Warnings: toxic relationships, homelander being homelander, abuse, murder, blood play, cursing, dom homelander, gender neutral reader, jealous reader, sexual themes,
@needa-hyperfix I finally finished it
You and Homelander were Vought’s golden couple the crown jewel of the Tower’s PR machine. Every hallway, every elevator, every glossy magazine cover inside the building showcased carefully staged photos of the two of you: arms wrapped around each other, blinding white smiles, eyes glittering with manufactured affection. To the world, you were the embodiment of power and love. But behind closed doors, it was a different story.
It all started with a fight something petty, something so utterly meaningless you couldn’t even remember the cause. What you could remember was the flash of red, the searing pain that followed, and the sound of your own scream echoing off the sterile white walls. His laser vision had sliced into your side, leaving a burning trail of agony that made your knees buckle.
You stared at him, wide eyed, as tears welled up. But Homelander only sneered, his expression cold and unbothered. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered, exasperated. “Calm down it’s not that bad.” And with that, he turned his back on you like you were nothing. Still clutching your side, you stormed into Madelyn Stillwell’s office, your voice shaking with fury.
“I’m done. I’m quitting. I’m not putting up with this anymore.” She looked up, blinking in surprise, then immediately launched into damage control. Her voice softened, almost maternal.“But darling, think of the impact you have. The Seven needs you. You’re one of our strongest what will the world think if you disappear?” You cut her off with a bitter laugh.
“That shit might work on him, but it doesn’t work on me.” And with that, you turned on your heel, slamming the door behind you so hard the glass rattled. The Tower that once felt like a palace now felt like a prison. As you made your way to your quarters to gather your things, every portrait of you and Homelander felt like a mocking reminder of the lie you had been living.
As life unfolded, you found yourself caught up in the whirlwind of news surrounding the tragic death of Stillwell. The reports frequently mentioned a man named Billy Butcher, a name that stirred a faint recognition in your mind. You recalled vague conversations where Homelander had brought up Butcher, speaking of him with a mix of disdain and caution. The details were hazy you hadn’t paid close attention at the time. Yet, there lingered an impression that Butcher held a deep-seated vendetta against Homelander, a desire to dismantle him piece by piece. The sense of impending conflict hung in the air, ominously suggesting that the tale was far from over.
You’d clawed your way through a web of danger, betrayal, and back-alley deals just to get here. Finally, you stood face to face with Billy Butcher in a dingy, dimly lit bar that reeked of sweat, spilled whiskey, and secrets. He eyed you with mild amusement as you slid into the seat across from him.
“I want to join The Boys,” you said, voice flat and firm.
Butcher raised an eyebrow, lifting his glass lazily to his lips. “Straight to it then, eh?”
You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing over your chest, eyes locked on his without so much as a flinch. He gave you a sideways glance, his expression shifting ever so slightly.
“Shit. You’re serious,” he muttered. “Alright then why?”
You didn’t blink. “Because I want to take Homelander down. Just like you.”
He squinted, scrutinizing your face for any cracks in your resolve. “And how do I know you’re up for this?”
You scoffed, irritation bubbling to the surface. “What is this, a job interview? I’m a supe. I can fight, I can hold my own, and I hate Homelander as much as you do. What more do you need?”
Butcher gave a low chuckle, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Then he grinned a sharp, knowing smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Alright. You’re in. But you step outta line even once, and I’ll put you down myself.”
“Fine,” you said without hesitation.
The deal was struck. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you needed to be.
After nearly a year of hunting down second-rate supes in a desperate attempt to chip away at Vought’s empire, you were bone tired, physically mentally and emotionally
One day Hughie ran up to you “Hey, Y/N, look!” he said breathlessly, practically shoving his phone into your face.
“Jesus, Hughie—stop! I can’t see.” You pushed the screen back a few inches and squinted at the headline.
VOUGHT WEEKLY EXCLUSIVE ‘THE SEVEN’S NEWEST SUPERNOVA — STORMFRONT TAKES EVERYONE BY STORM!’
You rolled your eyes. “God, what a crap pun.”
“Keep reading,” Hughie urged, nudging your arm.
You sighed and continued scanning the screen. And then, there it was.
‘AND IS NOW DATING AMERICA’S FAVORITE SUPERHERO, HOMELANDER.’
Your blood turned to ice.
You froze, staring at those words like they’d been burned into your retinas. For a moment, you felt… weirdly sorry for her. Poor Stormfront she had no idea the hell she was walking into. Homelander wasn’t a boyfriend he was a ticking time bomb wrapped in red, white, and blue.
“And why, exactly, did you show me this?” you asked flatly, not even trying to hide your annoyance.
Hughie blinked, still grinning. “Because Butcher says Vought’s planning more press runs with the new couple. That means Homelander’s going to be out in public more often we’ll have more opportunities to get to him!”
You forced a weak, unamused chuckle. “Great. Thrilled.”
“Wait, where are you going?” Hughie called after you, confusion creeping into his voice.
“I’ve just gotta take care of something real quick. Should’ve done it this morning, but y’know… I procrastinate.”
Hughie shrugged, already distracted as he wandered off, scrolling through his phone. You walked in the opposite direction, slipping out the door and slamming it shut behind you. The streets of New York blurred around you, a chaotic swirl of horns, chatter, and flashing lights. But all you could see were the billboards of them everywhere
America’s favorite couple.
That’s what they used to call you and him.
Each step toward Vought Tower sent your heart pounding harder. You bit down on your lip, tasted blood, but kept going. Rage burned beneath your skin, hot and feral. By the time you slipped through the lobby and made it past security your old routes and clearance habits serving you well you were trembling.
The elevator ride felt eternal. Floor by floor, your anger built. 97… 98… 99.
