
Superman
Clark always knew you were greater than him.
Not just in age. You were greater in everything. You arrived on Earth first. You learned to control your powers before he did. You were the one who found him when he was just a frightened boy in a Kansas field, and you were the one who taught him not to break things, not to fly too high, and to be kind even when the world didn't deserve it.
For Clark, you weren't just his older sister. You were his origin, the little that remained of his biological heritage.
That's why, when you grew up and decided to become a reporter at the Daily Planet alongside him, something inside him began to slowly break.
At first, he tried to hide it. He would bring coffee to your desk every morning, smiling when he saw you happy. He would defend you when Lois complained about you or your work. But over time, his protection became more intense. Quieter. More possessive.
He started appearing every time someone got too close to you. Villains who had threatened you disappeared. Journalists who looked at you strangely stopped working at the Planet without explanation. And when you asked him, Clark would only smile at you with that sweetness he had always had and say:
—I just want you to be safe. You're the only thing I have left of Krypton. The only thing that reminds me of who I am.
With time, he began to suggest that you quit your job. That you move closer to him. That you stop exposing yourself so much. That you depend only on his salary. That you depend on him.
—I can protect you better than anyone—he insisted in a low voice, one night on a random rooftop after defending Metropolis with you, the wind moving his cape. —Why do you still want to be near them? They don't understand you. They don't know what you are. I do.
His voice was never aggressive. It was soft. Almost pleading. But there was a desperation behind every word that chilled you.
Because for Clark, losing you meant losing the last part of himself that still felt like Krypton. And he was willing to do anything to prevent it.
Nolan
Nolan never forgot the day he had to abandon you.
He left you on Viltrum when you were just a little girl. The order was clear and left no room for discussion: go to Earth, gain their trust, conquer a human, have offspring, and do not look back.
But he looked back. For years. Hoping that you would appear in the stars, seeking his protection, his counsel.
Every night, while he was on Earth pretending to be a hero, he thought of you. He thought of how you were too small, too fragile, even though you stood out among the few Viltrumites of your age because of the extensive training he provided you. But, the virus was spreading through the colonies and he knew that if it reached you, you would die in the blink of an eye. The idea that his little sister could be alone, sick and with no one to protect or comfort her, consumed him from within for decades.
Every time he killed someone, he thought of you, of your sideways smile with stains of your own blood on your face.
Every time Mark looked at him with disappointment, he thought of how you used to look at him with blind trust.
When he finally returned to the Viltrumite ship after the war, he found you as quickly as he could.
And he found you different.
You were no longer the girl he left behind. You were a woman. A respected warrior. And you had a son.
The child had your eyes and a small smile that reminded him of the one you had when you were little. A son whom you raised, pure-blooded, from someone he didn't know, or probably did, but refused to accept.
Nolan stood at the entrance of the room, covered in someone else's blood, his hands still trembling from the last battle. He looked at you. Then he looked at the boy. And something inside him broke in a way that even the conquest of planets had not achieved.
—...Do you have a son?—he asked, and his voice sounded hoarse, almost broken.
You looked at him with that calmness you had always had, even as a little girl.
—Yes. His name is Kael.
Nolan took a step forward. Then another. He knelt before you as if he were a subject and not the greatest conqueror of Viltrum. His large, bloody hand rose, but stopped halfway to touching you.
—I left you—he said, and for the first time in centuries, his voice truly trembled. —I left you alone. I thought you were going to die of the virus. And when I came back... you prospered. Without me. You had a son. You became strong. And I... I wasn't here to see it.
There was a long, heavy silence.
Then Nolan looked you straight in the eyes and, for the first time, his expression was not of pride or authority. It was of something much darker.
—Never again—he whispered. —I will never leave you again. Even if I have to kill every existing species. Even if I have to destroy the entire Earth. You are mine. My sister. My responsibility. My weakness.
From that day on, Nolan became unbearably possessive. He watched every interaction you had. He trained your son with a dangerous intensity, even more aggressive than the intensity with which he once trained you. And when he was alone with you, he would hug you so tightly that he almost broke your ribs and whispered against your hair:
—I left you once. And it almost killed me. I won't make that mistake again.
