tell me i'm your national anthem

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/64153072.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Rape/Non-Con
Category: F/M
Fandom: The Boys (TV 2019)
Relationship: The Homelander | John/You
Characters: The Homelander | John, Reader, You
Additional Tags: Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape, Misogyny, Stalking, Obsessive
Behavior, Lactation Kink, Codependency, Age Difference, Cunnilingus
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2025-03-25 Words: 14,613 Chapters: 5/?
 tell me i'm your national anthem
by annwrites

Summary

homelander comes to your college as a guest speaker. uninterested in him, or anyone of his
ilk, you pay him no mind, while you're all he's able to focus on, due to your disrespect.

with a bruised ego, he goes to the dean of the school afterward with a made-up tale about
wanting to repay you for kind words & is then allowed to go through the student roster.

that evening while making dinner, unexpected company arrives on your balcony, refusing to
leave until they're let in...

*READ ME!* This fic was originally published solely to my Tumblr, but when I restructured
my blog, I deleted fics I no longer felt a drive to continue. Per the request of one of my
followers, I have reposted this (currently) unfinished fic on here so they may have another
place to re-read it. I make no promise that this story will ever be finished.
 Chapter 1

You are the utter image of disrespect. Here he stands—Homelander—the savior of America,
and there you sit in your seat staring down at a tablet. Doing, presumably, schoolwork.

Every pair of eyes is on him except yours. As if some goddamn essay or worksheet is more
important than him and the wisdom—scripted or otherwise—he has to bestow upon all your
young, moronic minds.

And when he closes his speech—your classmates immediately swarm, eager for ‘selfies’, and
autographs, and to ask ignorant questions.

But you? You’re the first one out of the goddamn room.

You don’t even spare him a glance.

He makes up a story, which he feeds to your university’s dean, and he drinks it down like the
smoothest cup of milk.

“I didn’t manage to get her name, but I’m sure if I look through your student roster that I’ll
be able to identify her. It’s just that what she said…” He gives a dramatic pause, a
melancholic smile, with a small shake of his head. “It went straight to the heart. So, I’d just
like to send her something to say thank you, since I most unfortunately didn’t get that
opportunity today. Maybe an edible arrangement, or a new computer for her important
academic pursuits.”

There’s a loud thump on your balcony and you jolt, nearly dropping the spatula in your now-
shaking hand.

You set it down upon the spoon rest, grabbing a knife instead, and with a pounding heart, and
trembling limbs, step to the side—toward the glass doors of your balcony and the knife slips
from your hand, clattering against the hardwood floor.

On the other side stands Homelander, a sinister smile on his face, his knuckles rapping
against the glass, an expectant look in his eyes.

Your mind detaches from your body as it begins to race.

You’re hallucinating. You bought a new bottle of seasoning from the grocery store down the
street for dinner tonight. Maybe you're having a reaction to it. Or maybe he really is here and
he needs help. He doesn’t get hurt, though, does he? You don’t know much about him, in
truth. He’d been at your college this morning. Does him being here now have something to
do with that? You’d not spoken to or even acknowledged him, so how could it?
Does it have to do with Emma, then? She worships the ground he walks on—had apparently
been one of the first people to ask for his autograph this morning, from what she’d told you.
Maybe he’s looking for her? But she doesn’t live with you…

You turn the lock, then the handle, and you stare up at him. “H-Homelander?”

It feels pathetic to call him that. Some manufactured name that you’re sure a marketing
department came up with so many years ago, but no one knows his real one. As if that’s not
another measured choice made by Vought—someone learns it and then digging into his past
begins. God forbid he’s no longer America’s plastic darling—an overgrown action figure.
And he looks the part now just as much as he did this morning. Does he never get tired of the
ridiculous costume?

“I came for an apology,” he states matter-of-factly, smile fading as he steps inside your
apartment, staring down at you.

You shuffle back. “I—uh—how—”

“See,” he starts, raising a finger, wagging it at you like you’re a petulant child that’s about to
receive a lecture. “I take precious time out of my day—we both know how important my
time is. I mean…it’s far more valuable as compared to someone like yours—someone
inconsequential and worthless, that is—to come to your little ‘institution’ of academics to
bestow wisdom upon all of you morons, and instead of you giving me the respect I’m owed,
you couldn’t be bothered to so much as look in my general direction.”

You merely stare up at him in fear, your heart hammering away—the sound causing his lip to
twitch in satisfaction.

“Are you fucking stupid?” He asks lowly.

“Speak!” He shouts.

You jump. “I—I’m sorry?”

He purses his lips, shaking his head. “Mm, see, that wasn’t very convincing.”

He takes another step toward you, then another and another, while you stutter and shuffle
your feet, desperate to back away from him, until you’re pinned between his broad frame and
a kitchen counter.

He takes your face in his solid grip, squeezing your cheeks so hard that it hurts. If he wanted
to pop your head like a cherry tomato right now…he could.

You fear that you may loose your bladder at the thought.

“Did mommy and daddy not teach their little girl respect?” He asks with a raised brow.

You continue to stare in terror.

He shrugs, brushing his gloved thumb over your lower lip. “I could always just make you get
on your knees. To either suck me off or lick my boots. Maybe both,” he finishes with a grin.

You shouldn’t be surprised by this. In truth, you half are and aren’t. They’re all egotistical
monsters. The smiles and kissing babies and playing the hero on live TV is all an act. This is
the real him.

Not a hero. A villain.

And he wants to know why you didn’t give him an ounce of your attention, as if it should be
some great mystery.

“I—I’m not doing that. I don’t…I don’t understand why you even care. What… Why you’re
here, I mean. How you even—”

He sneers. “Do you not like me? I’m a fucking hero! I am the face of this country. Yet you
treat me like any other insignificant schmuck on the street. I deserve some goddamn respect!”

Tears sting your wide eyes. “I dislike all celebrities the same. Please, just—”

He raises a brow. “I am not just some ‘celebrity’. I protect you. I look out for you. And this is
the thanks I get for it? Some sniveling little bitc—”

It’s just then that you remember.

You shove him away from you, flipping the stove off, your burger now just a hunk of
charcoal.

You throw the pan into the sink, turning the faucet on and steam begins to rise as the pan
sizzles.

You groan in irritation, shoulders slumping forward.

“That was my dinner,” you mumble.

Homelander smirks. “Y’know what? That does seem like a good start at fixing things
between the two of us. You can have the honor of making me dinner. Maybe we play house
for the evening.”

You turn back around with furrowed brows, sure that he must be joking. This entire
experience feels like a bad trip. You have the world’s strongest—most famous, even—man in
your apartment whining over hurt feelings and asking you to make him dinner like you’re
some obedient little housewife.

He takes a step closer.

“Go on, start cooking. Before I make you,” he says, tone low and threatening.

Your eyes flit between his for just a moment before you turn slowly back around, turning the
burner back on, having no idea what to even prepare for him.
That’d been the last of your hamburger meat…

You glance to your bread box, while Homelander seats himself comfortably at your small
dining table.

“How does a grilled cheese sandwich sound?”

He’s pleased with that offer—something a mother would make for her little one, he thinks.

“I’ll take two,” he replies with a chipper tune.

You nod, retrieving a plate from a cabinet, then open the fridge to grab a small tub of butter.

“I’d like a glass of milk,” he says, interrupting you.

You grab the jug, pouring him a glass as requested.

Your hand shakes as you hold it toward him, but he merely takes it from you with a smile.
“Thank you, sweetie.”

You stay quiet, turning back to the stove, Homelander watching your every move.

“Would you mind cutting the crusts off?”

You do as he’s asked without complaint, even if he’s being utterly juvenile right now.

He’s just trying to get under your skin, you’re sure. He’ll eat the sandwiches, then go. And
the only time you’ll ever see him again will be on TV. Like normal.

Maybe it’s not such a good thing that he knows where you live now…

You grab the edge of the plate and he speaks again. “And can you cut them each into
triangles?”

You raise a brow, but he can’t see it with your back still turned.

“I always thought that was so…charming,” he says with a grin.

So the God of America is a giant manchild, it turns out. Great.

You finally turn around, settling the plate in front of him and then he holds his empty glass
toward you.

You give him a refill, silently sliding it back to him, seating yourself across from him.

You fold your hands nervously in your lap.

“Just going to sit there and watch me eat?” He asks, taking his first bite.

You swallow thickly. “I’m…not hungry anymore.”

He leans back, chewing, then swallowing. “What’re you in school for, then?”

This entire experience feels completely surreal. You’re sure at any moment you’ll wake up.

Wait.

What if you have a gas leak? Your stove is electric, but this apartment complex probably has
a gas line somewhere, right? You make a mental note to check on that later.

