SUMMARY: When Homelander hears Ashley yelling at you, and catches you crying in the bathroom after, he gets attached and possessive of you. With lots of manipulating, he tries turning you into his perfect girl.
MDNI (18+!) dead dove do not eat | c.w: Manipulation, brainwashing, angst, homelander being icky
W.C: almost 4k (this is a long one | NOT PROOFREAD)
Literally hate Homelander but had to write about him...
Rain hammered against the glass walls of Vought Tower hard enough to blur the city lights below into streaks of gold and white, and by the time you stepped out of the elevator onto the thirty-seventh floor, your nerves already felt shredded thin.
It was nearly ten at night.
Most of the office lights were off except for the long strip above your department, flickering faintly over empty desks and abandoned coffee cups, and your heels clicked too loudly against the polished floor as you hurried toward your office clutching the stack of files against your chest.
You shouldn’t have forgotten the quarterly reports.
Ashley had called you twenty minutes ago screaming so hard through the phone that you’d had to hold it away from your ear.
-“If those numbers aren’t on my desk by tomorrow morning, I swear to God—” Then the line had gone dead. So now you were here. Alone. Again.
You pushed into your office with a sigh, dropping your bag beside the desk before bending to search through the disaster of paperwork scattered across the surface.
The storm outside rattled faintly through the windows.
Your phone buzzed. Maya. You answered immediately, relieved for the distraction.
“Hey.”
“You’re still there?” your friend asked. “It’s ten at night.”
“I forgot the reports.” “Again? Jesus. That place is killing you.” You laughed weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “Tell me about it.” You could hear traffic on her end, muffled music in the background.
Normal life.
Outside life. For a second, you envied her so badly it hurt.
“You still coming tomorrow?” she asked. “Brunch. Eleven. Don’t cancel this time.”
“I won’t.”
“You said that last week.”
“That was different.”
“You always say that.” You opened your mouth to answer—
—and froze.
There was someone standing outside your office.
Tall. Broad shoulders, still as a statue behind the glass wall. Your stomach dropped so violently it almost hurt.
The hallway lights reflected faintly off the blue of his suit.
Homelander. You stopped breathing.
Maya was still talking through the phone. “…and if your boss says anything, tell her to go fu—” You hung up instantly.
His eyes followed the movement. Even through the glass, you could feel it. That unbearable pressure of his attention.
Then he smiled. Slowly. And pushed open the office door.
“Hi.”
Your throat tightened immediately. “H-Homelander.” He stepped inside casually, glancing around your office like he belonged there. Maybe he did.
Everyone in the building belonged to him in some horrible way. “You’re here late,” he said.
You forced yourself to straighten. “Just finishing reports.”
“For Ashley?” You nodded. A flicker crossed his face. Barely there. Displeasure.
“She works you too hard.” The way he said it made your skin prickle. Not sympathetic. Possessive. Before you could answer, he glanced toward your phone still sitting on the desk.
“Who were you talking to?” “My friend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
Too fast. You hated how fast you answered. His smile widened slightly.
“Good.”
The room suddenly felt very small. You tried to laugh politely, but it came out thin and nervous. “Did you need something?” Homelander walked slowly around your desk instead of answering immediately, fingers brushing over the edge of the wood surface.
Calm. Relaxed.
Like a predator already certain the prey wouldn’t run. “I noticed you’ve seemed stressed lately.” Your pulse started climbing. “I’m okay.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” He stopped beside you. Too close. You caught the clean, expensive smell of his suit, something sharp beneath it like static in the air before lightning strikes. “You look tired,” he continued quietly. “You skip lunch half the time. Your shoulders tense every time your phone rings. And every morning you come into this building already anxious.”
Your mouth went dry.
Because those were things no one should know. Things no one could know unless they’d been watching. Homelander tilted his head slightly when you didn’t answer.
“I pay attention to you.”
Something cold slid down your spine. The storm cracked outside, thunder rumbling through the glass.
You took a careful step backward.
“I should really finish these reports—”
“Ashley screamed at you today.”
You froze.
His expression didn’t change.
“She made you cry in the bathroom afterward.” Your heart started pounding so hard you could hear it.
How did he—
“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and the softness in his voice scared you more than anger would have.
You swallowed hard. “It’s fine.”
“No,” Homelander murmured. “It isn’t.”
The office lights buzzed faintly overhead. Outside the windows, lightning flashed silver across the city skyline. Then Homelander reached up and touched your face.
Gentle. Careful.
His thumb brushed just beneath your eye like he was handling something fragile. You should have moved away.
You knew you should. But shock rooted you in place. His voice dropped lower.
“People are very cruel to you.”