Thragg
Thragg never treated you like a fragile sister.
Since you were small, he trained you with methodical cruelty. He broke your bones so they would grow back stronger. He let you bleed so you would learn to ignore the pain. Every time you fell, he would lift you off the ground with one hand and tell you in that deep, emotionless voice:
—Again. Faster. Stronger. Or you will die.
But there was something else behind that violence.
Because while he broke you, he also protected you.
He killed three Viltrumite warriors just because one of them had looked at you too long during training. He banished another for daring to try to win your heart. To Thragg, the world was a place that wanted to destroy you, and he was the only one who had the right to do it.
When you grew up, you became his shadow. His second-in-command. The only person he allowed to see his wildest side. And yet, when you were gravely injured after a battle, he was the one who picked you up off the ground. He was the one who cleaned the blood with hands that had destroyed entire civilizations.
—No one else can hurt you—he would tell you as he bandaged your wounds with precision. —Because I am the only one who has the right to break you... and the only one who knows how to put you back together.
His obsession was silent but absolute. He didn't allow you to have close allies. He didn't allow you to have weaknesses that he couldn't control. And when he looked at you, there was a strange mixture of pride and something much darker.
Because for Thragg, love was a form of war.
And you were the only territory he would never allow anyone to conquer.
Synopsis. Everyone at the Daily Planet knows your name, and almost everyone dislikes you for it. You are too sharp, too exacting, too unwilling to soften the truth for anyone’s comfort. Clark Kent never understood why the whole newsroom seemed so eager to misunderstand you — not when, beneath the cutting editorials and immaculate composure, you are the most quietly tender person he has ever known.
Pairing. Clark Kent x Female!Reader
Content. SFW. Female!Reader. Third person POV. Daily Planet setting. Newsroom romance. Slow burn. Mutual pining. Coworkers to friends to something more. Clark Kent falls first. Soft Clark Kent. Elegant but emotionally guarded Reader. Reader is disliked by the newsroom. Reader dislikes Superman. Journalism and media ethics. Emotional intimacy. Long conversations. Fluff. Light angst. Yearning. Tenderness. Awkward sweetness. Superman rescue scene. Identity tension. Subtle blushes. Quiet acts of care. Open ending. No explicit sexual content.
Word Count. 5,4k
N/A. I just corrected this after a Literature exam, my fingers are killing me.
At the Daily Planet, there were routines so ancient and persistent they seemed to have embedded themselves into the very foundations of the building.
The endless clatter of keyboards. The hum of printers working without rest. The constant scent of coffee grown too old and nights grown too long. Perry White bellowing orders from his office as if he could bend deadlines through the sheer volume of his voice. Reporters crossing the newsroom with papers tucked under their arms and exhaustion clinging to their skin like another layer of clothing.
And then, there was you.
It took Clark exactly three days to notice the effect you had on the office.
It wasn’t immediate. There were no dramatic silences or blatant stares following you as you crossed the floor. It was something much more subtle. More refined. Stranger.
Conversations dropped just a fraction in volume.
Shoulders straightened.
Browser tabs were closed just a bit too quickly.
Jimmy Olsen would stop spinning absentmindedly in his chair.
It was as if the entire office suddenly remembered they were being watched.
You never seemed to notice.
Or perhaps you did.
With you, it was difficult to tell anything for certain.
You moved between the desks with a severe elegance that made the rest of the Planet look cluttered by comparison. Always impeccable. Dark tones, clean cuts, fabrics without a single wrinkle. Rectangular glasses resting on the bridge of your nose as a natural part of your distant expression. Your hair perfectly in place even during late-night deadlines, when the rest of the newsroom looked like survivors of a catastrophe.
You didn’t smile much.
In fact, Clark was fairly certain he had never seen you smile at all.
But you didn't theatrically scowl either, nor did you need to raise your voice to impose authority. There was something much more intimidating in your calm. In the almost surgical precision of your words. In the exact way you looked at someone when they spoke, as if you were capable of detecting every error before they even finished the sentence.
People justified themselves to you even when you hadn’t asked for an explanation.
Clark had heard dozens of stories about you since he started working at the Planet.
That you had made an entire editor in Gotham cry.