“Creative writing,” you reply quietly.

Not even you could’ve crafted a story this ridiculous and far-fetched.

“Read me something you’ve written.”

You shift uncomfortably and he notes your heart skipping a beat. You’re insecure about it—
the things you create. He relates to that—being insecure about that which you’re most
passionate about. How strange a dichotomy it is.

“I don’t…I don’t want to.”

He leans in toward you. “Well, it’s either that, or, once I’m done with my dinner, I carry you
over to your bed and have my way with you. Whether you want to or not.”

He can’t possibly be serious. He’s not…he’s a not a rapist. Right? Then again…he’d already
threatened to force you onto your knees.

You stand, padding across the room and retrieve your laptop from atop your bed—swiping
tears from your eyes—returning to him.

You turn it on and begin browsing through your documents—trying to find one that’s both
innocuous, but interesting enough.

And then he shakes his head. “Nope. Give it here. I get to choose which one,” he says,
motioning for the device with his hand.

You do as instructed and begin to feel just a tad nauseated as you watch him peruse your
computer for a story.

And then he smirks, clicking, turning it back to you.

Blood rushes to your face.

He takes another bite of his sandwich, then a sip of his milk. “Go on then. Almost done. Or
don’t. I win either way,” he says with a slight shrug, taking another bite.

He had to choose the one document that is a story of pure smut.

You clear your throat nervously, knowing you have no other choice. Fighting against him
would be futile. Him overpowering you would take no effort on his part whatsoever. You’re
sure that’s what he wants anyway. And you’re not about to just hand yourself over to him.

This embarrassment will be temporary.

The memory of him…you'd never forget. Nor would you ever be able to tell.

“He—” you pause, sighing, straightening your spine, then tell yourself just to get through it.

You’re not the first person to have ever written a sex scene before.

“He eases her slender legs over his shoulders, kissing her inner thighs gently, enjoying the
lovely sounds that slip from her beautiful lips, begging for him. Her lover, her soulmate, her
entire world—wishing for the two of them to finally be joined as one in this final way. And
then he kisses her lips—her most intimate ones.”

John’s lip twitches. Not just at the mortified look upon your adorable face, but the delicious
fucking smell of your arousal.

He wonders if the story is written as mere fantasy or from memory.

He intends to find out.

Tonight.

You gently take Homelander’s empty plate from him, your face flushed—now slick between
your thighs—but you stay quiet, feeling humiliated. You want him to leave. Want to never
see him again.

You’ve never felt so disrespected.

But that had been the point, hadn’t it? To make you feel how he thinks you made him feel that
morning.

You hate him.

And now you’ll have to live with this. Knowing what he’s really like, and unable to tell
anyone while the rest of the country—the world—continues to worship at his altar that’s built
upon countless lies.

You put his plate in the dishwasher, then his glass, and it’s when you straighten that you feel
large hands coming to rest firmly atop your shoulders.

You freeze, heartrate quickening once again.

His gloved hands then slide down your arms and your chin wobbles.

“So, was it just fantasy, or reality?”

Your brows furrow. “W—what?”

“The story. I’m asking if you’ve ever done that before.”

You swallow nervously. “I—no. I haven’t.”

His cock hardens, a feeling of satisfaction filling him at your pleasing answer.

He takes your breasts in each of his hands then, gently kneading them.

You swing around, a tear slipping down your cheek. “You can’t—”

He wraps a hand firmly around your throat, cutting your protests short.

“Oh, honey,” he says, stepping closer, his erection pressing against your upset stomach. “I
can do whatever the fuck I want.”

He grins. “And I think you’re going to like it.”

He leans down, crushing his lips to yours, forcing your mouth open and he plunges his
tongue inside, making you gag on it.

He slips his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you onto the kitchen counter, gripping the
waistband of your shorts, as well as your panties, and he pulls them both down your legs in
one fell swoop, ignoring your mewls and squeals of protest.

You shove against his chest, panicking, ready to begin screaming, until he pulls back—his
eyes going bright red, tightening his hold around your throat. “Hold the fuck still or I’ll kill
you right here and now, sweetheart.”

You stare at him for only a moment before nodding slightly.

He releases his hold around your neck and you gingerly wrap your own hand around it.

And then he kneels, gripping your hips, grinning up at you, even winking and then he shoves
his face between your thighs, throwing your calves over his shoulders.

You sit there in complete shock for only a moment before he begins lapping at you with his
tongue, spreading your labia with his fingers, flicking his speared tip against your clit and
then your body jerks and you draw in a ragged breath, slamming your head back against the
cabinet behind you.

He smirks between your legs, doing it again, and you moan quietly.

You’re supposed to be fighting back—should be jumping off this counter and running out the
door and screaming rape.

But you can’t. Not unless you want to die.

So this is your only choice. To sit on this counter and wait for him to finish. But he won’t be
finished until you are, will he?
And the fact he’s recreating what was in your story—the fact that he’s on his knees giving
you oral…oh dear God this situation is a nightmare.

Or so you think, until he begins sucking on your clit and your eyes go wide and your breaths
become shallow.

You tangle your fingers in his hair then, unable to help yourself as you pull him closer and he
moans into your slick, hot core.

He’s utterly satisfied with the fact you’re dripping for him, desperate for more. For him.

He flicks his tongue, spells his goddamn name—his real name—marking you as his. Even if
you don’t fucking know it yet…you will be. His. You belong to him. So help him God if you
even think about talking to another man at your little school after this he’ll laser him in half
while you watch.

“Oh God,” you whisper and he knows you’re close when your heartrate begins to climb
impossibly higher—fluttering like a hummingbird—fingers tightening in his blond strands.

He kisses your cunt, flicks his tongue, fucks you with it—spells the word ‘mine’, and it’s as
he finishes his ‘e’ that you begin to cry, your hips squirming beneath his grip as you orgasm
right against his mouth, his tongue lodged firmly between your pulsating walls.

And then he stands—eyes trailing along your flushed cheeks and neck and chest, your eyes
hooded, limbs relaxed, and your legs still spread wide—the counter, your thighs, and his face
are all slick from your arousal.

He crushes his lips back to yours one last time, letting you taste your own sweet American
honey before he pulls away, lips hovering over yours as he smirks.

“Now we’re even,” he mutters.

He heads back toward the balcony.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he throws over his shoulder before launching into the sky, leaving
you sitting there half-naked and ashamed of yourself, tears gathering in your eyes as you
begin to sob.
 Chapter 2

You sleep fitfully that night.

It takes hours before your body manages to calm enough for you to find rest after having
exhausted yourself from crying, hugging a pillow to your chest for comfort—utterly terrified
that he’ll come back.

Every small noise you hear makes you shoot up in bed, staring at your now-curtained balcony
doors, praying to God that he’s gone. That he hadn’t meant what he said about returning.
He’d been bluffing, you’re sure.

You need for him to have not been serious.

You drag the next day during your classes.

You stay fairly to yourself, not wishing to talk to anyone. But, of course, all that any of them
have on their minds, and seem able to discuss as you pass them in the halls is him. Including
your best friend, Emma.

It only serves to turn your stomach. The fact that she worships the ground that his corrupting
boots walk upon—that she has no idea that he’s a soulless monster. That he had so easily
threatened your life before proceeding to humiliate you before stealing away your first sexual
experience for his own benefit.

He’d done it to be cruel, you’re sure. To disrespect you like he’d felt you’d done toward him.

As if refusing to make eye contact while hundreds of others gazed upon him with admiration
was anything like what he’d done to you.

Trying to wrap your mind around the incredible difference between who he is in front of a
camera versus who he had turned into in your apartment last night… He’s a psychopath,
clearly. All you can manage to return to time and again was him staring at you with red eyes,
threatening your life. A threat that had rolled off his tongue as easily as asking you about the
weather.

You wonder how many lives he’s taken that no one knows about, or that Vought has taken
diligent measures to cover up. Wondering why they do it—why they would protect him—has
a simple answer: he’s indestructible…right? A man with that much power, and with no
remorse—with no weaknesses—is a terrifying thought.

You really fucking hope you never see him again. That whatever he was after he managed to
get out of his system last evening. After all, what’re you compared to Queen Maeve, or a
model, or fellow actress, or supe?
Thankfully, it’s a slow day at work. Usually it is, in truth. Not many people seem to have
much of an appreciation for buying and collecting antiques anymore. Unless it’s Christmas
time…the store is almost always dead. A fact you’re quite grateful for today as you arrange a
shelf of Precious Moments figurines, avoiding the section of the store dedicated to superheros
at all costs.

You ring up maybe half-a-dozen customers in not quite as many hours before heading home
for the day, practically dead on your feet.