Your chest tightened unexpectedly. Not because he was right. Because nobody had ever said it out loud before. Everyone always acted like you were overreacting.
Too sensitive. Too emotional. Too weak for the industry.
And now the most terrifying man on earth was looking at you with something dangerously close to tenderness.
“I can take care of it,” he said softly.
Alarm shot through you immediately. “No.” His eyes sharpened slightly.
“No?”
“You don’t have to… do anything.”
Silence. Then that smile returned. Pleasant and artificial.
“You’re scared of me.” Your stomach twisted. Because denying it felt impossible.
Homelander watched your expression carefully, and for one horrible moment you saw something wounded flicker underneath his calm facade.
Not guilt, neither shame. Loneliness.
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said quietly. The words should have comforted you. Instead they made your pulse spike harder. Because you suddenly understood that he wanted you to believe him.
Wanted it badly. You stepped away from his hand carefully. “I should get back to work.”
For a second, the room went still. Completely still. Then Homelander smiled again and stepped back.
“Of course.”
Relief flooded you so fast your knees almost weakened. He moved toward the door.
Stopped. Without turning around, he asked:
“Why do you flinch every time someone raises their voice at you?”
Your breath caught and he glanced over his shoulder. Those bright blue eyes pinned you in place effortlessly.
“I hear things,” he said softly. And then he walked out.
—
Three days later, Ashley disappeared. Nobody explained it. One minute she was storming through meetings throwing binders and screaming at assistants, and the next her office sat empty with the blinds drawn shut.
People whispered about scandals.
Transfers. Rehab? Nobody knew.
But the new department head smiled at you too much and approved your vacation request without even reading it. And every time you passed security downstairs, people suddenly avoided eye contact.
Like they knew something you didn’t.
By Friday, you couldn’t sleep. Every tiny sound in your apartment made your heart race. You kept remembering Homelander’s hand against your face. That awful gentleness.
The way he’d said “I can take care of it.” You told yourself it was coincidence, because it had to be-...It had to be.
Until Saturday night.
You were standing in your kitchen making tea when your phone buzzed with a text from Maya.
you:
Running late. Some creep followed me off the subway lol
You frowned immediately.
you:
What?
No response. You stared at the screen. One minute. Two. Then your phone rang. You answered instantly. “Maya?”
Static and heavy breathing. Then a man’s voice.
“Cute friend you got.” Ice flooded your veins. “What the fuck—”
The line disconnected.
You grabbed your coat so fast you nearly dropped the phone, panic rising sharp and ugly in your chest as you rushed toward the apartment door—
—and found Homelander standing outside it, making your entire body lock up instantly. He looked immaculate as always. Cape draped perfectly behind him. Hair untouched by the rain. Like he’d stepped out of a commercial instead of into the hallway outside your apartment at eleven-thirty at night.
“Don’t panic,” he said calmly.
You stared at him in horror. “My friend—”
“She’s fine.”
“How do you know that?” He smiled slightly. “I handled it.” your blood ran cold once again.
“What did you do?”
“He scared her.” Homelander shrugged. “So I scared him more.” The hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly narrow.
You backed away instinctively. “Did you kill him?Homelander’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.
Not anger.
Confusion. Like the question itself was unfair. “He touched someone important to you."
The word hit hard enough to make your stomach twist. “You can’t just murder people!”
“Why not?” The sincerity in his voice terrified you. Genuine confusion. As if morality simply worked differently for him.
You shook your head, breathing unevenly. “You can’t solve everything like that.” Homelander stepped closer slowly. “You were terrified when you opened that door.”
You said nothing. “And then you saw me,” he continued softly. “And part of you relaxed.” Your chest tightened immediately because he was right. You hated that he was right. He watched realization cross your face and smiled faintly.
There it was again. That look. Like he was learning you piece by piece.
“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” he murmured. The rain battered against the apartment windows behind you. Your pulse hammered painfully. Homelander reached up carefully and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear with unbearable softness.
“I take care of the things that hurt you,” he whispered.
And standing there in the dim apartment hallway with fear tangled so tightly with relief you couldn’t separate them anymore— you realized that was exactly how he wanted it.
The first thing you noticed was that the building had become quieter around you. Not all at once. Not enough to alarm you immediately.
Just slowly, subtly, over the course of a few weeks after Ashley disappeared. Conversations stopped when you walked into break rooms. Coworkers who used to dump work on your desk now smiled too quickly and told you not to worry about deadlines.
People moved out of your way in the hall.
Even the security guards downstairs straightened when they saw your ID badge, suddenly polite in a stiff, nervous sort of way that made unease crawl beneath your skin every single time.
At first, you tried convincing yourself it was coincidence.
Then one morning, you overheard two assistants whispering near the elevators.