That you rejected a position at the Daily Bugle saying they “confused journalism with cheap entertainment.”
That you could spot a misattributed quote after reading a single paragraph.
That you hated people.
That you hated heroes.
That you probably hated breathing.
Lois Lane, particularly, seemed incapable of going more than forty-eight hours without complaining about you. And considering Lois was one of the best journalists in the country, that said a lot.
— "She’s insufferable, Smallville," she muttered one afternoon, dropping a folder onto Clark’s desk with genuine drama. "She corrected my entire article just because I used 'allegedly' three times on the same page."
Clark looked up from his computer, watching her over his glasses with that soft, slightly clumsy smile that always seemed to accompany him.
— "Well… technically, that does sound a bit repetitive."
Lois gave him a look of absolute betrayal.
— "Don’t defend her."
Clark immediately raised both hands in a gesture of surrender.
Because, honestly, he didn’t like you much either.
Not after your articles about Superman.
Especially not those.
The first time he read one of your columns, he expected to find the typical sensationalism disguised as intellectual analysis. Metropolis was full of mediocre journalists who used Superman’s name as bait because they knew perfectly well that it sold.
But you didn’t write like that.
And that was the worst part.
Your articles were cold as winter, impeccably structured, and painfully reasonable. You never accused Superman of being a monster. You never resorted to absurd theories or tried to provoke cheap paranoia.
You simply asked questions.
Intelligent questions.
Uncomfortable questions.
What happens when a city places all its faith in a single figure?
Why has the press forgotten how to question someone just because they save lives?
At what point does public admiration stop being gratitude and start becoming obedience?
Clark had finished one of your articles with his jaw tight with frustration.
And then he read it again.
Because it was too well written.
There was a genuine conviction behind every line. A brutal honesty that made it impossible to dismiss you as just another journalist desperate for notoriety. You truly believed in what you wrote. You believed in it enough to endure the contempt you provoked in practically the entire city.
And boy, did you provoke it.
Most of the newsroom barely tolerated your presence. Some reporters changed direction when they saw you approaching. Others spoke of you as if you were a particularly unpleasant storm that had to be survived until the end of the day.
Even so, Clark began to notice small things.
Minute details.
Things that didn’t fit the monstrous image everyone had built of you. That woman who, with just one look, made you want to redo your entire professional existence.
You never interrupted the archivists when they spoke.
You always returned folders to the exact spot you had taken them from.
You brought tea to the proofreading department during late-night closings.
And every time you verbally destroyed someone’s article, you did it with an objectivity so precise that it was hard to call it cruelty.
— "The research is solid," he heard you tell a reporter one night who seemed on the verge of a breakdown. "But the writing is lazy. You write better than this."
There was no mockery in your voice.
No superiority.
Not even hardness.
Only expectation.
And the reporter, after looking at you for a second with exhausted resignation, sat back down to fix it.
That deeply disconcerted Clark.
Because it would have been much easier to hate you if you were truly cruel.
But you weren't.
You were demanding.
Distant.
Difficult.
And in some deeply unfair way, you also seemed to be right most of the time.
Clark watched you from his desk as you crossed the newsroom again that morning, moving with slow, steady steps amidst the constant noise of the Planet. The grayish light of Metropolis streamed through the building's enormous windows, outlining the serious profile of your face as you reviewed a folder covered in handwritten notes.
No one spoke to you.
You didn't try to start a conversation with anyone either, unless it was strictly for work.
Even so, before disappearing into one of the glass offices at the far end of the floor, you stopped briefly by Jimmy Olsen’s desk.
— "The photographer for the Robinson case called while you were out," you said calmly. "I left the number noted for you. Your photographs yesterday were good."
Jimmy looked at you as if he had just received divine approval.
You continued walking without waiting for an answer.
Clark slowly lowered his gaze to his computer screen.
And for the first time since he had arrived at the Daily Planet, he began to wonder if perhaps everyone—including himself—had decided who you were long before they actually bothered to know you.
That night, the Daily Planet breathed differently.
The usual bustle had been replaced by a denser, more honest silence. The lights, dimmed to the bare essentials, cast long shadows over the empty desks. The sound of the city reached the windows muffled, as if even Metropolis respected this moment of truce.