You take a long shower—the pleasant feel of the hot water nearly serves to put you to sleep
—repeatedly telling yourself that you’re safe here. He’s not coming back. This is your home.
You’re okay. Everything is okay. You’re sure he’s already forgotten about you by now,
anyway.

When you emerge back into your bedroom dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of soft gray
sweatpants—ready to just throw something in the microwave so you can go to bed straight
after—you halt in your tracks when you see a silhouette with wide shoulders and a billowing
cape on the other side of your closed curtains.

Your breath hitches in your throat.

You’re seeing things. He’s been on your mind all day and you’re exhausted on top of that, not
to mention starving.

It’s not real. He’s not—

There’s a gentle knock against the glass. “I know you’re in there. I can hear your heart. So,
you can either open the door, or I’ll just break a window and let myself in. But, then you’ll
end up having to pay to replace the glass, and you’ll have to explain things to your landlord,
and, well—”

You come over to the door then, frustrated tears stinging your eyes, and you flip the lock,
heading in the direction of the kitchen without a word.

You know it’s useless to try and hide, or pretend like you’re not home.

He lets himself in, gently closing the door behind him.

“Honey, I’m home!” He says in a sing-song tune, following you into the kitchen, leaning
against a counter with crossed arms and a smug look on his face.

“So, what’s for dinner?”

You open the freezer, throwing a microwavable dinner on the counter, refusing to even look
at him.

And then he sighs, grabbing the meal away from you, throwing it back into the freezer.
He leans down toward you. “What? No home-cooked meal for your favorite superhero
tonight? And after all that hard work I put into making a meal out of you just twenty-four
hours ago.”

You grip the edges of the counter in each of your hands, dragging your nails across it. “I
never asked for any of that. I begged you not to.”

He leans in closer, grabbing your hip painfully as he brings his lips to the shell of your ear.
“You’re being very ungrateful right now.”

He pauses. “You’re hurting my feelings.”

Your chin wobbles and your stomach fills with lead.

“Now,” he starts again, sliding his gloved fingers into your hair, gently massaging your scalp.
“You are going to be a good little girl and get to cooking. I’m not asking twice. I’ve been
hard at work all day. It’s the least you can do for me after bothering to fly all the way here to
keep you company.”

You bite your lower lip to try and keep your tears at bay. “What do you want from me?”

“I’ve already told you.”

You turn to the side, facing him, reluctantly looking up, meeting his empty blue eyes.
“Thousands—no, millions—of women across the world would love nothing more than to
throw themselves at you. To be at your beck and call. What the hell do you want with me?”

He gently caresses your chin between his fingers, smirking softly. “I’m no A-Train, but that
doesn’t mean I don’t still love a good chase, sweetheart.”

He smacks your rear then, causing you to squeak in surprise. “Now, feed your man.”

You raid a brow at that. Your what?

You watch as he leans down, removing the milk jug from your fridge and you cross your
arms. “I’m not doing all the work while you just sit there and watch.”

He looks at you with a displeased expression from your back-talk, but you don’t back down.

You remove a loaf of bread from the bread box, tossing it on the counter in front of him.
“You’re in charge of making toast.”

Quite astonishingly, he doesn’t argue. Instead, he looks at you with a surprised look in his
eyes and a gentle smile. “How many slices do you want?”

You have no idea that it gives him a sense of normalcy and home, even if just for a moment.
Like you’re a mother instructing her child, giving them a small responsibility to see to at
dinner time. You’re making him a part of the process, and he likes that. Appreciates it, even.
You’d begun giggling ridiculously from nerves in the middle of making spaghetti.

Homelander had looked at you with a raised brow and a sour look on his face, until you’d
explained, with tears streaming down your own. “I’m cooking dinner with Homelander.
You’re—”

You’d gasped for breath, doubling over. “You’re in my apartment! Making toast!”

And then you’d begun to actually cry—your exhaustion catching up to you all at once—
hysterically, at that. He’d considered multiple courses of action. One: simply leaving. Two:
threatening you to shut the hell up or he’d really give you something to cry about. He’d taken
the third option with no fucking idea as to why.

He’d gathered you in his arms, ignored your tiny fists beating against his chest and your
demands that he let you go, and held you until you calmed.

Once you did, and your breathing and heart-rate had both returned to normal—the smell of
adrenaline no longer coming off of you in waves—he told you it was time to eat.

So, here you sit, slowly eating spaghetti and toast in silence with America’s poster boy.

He takes a long sip of milk, studying you.

“You’re very attractive,” he says, briefly pausing. “In an ordinary ‘girl-next-door’ sort of
way, I suppose.”

Your eyes flit to his, swallowing your noodles. “T-thank you.”

He hums in response, a small smile on his lips, fingers splaying outward expectantly.

Your brows furrow for only a moment. “You’re…handsome.”

His smile fades at your unsure tone of empty platitudes. “Why don’t you like me?”

Oh God, not this again.

You shake your head, taking a bite of your toast. “You’re asking that after what you did to
me?”

“You mean what I did for you? You seem to forget that I gave you an orgasm without so
much as asking for anything in return.”

Bile rises in your throat. “You stole my first sexual experience away from me.”

“I think stolen is a nasty way to word it. I gifted it to you.”

You grip your fork tightly in your fist, having half-a-mind to drive it through the back of his
hand. But you know you can’t. You don’t want to even imagine how such an action would
end. Probably with your apartment becoming a bloody mess and your twenty-one-year-old
life at an end before it ever got a chance to truly begin.
So you set the utensil down.

“You want me to like you?” You ask quietly, having no clue as to why your meaningless
opinion of him should matter in the first place.

He shrugs lightly, brow twitching in response.

You fold your hands in your lap, leaning back, staring at him. “Tell me something, then.
Something real and that no one else knows.”

He stays quiet, so you continue.

“Because the very opposite of that is why I dislike—no, scratch that—despise you: because
you just look like an empty suit to me. Something manufactured by the media. A man unable
to think for himself without a teleprompter in front of him instructing his every move.”

He grinds his teeth, his face twitching, his gloved hands now squeezed tightly into fists.

And you immediately fill with regret. Being exhausted typically left you one of three ways—
all of which you’d experienced in one evening alone. Giggly and easily amused, emotional,
or irritable.

The first two he’d tolerated. This one…you worry it ends with your landlord discovering
your corpse the next time rent is due.

“You think they control me?” He asks with a sneer.

“I have yet to find a reason to think otherwise.”

“You think,” he says, leaning in toward you, his boot pressing against your foot beneath the
table. “I’m just some puppet manufactured by Big Media? Hm?”

He stands abruptly, chair scraping loudly against the floor and you stand as well, your own
toppling over in your panic as he backs you into a corner.

He must like doing this—intimidating. Invoking fear.

He chuckles, cupping your face in his hands. “I’ve done things… Things that would horrify
you. Things that even Vought doesn’t know about.”

He shrugs. “They’re just the ones who sign my paychecks. See, they work for me. The whole
fuckin’ world does. Including you, honey. I’m the real hero. My little tagline where I say
otherwise? It’s bullshit. But the people eat it up. They swallow the garbage I feed them with a
grateful smile. You think you’re so…different, though, don’t you?”

You brows furrow and you feel completely terrified, but quickly decide upon trying a new
approach.

Aggression is getting you nowhere—it’s only begetting more on his part. And you worry how
far you can push him before it ends in catastrophe.
And it’s then that you realize that he does have a weakness after all: he’s desperate for
approval. Why the hell else would he be here yet again, demanding to know why he doesn’t
yet have yours? Is he just that much of a narcissist, or is it something deeper?

You slowly reach up then, cupping his cheek, your other trembling hand coming to rest
gently upon his chest.

Touching him in such a familiar fashion may end horribly for you, but something tells you it's
well worth a try.

“What happened to you?” You ask in a whisper.

His features shift—softening—the look in his eyes that of…confusion. He even goes so far as
to lean in slightly to your warm, comforting touch.

Your eyes flit between his, taken aback by his embracing your kind, physical gesture. “You
haven’t always been like this, have you?”

You take a tiny step closer, bridging the gap between your bodies, since you think this
attempt might just finally be getting you somewhere.

“You want me to like you? Trust you? Actually enjoy your company, and, much more, want
it? Tell me something no one else knows, then. Something that will make me see past all of
it.”

Your eyes trail along his suit, before meeting his own again. “Past this. I have no interest in
getting to know Homelander. Because that’s not who you really are, even if you’ve forgotten
it. There’s still a man in this costume. A human being.”

You watch with shock as tears gather in his eyes that continue to stare into your own, his lips
pressed into a firm line as he remains silent.

You shoosh him softly. “It’s okay. It’s just the two of us. You may not want to believe it, but
you can trust me. I haven’t even told anyone about you coming here last night, because I’m
not the type to gossip. I have no interest in it.”

