Homelander x Supe Fem!Reader
(Angst | Moral Collapse | “He Chose You” Horror)
They never show the moment before it happens.
The news cuts straight to smoke, screaming, rubble — a camera shaking violently as someone sobs off-screen. They slow the footage down, circle the destruction in red, zoom in on the damage like it’s a crime scene instead of a tragedy.
They don’t show your hands shaking.
They don’t show you hovering ten feet above the ground, heart pounding so hard you swear it might crack your ribs open, trying to remember your breathing techniques the way Vought drilled them into you during training.
They don’t show the split second where you almost had it.
The blast was supposed to be contained — a controlled release, calibrated down to the decimal. You’d done it a hundred times in simulations. You’d done it live before. You’d trusted yourself.
But panic is a wild thing.
The building doesn’t collapse all at once. That’s the part that makes it worse.
It folds in on itself like wet cardboard.
Vought doesn’t call it a massacre.
They call it an incident.
By the time you’re escorted back into the Tower, the damage control team is already waiting. Ashley’s voice is tight, clipped, like she’s barely holding it together. PR is flipping through tablets, eyes darting between headlines updating in real time.
WHO HOLDS THEM ACCOUNTABLE?
Vought’s “Hero” Leaves 17 Dead.
They tell you not to speak.
They dress you in neutral colors and sit you down under lights that are too bright, heat crawling under your skin. Someone powders your face while whispering reassurances that sound more like threats the longer they talk.
“Just stick to the script,” they say.
“Empathy, but not guilt.”
“We don’t want liability.”
You nod because what else are you supposed to do?
Homelander doesn’t come to the first meeting.
That’s when the fear really starts.
He’s always there. Always looming somewhere — a presence like pressure in your chest. His absence is louder than his voice ever is.
When he finally shows up, it’s hours later, after the press conference has already detonated online.
You feel him before you see him.
The room changes — air thickening, the low hum of power settling like static against your skin. Conversations die mid-sentence. Someone drops a pen. No one looks him in the eye.
He walks straight toward you, cape brushing the floor, expression unreadable. His eyes flick over your face, your posture, the way you’re sitting too rigid in your chair like you’re bracing for impact.
Ashley exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.
You stand too fast. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
The door shuts behind them with a final click that echoes too loudly.
“You’re bleeding,” he says.
You glance down. There’s a cut along your palm — you must’ve clenched your fist too hard earlier. You hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s not nothing,” he corrects, voice calm, almost gentle. “They let you sit here hurt.”
He takes your hand before you can pull away. His thumb brushes over the wound, pressure feather-light. You expect heat, pain — instead there’s warmth, controlled, precise.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He watches your face like he’s cataloging every reaction. Then his gaze sharpens.
You swallow. “The world is.”
He scoffs quietly. “The world doesn’t matter.”
“They were people,” you say, voice cracking despite your best effort. “They died because I lost control.”
His jaw tightens — not at you.
“No,” he says. “They died because they were where they shouldn’t have been.”
“They knew the risks,” he continues smoothly. “Every civilian does. They build their cities around us. They worship us. They profit off us. And then the second something goes wrong, they want blood.”
His eyes flick to the muted TV on the wall, showing your face mid-apology, cropped just right to make you look guilty.
Memorials pop up. Candlelight vigils. Names trending on social media with hashtags demanding justice. Vought pulls your merch. Your face disappears from billboards overnight like you never existed.
You stop leaving your floor.
At night, you dream of collapsing buildings and wake up gasping, sheets twisted around your legs, heart racing.
Homelander starts showing up more.
Sometimes he just sits there, silent, watching you pace. Sometimes he brings food you don’t touch. Sometimes he stands at the window, staring down at the city like it personally offended him.
“They’re turning you into a villain,” he says one night, voice low.
“I don’t want to be a hero,” you whisper. “I just wanted to help.”
He turns then, eyes locking onto yours.
“That’s what makes you dangerous.”
“They don’t deserve you,” he continues. “They don’t understand what you are.”
“They’re scared,” you say. “And maybe they should be.”
His expression softens — something almost fond flickers there.
“That fear?” he says. “That’s respect. They just don’t know it yet.”
The dessert shows up the night everything changes.
It’s small. Unassuming. A single plate placed carefully on your counter.
You frown. “I didn’t order anything.”
“I did,” Homelander says from behind you.
You flinch — not because he startled you, but because you didn’t hear him arrive.
You hesitate. “I’m not hungry.”
That makes your skin prickle.
“But you need something sweet,” he continues. “When the world turns bitter.”
He watches as you take a tentative bite. The chocolate spills out, rich and heavy, coating your tongue. It tastes indulgent. Comforting.
“Good,” he echoes. “Because you deserve good things. Even after mistakes.”
He steps closer, hand resting on the counter beside yours, caging you in without touching.
“They’re calling for your arrest now,” he says casually. “Did you know that?”
Your fork clatters against the plate.
“Protests. Demands for accountability.” His lips curl. “They think locking you up will make them feel safe.”
You shake your head. “Vought won’t let that happen.”
That’s when you realize something is very, very wrong.
The next morning, the news breaks.
A whistleblower. Leaked footage. Evidence that the evacuation zone had been compromised — rerouted at the last minute due to a “clerical error.”
The narrative flips overnight.
You’re no longer the villain.
Ashley calls you sobbing. PR scrambles. Your merch quietly returns. The hashtags change tone.
But something feels… off.
“Homelander,” you say later, standing in his penthouse, city lights glowing behind him. “Did you—”
“They were never going to protect you,” he says calmly. “So I did.”
“How?” your voice trembles.
He tilts his head. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” you snap. “People could’ve gotten hurt.”
His expression hardens — not angry. Disappointed.
“I hurt people every day,” he says. “So you don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I chose you.”
Your chest tightens. “Chose me for what?”
His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye.
“To stand with me,” he says. “Against them.”
The truth settles like a weight in your stomach.
The world didn’t turn on you.
And now, there’s no one left who will.