Clark had been leaning over his desk for quite a while, reviewing the same paragraph for the third time without much conviction. His tie was loosened, his sleeves slightly rolled up, and his face wore that concentrated expression that always seemed halfway between patience and exhaustion.
It was then he felt that subtle shift in the air.
Not a noise.
Not a sudden movement.
Something more… precise.
It took him only a second to know you were there.
Behind him.
You didn’t speak immediately. And, curiously, that was what made him most nervous. Clark kept his eyes fixed on the screen, though he was no longer reading anything. He could feel your presence, the stillness with which you observed, as if you were measuring every line before deciding if it was worth intervening.
— "The second paragraph dilutes your own argument, Mr. Kent," you said finally, in that voice of yours, low and perfectly articulated. "You are asking permission to state something you have already proven."
Clark spun his chair, finding you standing beside his desk.
The dim light barely softened the severity of your features. You held a cup of tea between your hands, steam rising in thin threads before your face. Your dark coat was still impeccable, as if the passage of hours had no effect on you.
— "Too… prudent?" he asked, scratching the back of his neck with a half-smile.
— "Too indulgent," you corrected, taking a small step toward the screen. "Prudence is a virtue. Indulgence, in this context, is a form of cowardice."
You leaned in slightly, pointing to a specific sentence. Clark noticed the detail without meaning to: the slight tremor in your fingers, barely perceptible, as if exhaustion was beginning to seep through the cracks of your impeccable composure.
— "You have all the data," you continued. "Do not soften it. The reader does not need to be consoled. They need to be informed."
Clark nodded slowly, observing you more than he was listening now.
There was something in the way you spoke—so measured, so exact—that made everything seem simple. As if the world could be ordered with enough linguistic precision.
— "You work a lot," he said suddenly, almost without thinking.
You stopped.
Not dramatically. You simply ceased moving.
— "I work what is necessary," you replied after a brief silence, bringing the cup to your lips.
— "It doesn't seem like the same thing," he countered, softer.
Your eyes rose toward him over the rim of the cup. There was something different in your gaze now. Not softer, not exactly, but… less distant.
— "Mr. Kent," you said with a slight tilt of your head, "in this building there are two ways to be tolerated: by being exceptional or by being pleasant. I have no particular interest in the latter."
Clark let out a small laugh.
— "That explains the… comments."
— "The nicknames?" you interrupted, with an almost elegant calm. "Yes, I am aware."
You said it without resentment. Without drama. Like someone stating a filed fact.
But Clark noticed it.
That tiny drop in your voice. That minimal pause before continuing.
— "It's not especially creative, I must say," you added. "‘The Black Widow,’ ‘The Killer Critic’… I expected something with more wit, considering the profession."
Clark frowned slightly.
— "It shouldn’t be that way."
You raised an eyebrow.
— "It is inevitable. People tend to reject that which does not soften its work. And I soften nothing."
— "That doesn’t mean they’re right."
— "I don’t need them to be."
Another clean answer. Exact.
But not completely impermeable.
Clark looked down for a moment, thoughtful. And that’s when he saw it.
Your bag.
Black, structured, leaning against the edge of his desk. There was something small hanging from one of the zippers. Something red.
It took Clark half a second to recognize it.
A keychain.
Superman’s.
It wasn't ostentatious or very expensive. It wasn't overly decorative. Simply the symbol, discreet, well-cared for.
Clark blinked.
Then he looked back at you.
— "You don't hate him so much, then."
You followed his gaze without haste. Your eyes settled on the keychain, and for the first time, something like a smile—very slight, almost imperceptible—touched your expression.
— "I don’t hate Superman," you said finally. "That would be… simplistic."
You took the bag with a natural gesture, as if there was nothing to justify.
— "I distrust what he represents when no one questions him," you continued. "They are different things."
Clark nodded slowly.
— "Then the keychain…"
— "A gift," you interrupted softly.
There was a brief pause.
— "I haven't decided if they are right."
Clark smiled, just barely.
— "Perhaps both things can coexist."
Your eyes returned to him, evaluating him.
— "Perhaps," you conceded.
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable.
