Untitled @yeehaw1331 - Tumblr Blog

Cozy thoughts with Homelanderrrrr omggg lets talk about his [redacted] in the series finale being a nightmare that R wakes up to and needs reassurance from Homelander!! <333 your stuff is sooo incredible. Your ability to fully adopt his personality into your writing is just delicious

You wake with a jolt.

Gasping, choking, hand to your forehead–blood?! The moonlight spilling in from the windows makes the sweat on your fingertips glisten. No blood, but it wouldn’t be yours.

It had all been his.

“Homelander,” you rasp. He’s awake by your first ragged breath, and upright by the time his name leaves your lips. His palms are warm even to your feverish cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the rush of tears spilling down them.

“Whoa, whoa,” he says, voice rough with sleep and confusion. “Hey, whoa, breathe. What? What?”

You died is what you try to say, but the words grow too large. No matter how you try to push them out, they catch in your throat and choke you until all you can do is cry. Loud, ugly sobs that turn to sharp pain in your chest. It was so real, you want to tell him. Your brain was all over the floor.

You’d scream if you could stop sobbing long enough to gather the air. He’s scared now. His arms are too tight around you, but you’d claw your way back in if he tried to let you go. Your nails rake his bare back, pressing against impenetrable skin, desperate for something to cling to. No blood. He doesn’t even wince. You press harder, trying to hurt him. You can’t. It wasn’t real.

A noise of anguished relief leaves you. You don’t recognize the sound of it. You’ve never heard something so animal come from your own throat.

He doesn’t know what to say, or how to soothe you, so he squeezes you to his chest. Your heart hammers against his, your tears wet his neck. At some point he starts to rock. The motion isn’t smooth nor practiced. How could it be? It’s jerky; the uncertain movements of a child that has never been rocked to sleep, but knows the principle of it as an adult.

Still, it works. His even breaths give you a baseline to gradually match your fitful gasps to. His heart, beating just as strong and loud as yours, reminds you with every pulse that this is real, and what you saw was…

“Just a dream,” he whispers in your ear. There's a weight of understanding in those words. You’ve said the same to him when he’s needed it. When it was his head cradled in your arms, his tears wet on your skin. The nightmares are usually his. “Can’t hurt you. M’here.”

Sniffling, you run your fingers through his hair, thumb smoothing over his forehead. Even now, your touch makes him shudder. Despite the visceral realness of your nightmare, his skin is unmarred beneath your touch. You map every familiar line and slope of him, a part of you still terrified to find some hidden place where he is broken, but he is blessedly whole.

You close your eyes, sagging in relief. The exhaustion that follows the gradual release of your every clenched muscle is almost enough to knock you right back into unconsciousness. He presses his forehead to yours, his breath warm and still faintly minty on your lips.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you whisper back. The sound of it is hoarse and small.

“Thought you’d lost it,” he says quietly. “Was it Barney again?”

That gets a huff of laughter out of you. You have one weird dream about a purple dinosaur forcing you to eat mattresses, and apparently you’ll never live it down.

“No. It was…”

You died. It was so real. Your brains were all over the floor.

Your eyes burn. The words are still too big.

“You.”

“Me? I made you eat mattresses?”

“No, stop,” you groan, thudding your fist halfheartedly on his shoulder. It feels good to do. It reminds you of how solid he is. “You weren’t Barney. You were… You were hurt. Bad. It was… It was so bad,” you say, the humor in your voice fading, more sobs threatening the frayed edges of it.

For a moment, you think he might laugh at you. Remind you he’s invincible. For all of his insecurities, modesty is not a condition that Homelander suffers. Any implication of his own vulnerability, of weakness, has always made him bristle. Instead, his playful expression sobers. He doesn’t know what to say. He presses his lips to your forehead, your temple, your cheek.

You close your eyes, sinking gratefully into his impossible strength. His hands roam your body without intent, ghosting the same path your own had traversed upon him. He nuzzles your throat, conveying in touch what he doesn’t have the words to say.

Each kiss feels like a promise.

I’m here.

I’m not going anywhere.

Feel me.

I’m real.

I’m yours.

He lays you down on the bed, settling his head upon your chest. You exhale a shaky breath, tangling your fingers in his hair. His arms slip around your waist, somehow both protective and vulnerable. He turns his head to press one last kiss to the spot just above your soundly beating heart.

“People don’t usually… worry about me. Getting hurt,” he says, glancing up at you. You stroke his cheek, admiring the crystal clear blue of his eyes. “Unless it's because they want to hurt me.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

“Ever.”

He smiles.

“I know.”

You cup his cheek. He leans into your palm, closing his eyes.

“I love you so much. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

You trail off. The words aren’t too big, they’re just too terrible to give life to.

He kisses your palm.

“I love you, too.”

You close your eyes, finally letting yourself be soothed back to sleep by the gentle, persistent press of his lips.

I’m here.