“—I’m telling you, he watches her.”
“Shut up, are you insane?”
“I saw him leave her floor last week—”
The elevator doors opened before you could hear more. The moment they noticed you standing there, both women went pale. One of them physically stepped back.
Like you were dangerous too.
By the time you reached your office, your hands were shaking hard enough that you spilled coffee across your desk. You stared at the spreading stain blankly. Your heart wouldn’t slow down. Because deep down, beneath all the rationalizing and denial, you already knew.
Homelander. Everything kept leading back to him. The promotions. The sudden kindness. The fear in everyone else. You pressed trembling fingers against your forehead. This was insane- You needed distance, and space- and something normal.
Which was why, by six-thirty that evening, you were sitting in a tiny Italian restaurant downtown across from Maya, trying desperately to force yourself back into reality.
The restaurant smelled like garlic and wine and fresh bread, warm light glowing softly from little candles on every table, and outside the rain drizzled steadily against the windows while traffic blurred red and gold across the wet streets.
It felt normal. And safe. Thank god. Maya was halfway through complaining about her boss when she stopped abruptly and frowned at you over the rim of her wine glass.
“Okay, seriously. What’s wrong with you?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said.”
“Sorry.”
“You look exhausted.” You stared down at your untouched pasta. The knot in your chest had been there for days now. Tight. Constant. Every time your phone buzzed. Every time someone looked at you strangely at work. Every time you imagined blue eyes watching from somewhere above the city.
Maya leaned forward slightly, concern softening her face.
“Is this about Vought?” You hesitated. Too long, thats what makes it obvious. Her expression shifted immediately. “Oh my God. It is.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
You laughed weakly, but it came out strained. Maya lowered her voice. “Did something happen?” You opened your mouth. Then stopped.
Because how could you even explain it?
I think the most powerful man in the world has become obsessed with me.
It sounded delusional. Worse—it sounded impossible. And yet every instinct in your body had been screaming danger for weeks. “I just…” You swallowed hard. “I think I need to quit.”
Maya blinked. “Then quit.” “It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?” Because he would notice. The realization slid into your mind so naturally it made you feel sick.
Homelander would notice, because he noticed everything. The thought alone made your pulse jump. Maya stared at you carefully now, really looking. Then her expression changed. Not fear. Recognition. “You’re scared.”
You looked away immediately. Outside, headlights smeared across the rain-streaked windows. “I’m just stressed.”
“No.” Maya’s voice softened. “You look terrified.” Something sharp tightened painfully in your throat. Because she was right. You were terrified. Terrified in that exhausting, constant way where your body never fully relaxed anymore, where every shadow felt watched and every silence stretched too long.
And somehow the worst part wasn’t even fear of what Homelander might do to you. It was fear of what would happen if he suddenly stopped paying attention altogether. That realization horrified you enough that your stomach twisted. Maya reached across the table and touched your hand gently.
“Hey. Talk to me.”
Warmth spread suddenly behind your eyes. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed someone normal to touch you. Someone human.
Your voice came out small. “I think something’s wrong with me.” Maya frowned immediately. “What?”
“I keep…” You laughed shakily. “I keep thinking about him.” The words tasted poisonous. Maya went still.
“Who?” You already regretted saying it, but exhaustion cracked something open inside you.
“Homelander.”
Silence. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy kind. Maya stared at you for a second like she genuinely thought she’d misheard. Then
“…Homelander?” You nodded once, humiliated instantly.
“He keeps showing up and talking to me and I know it’s weird and I know I should report it or something but every time he looks at me I feel like I can’t think properly anymore—”
You stopped abruptly, breathing unevenly. Maya’s face had gone pale.
“You need to stay away from him.”
“I know.”
“Y/n, I mean it.”
“I KNOW.”
Several people glanced over, making you lower your voice immediatly, and Maya leaned closer across the table.
“Listen to me very carefully. Men like that— men with power like that— they don’t get attached normally.”
Your stomach dropped once again, because attached was exactly the word you'd been searching for- Not 'interested' nor 'flirting'.- attached. Like something tightening around your ribs day by day. Maya squeezed your hand harder.
“This is how it starts.”
Fear curled sharply through you, traveling from your toes to your chest.
“How what starts?”
But Maya never answered- because suddenly the restaurant went silent. Instantly.
With conversations getting cut off and forks being set down, the air itself seems to tighten, and your blood turned to ice before you even looked up. Maya’s grip on your hand loosened slowly. Around you, people stared toward the front windows. Toward the figure descending from the sky outside the restaurant in a blur of red, white, and blue.
Your heart stopped.
No.