It was different.
Closer.
— "You should rewrite that paragraph," you added finally, regaining your professional tone. "It has potential. It just needs to stop apologizing for itself."
— "Yeah, well… I'm working on that," Clark replied with a small laugh.
— "It shows."
You took your cup, adjusted your coat slightly, and took a step back.
— "Goodnight, Mr. Kent."
— "Goodnight."
Clark watched you walk away, the sound of your footsteps fading into the stillness of the building until you disappeared behind the elevator doors.
For a long moment, he didn't move.
Then, he turned back to his screen.
He reread the paragraph.
And he deleted it.
When he began to write again, this time he softened nothing.
And, without realizing it, as his fingers moved over the keyboard, he was no longer thinking about Superman.
He was thinking about you.
About the way you knew perfectly well that you weren't liked… and yet you stayed.
And about that small red keychain, hidden amidst the impeccable sobriety of everything else.
The Daily Planet cafeteria was always too crowded at noon.
The noise of conversations mixed with the clatter of trays, coffee machines running without rest, and phones that kept ringing even during the lunch break, as if the building were incapable of fully relaxing.
Clark usually had lunch with Lois, Jimmy, or whoever ended up dragging him into an improvised conversation about politics, sports, or the latest cover of some rival newspaper.
That day, however, he was alone.
Or at least he was until he saw you.
You were sitting at one of the tables furthest from the windows, exactly as always.
Alone.
Not in a dramatic way.
Not like someone waiting for company.
Simply… habitually alone.
Your tray held barely a cup of black coffee and something that could hardly be considered a real lunch. You had a book open next to the plate and a folder full of notes underlined in dark blue. Most of the tables around were occupied by groups talking to each other, but no one had sat with you.
Clark wasn't sure why it produced such an unpleasant feeling in his chest.
Perhaps because he was beginning to realize that people didn't just find you intimidating.
They also left you out.
And you acted as if you had already grown used to it.
Before thinking too much, he took his tray and walked toward your table.
— "Is this seat taken?"
You looked up slowly.
For an instant, Clark thought he saw genuine surprise flash across your expression.
Very slight.
Very quick.
But it was there.
Your eyes dropped for a second toward the rest of the cafeteria before returning to him.
— "No, Mr. Kent."
Clark sat across from you with a calm smile.
— "You can call me Clark, you know."
— "And you can stop calling me 'Miss' every time we speak," you replied before taking a sip of coffee. "It makes it sound like an interview."
That made him laugh a little.
And something in your expression seemed to soften just slightly upon hearing it.
For a moment, neither spoke much. Clark began to eat while you slowly closed the book, carefully marking the page before setting it aside.
— "What are you reading?" he asked.
— "Political essays."
Clark made a small face.
— "Of course you are."
You arched an eyebrow just barely.
— "What does that mean?"
— "I don’t know… I expected something less intimidating."
— "Like what?"
— "A romance novel."
And there it happened.
It was small.
Brief.
But real.
You laughed.
Not an elegant smile or that slight ironic curve that sometimes appeared on your mouth.
A genuine laugh.
Soft.
Warm.
Surprised.
Clark found himself staring at you for too long.
Because God.
You were completely different when you forgot to keep the walls up.
You noticed almost immediately and cleared your throat slightly, regaining some composure as you picked up the coffee cup again.
— "I don't read romance novels."
— "That sounded exactly like someone who *does* read romance novels."
— "Clark."
— "Okay, okay."
He raised both hands in surrender, still smiling.
And you looked at him for a second with something dangerously close to affection.
That was new.
Very new.
— "Are you always like this?" you finally asked.
— "Like what?"
— "So… simple."
Clark blinked slightly.
— "I suppose it's part of me."
You looked down toward your cup.
— "It must be nice."
The phrase came out so quietly it almost went unnoticed.
Almost.
Clark slowly rested his fork on the tray.
— "I don’t think you’re as terrible as you think."
That made you let out a small, amused exhale.
— "Oh, no. I’m perfectly aware that I can be insufferable."
— "You aren't."
— "No?"
— "No."
Clark said it with that absurd honesty so characteristic of him that it left you without an answer for a second.