You stepped out onto the 99th floor the place you used to know better than your own apartment. You could walk these halls blindfolded. Every inch of them held memories you couldn’t erase, no matter how much you wanted to.
And then you reached his door.
Your fingers hovered over the handle. Your hands were shaking. Your heart was slamming against your ribs. But you opened it.
You expected fire and brimstone. You expected him.
Instead, you were met with silence and stormfront
There she was, draped across his pristine white leather couch, asleep like she belonged there. Like she knew this space. Like you hadn’t once curled up in that same spot while he whispered lies into your ear. Your face twisted in a slow, building fury. This? This was who he moved on to? Some slut with a flashy power set and a smug smile? It didn’t matter that it had been a year. It didn’t matter that you’d walked away. You were the one he claimed to love. Not this Stormfront bitch. Your fists clenched at your sides, and you took a step forward, heart pounding like a war drum.
You didn’t know what you were going to do next but what you did know is that it wasn’t going to be pretty
You crept into Homelander’s pristine kitchen, your fingers trailing along the marble countertop before settling on a knife. It was gleaming razor-sharp, untouched, practically ornamental. Of course, he’d never used it. Homelander didn’t cook. Homelander didn’t need to. But to you, this blade wasn’t just a kitchen tool. It was a symbol sleek, silent, intimate.
And it was going to help fix everything.
You wrapped your hands around the smooth wooden handle, your grip steady despite the chaos simmering beneath your skin. With the knife hidden at your side, you returned to the living room returned to her.
Stormfront lay there, curled up on your side of the couch, fast asleep like she belonged in this place. Like she belonged in his life. The couch you once claimed as your own now cradled her body. Her chest rose and fell slowly, peacefully, unaware.
You stood over her, blade poised midair, the tip angled directly above her heart. Your breathing hitched sharp, erratic, suddenly loud in the silence of the room.
Her eyes fluttered open, confusion blooming across her face just as she registered the knife glinting above her. A blood curdling scream tore from her throat.
But you silenced her before she could even finish.
The blade sank into her chest once, then again, and again. Over and over. Your arms moved on instinct, pure rage guiding every thrust. Her blood sprayed and pooled, soaking into the expensive fabric of Homelander’s couch, seeping into the seams like ink into paper. By the time you stopped, her body was a mangled canvas, painted in red. You’d lost count somewhere after forty stabs.
You exhaled slowly, chest heaving, as you stared down at what you’d done.
A smile crept across your face.
You dipped your finger into the warm blood spilling from one of her deeper wounds, the thick crimson coating your skin like paint. Slowly, deliberately, you turned to the wall and began to write big, bold strokes, each letter precise.
When you finished, you stepped back, admiring your work.
A sadistic grin pulled at your lips as you gave the room one last glance, letting your eyes linger on your message.
“Come home, baby. I miss you.”
The blood dripped down the wall in slow, rhythmic streams, like it was crying for him. You turned toward the door, heart pounding not with fear, but with anticipation.
You hoped Homelander would see it before it all washed away
As you stepped into The Boys’ hideout, something felt…off.
No banter, no beer bottles clinking, no Butcher barking orders or Hughie fumbling around. You shrugged it off, figuring they were out running some op you didn’t care to know about. You made your way to the sink, sleeves rolled, hands stained in dried blood hers.
You turned on the faucet, letting the cold water rush over your fingers as you scrubbed at the crimson smears. But before the blood could fully disappear, you heard it a voice behind you, smooth, mocking, and unmistakably dangerous.
You froze, eyes wide. That voice, that drawl you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Homelander.
Your breath hitched. You slowly turned, and there he was, standing in the doorway, the dim light catching the cruel smirk on his face and the wild, hungry look in his eyes.
“How did you get in here?” you asked, though you already knew the answer. He didn’t break in. He appeared. Because he wanted to.
Homelander stepped forward, his red gloved hand coming up to grab your chin firmly, forcing you to look up at him.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you, baby.”
You felt your heart stutter. Not from fear no, not this time. From the intoxicating way he looked at you. Possessive. Adoring. Unhinged.
“I loved that little gift you left me.” he whispered, his voice husky with desire. “Messy, but thoughtful. Just the way I like it.”
You looked up at him, breathless. “Y-yeah… I knew you would. That’s why I did it.”
Before you could get another word out, his mouth crashed against yours, hungry and forceful. His tongue invaded your mouth, claiming it like he owned you like he always had. His other hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, devouring you like he hadn’t tasted anything real in a year.
He finally pulled back, lips swollen, his breath ragged. His eyes scanned your flushed face, dark with satisfaction.
“God, I missed this” he muttered, then pushed you backward until your hips hit the counter. His gloves slid off and dropped to the floor with a thud. Now his bare hands roamed over you over your hips, your waist, your back gripping like he wanted to memorize every inch.
“Still mine,” he growled against your throat, biting and sucking at the skin until you whimpered.
He lifted you onto the counter in one swift motion, lips trailing down your neck, his hands already tugging at the waistband of your pants with a desperate groan. His voice was low, dark, breathless. “You really thought you could leave me? After everything?”
You gasped as he pressed himself against you, the heat between your bodies becoming unbearable.
“Say it” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear. “Say you still want me.”
Your head was spinning, heart racing, every nerve on fire. You looked into his eyes those twisted, beautiful, terrifying eyes and you said exactly what he wanted to hear.
And he took you right there, on the cold steel counter, like a man starved for a year. Every kiss was a punishment. Every touch was a promise. Every breathless sound you made was another victory for him.
When he was done, you were a mess hair tangled, lips bruised, body trembling. He looked at you like you were the most beautiful disaster he’d ever seen.
“Welcome home, baby,” he whispered, smirking as he brushed a bloodstain off your cheek with his thumb. “Your mine, don’t forget that.”