No no no—
The entire restaurant watched as Homelander landed lightly on the sidewalk beyond the glass, cape settling behind him in perfect waves despite the rain- People immediately started reaching for phones. Someone whispered- “Holy shit…”
Maya looked at you. Really looked at you. And the horror that crossed her face made your stomach lurch. Because she understood instantly.
Homelander smiled the moment he saw you through the window. Not at the restaurant, but at you. That terrifyingly soft expression spread across his face like he’d finally found what he’d been looking for.
Then he walked inside. The atmosphere changed the second he entered. The restaurant owner rushed forward nervously. People stared. Nobody breathed properly. But Homelander ignored all of them. His eyes stayed on you the entire time, fully focused.
“Maya,” you whispered urgently, panic clawing up your throat, “don’t say anything.”
Too late.
Homelander reached your table smoothly, smiling down at you like this was some perfectly ordinary surprise visit.
“There you are.” Your pulse hammered violently. “How did you know I was here?” He tilted his head slightly.
“You told someone at work you were getting dinner downtown." Jesus fuck, had he been listening then too?
Maya slowly pulled her hand away from yours under the table. Homelander noticed immediately. Of course he did.His gaze flickered briefly toward her before returning to you.
“You left work early,” he said softly. “I was worried.” Worried. The word wrapped around your lungs like silk. You could feel the entire restaurant staring. Maya sat rigidly beside you now, fear written plainly across her face.
"i have to use the bathroom." She excuses herself quietly. Traitor, leaving you with him. Homelander noticed that too. And smiled. Not in a polite way, just Patient. Like he understood something she didn’t yet.
“You seem tense,” he murmured to you. No shit, your voice barely worked. “I’m fine.”
“No,” he said gently. “You’re frightened.” The way he said it made heat creep shamefully into your chest. Like he was the only person observant enough to notice. Like fear itself had become intimacy between you.
Homelander crouched slightly beside your chair then, bringing himself closer to eye level, and the entire restaurant seemed to disappear beneath the weight of his attention.
“You know I’d never let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, and your throat tightened.
Because part of you believed him completely. That was the worst thing. Not the fear. Not even the obsession. It was the unbearable safety you felt whenever he appeared. Like no matter how terrifying he was, nothing else in the world could possibly touch you while his eyes were on you.
Homelander saw something change in your expression then. He saw it happen. His smile softened with slow, terrifying satisfaction.
“There she is,” he whispered.
And you realized with sudden horror that he was watching you become dependent on him in real time.
Just waiting.
By the time Maya returned to the table, your head already felt strange, Like the entire evening had slipped sideways into something unreal while you weren’t paying attention.
Homelander had moved back slightly by then, posture relaxed again, one arm hooked lazily over the back of your chair as if he’d always belonged there, as if seeing the most powerful man in the world sitting in a tiny downtown restaurant beside an ordinary Vought employee was somehow normal.
But nothing felt normal anymore. Not the way people stared at you now. Not the way your pulse reacted every time his attention settled fully onto you. Not the awful, humiliating relief spreading slowly through your body whenever he spoke in that low, gentle voice.
Maya sat down carefully, eyes flicking between the two of you. You could tell she’d been crying in the bathroom. Shes always been an emotional person. Her mascara looked slightly smudged beneath the dim restaurant lighting. Guilt twisted sharply in your chest. Because she looked scared.
Not for herself, but for you.
Homelander smiled at her pleasantly. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” she answered too quickly. You noticed she didn’t look at him anymore when she spoke. Only at you, like she was trying to communicate something silently.
Run. Leave. Wake up.
But then Homelander’s hand settled lightly against the small of your back beneath the table and every thought scattered instantly. The touch wasn’t forceful, and that was the problem. His fingertips barely rested there at all through the fabric of your dress, warm and steady and impossibly careful, yet the moment he touched you, your body reacted before your mind could.
The tension in your shoulders loosened, your breathing slowed and Homelander felt it happen. You knew he did because his thumb stroked once, slow and approving.
A tiny movement. Still your stomach flipped violently. Maya saw your expression change.
Horror flashed across her face immediately, if thats even possible at her current expression anymore. You looked away from her first because you hated yourself for that.
Dinner ended not long after.
Nobody argued when Homelander quietly insisted on taking you home.
How could they?
Outside, the rain had gotten heavier, pouring silver beneath the city lights while crowds gathered along the sidewalk behind barricades and security trying desperately to catch a glimpse of him. Phones flashed constantly. People shouted his name. But Homelander barely acknowledged any of it.
His focus stayed on you as you stepped outside beside him, arms wrapped tightly around yourself against the cold night air. The second the rain touched you, Homelander frowned.
Then his cape settled around your shoulders, making you feel warmer immediately. It smelled like him.