— "People here are afraid of you because you expect a lot from them," he continued. "But that doesn't mean you’re cruel."
You remained in silence for a few moments.
Then you sighed just barely, looking around the cafeteria.
— "I think sometimes they forget that I’m afraid of them too."
Clark frowned slightly.
— "What?"
You gave a small shrug.
— "I’m not especially good at relating to people. I never have been. Work is… simpler. It has clear rules. People don't."
There was something strangely vulnerable in the way you said it. So discreet that almost anyone else wouldn’t have noticed.
But Clark did.
He always seemed to notice the small cracks in others.
— "Well," he said softly, "I think you’re doing quite well with me."
Your lips curved just barely around the rim of the cup.
— "That’s because you make things easy."
Clark’s heart did something strange inside his chest.
He quickly changed the subject before he started staring like an idiot.
— "So… how exactly was the thing with Superman?"
You let out a small nasal laugh.
— "Ah, right. The most humiliating moment of my week."
— "It didn't seem so horrible."
— "Clark, half the city saw me being rescued by the guy I’ve been editorially criticizing for years."
— "Well… technically, that proves he’s still doing his job well."
You watched him for a few seconds before slowly shaking your head.
— "The worst part is that he was kind."
Clark had to quickly look away to hide the immediate smile that appeared on his face.
— "Is that so surprising?"
— "A little."
You played absentmindedly with the coffee spoon before continuing.
— "Truthfully, I expected... arrogance. Or condescension. Or at least some insufferable, repetitive heroic comment."
— "And he didn't do that?"
— "No. He simply… made sure I was okay, and he left."
Your voice grew softer as you recalled the moment.
— "And he listened. He really listened."
Clark watched you carefully.
— "Does that change anything?"
You stayed pensive for a few seconds.
Then you shook your head slowly.
— "I don’t retract what I write. I still believe no one should be above public questioning. Not even Superman."
— "But…"
You sighed just barely.
— "But I think he probably is a good person."
The phrase hung between them.
Simple.
Honest.
Clark felt a strange warmth spread slowly through his entire body.
Not because you needed to approve of Superman.
But because you had been sincere.
And with you, that meant everything.
— "I think he would like to hear that," he said softly.
You let out a small, tired smile.
— "Don't say it too loud, others might hear. It would ruin my reputation."
Clark laughed again.
And this time, so did you.
The conversation continued after that with a naturalness that was almost disconcerting. It was as if both had forgotten, for a while, the image the rest of the Planet seemed to have built around you. Clark stopped feeling carefully observed, and you stopped looking like someone constantly prepared to defend yourself.
Talking to you was different from talking to anyone else in the newsroom. There was something deliberate in your way of thinking through things before saying them, something elegant even in the simplest of opinions. And yet, when you relaxed enough, a dry and subtle humor appeared that Clark was beginning to find dangerously charming.
— "So you really believe Batman is scary just because of his aesthetic?" he asked, leaning his elbow on the table while trying to contain his laughter.
You raised the coffee cup with absolute serenity.
— "Clark, that man dresses like a nocturnal creature and disappears dramatically into smoke. He's clearly committed to the bit."
Clark let out a genuine laugh at that, leaning forward as he shook his head.
And then it happened again.
You laughed.
Softer this time. Quieter. As if you were starting to forget that you normally avoided doing it in public.
Clark couldn't help but stare at you a second longer than was appropriate.
There was something strangely beautiful in discovering that your coldness wasn't really coldness. It was caution. It was habit. Entire years of learning to exist in places where people only seemed to tolerate you as long as you were useful.
But there, under the white, inelegant light of the Daily Planet cafeteria, with mediocre coffee in your hands and an absurd conversation about superheroes, you looked… light.
And that provoked an unexpected tenderness in him.
You kept talking, distractedly adjusting the sleeve of your coat while mentioning something about a pending interview for the following week. Clark listened, though honestly, he was starting to pay more attention to the small details.
The elegant way you held the cup.
How you frowned just barely when you tried to order an idea.
The slight tiredness under your eyes.
And that way of yours of speaking as if every sentence had been editorially reviewed before leaving your mouth.
It was curious.
The entire office seemed to see you as someone difficult to love.
