Homelander Fanfiction - Tumblr Posts

Importance

a/n i don't even feel the need to justify my taste in evil men anymore lmao, here's a drabble as i try to figure homelander's 'voice' :))

Summary: Homelander begins to reflect on your sort of friendship when you come over to watch a scary movie.

Warnings/info: me writing for a character for the first time so pls be nice

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Humanity's connection to fear has always been a subject of fleeting interest to him, a concept that's only occasionally managed to become more than a shift of hormones and heart rate.

Now, though, with your legs pulled beneath you on his couch, body angled towards him, yet eyes still glued to the screen, Homelander can't believe he's never given this kind of adrenaline a second thought.

"You okay?"

The question seems to bring you back, your head turning towards him. "Yeah." What the response lacks in certainty, it makes up for in determination. He can see it in your soft nod, in the way your fingers press into your knees.

The nerves you're doing your very best to hide are so different from your usual demeanor. An investigative journalist who's always running headfirst into danger, who never lets fear of retaliation get in the way of your writing, can't get through a scary movie. It's such a prevalent dichotomy, Homelander has to work at keeping himself neutral, at remaining focused on what's in front of--

"Stop," you mumble, the word far from harsh.

He lifts a shoulder in a partial shrug without removing his arm from the back of the couch. "Stop what?"

You tilt your chin downwards, your lips pulled into the start of a pout as you attempt a glare. The expression is so particularly you, it briefly seizes some remote, unnamed aspect of his being that lives deep inside of his chest. "Stop making fun of me--I told you, horror movies make me so jumpy, none of my other friends will watch them with me anymore."

Other friends. The reminder of the others that get to be recipients of your kind smiles and reassuring glances is usually enough to taint his mood, but there's a warmth to the phrase that redeems the sentiment entirely. He's more than a friend, he's the only one that's here for you.

Homelander straightens slightly, arm shifting forward until his fingertips are against your shoulder. For the briefest second, there's an increase in your general tension, a stillness that doesn't suit you. The implication of tension digs at him--he's been this close to you before, closer even.

Before the thought of rejection can fully latch onto him, you're easing, spine relaxing against the couch's cushioning. The new position is enough encouragement for him to continue, his palm coming to rest against the fabric of your shirt, the loose collar letting the side of his hand feel the warmth of your bare collarbone.

He remains steady, leaning into what he knows as he offers you one of his more subtle, yet openly heroic smiles. It's the kind of look he'd use to comfort an almost-victim, the gentle curve of his lips a silent promise. I'm here. You're okay now.

You watch him in that way of yours--eyebrows drawn together and eyes bright yet not exactly admiring in the way that he's accustomed to. His inability to understand that particular look is what drew him to you in the first place.

"I'm not making fun of you," he says, voice leaving no room for argument, "I'm just making sure you're okay. It's why you wanted to watch this with me, right?"

It's not so much an exaggeration as it is a stretching of context. You had mentioned wanting to watch the movie, but not loving the idea of watching it by yourself. You hadn't meant anything by mentioning it during your coffee shop catch up, you never do. Your words are usually free of both probing and placating subtext.

"I wanted to watch this with you because we're friends." There's a genuineness to the correction that jabs at him. He has no response, but you don't seem to mind the silence.

A high pitched scream and a flash of color has your attention drifting towards the screen. Your adrenaline spikes, a fact you attempt to dismiss by leaning into his touch. "It's nice of you to check in, though."

The acceptance leaves him feeling a little warmer than he did a moment ago. You have a way of doing that. "It's what I'm here for."

You look away from the screen, the corner of your mouth tugging itself upwards. "All in a day's work for America's favorite hero."

"This is top priority."

You let out a breath that feels like more of a laugh. "I feel important."

The movie steals your focus, a fact that a part of Homelander is grateful for. You're too distracted to think of what contemplating your value might do to him. He swallows, a pointed dismissal of the uncomfortable feelings probing at his chest.

You move slowly, legs straightening and feet finding the floor. Before Homelander can overthink the changes, you lean towards him, your head coming to rest against his shoulder.

When You Loved Me

1,209 words || Fluff, Spoilers for Season 4 Episode 4, Hurt/Comfort, GN Reader, Doctor Reader, Happy Ending, Childhood Trauma ||

Inspired by the idea that at least one doctor would have formed an attachment.

Thank you to @bisexualhomelander for being my beta

They're nearly all dead, there's just one loose end that Homelander needs to tie up.

So he stands outside the unassuming house, ready to cross the final name off his list, which he found in an old abandoned file documenting his ‘development’.

It was a stroke of luck that he found you - it seemed as if Vogelbaum scrubbed you from all official records.

Determined to finish what he's started, he knocks on your door and waits impatiently, ready to strike you down where you stand.

“I’m coming!”

He freezes, his entire body tensing up as your voice unlocks memories from his time in the lab, ones buried deep somewhere at the back of his mind.