“You’ll freeze,” he murmured.
The crowd noise seemed distant suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world had narrowed down to the warmth wrapped around you and the terrifying softness in his eyes.
You should have refused.
Instead your fingers clutched the edge of the cape tighter around yourself automatically.
And Homelander smiled. God, that smile. Not public, an' not performative. Atleast he makes you think that.
Maya stepped closer quickly before you could move.
“Text me when you get home,” she said firmly. Too firmly. Like she was trying to remind you of something. You nodded immediately. “I will."
Homelander looked between the two of you, quietly observing, or rather analyzing. Then he asked softly-
“Do you always worry this much about her?” Maya stiffened.
“She’s my best friend.”
At that, something unreadable crossed Homelander’s face, its gone almost instantly. But you felt his hand press slightly more firmly against your back. Possessive.
Maya noticed too, And you could see fear rise behind her eyes again. Then Homelander smiled warmly at her.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”
The words should have sounded reassuring.
Instead, they landed like a threat.
Maya heard it too. You saw it in her eyes.
But before either of you could say anything else, Homelander’s arm wrapped around your waist. The movement was smooth and natural enough to almost seem casual. Except the second he pulled you against his side, your entire body locked up from the sheer overwhelming awareness of him.
Strong.
Not human.
His hand rested securely against your hip while the rain poured harder around you, the city glowing gold and red beneath blurred stormlight.
“You ready?” he asked softly near your ear. Your throat tightened. What is he talking about?
“For what?” His smile deepened slightly, and then the ground disappeared. A startled sound tore from your chest as the world dropped violently beneath you, wind rushing past in freezing waves while the city exploded into dizzying lights below. Your fingers grabbed his suit instantly. Instinct.
Homelander laughed quietly at the reaction, one arm tightening around you effortlessly as he carried you high above Manhattan. “Easy,” he murmured. The sound of his voice vibrated through his chest beneath your hands. You couldn’t breathe properly.
Not from fear alone, no-...just, from him. From the overwhelming closeness of him.
Rain whipped through the air around you while clouds swallowed the city lights below in silver haze, and you buried your face against his shoulder automatically as another gust of wind hit.
Immediately, Homelander’s expression softened.
“There you go,” he whispered, too soft for a disgusting Manipulator. Like he liked seeing you cling to him. Like he wanted it. The realization made heat twist low in your stomach despite the terror.
You hated- no, despised- how safe he felt.
Hated how his arms around you made the rest of the world disappear completely.
The penthouse came into view slowly through the rain.
Massive windows glowing gold high above the city.
Isolated & untouchable. Your stomach flipped hard at the sight. Because suddenly, horribly, it didn’t feel like he was taking you home. It felt like he was taking you somewhere that belonged to him.
Somewhere above everyone else. Into his Nest.
Homelander landed smoothly on the balcony, barely jostling you despite the force that cracked faintly beneath his boots.
But he didn’t let go immediately afterward.
His arms stayed around you.
Keeping you close against him while rainwater slid down the sharp line of his jaw and the city glittered endlessly beneath the storm behind him.
For a second, neither of you spoke, not being able to.
You became painfully aware of your hands still gripping the front of his suit.
Of how close your bodies were.
Of the way he was looking at you.
Not hungry. -actually, hungry. Really fuckin' hungry. Your pulse stuttered unevenly.
“I should go home,” you whispered.
Homelander’s eyes searched your face quietly.
Then very gently, he brushed wet hair back from your cheek.
“You don’t want to be alone tonight.”
The words wrapped around your exhausted mind so softly that for one horrible second, you almost nodded.
Because after weeks of fear and confusion and pressure and loneliness—
the thought of leaving him suddenly hurt. He saw the exact instant your expression weakened, and something dark and deeply satisfied flickered behind his eyes.
Not victory, just ownership. His thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone.
“Come inside,” he said quietly, knowing just what tone to use. Not a command- worse. An invitation he already knew you wanted to accept.
Lightning flashed across the sky behind him, illuminating the enormous penthouse windows glowing gold in the dark like something beautiful and dangerous waiting with its mouth open.
And after a long, trembling hesitation—
you followed him inside.
He did it. You're his perfect girl now.
Okay, thus is so bad its literally embarassing. 💀💀 Where even is the plot fml
The entire Soldier Boy-Stormfront thing feels so off to me.. I might not be interested in watching Vought Rising if there's potential romance between them, which there might be. But It's just so unexplainably odd.
Soldier Boy is written as this ego-driven, emotionally detached, self-serving alpha who thrives on control and validation.. not someone who forms deep romantic attachments. (Maybe even if he was different before.. how different could he be?) Stormfront, on the other hand, is cold, calculated, and driven by a rigid ideological agenda, not emotional connection.. (even with Homelander, I didn't see any "love" it was a pure agenda) Their dynamic makes sense as manipulation, power alignment, or even mutual exploitation is fine... but actual love? That feels completely off-character and forced.