Clark was beginning to think that simply no one had stayed long enough to understand you.
And perhaps that was what hurt him most.
Because beneath all that impeccable composure, the sharp critiques, and the intimidating reputation, there was a person who still seemed surprised every time someone decided to sit by their side.
Weeks had passed.
Enough for the Daily Planet without announcing it and without ever admitting it, to change in small, imperceptible ways: Clark learned to identify your step without needing to look; you began to stop for a second next to his desk to make a brief comment—a correction, a recommendation, a question—as if that second meant nothing. As if there were no difference between “speaking to Kent” and “speaking to anyone else.”
But there was.
And both of you knew it.
That afternoon the building was heavy with the end-of-the-day fatigue: too many lights on, coffee that no longer tasted like anything, the noise of printers like a distant echo. Clark finished packing his things with the calm of someone who always stays a little longer than necessary, and when he looked up, he saw you near the entrance, by the turnstiles, waiting.
You were standing with your coat on, your bag tucked under your arm, your face serene. You had that expression Clark already recognized: the one of someone who leaves without making a sound, as if the act of leaving should also be done with discretion.
He approached slowly.
— "Leaving already?"
You turned your head toward him. For an instant, it seemed you were going to give a perfectly correct and definitive response—a brief goodbye, a “goodnight”—but your eyes stayed a second longer on his face, as if you were reconsidering.
— "Yes," you finally said. "Today, yes."
Clark smiled softly.
— "I'm glad. It’s… a victory."
— "Don't say it out loud," you replied, and the corner of your lips curved just barely. "Perry might consider it a provocation."
Clark let out a low laugh. With you, even a joke sounded elegant. Even the tiredness in your voice had manners.
There was a pause. Not uncomfortable, but heavy with something Clark still didn't quite know how to name: the kind of silence that appears when two people have grown used to talking, and therefore no longer need to fill every second with words.
You adjusted the strap of your bag and then said, as if it were an afterthought:
— "Before I go… this is for you."
Clark blinked.
— "For me?"
You pulled a small, sober bag from an obviously expensive shop out of your own purse. The paper was thick; the handles, firm. Everything about it screamed “excessive” with politeness.
Clark took it as if it were fragile.
— "You didn't have to…"
— "Don't start," you cut him off calmly, though your cheeks seemed to take on a slightly warmer hue. "I know I don't 'have to'. That’s precisely the point."
Clark looked at the bag, then looked at you, confused and cautiously curious.
— "What is it?"
— "Merchandise," you said the word as if you were a bit embarrassed to pronounce it. "And yes, I am aware it sounds terrible when I say it out loud."
Clark opened the bag carefully and found within an elegant black box with an impeccable finish. In the corner, discreetly, was Superman’s shield. It wasn’t a typical tourist souvenir; it was one of those things made for collectors, for someone who knows exactly what they are buying.
Clark stood still for a second.
— "This must have cost…"
— "Clark," your voice was soft, but definitive. "I know that you and Superman… are acquainted."
Clark felt his stomach sink with a mixture of alarm and absurd tenderness.
— "And… how do you know that?"
You raised an eyebrow as if the question were endearing.
— "You have the worst face of complicity I have ever seen in my life," you said, and your lips curved a little more. "Besides, there are details. The way you speak of him. What you choose to defend. What you choose to keep quiet."
Clark opened his mouth, closed it, and in the end only let out a nervous laugh.
— "I didn’t know my face was so… transparent."
— "It’s charming," you murmured, and it seemed to surprise you that the word came out so easily, so directly.
A small silence fell.
Clark looked at you, and for an instant, the fluorescent lights of the lobby seemed less harsh. As if everything had become more intimate just because of that phrase.
You looked away with minimal speed, recomposing yourself.
— "Anyway," you continued. "It's not for Superman. It's for you."
Clark held the box in his hands as if it contained something heavier than an object.
— "It’s too much," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Really."
— "I know," you replied with a calm that wasn't coldness, but elegant defense. "Consider it a partial apology for making you read columns of mine that probably ruined your breakfast more than once."
Clark let out a brief laugh.
— "Ruined more than one breakfast, yes."
— "Then it works."