That’s not the reason whatsoever, but he can think whatever the hell he likes, so long as it
gets him to calm down and give you a moment of vulnerability.

You brush a tear away as it slips down his cheek.

“You want to know what people have told me time and again since I was little? That they feel
like they can trust me—even complete strangers. They’ll share things with me that they won’t
even tell their closest friends and family. For the longest time I couldn’t understand why—
what it was about me—and then I figured it out.”

You gently run your fingertips along his cheek. “I know what it feels like when someone
betrays your trust repeatedly. When that one person in all the world you’re supposed to be
able to rely and lean upon just…uses the things you tell them against you just to hurt you.
Because they’re incapable of empathy. And I refuse to do that to others. Because I won’t be
like her. I can’t. I just…I guess people can sense that about me. I hope so, at least. It’s the
only explanation I have.”

You pause. “What I’m trying to get at is that you can, too: trust me. You’re safe here.”

He blinks, another tear slipping down his cheek, which you softly wipe away.

“John,” he whispers, finally speaking. “My name is John.”

You smile.

“John,” you repeat, and his chin wobbles at the sound of his name leaving your lips.

“Thank you for telling me. That’s all I wanted: to know something about you. Something that
comes from you.”

His face shifts then, his vulnerability quickly vanishing. “If you tell anyone—”

You slip your fingers into his hair. “I won’t. I promise. You have nothing to worry about. It’s
okay. Everything is okay.”

His eyes flit between yours, debating, considering.

And then he nods and you release a breath of relief.

He leans down then, pressing his lips to yours—tenderly. A wholly different sensation to how
he’d been with you last night.

It’d worked.

You pull back slightly.

“Y/N,” you whisper against his lips.

His own twitches. “I already knew that.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Who was it? You said ‘her’.”

You swallow, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Can we talk about it tomorrow night?”

He likes that you want him back again. That you’re admitting it. That you’re planning on it.

He smirks. “Sounds like we’re finally on the same page, sweetheart.”

 Chapter 3

You’re just beginning to drift off when you hear a soft knock against the glass.

You groan into your pillow and could swear you hear a deep chuckle from the other side of
the door in response.

You slowly rise—head spinning from exhaustion—and pad over to the door, silently flipping
the lock before throwing yourself back down face-first into the mattress, pulling a thin
blanket over your bare legs.

John enters the room, staring down at you, arms folded behind his back. “What? No dinner
for your man tonight?”

You mentally roll your eyes at him calling himself that yet again, but don’t reply to that
particular comment. “I already ate. I’m going to sleep.”

He huffs, glancing around your small apartment, then back to you. “Guess I’ll just climb in
there with y—”

“Not with your suit still on you aren’t,” you mumble into your pillow.

He raises a brow in interest, smirking, surprised you’re not trying to argue otherwise. Maybe
that’s the key to getting his way, then, until you start caving all on your own: take advantage
when you have no energy to fight back. When you’re soft and tired and at his will to do with
as he pleases.

“See you’re finally starting to see things my way,” he states smugly.

You roll over then, looking at him. “You’re not wearing your outside clothes in my bed. It’s
not a come-on.”

He toes off his boots, then settles his hands on his hips, as if he’s debating something
internally.

It doesn’t take much effort for you to understand what.

His suit is his metaphorical armor. You still have yet to understand why he’s so insecure,
though—why his ego is so fragile. That’s the one thing about him that should be
‘untouchable’, so to speak. Then again, being physically bulletproof doesn’t have any bearing
on what’s inside.

And what’s inside seems, still, like a little boy living in a man’s body, to you.

He needs to feel wanted. He’d seemed pleased last night when you’d talked about seeing him
again—like you were finally giving him what he’s been desiring since that day he first set
eyes upon you in your university’s auditorium: your willing attention.
Your eyes flutter closed, throwing a bone his way. “I’m cold.”

And that’s all it takes for him to remove his suit—leaving him clad only in a pair of dark-blue
briefs. And it makes him want to crawl out of his fucking skin.

But you’re all but finally asking for him. You want him. You’ve finally come around.

He knew you would. No woman can resist. Not even you. Young and pretty you may be, but
you’re still not educated enough to know what’s in your best interest, clearly. Best interest
being him. That’s the problem with all these liberal ‘schools’. They don’t teach what they
used to: love of ones country. Instead, they’d tried to turn you against him.

But he can still pull you back. It seems like he already has as you lie there, waiting for him.

So, he climbs into bed next to you, pulling the covers over himself, and then he pulls you into
his arms, holding you against his chest.

He smiles softly when you gently press your palms to his pecks.

“I like you better like this,” you say, cuddling closer, wondering how he’ll react to it.

He tightens his arms around you then and you squeak.

“John, you’re crushing me.”

He loosens his hold, feeling the least bit pathetic.

He’s done this before—held a woman so tightly that it resulted in her life being cut short he
was that fucking desperate for affection.

He lets you go entirely then, rolling onto his back, hating himself.

He doesn’t need anyone. Why can’t he get that through his goddamn head? Why the fuck
should he care what a weak, useless, lonely little human like you thinks about him—a god?
He should just kill you instead. He does that, and you’re no longer all he’s able to fucking
think about all day—to a disturbingly obsessive degree. It’d be as simple as—

You scoot closer, sliding a warm, dainty hand up his chest until it’s resting gently against his
cheek and his mind immediately goes blank—his face twitching as he fights back tears.

Maybe your superpower is just…comforting maternal gestures, then.

At least with you he won’t have to compete with another to receive them. Unlike Madelyn…
and Teddy. The little shit. Taking what should’ve been—had been—his.

But you? There is no competition. He assumes, at least.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” He asks quietly.

You pop an eye open, staring at him as he stares up at the ceiling, his face entirely void of
emotion.

Lying would be useless, you’re sure. He works for Vought—or with—you’re sure they could
have a comprehensive background check done on you in a handful of minutes…if he hasn’t
already done as much. You have half-a-mind to ask, but you’re not sure you want the answer
to such a question.

“No.”

His lip twitches, turning upwards into a smile, which leaves you feeling uneasy.

“So you’re all mine, then.”

You open both eyes, blinking at him, heartrate beginning to climb. “I—”

He shakes his head slightly. “No. Wasn’t a question.”

He turns back onto his side then, sliding a heavy hand over your hip, holding you
possessively in his grip. “You said you’d tell me about ‘her’ tonight.”

You brush your thumb against his cheek, eyes drifting down to his chest, not wishing to meet
his own now.

You want to go back to his comment—one he’s made more than once now, just in varying
ways—about…ownership. He surely doesn’t mean it.

But every time you’ve tried to assure yourself of anything concerning him: that he won’t
come back, that he won’t really hurt you—you’ve been wrong.

Maybe you’re not as good at reading people as you like to think you are. Most of all him.

You just still don’t understand why you’re a subject of fascination for him yet. Like you’d
told yourself the other day…what’re you compared to any of the other women in his life? But
maybe that’s it, then. Just like him, they’re forced to put on a mask, not letting anyone in
deeper than surface-level, lest the plastic cracks.

It seems like he just…wants to connect.

No wonder you’ve been so tired the last couple of days—constantly wracking your mind,
trying to understand him. As if it’s even possible. He’s been an actor all his life.

You sigh.

“I’m sure you won’t…be able to relate. I’m envious of you in that: your perfect childhood,
and life. I wish I’d had that…”

You trail off for a moment.

“My mother,” you say quietly. “I haven’t seen her since I was eighteen and left for college.
Half the reason I even went was to get away from her. I didn’t care about student loans and
living in debt if it got me out of that house. For the first couple of years I lived in a dorm
room…and it was the first time I’d ever known peace. No more walking on eggshells, no
more fighting, or being called horrible names, or having to cautiously measure what mood I
think she’s in each day—or hour—lest I provoke her.”

You slide your hand down to his neck, softly curling your fingertips inward. “I can’t…”

You pause, tears stinging your eyes.

He pulls you closer to him, silently encouraging you to continue.

“Yet I still feel like I can’t get away from her. Not even here. Not even hundreds of miles
from home—if you can even call it that. Because she’s always with me. In my head. Beating
me down, making me feel worthless—like…all my self-worth still needs to hinge upon her
and how she feels. If she’s happy. When did it become my job to look after her, and not the
other way around? And even when I did…she still abused me for it. Nothing I ever did was
right.”

You bite your lip trying to fight back tears.

“When I was young, I wanted what we’re all supposed to once we grow up: a husband, a
home, babies. And then I got older, and because of her I tried to convince myself otherwise.
Tried to pound into my head that I didn’t want kids. That what I really wanted was a
hysterectomy. That way, I’d never have to risk turning into her: becoming the monster of a
mother that she was.”

You ignore the tears running down your cheeks now. “But it’s how I’m different from her that
matters most. She’s taken enough away from me. Stolen enough of my life. I want children. I
deserve to be a mother. To have a family. To make my own. She doesn’t get to have that, too.
She doesn’t.”

Your chin wobbles and you let out a small sob. “I’m sorry.”

He only holds you closer, unsure what to even say. He’s never known how to comfort others.
He’s always expected it to be provided to him instead. But only from women. And only in
secret. Because he can’t be seen as some fucking weakling.

Because he’s not. He’s not.

He is the strongest man in all the world. The most superior. The master of his race.

You continue to softly cry, and it’s then that he makes a decision, knowing that if it ends
terribly—with you emasculating him, or betraying his trust—well, it will take no effort from
him to rectify the situation. But he’s sure that you won’t, because, little-by-little, you’ve
shown your true colors: how maternal you truly are.
You just said it yourself. And it’d sounded like the most beautiful fucking music to his ears to
hear: how desperate you are for a child.

You want someone to look after? Well, here he is. He needs your love. He can admit it now.
To himself, at least. Even if it tastes like rancid vinegar to do so.

“I didn’t have it: a perfect childhood. It’s all fucking bullshit. You want to know how I was
really raised?”

You grow quiet then, only occasionally sniffling as you slip your fingers into his hair, gently
stroking his soft, blond strands.

“I grew up in a lab like a rat. These…doctors kept me locked in a sterile white room with
nothing but a blanket for comfort. Not even a bed. Not a pillow. No toys. No TV. Nothing.
All while they performed test after fucking test after—”

He clenches his teeth. “Watching me every second of every day. No privacy. Treating me like
some…sideshow attraction. Burning me and laughing at me and just—watching.”

Your chin wobbles.

“I never knew my parents because I was designed in a test tube. I was created to be this. The
greatest superhero the world has ever known. They tried to make me perfect. And I am,” he
tacks on.

He’s unsure whether he’s trying to convince himself of that, or you.

“But I’m just—”

“Lonely,” you say, interrupting him with tears slipping down your cheeks—your heart
shattering, for him.

You wrap your arms around his neck then, finally understanding him. Finally seeing a shred
of humanity behind his ‘tough-man’ facade.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” you say between sobs. “I am so sorry for what they did to you.”

All you can picture in your mind’s eye is a sweet, blond little boy sitting in a room all alone,
waiting for someone to come for him. To care. To hold, or love him. For them to stop hurting
him, all while he was left to wonder what he did wrong to deserve such horrible treatment.

How…how could anyone do that? To a baby? To a little boy?

You shouldn’t care. Not after what he did to you just two nights ago, but you can’t help it.
Because in this moment you just see a broken man that has nowhere else to turn.

He slides impossibly closer, burying his face between your breasts, quietly crying.

You shoosh him, running your fingers through his soft hair.
Here lies the most powerful—invincible—man in all the world in your arms—a man who has
always seemed a larger than life titan…somehow he feels so small now. You’d been right to
see him as just a scared little boy looking for someone to comfort him. And it serves only to
break your heart all the more.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” you say.

And it reminds him of a loving mother consoling her child. Something he’s never had the gift
of having.

He mouths it against your breast then, just…wanting to try it—to know how it feels:
‘mommy’.

And it comes to him naturally. Like…this is meant to be.

And he knows in that moment with absolute certainty that you’re the one. You’re supposed to
be his. Meant to belong to him alone. You were born to.

He’ll kill anyone who even attempts at coming between the two of you. He’ll rip him in
fucking half with his bare hands just to keep you. Just to show you this newfound devotion.

And he’s sure you’d be thankful for it.

Your mother expected you to do everything for her? He can show you the opposite: so long
as you love him, he can give you the same.

He’ll take care of you. He’ll make sure you don’t go without anymore. He has more than
enough money for the two of you. Is willing to expend the effort to keep you as his sole
property.

It’s all he’s ever wanted: to be loved. And now here you are in his arms with an open,
maternal heart meant to love him.

Besides…how could you ever dream of doing better than the most singular and superior man
in all the world? No other pathetic human specimen could ever compete.

You’ll be thanking him one day for having come into your life. For saving you. But that’s
what he does: he saves people. And it seems you—his new purpose—need him most of all.

Before long, you’ll see just how much.

Before long…you won’t have any idea how to live without him. Already he feels the reverse:
no idea how to live without you.

Not that he’ll have to, because you’re not going anywhere.

If you tried, he’d simply follow, because there’s nowhere you could hide that he wouldn’t
find you.

You’re his.
All his.

His girl.

His woman.

Mommy.
 Chapter 4

You sip on your iced coffee, typing away on your laptop, near to completing your essay for
one of your classes, which is due in two days.

“God, he’s so hot. I don’t get why you don’t think so,” Emma says.

You glance up to her from over your laptop screen with a raised brow, watching as she stares
down at her cellphone with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Huh?”

She looks at you, then raises her phone, showing you a recent livestream of John. No,
Homelander.

No, John. You hate his moniker.

He smiles charmingly at a reporter, who speaks into her microphone with an excited look on
her face. “I’m here speaking to the one and only Homelander, who just—with the aid of his
fellow supe, A-Train—saved a family of three from a near-fatal car accident.”

She holds the microphone toward him. “Can you tell us what happened here, Homelander?”

You refrain from rolling your eyes at the obnoxious name.

“Yeah, me and my buddy and fellow supe, A-Train,” he nods to the smiling man at his side
who waves to the camera. “Were just doing some patrols of the area—just something we try
to do every now and again across the state to keep our people safe,” he says with a shrug.

“When we saw the driver over there,” he continues, pointing to a man standing near a blue
sedan. “Run a red light here at the intersection. Just—” He purses his lips, shaking his head.
“Carelessness.”

He sighs, continuing on. “But, thankfully, A-Train and I were able to step in and rush the
injured parties: a mom, dad, and their sweet little girl, to the nearest hospital. I mean, to wait
for an ambulance…there’s no telling what might’ve happened. What precious lives might’ve
been lost.”

The camera pans back to the reporter. “What would we ever do without you—either of you?
We are all so lucky to have heros like the two of you—like the Seven—saving and protecting
America every day.”

The camera returns to John who shakes his head, waving his hand. “No, it’s the people of this
great nation who are the real heros. We’re just here to do our jobs and use the gifts God gave
us to protect and save our fellow man.”
“And save them you did,” the reporter replies, continuing on before Emma locks her phone,
looking at you, resting her chin atop both her fists.

“I want him so bad,” she mumbles with a smile.

You grin, shaking your head—sweating nervously.

She’s loved the man for as long as you can remember. Used to have a poster of him—ok,
multiple posters—stuck to her bedrooms walls growing up. And she’s seen all of his movies
probably an unhealthy amount of times.

If she had any idea that he’d had his head shoved between your thighs just a few nights ago—
that you know his real name, his childhood story—the real one—that you’ve had him in your
bed, crying in your arms, sitting at your dining table as the two of you eat together…that he’s
called himself ‘your man’ more than once now… You’re pretty sure she’d pop a blood vessel,
grill you relentlessly on everything, and then never forgive you.

You tell her everything, but this…you can’t.

Honestly, you wonder if she’d even believe you if you tried, anyway.

“What do you think he’s like in bed?”

Your head shoots up. “What?”

She grins. “Not like you want to know how many times I’ve thought about it, but…he’s like
the American Dream, right? I mean, he’s definitely my American wet dream.”

You snort.

She continues. “So do you think he’s vanilla, then? Only missionary? Or…oh, I bet he loves
creampies. He seems like he could be the type to have a breeding kink. Nuclear family and
all.”

You lay your head down. “I don’t want to know.”

You know he’s incredibly good at oral, if nothing else. And he’s a boob man. He’d spent the
entire night with his face resting between both of yours.

And he really loves to cuddle. He’d held you like a human-sized teddy bear all night. But,
you suppose it makes sense: being desperate for affection. Every time you’d thought today
about what he’d told you last night, your heart had broken all over again. You’d actually had
to hide yourself away in a restroom today between classes just to cry.

Maybe your period is going to start soon…

God, who would’ve thought in a million years that you would feel sorry for Homelander? But
you don’t see him as that now. Not when you’re alone together. Now he’s just…John.
Honestly, in a million years you would’ve never imagined letting him into your bed. Holding
him. Calling him baby. Or sweetheart…

“Just guess,” she insists.

You groan in irritation, raising your head. “Maybe he’s a boob man.”

She rolls her eyes toward the ceiling, thinking for a moment before looking back to you while
nodding. “Yeah, I can see that.”

You shake your head while smiling. “I have to get this paper done.”

You don’t bother keeping your balcony doors closed this evening. Not while you’re up and
idly watching TV, at least.

Watch, you think, the one night you leave them open—as a reluctant invitation—will be the
night he finally decides he’s grown bored of coming here and he never returns.

You’re entirely okay with that possibility.

You’d do anything to pass him off onto Emma. Then again…no, you wouldn’t. You most
certainly don’t like the idea of him doing to her what he did just a couple nights ago to you on
your kitchen counter.

But, she also wouldn’t have even thought about fighting back like you had. She would’ve
been completely willing.

You wonder if that would’ve made him all the more angry. Maybe that’s the part that turns
him on the most—resistance; a fight.

You jolt when you hear a soft thump to your left. You, begrudgingly, turn your head in that
direction, met with the sight of the one and only Captain Asshole.

You feel guilty after thinking that, though. Especially after last night.

He’s just…emotionally stunted. And you’re not even sure at what specific age. Maybe there
isn’t a particular one, because for his entire adolescent life…he’d been locked in that room
with no one and nothing to interact with.

Tears sting your eyes.

He steps over the threshold, and you merely gaze up at him.

You’re not offering to willingly make him dinner like some trained pet. Not that you feel like
it to begin with. You’ve already eaten. He can fly down to the local McDonald’s and pick up
a Big Mac if he’s hungry.

Fly down.
He can fly.

What an insane thing to be able to do.

But also fantastical and amazing.

You wish you could do that.

He slips off his boots, setting them beside the door, before padding over, seating himself
heavily beside you.

You flip the channel to some trivia game-show then.

“You ever seen any of my movies?” He asks.

You roll your head to the side, staring at him. “What do you think?”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms, looking at the TV. “So, you’ve never had a favorite
supe?”

You face forward again as well. “Not really, no.”

“Never had so much as a poster of me?”

You shake your head.

He smirks. “Maybe I should gift you a Homelander pack of panties.”

You look at him with a raised brow.

“Of course they sell those,” you say with a shake of your head.

He leans over you, sliding a hand up your thigh. “I could be with you all day long that way.
Right between your legs.”

You shake your head yet again, but in disapproval. Even if your lip twitches in mild
amusement.

He leans back again. “I’d like a glass of milk.”

You huff quietly—the playful moment clearly over—and stand.

Once you’ve given him his requested drink, he takes a brief sip, then speaks before you seat
yourself once again.

“Well, you’ve gotten to see me undressed. I think we should make things even.”

You still—the hairs raising on the back of your neck—while you simply stand and stare at
him.
“C’mon,” he says, motioning with his hand, taking another drink. “Strip.”

“You’ve already seen me without…bottoms—”

“So now I get to see the other half.”

The part of you he’s most interested in, he thinks.

You cross your arms, frowning, heartrate slowly beginning to climb.

His eyes go red and you jump slightly, arms falling to your sides in surprise.

Shades of blue return to you then, and he smiles sweetly, which serves only to make your
stomach turn.

“I’m waiting.”

With trembling hands and stinging eyes, you grip the hem of your shirt, slowly tugging it up
and over your head. You bunch it up, then hold it shyly against your middle.

“All of it,” he states, taking a long drink, licking his lips as he looks you over.

Your chin wobbles. “I don’t want—”

He sighs, leaning forward. “It’s just us. So slip it off, then climb into my lap.”

You waver.

“I’m not going to rape you. If I wanted you on your back with your legs spread, you would
be.”

Not that it’s an unappealing idea to him.

You reach behind you, undoing your bra one clasp at a time. You slip it from your shoulders,
tossing it onto the coffee table, then clasp your hands over your naked breasts.

He makes a beckoning motion with his index finger, so you step forward. Hesitantly.

“Straddle my lap.”

You swallow thickly, then do so, settling bent legs on either side of him, resting back on your
calves.

He glances to your hands, then into your eyes with a raised brow.

You’d been right in what you’d told Emma that morning—your assumption about him having
an appreciation for breasts—apparently.

You lower your arms, resting your hands in your lap, and he abruptly wraps his own around
you, leaning forward, taking a nipple into his mouth.
Your eyes widen in shock, your body growing warm all over as he begins to gently suck, his
eyes fluttering closed while he moans quietly in the back of his throat.

You, meanwhile, remain still and silent, unsure what the hell to do with yourself.

He releases your breast for a moment, taking a drink of milk, then immediately dives back in.

The TV plays softly in the background, so you choose to instead focus on mentally
participating in answering trivial questions instead of…this.

Until he leans back, sliding a hand up your back, gripping your neck.

Your eyes meet his.

“Touch my head.”

You slide trembling hands atop his shoulders, lacing your fingers into his blond strands, and
he returns his attentions to your chest.

You gently rub your fingertips against his scalp and he hums in contentment, taking another
sip of milk, then sucking on your other breast.

It’s then that the metaphorical wheels begin to turn.

Constantly switching between taking drinks of milk and sucking on your breasts… Oh good
lord, he has a breast-feeding kink, doesn’t he?

He just grows more and more interesting the more time you spend with him.

And then your heart breaks all over again.

What if it’s not, entirely, a kink? You know it’s at least half one with the feeling of his
erection pressing against your shorts.

He never had a mother. Never had any form of maternal comfort growing up.

Showing up and asking—rather, demanding—dinner, your attention and approval, nearly

threatening you last night after a moment of extreme vulnerability… He’d held you to his
chest the entire night. Like a child does with a toy for comfort when attempting to sleep.

And now…he’s pretending to breast-feed.

You decide on another small experiment—he liked it the other night when you gave him
affectionate touches—and begin to quietly hum a nursery rhyme.

This feels like some fucked-up psychological experiment: you trying to read him and gauge
his reactions to this and that to get an exaction on his true nature. But, in reality, he doesn’t
seem terribly hard to get at.
He goes to switch breasts again and you grow silent. Until he looks up at you, and tells you,
“Keep singing.”

The two of you are lying in bed again with John’s head resting between your breasts as he
takes even, steady breaths.

You run your fingers slowly through his hair, lulling him to sleep.

You’re nearly on the edge of it yourself when he stirs before leaning over you, slowly sliding
his hand up your chest, then along your neck until his large, heavy palm comes to rest atop
the soft, delicate skin.

He stares down at you, and you cup his cheek, brushing your thumb along it.

He smiles gently, tightening his hold, and you swallow nervously, your brows furrowing.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You belong to me now. Do you understand?”

Your eyes flit between his and your heart begins to hammer in fear.

“You understand me,” he continues. “Like no one else has ever bothered to. We’re together
now. Got it?”

He can’t really mean it. Someone like him…he must be expected to carry on with who
Vought and the press choose for him.

“We…we’ve known each other for four days, John. That’s not enough time to—to know how
you feel—”

“It wasn’t a question. I wasn’t asking. You’re mine.”

He presses his lips to yours and a tear slips from the corner of your eye.

He lies back down then, snuggling close to you for comfort. “If I find out you’re seeing
anyone else, you won’t like what happens to him. So, I suggest staying loyal. Not that anyone
else could ever compare to me, anyway. I mean, you should be happy about this—that you’re
the young woman I’ve chosen for myself. It makes you special. Being mine, that is. A rich
superhero. The supe.”

He closes his eyes, softly smiling. “The greatest man in all of America—the world—and I’m
all yours.”

He tightens his hold around you.

“Doesn’t that make you happy?” He asks with a flat, slightly-threatening tone.

Your fingers tremble against his scalp. “What about Maeve?”

He snorts. “She might be my equal—for the most part—but you have your own appeal.
There’s nothing I can give her that she can’t already get on her own. Whereas you should be
grateful I’ve spared you a second glance or thought. That I’ve let you get this close to me.
I’m a gift, really. Come to add interest to your ordinary life.”

A narcissist is what you are, you think.

Does he think, by stressing how special and one-of-a-kind he is, that you’ll…what? Agree?
See how blind you’ve been all these years to have shirked the prospect of idolizing him, and
finally fall on your knees, beginning for his attention?

You already have it.

The roles are reversed here, in truth. He’s the one desperate to have yours.

You know you shouldn’t speak further, but you want to hear his response to you laying the
truth plainly before him. “If I’m so ordinary and you’re so…extraordinary, why bother with
me? What is my ‘appeal’, as you put it?”

He grows quiet, listening to your heart pounding in your chest.

Finally, he curls his fingertips inward against your back. “Go to sleep.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, terrified of him. Of what’s happening to you.

Dear God, why couldn’t you have skipped just one day of class? Or come halfway through
the day instead?

Now… Now you would be paying for it until he chooses to call this sick game quits.
 Chapter 5

One hundred and eighteen people are dead. In an instant. Just…gone. Fallen from the sky.
Innocent people just trying to get from one place to another. Including a mother and her little
girl. Teachers, families, couples…

It’s been everywhere today: on the news, social media, and on the lips of every person you
pass in the halls at your college.

And you feel sick every time you think of the terror they must’ve felt. How…helpless they
were as they probably clung to each other in those final moments, praying for someone—
something—to save them…

You try to push it out of your mind, to the best of your ability, so you might make it through
the rest of the day without bursting into a puddle of tears.

That evening, you pick idly at your dinner as you watch John on your flat screen.

Three minutes. If he’d been three minutes sooner, there at least would’ve been a chance at
saving them.

And then you watch as he actually gets choked up—as tears stream from his bloodshot eyes
—and your own chin wobbles in response.

Please, God, don’t let him blame himself.

He got there as quickly as he could.

While part of you hates him—is terrified of him—for the way he’s been treating you since
first meeting a handful of days ago, you're sure he would’ve practically carried that plane to
safety if it’d still been in the air when he arrived. He has every right to be angry. To be upset.
Because countless lives have now been destroyed, and over a hundred taken through an act of
evil—of terrorism.

At least they’re dead now, too.

You hope that if there is a hell—from whatever religion is it that they prescribed to—that
they’re suffering in it.

You glance down to your barely-touched dinner, then rise to put it away.

Once you’ve brushed your teeth and are ready to lie down for the night, you glance to your
balcony doors, and, most unexpectedly, fill with disappointment when you find the space to
be empty.
Then, you quickly fill with guilt immediately after. How could you expect him to show up
here after the day he’s had? You are the furthest thing from his metaphorical plate—from his
mind.

The real world is calling now, and your time of being a distraction to him is over.

He’s gone, and he’s not—

Just as you step toward the doors to close your curtains is when he lands outside them,
causing you to jump from fright.

And then tears quickly gather in your eyes as you turn the handle.

John turns around slowly, and he gently rests his hands on his hips while shrugging slightly.
“I—”

He shakes his head and glances to his feet. “I tried. I really—if I’d gotten there sooner—”

You throw yourself against his chest and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” you choke out between sobs.

You run your fingertips through his hair and bury your face in his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault,” you whisper. “There is nothing you could’ve done. This is not your
fault.”

He slips an arm beneath your legs, and he carries you back inside.

John currently has one of your nipples in his mouth, and is gently sucking on it for comfort
while you rub his head and keep blankets tucked tightly around him.

You turned quiet white noise on awhile ago to try and lull him to sleep, but every time you
think he might be close to drifting off, he begins sucking again.

Such a strange arrangement this is tonight. And in general, really.

But you won’t tell him no in anything he needs to soothe himself. He’s been through utter
hell today, and he came to you of all people to make it better. To hold and console him.

“Do you think they’ll do it?” You whisper.

He hums in curiosity.

“Let supes into the military,” you explain while resting a palm against the warm skin of his
back.

He releases your breast from his mouth and swallows before replying, wishing you could
lactate. He’d like that tonight. But he instead has to make do with what you have to offer.
At least he has the rest of you to do with as he pleases. Whether you like it or not.

And you’re even stupid enough to buy his sob story about being filled with immeasurable
guilt over not being able to save the day. When, in reality, he doesn’t feel an ounce of it.

Because, really, it may just work out in the long-run for Vought, and get them exactly what
Madelyn has been wanting for months on-end.

He smiles at the thought of her being pleased with him this time. She should’ve been for the
last plane he brought down, but he set things right with those words he fed VNN just a
handful of hours ago.

And now here he lies in your arms, while you coo over him like a loving mother.

He snuggles closer to you, feeling completely content for once.

He could get used to this. But only when he needs it—rather, wants it—of course. He can’t
keep coming over here every night like he has been. Can’t come off as needy.

Even if he feels like he does need it: you, your attention, affection, and maternal comfort and
love.

Finally, he replies. “It’d be ignorant as shit for them not to after what happened today, don’t
you think? I mean, for the military to say that they’d rather have ordinary soldiers on the
frontlines, as opposed to those who can survive a bullet or bombs…”

He shakes his head in indignation. “No different than today. Every day this country fails its
people—people the government is supposed to be working for. Instead, they’re getting them
killed needlessly. So, if us entering the military can save innocent lives, then I’m all for it.”

Your eyes flit between his while you gingerly cup his cheek, and he nuzzles into your touch.
“I know that physically, you can’t be hurt.”

You trail your fingertips up to his temple. “But what about in here?”

You press a kiss to his forehead. “Sweetheart, you have already been through so much
pain because of these people. Going to war…the things you’d see—”

“I can handle it,” he says, cutting you short.

You grow silent for a moment.

“Is this something you want, or something you’ve been told will happen to you if the people
at Vought get their way? Meaning you have no true say.”

He’s not used to this: someone looking out for him. He’s not so stupid as to think that when
Madelyn tells him that all she does is to protect him that she actually means it. She’s just…
telling him what he wants to hear. But, because he’s so desperate for the attention…he’s
willing to pathetically play along.
But with you, it isn’t a sick game. It’s honest. You are.

You ghost your fingertips over his lips, waiting for a response.

Until he decides that he doesn’t much feel up to trying at giving one.

So, instead, he takes your nipple into his mouth again, and he begins to suck.

You sigh quietly, but don’t push the subject. Instead, you gingerly cup the back of his head
and begin to hum a nursery rhyme, so as to lull him, hopefully, to sleep.

When John wakes in the morning, it’s not in your arms, but he’s immediately comforted by
the smell of eggs cooking and the sound of bacon sizzling on the stovetop across the room.
And you hum along quietly to pop music, which plays softly on your little vintage countertop
radio.

Sunlight streams through sheer gossamer curtains a few feet from the bed, and he’s
practically swaddled in blankets, with plenty of soft pillows to keep him comfortable.

He really likes it here with you. It feels like…home. A home he’s never, in all his life—over
forty years—had a chance to have. But this place is just that.

It’s well-decorated, cozy, clean, and warm. Charming. Idyllic, even. Honestly? You deserve
an entire house, he thinks. He’d love to see what you’d come up with in turning it, gradually,
into a home. Maybe into one for the both of you.

You playing the role of his perfect, dutiful little housewife…? He loves the idea. Fucking
adores it. And it’s not like you could ever hope for better, anyway. What woman wouldn’t
want such a life given to her by him of all men? Only an imbecile would refuse it.

Now, he has something to truly think about and consider. Given you continue behaving
yourself for him—continue doing as he says, and being his well-behaved young lady…and
playing mommy to him, which he needs most of all.

“This is nice,” John says after taking a bite of buttered toast, with a smile on his lips.

A smile that you return while gently brushing your foot against his beneath the table.

You’re still wary of him. You’re not so stupid not to be. To be wholly trusting and adoring
toward him when you know what he’s capable of would just make you careless toward your
own safety and well-being.

Maybe you are anyway.

But what choice do you have but to continue entertaining him like this? To continue…
mothering him.

“I’m glad,” you say quietly before taking a drink of orange juice.
He leans back then, and you watch as he looks around your apartment, carefully taking in
every feature and facet.

You shift nervously in your seat, wondering what he’s thinking—why he’s studying the space
so intently all of a sudden.

And then his eyes meet yours again, and you merely look at him shyly from beneath your
lashes while swallowing a forkful of cheesy scrambled eggs.

“I like it here,” he remarks. “It’s so…homey. You’re a good little homemaker.”

You flash him a toothy smile, and he genuinely returns it, enjoying the sight of you so happy.

You like being praised, he notes. You probably have no one to give you regular
encouragement and approval. No one to give you attention.

He likes that you seemingly like having his. And certainly likes that his is the only that you
have.

He doesn’t need to worry about someone else standing in his way—between the two of you.
Between him and what now belongs to him. But, even if such a person existed…it wouldn’t
be for much longer.

“Thank you,” you say while actually blushing. “I’ve worked really hard on it. It’s not much,
but I’ve done my best with what little space and money that I have.”

He takes a sip of milk, then licks his lips. “I can tell. I do wonder, though…”

Your brows furrow when he begins to trail off. “What, baby?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. God, he really fucking loves when you call him that. He
likes when you call him any pet name, in truth. Baby, sweetheart, sweetie… He wishes you’d
call him more. Like, perhaps, your sweet baby boy—or your perfect little boy. Maybe, in
time, you will.

He shrugs, then waves his hand, as if he’s trying to be nonchalant. When, in reality, he wants
you to push him to tell you. Wants you to show interest in what is it that he has to say. Wants
to know that what he thinks matters to you more than anything. Well, that he matters to you
more than anything—not just what he thinks.