And it also feels like it's recently planned in S5. Or while developing VR.. Cuz in S3, we clearly saw soldier boy's past love interest was Crimson Countess and he was with her until he was sold to Russians and he stated "I loved you" to countess and he waited for her to save him.
I don't understand where Stormfront might fit in that entire timeline. Maybe during his initial days in Vought?? But in S3, there was no connection to soldier boy or Stormfront whatsoever, he just mentions that he started the whole herogasm thing with liberty and he says "man, she was a firecracker" like she was some fling, no emotion or anything.. and now suddenly he's looking at her picture and pining? and feeling tragic about how he couldn't be what she wanted????
Still… if they try to sell this as some deep romantic pairing, it’s going to feel forced.
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.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Focus. Control.
They don’t show the split second where you almost had it.
Almost.
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.
One wrong angle.
One surge of adrenaline.
One civilian too close.
The building doesn’t collapse all at once. That’s the part that makes it worse.
It folds in on itself like wet cardboard.
And then — screaming.
—
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.
SUPES OUT OF CONTROL.
WHO HOLDS THEM ACCOUNTABLE?
Vought’s “Hero” Leaves 17 Dead.
Seventeen.
You feel sick.
They tell you not to speak.
Not to post.
Not to cry on camera.
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.
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 doesn’t look angry.
That’s worse.
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.
“Hey,” he says softly.
Just that.
Hey.
Ashley exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.
You stand too fast. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
He raises a hand.
Not at you.
At everyone else.
“Out.”
No one argues.
The door shuts behind them with a final click that echoes too loudly.
You’re alone with him.
—
“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 nothing.”
He steps closer.
“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.
The cut seals.
Your breath stutters.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
He watches your face like he’s cataloging every reaction. Then his gaze sharpens.
“They’re blaming you.”
It’s not a question.
You swallow. “The world is.”
He scoffs quietly. “The world doesn’t matter.”
That should comfort you.
It doesn’t.
“They were people,” you say, voice cracking despite your best effort. “They died because I lost control.”
His jaw tightens — not at you.
At the idea.
“No,” he says. “They died because they were where they shouldn’t have been.”
Your stomach drops.
“That’s not—”
“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.
“They want your blood.”
—
The backlash gets worse.
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.”
Your breath catches.
“They don’t deserve you,” he continues. “They don’t understand what you are.”
What you are.
Not who.
“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.
Chocolate lava cake.
Still warm.
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.
“Eat,” he says gently.
You hesitate. “I’m not hungry.”
“I know.”
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.
Too much.
“Good?” he asks.
You nod slowly.
“Good,” he echoes. “Because you deserve good things. Even after mistakes.”
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.
“What?”
“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.”
He smiles.
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.”
Not yours.
Vought’s.
The narrative flips overnight.
You’re no longer the villain.
You’re the victim.
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—”
He doesn’t deny it.
“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.”
The room feels smaller.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
He steps closer.
“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.
Homelander was never really the problem itself, he was a consequence of the problem. A product of it. The real problem is Vought International’s ultra-capitalist structure and its criminal neoliberalism. The problem is treating people as products. The problem is conceiving human beings as objects. The problem is that they decided to play god.
Killing Homelander at the end changes absolutely nothing if they don’t dismantle Vought, because Homelander is ultimately just an experiment that went wrong. And honestly, Butcher is right about one thing: eventually there will be another Homelander. Where he’s wrong is in believing that Supes themselves are the problem. They aren’t. The machinery that created them —the establishment itself— is the problem.
The solution was never “kill Homelander” or “kill all Supes”. The solution was to destroy Vought. That’s why the ending feels so morally questionable and ultimately unsatisfying. Like okay, great, they beat up the bad guy and kill him after he’s committed countless atrocities. Fine. But then what? Marie was simply lucky that her powers manifested later in life. That’s the only reason she avoided ending up in a laboratory like Homelander. Otherwise they would’ve done exactly the same thing to her. And knowing that Odessa succeeded, they could easily continue experimenting, continue testing, continue manufacturing more Homelanders. So in reality they solved nothing. They just slapped a bandage over the problem.
And honestly, it feels incredibly USAmerican in the worst possible way, because the United States has this recurring inability to understand that the issue isn’t just individual megalomaniacal narcissists with god complexes, it’s the system that allows those people to rise to power in the first place. A system rooted in neoliberal capitalist individualism, in the destruction of collective consciousness, and in the commodification of absolutely everything, including human beings.