Clark shook his head, smiling, and ventured to ask softly:
— "Why?"
You stood still for a moment. As if you didn't like the question because it forced you to be honest.
— "Because you have been… good to me," you said at last, without drama, without trimmings. "And because, in spite of everything, I think Superman is a good person. He must be, if he tolerates you."
Clark raised his eyebrows.
— "Excuse me?"
Your eyes shone with something that looked dangerously like amusement.
— "It's a joke," you said, then added lower, "More or less."
Clark laughed again, and this time so did you, but your laugh was short, contained, as if you didn't want anyone to hear it.
At the threshold, the building’s guard greeted someone. Distant voices. The Planet was still the Planet.
You looked toward the door like someone suddenly remembering the world exists and demands punctuality.
— "I have to go."
Clark nodded but didn’t move.
— "Thank you," he said, with a sincerity he didn't try to hide. "For this. For… everything, I suppose."
You looked down just barely, and Clark saw the slight blush rise to your cheeks with a silent betrayal. You straightened almost immediately, as if elegance could be a shield.
— "Don't make it a big deal, Clark," you said.
— "I can't promise that," he replied, saying it so softly it almost sounded like an accidental confession.
That made you blink. For a second, your composure faltered; the “you” the building feared and gave nicknames to stepped aside an inch, just enough for Clark to see the other one: the one who blushed, the one who gave too expensive gifts and pretended it was an editorial correction.
Then you breathed, gave a minimal nod, and without looking back, pushed the door and stepped out into the cold of Metropolis.
Clark stood there, still holding the box, listening to how the sound of the street swallowed your figure.
He thought—with a clarity that gave him a bit of fear—that he liked this version of you.
Not the image the Planet repeated. Not the office character, nor the sharpened myth.
The real one.
The one who didn't ask permission to be good, but also didn't quite know what to do when someone noticed.
— "Ohhh."
Clark turned.
Jimmy Olsen was a few meters away, backpack on his shoulder and a smile that seemed too big for his face.
And Lois, at his side, arms crossed, looking at him as if she had just seen the perfect headline walking right before her eyes.
— "No," Clark said automatically, as if he could stop the inevitable with just that word.
Jimmy held up his hands.
— "‘No’ what? I haven't said anything."
Lois tilted her head.
— "You don't have to, Smallville. I can see you from Central Metropolis," she said, then added with insufferable satisfaction, "Was that… an expensive shop bag?"
Clark pressed the box against his chest by instinct.
— "It's not what you think."
Jimmy made a scandalous sound.
— "That is exactly what I think. It's a gift. Her. To you. And you were smiling like an idiot in love."
— "I wasn't smiling like that," Clark protested, but his face betrayed him.
Lois took a step closer, narrowing her eyes.
— "Are you a couple?"
Clark opened his mouth. Closed it. Then shook his head firmly.
— "No."
Jimmy leaned toward him, lowering his voice as if they were about to reveal a government secret.
— "But do you like her?"
Clark stood in silence a second too long.
Lois clicked her tongue.
— "God, you are incapable of lying."
Clark exhaled, half-surrendered.
— "She’s… a great friend," he said at last, and the phrase sounded true. It sounded sure. It sounded like a place where he could stay without breaking anything. "That’s it."
Lois watched him with an expression strangely soft for a second, before regaining her usual theatricality.
— "Uh-huh."
Jimmy smiled as if he had just won.
— "‘Great friend’. Right."
Clark adjusted his glasses, looking toward the door where you had gone, as if he could still see the trace of your presence on the glass.
— "Just… leave it there, alright?" he asked, with that kindness of his that always seemed like a form of protection.
Lois looked at him, then looked at the box, then looked back at him.
— "I'll leave it there," she said, amused. "For now."
Jimmy gave him a little tap on the shoulder as they walked toward the elevator.
— "Come on, Kent. If she breaks your heart, at least you’ll have an incredible story to write."
Clark didn't answer.
He stayed a moment longer in the lobby, holding the gift as if it were tangible proof of something that didn't yet have a name. And he thought that, for the first time in a long time, the future didn't look like a duty.
It looked like a possibility.
I might be the writer but you'll always be the words