You gently set your fork down on your plate, then rest your hands in your lap. “You can tell
me. It’s okay.”

He glances to his right, to where your balcony doors lie. “Just wondering what you might
think about my place at Seven Tower.”

You blanch momentarily as he looks back to you.

He’s about to segue into asking you to come see it, isn’t he? His apartment, that is. You
wouldn’t be surprised if he offers to give you a tour of the entire building, just as an
opportunity to show off. Not just how he, most likely, knows the whole of the place like the
back of his hand, but also so you can witness how everyone there probably bows and scrapes
before him: the face of the Seven. The face of Vought. The face…of the entire country—of
America.

You know he’s waiting for a specific response. An agreeable one. One that will please him.

“What’s it like?” You ask, feigning mild curiosity, even if you couldn’t care less.

It’s probably like every other corporate skyscraper: soulless and without character. Just a
giant advertisement for their brand. A monument to their greed.

He takes a bite of his bacon and chews thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “Guess
you’ll just have to come and see for yourself to find out.”

You proceed to stare at him in response to his, admittedly, predictable answer.

You refrain from shifting in your seat, so as to prevent him from bearing witness one of your
‘tells’ for when you feel uncomfortable.

“Oh. W-when?”

You grab your glass of orange juice and hold it between your hands to try and keep them
steady—to prevent them from shaking from nerves.

“How about today?” He replies, taking another bite of his eggs.

You grip the glass more tightly. “How? I mean—”

“I can fly you up. We’ll just go in through the roof. No need to bother with metal detectors
and what-not.”

You nod slowly.

At least you won’t have to worry, then, about crowds and people snapping pictures of you on
their cellphones. That is the very last thing you desire: obnoxious notoriety, and to have
yourself splashed across the cover of a supermarket tabloid with a question in bold print
asking who Homelander’s new girl is.

And there’s still Emma.

Emma, who you’ve been…somewhat avoiding as of late, strictly from guilt. Guilt that you’re
lying to her by omission. Omitting the fact that you’re carrying on with Homelander, for lack
of a better term, that is.

If she ever finds out, her heart will break in two. You’re dealing with enough right now, such
as the man who sits before you. Adding the loss of your best friend to the list of stressors
upon you might just be more than you can handle.

“Okay,” you finally say in reply.

John watches and trails along behind you as you walk slowly around his apartment, looking it
over.

He suddenly feels like all his nerve endings have been exposed. It’s a similar—if not near-
identical feeling—to how he felt that first night he laid in your arms without a stitch of
clothing on, minus his briefs. But he’s gotten used to it; likes it even: the warmth of your
body against his own in the middle of the night, when it feels like the two of you are all that’s
left in the world.

“So, what do you think?” He asks, eager for your thoughts.

You turn around and ease your head back as you gaze up at him and into irises of blue.

“It…” You trail off.

You don’t want to anger him with your answer, but are also growing tired of lying to spare
his overly-sensitive feelings. It’s exhausting walking this dangerous tightrope every time
you’re together.

If he doesn’t want an unpleasant answer, then maybe he shouldn’t have brought you here in
the first place, and furthermore shouldn’t be asking your opinion on his personal living space.

You nearly flinch when he reaches up and cups your cheek.

You truly detest his suit, including his gloves.

So, you reach up, take his hand in yours, and pull gently against the fingertips of the soft red
material.

He stays quiet as you remove it, and then his other one, before tossing them both onto a
nearby table.

You blink innocently up at him and he smiles.

You fill with relief that he didn’t take offense to the gesture.

God, he is truly exhausting.

He cups your cheek again and brushes his thumb along your soft, flushed skin. “You can be
honest.”

You mentally raise a brow at that. “Did you decorate it, or—”

He purses his lips and shakes his head. “No. Not something I’d ever waste my time with.”

He smirks. “That’s women’s work.”

You do raise a brow then and frown slightly as well, so he grins at your response.
He turns you around and pulls you back against his chest before wrapping his arms around
your neck. “So?”

“Well, it’s very clean, which I like,” you say while resting your hands on his arms.

He snorts. Of course you’d reply with that.

“And?” He pushes, wanting for more.

You sigh. “I hate it. It’s very…empty. Impersonal. It feels like we’re in an American History
museum instead of what’s supposed to be your home. There’s no…personal touches. It feels
far more like Homelander’s living space, and less like my John’s.”

He stills, which you take immediate note of, and you grow cold all over.

You fucked up. Said too much. Stupid, stupid girl.

“Your John,” he whispers.

With your back against his chest, you can’t see the tears shimmering in his eyes at the sweet
sentiment.

Your body loosens and relaxes, and you lean further back against him—your legs now a bit
wobbly-feeling from the sudden onslaught of adrenaline.

“I mean, do you like the way it’s decorated and arranged?”

His mouth tugs into a frown and he shrugs. “I don’t spend much time here, to tell you the
truth.”

You turn around and slide your hands up his chest and into his hair while standing on tiptoes.
“You could always have it redone, sweetie. Hire a decorator, pick some things out and—”

He smiles widely and you shut your mouth while your brows furrow.

“What…?” You ask hesitantly while cocking your head slightly to the side.

He rests his hands against the small of your back, holding you close.

“I could just have you do it for me,” he states while sliding his hands higher, beneath the soft
feminine top you have on.

Your eyes flit between his, waiting for explanation.

“You could come live here,” he explains. “We hire a decorator, like you said, or I just give
you my credit card and let you do as you please to turn this place into a proper home. I foot
the bill while you…y’know, go nuts.”

He…wants to live together?

Oh, no. No, no, no. That is way too big of a step to take, and far too soon.
His attachment issues know no bounds.

There’s a specific word for this level of it, isn’t there? Co…something. Codependency, yes!
And now he’s made you the subject of his sick version of it. You wonder how many have
come before you—have failed and disappointed him—then disappeared, per Vought, so he
can inevitably find another to take their place.

Or, maybe you’re the first.

Who knows?

But if you are…why?

He never did answer that question, did he? Why you, that is.

You don’t think you should force that answer out of him right now, though.

“Baby, that is…a huge step. And I don’t think that…after only knowing each other for little
over a week, for us to…take that leap—”

The light slowly drains from his eyes, and his smile disappears.

You swallow thickly while your heart jumps into your throat.

“What? You don’t want to be here? Don’t want me around?”

You jump into damage-control mode. “Of course I do, baby. But… I have less than two
months left in school before I get my diploma. I’m about to be loaded down with finals. And
there’s work, too. Just…to move in the middle of it all…”

You cup the back of his head and smile warmly, desperate to keep him from getting angry.
Terrified of what will happen to you if you don’t succeed.

“How about this, sweetheart: we can compromise, maybe, if you like? You could pack a bag:
clothes, toiletries, books and movies—I’ll even help you. Just…whatever you like. And you
bring it all back to my apartment. I’ll clean out one of the drawers in my dresser for you, and
some space in my closet, a spot in my bathroom—whatever you need—and you can continue
staying there, just like you’ve been. But this way, it’ll feel more like your home, too. I mean,
you like it better there, right? You said that you do.”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek, then gaze warmly into his eyes as you wait for—you
desperately fucking hope—a positive response.

He considers for a moment—you note how he grinds his jaw while in thought—and then he
exhales while nodding. “Alright. Fine. But only until you’ve graduated. Right?”

You ignore the feeling of fear that overtakes you at his insistence. “Of course. I’ll just have a
lot less on my plate then, sweetie. And it’ll be good to wait. Because it’ll give us more time
to get to know one another. And you to have an opportunity to make sure that that’s what you
truly want: me living here. Because I’d hate to…to just move in, and you decide a week or
two later that you’ve made a huge mistake, and I have no apartment to go back to because I
gave it up, you know?”

He nods his head from side to side in understanding. “Okay. I’ll pack a bag or two, and I’ll
just continue coming to you every night.”

He smirks while leaning down and cupping your face between his hands—the image of him
crushing your head between them flits briefly through your mind—and he presses a kiss to
your lips.

“Besides, I love seeing you comfortable and in your element, anyway. And it’s nice having
home-cooked meals so often.”

He grabs one of your ass cheeks, and your eyes widen in surprise. “And we don’t have to
worry about the lemmings here at Vought up both our asses when we’re being intimate and
when you’re…y’know, looking after me.”

You nod. “That’s all I want: privacy. And for me to have you all to myself.”

You hope he likes that last bit… You only tacked it on for his benefit.

When you feel his erection suddenly pressing against your stomach—hard and firm—you
have confirmation that he does.

And then he presses his lips to yours once more.

Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!