If this series had been written from almost any other political perspective or national context, it would’ve been obvious that the real target should’ve been Vought itself first and foremost. Kill Homelander too if you want, sure, but the actual enemy is the machine. Instead what we get is: the bad guy is dead, but the machinery of evil is still completely intact, just rebranding itself and continuing to exploit people. And somehow that’s supposed to feel like a happy ending?
Vought won. The house won. Nothing actually changed. The world is still the same, the state machinery is still the same, the establishment is still the same.
Imagine being an intern at Vought and Working for the Seven
You weren’t supposed to last more than a week.
That’s what everyone said about Vought Tower interns. Bright-eyed college grads came in thinking it’d be glamorous brushing elbows with gods only to quit after Homelander barked at them or The Deep tried something “weirdly spiritual.”
But you didn’t quit.
But somehow, you were different.
You didn’t flatter, you didn’t fawn. You just worked. When The Deep forgot his media talking points before a live interview, you calmly repeated them while adjusting his mic. When Starlight’s PR team was late sending her cue cards, you made new ones yourself. You even got Black Noir’s smoothie order right on the first try no nuts, no dairy, two shots of espresso.
No one ever got it right the first time.They noticed.
Homelander was the first to test you. He’d appear behind you while you worked, smiling with that shark grin."Hello, sweetheart,” he’d say. “You’re still here? Most interns burn out fast.”
You’d look up from your clipboard, deadpan.
“Maybe they weren’t getting paid enough.”
That earned a sharp laugh. He liked your nerve liked it enough to stop trying to break it. Over time, he’d watch you from a distance, puzzled when you didn’t swoon or stumble around him. You were polite, respectful, but not impressed. That, somehow, made him… protective. Possessive, in a weirdly domestic way. He’d start intercepting any other supe who talked down to you.
You never asked why.
Queen Maeve grew to like you the most. You didn’t look at her like a fallen goddess, you treated her like a actual person. Once, when she came into PR half-drunk, you handed her black coffee and said quietly, “I’ll stall Ashley for ten minutes.”
Maeve blinked at you. No judgment. No pity. Just understanding.After that, she’d sometimes find you in the break room and sit in silence beside you, scrolling through her phone. No words needed.
A-Train liked that you didn’t kiss his ass. When he tried to flirt, you just raised an eyebrow.
“Save it for TMZ, superstar.”
He laughed, a little embarrassed, and started treating you like a friend. He’d even toss you a water bottle when he passed by.“Stay hydrated, girl, you look like you actually work around here.”
The Deep was easy. You helped him rehearse interviews without mocking him something no one else bothered to do. He started calling you his “career coach,” even though you mostly just sighed and said, “Don’t talk about dolphins.”
Starlight adored you. You reminded her that not everyone at Vought was corrupt. You shared snacks, rolled your eyes at Ashley together, and sometimes she’d ask, half-joking, “You sure you’re not secretly a supe? No one survives this place with a soul intact.”
Even Noir liked you. You once left a sticky note on his locker: Thanks for scaring away that reporter who tried to follow me to my car. The next morning, there was a small wrapped candy bar on your desk. No note.
You didn’t think you’d last this long. But somehow, amidst all the chaos, backstabbing, and explosions of ego, you became part of the Seven’s rhythm a quiet, grounding constant.
Not a hero. Not a fan.Just the last intern standing.Also weirdly, that made you the most respected human in the Tower.
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You sink into the couch, fingers diving into a bowl of warm popcorn as Vought’s advertisements abruptly interrupt your show. You wouldn’t complain though—especially not with him on the screen. Black Noir crouched to clasp the small hands of a mute boy, the child’s broad grin mirroring his joy as they lock eyes through the mask. A smile spreads across your face—you’ve stared at Noir just like that, every time you stood beside your cameraman during interviews with him, that moment his gentle hand brushed your wrist at the A-Train vs. Shockwave race, guiding you away from a drunken attendee.
It made you even happier knowing you were special—not only because Black Noir hated all interviewers but you. Having his number in your phone after dressing up specially for the Dawn of the Seven premiere, despite being behind the camera with a microphone the whole time, felt like a secret victory. Then, later his hand found you, settling low on your waist as you walked toward the theater, your fingers tracing the solid muscle of his bicep. Then being invited to The Seven’s meeting room felt like a dream. But the real highlight? Noir’s silent, watchful presence when The Deep tried to flirt—his masked gaze sharp, a quiet warning that made you smile.
The TV screen flickers to life, and the news anchor’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. “We have some major breaking news,” he says, brows furrowed, eyes locked on the camera. “Superheroes are not born—they’re made. In fact, created by a chemical serum, Compound V, produced and administered by Vought International…”
Your breath hitches. No, no, this can’t be true. You shake your head violently, as if that could erase the words. Their powers are a gift from a higher being, a divine spark. How dare they reduce something so sacred to a chemical?