A frightened and hurt little boy being held, being comforted after the incinerator and the other horrible forms of torture he was subjected to.

“Shhh, it's okay, you're okay. I'm here. Shall we read another story?”

The door slowly opens and there you are. 

Now that he's seen your face, the memories are more vivid. There’s still that kindness in your eyes, the one he saw every night before he went to sleep. 

At least, for a few months before you disappeared.

“Hello, John.” Your smile is still as warm as he remembers. “My, how you’ve grown. Come in, come in!”

With trepidation, he slowly enters, unsure of what he’ll find. It’s homely, filled with curiosities and everything he’s ever associated with a true American home. As he follows you into your living room, he notices some of the pictures on the wall with you and your former colleagues at Vought, some of whom he’s already killed.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“A glass of milk would be nice,” he replies, trying his best to smile while conflicting thoughts swirl in his mind.

He was so convinced that you were like the others that had you not spoken, he would have killed you the moment you opened the door.

“Well take a seat, I’ll be right back.”

He takes a seat on your couch, hands in his lap, looking around the room again. That’s when he notices the mantelpiece, covered in photos and newspaper clippings, all in ornate frames.

Not of your family - of him. They’re all of him.

Taking pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece is a picture from several years ago.

“Don't worry John, it's just a camera. All I'm going to do is take a picture of just the two of us. I promise it won't hurt.”

He's sat on your lap, your arms around him, holding him tightly, protectively, a smile on your face.

He’s smiling too. He’s happy. He’s with you.

They took you from me.

“Here we go,” your return snaps him back to reality, his eyes softening as he notices the glass of milk in your hand and a plate of cookies in your other, settling it down on the coffee table in front of him.

It’s such a sweet gesture.

You take a seat in a nearby armchair, “It’s so wonderful to see you again.”

After all these years, you’re still this beacon of absolute kindness.

“Do I call you John or Homelander?”

“John.”

How did I forget how lovingly you said my name? How did I forget you?

“I’m so proud of you, you’ve done so well. And look at you, you’re The Homelander! Leader of the Seven!”

His lower lip quivers, trying to keep himself together but it’s proving harder. Your praise comes from a place of pure love, something he’s never experienced or at least, he can’t remember experiencing.

“I see you’ve noticed the mantel. I know I must seem mad but I’ve been following your progress.”

You cared about me, you care about me, it’s all genuine.

“You were so young when I last saw you, with that lovely little smile.”

You reach out to take his hand but he pulls away, only so he can take off his glove. It looks so small in his, he knows if he squeezes just a little, all your bones would be crushed to dust.

But he won't.

“The things we did. Oh John, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I didn’t do anything to save you. I should've stood up to Vogelbaum, I should've protected you."

Saved him, protected him - the regret is written all over your face.

They regretted their actions too, only after he reminded them. Then they apologised but it was too late for them, maybe it’s still too late for you. 

He squeezes your hand, trying to comfort you. 

“You know, I think about you every day. I wanted to reach out but I figured Vogelbaum would have any attempt at contact blocked, especially from me. All because I chose to be human.”

Human. They were human too and they tortured me.

It’s clear that is a sore subject for you, nowhere near as painful for him but the fact it makes you sad somehow makes him feel better. It shows that you cared.

“They fired me for ‘interfering with the experiment’ but how could I not?! You were scared, you were crying and they left you all alone in that horrid room.”

The bad room.

“I couldn’t just leave you there to cry yourself to sleep. So I volunteered to take the night shift. Do you remember… remember the first time?”

His jaw tightens, desperately searching his mind for even the tiniest hint of a recollection yet all of the torment he was subjected to has buried everything deeper. 

“You were terrified that I was going to hurt you, your eyes glowed red and you trembled. I knew you didn’t want to hurt me but you would if you had to.”

You understood.

“It took you a few minutes to realise I wouldn’t hurt you - I think it was the books under my arm that convinced you I wasn’t a threat.”

A single flash - “Would you like me to read you a story?”

“I sat down on your bed, you sat on my lap and we read story, after story, after story. Until you didn’t want me to read anymore, you just wanted me to hold you. So I did exactly that.”

He desperately wants to remember, he needs to remember. 

“Then Vogelbaum found out, I must have forgotten to turn the cameras off and I was removed from the project. I should’ve fought for you, I should’ve marched right back in there and demanded to take you. But I didn’t.”

But you’re here now. They’re all dead but you’re still here.

“I forgive you,” it slips out of his mouth, however, this time it’s heartfelt. He means this without malice.

You’re the parent he’d always wanted, living in a house he always dreamed of, serving him milk and cookies like he’s still that young boy you cared about.

Maybe it wasn’t too late, maybe there could be something here, born from the ashes of your past sin and his trauma.

Sniffling, you wipe away your tears, tightening your grip on his hand. When the smile returns, it’s affectionate and all for him.

“I want you to know, John. I need you to know, that you’ll always have a place here and in my heart."