You sit up straighter, fists clenched, but the anchor’s voice continues, relentless. “This revelation shakes the foundation of everything we thought we knew about these so-called heroes.”
A cold knot forms in your stomach. Black Noir. The thought hits you like a punch to the gut. You can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now—betrayed, discarded, a mere tool in Vought’s game. Your heart aches for him, and for yourself.
You glance at your phone, already anticipating the notification. Of course. Your boss will want you to cover this story. Anything but this. You could make up an excuse, or go on holiday. Anything other than facing the truth head-on.
Three sharp knocks jolt through the quiet. You freeze, the news broadcast’s static still buzzing in your ears. Shoulders tight with residual stress, you stride to the window—each step echoing the weight in your chest. When you pull back the curtain, Black Noir crouches on the sill. His shoulders gleam with raindrops and his posture screams avoidance: head bowed, gaze locked on some invisible flaw in the wood below.
You slide the window open, and he steps inside like a ghost. The air thickens with unspoken words as he shifts, fingers twitching at his sides. “Noir,” you murmur, voice softer than the rain outside. He doesn’t look up.
Then—a choked sniffle. Raw. Human. Your heart lurches.
“Hey,” you say, closing the distance. “It’s okay.”
His arms snap around your waist before you even touch him, fingers digging in like anchors. The sniffles fracture into quiet sobs, muffled by the mask but so audible in the silence. You press your palm to the back of his neck, guiding his masked face into your shoulder.
“Shhh,” you whisper, lips brushing the cold metal of his temple. “I’ve got you.”
The rain hammers the roof as his breath hitches. For the first time, you see the cracks in his armor—not just in the mask, but in the way he leans into you, trembling.
Black Noir’s sobs gradually subside, leaving only the occasional quiet sniffle that echoes in the dimly lit room. Your hands glide slowly up and down his back, carefully avoiding the throwing knives embedded into his suit—each one a silent reminder of the violence he’s dished out, and endured. You pull away gently, taking his gloved hand in yours, and turn off the news broadcast still flickering on the screen. The sterile voices of Vought’s PR team feel like a cruel mockery now.
You guide him to your bedroom, the soft carpet muffling your steps. Sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, you rest your hand over his, feeling the tremor beneath the leather. “I’m so sorry, Noir,” you whisper, your voice thick with empathy. “This is just… awful. Vought acting like they weren’t making superheroes, then letting it all leak? It’s so cruel.” You shake your head, unable to fathom how they could exploit his pain for profit.
He shifts slightly, his gaze darting toward the bedside table. You understand without words. Reaching over, you pull out a notebook and pen, placing them in his lap. His fingers clutch the pen tightly as he begins to scribble, the shaky lines forming the words: ‘Not your fault.’ The raw vulnerability in his handwriting cuts deeper than any scream ever could.
You squeeze his hand, letting the silence speak for what words cannot. In this moment, the weight of his world feels lighter, just for a breath.
You nod slowly, your voice barely above a whisper, "I know, but I feel terrible. You’ve spent your whole life believing you’re a gift from God…" His sniffles deepen instantly, a raw, broken sound that claws at your heart. You freeze, regret slamming into you like a physical blow. "I’m so sorry," you rush out, shuffling closer until your thighs brush against his. He collapses into your arms, his head finding its way to your chest, and his arms wrap around you with desperate intensity. You close your eyes, pressing your face gently against the cool surface of his mask. A soft, shuddering sob escapes him, his shoulders trembling against you. "It’s okay, baby," you murmur, your nails tracing soothing circles up and down his forearm. At the nickname, he buries his face deeper into your neck, a silent plea for comfort that resonates through every nerve in your body.
"Whether those powers are natural or not, you’re still incredible—a true hero. And after everything you’ve done for Vought, I can’t believe they’d let you get hurt like this," you say softly, your voice laced with concern.
Black Noir lets out a choked sob, his shoulders shaking. You frown, reaching out to gently tilt his head up so he meets your gaze. "Look at me," you whisper. He hesitates, then nods, his eyes searching yours for reassurance.
You brush a thumb against his cheek. He looks away and scratches the pen into paper. He tilts the notebook towards you, and you frown at the words. ‘Do you see me differently now?’
You shake your head firmly. "Never. Powers, natural or not—even if you had none at all—I’d still be here for you. Always."
He nods reluctantly, clutching the notebook like a lifeline. "I’m always here for you, Noir. Whatever you need."
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never wrote for him before but I absolutely love n adore him 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯
