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adamdrivershairfluffer · 21 days ago

Note

I’m sorry if it’s vague, but could I request Kylo saying the cliche “who did this to you?” line to a soft reader?

Unauthorized Contact

Kylo Ren x Fem!reader Word Count: 4.61k Authors note: I eat UP cliche lines, you guys have no idea. I meant to make this way shorter but the story just kept going! Hope you all enjoy. Please send in more Kylo/Ben requests! I don't know how soft the reader actually is, she came off as a little more independent, so I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you were looking for, anon!

It was so stupid.

Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up, but you did.

Actually… No. You should have brought it up, and you’re glad you did. Why should you need to stay silent just to keep things smooth with him? Why does he get to brush you off like you didn’t matter? It absolutely mattered. Officers don’t just hand out compliments or promotions. Especially not Admiral Elar. It mattered to you. You earned that praise

And his response told you exactly what you needed to know. You watched Kylo look right through it like it didn’t mean anything. You called him out for it and what did he say? ‘Maybe you shouldn’t care so much what I think.’

He couldn't be serious. As if he hadn’t just kissed you in the bed, pulled you into the low light of his quarters and told you about his day, voice quiet for once, lips trailing across your bare shoulder.

The fight wasn’t about that, not really, but it was. You asked why he wouldn't just sway something. Acknowledge it, even a little. But he just threw it back like it was your problem for caring. And he knew he didn't mean it. You saw it in his face the second he said it, but it was already out there. So you left. And he didn’t follow.

It wasn’t a great day for you. Especially since you became a target that day, as well. Getting jumped in the west hall training wing was just a cherry on top. Three of them, and it just had to be Tavik Trenn. He wasn’t just some recruit, he was just as good as you. At least he thought so. You sparred him, worked the same simulation drills and assignments, and he’s watched you get promoted ahead of him. Twice.

“Private lessons with the Commander, huh?” Tavik said, coming to you with the insinuation that you didn’t deserve what you had. The private training, the promotion he wanted… He said he was just evening things out. You fought back pretty well, considering it was an unfair advantage. You got one of them right in the face, another in the knee cap. One hit Tavik so hard he staggered onto the floor. But there were three of them, and only one of you.

It was never supposed to be public, whatever was happening between you and Kylo. There were unspoken rules about this sort of thing. Keep it quiet, keep it clean, no one needed to know. But somewhere between the glances and pauses when he corrected your form, people started talking. That kind of talk is never contained. It spreads and twists everything you’ve worked for into something cheap and unearned.

You came back to your quarters after a quick stop at the medbay—you had to use your personal ration clearance to authorize an extra dose. You didn’t want to report it, and knew what you had left in your cycle wasn’t enough for the beating you just took.

Now, you’re sitting stiffly in your desk chair, facing the wall, trying to find a position to breathe where pain didn't start a fire in your body. The light from the monitor has dimmed into an idle flicker.

Then, three harsh BANGS came from the door behind you. You jump and your shoulders pull tight.

“Open the door.” Kylo’s deep voice demands from the other side. You breathe in slow, lips pressed into a line. “I know you’re in there.”

You don’t answer.

He kept going. “It wasn’t a big enough fight for this. I expected you to come back.”

You roll your eyes. He expected you to come back? He can’t be serious.

He knocks again, quicker, more insistent. He doesn't say anything for a while until he starts calling your name out, pounding on the door a little harsher.

“I swear on the Force,” you hear his breath through the door, “if someone is int here with you—”

“There’s no one in here.” It came out bitterly and before you could convince yourself not to.

A long silence followed.

“Open. The door.” And you stay quiet, willing yourself not to speak again. You can outlast him, you know you can. “I’m not leaving.” He says. He means it. “I will override this panel.”

Bastard would do it. Your eyes flicker to the door…If someone sees him standing outside your quarters this late, hammering at your door, there'll be more whispers. Worse ones.

You stand slowly and a blanket wrapped around your shoulder slides off the chair as you move. Pain sparks through your ribs, they ache even as you lift your arm to unlock it with a tap. The door had just clicked and he was already moving inside. Shoulders set, no cloak, no mask, eyes darker than you've seen in days. He steps into your space like the fight never happened, like he never left you and your words hanging out to dry.

You turn your back before you can get a good look. You return to your desk, sit as he closes the door behind him. Say nothing. The room shrinks around you.

“You’re not gonna face me?” He speaks. You don’t. “Why.”

“I don’t feel like fighting.” You respond so quietly, flatly.

“Well,” his breath drags, “I’m here now.”

You laugh under your breath. “You came to my door.”

You hear him step closer, back still turned. “I said something… stupid.” You don’t give him much reaction. “I didn’t mean it.” You don’t respond, the silence sits for a beat too long to feel comfortable. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you were soft, Kylo. I just wanted to share something good about my day. A promotion I’ve been working hard for.”

“You know that’s not it.” You only shrug at his words, shoulders stiff, but you didn’t let the pain show in your movement. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Then you shouldn’t have said it.” You grit, looking at his reflection in the metal of the small lamp in front of you.

He took a step closer. “Your whole body’s tense. Look at me.” He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can’t come up with anything to say. “You’ve been crying, haven’t you?”

You scoff. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I wouldn’t.” He sounded offended. He tries again, one shuffle closer. “Something else is wrong. Is it me?” You stiffen “Talk to me.”

“Stop.”

He doesn’t. “Tell me what happened.”

“Just go back to your quarters.” You grit your teeth. He’s closing in on you. You have nowhere to go.

“Not until you look at me. You’re avoiding something.”

“I’m avoiding you.” And you spin around before you could stop. You stand too fast and your hip knocks the edge of the desk, you wince. That’s all it takes. His expression shatters the second he sees your face. Your jaw, swollen and bruised, the yellow and purple curve beneath your eye, even the way you’re holding yourself up. He goes completely still.

“What the fuck.” He closes the space in two steps. “Who did that. Who did this to you?”

You shut your eyes, cursing at yourself and sighing. His eyes rake over you. Your mouth to your temple, your hand now over your ribs. The bruise that disappeared under your shirt collar.

His voice is low. Dangerous. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“It looks like you’d kill them.”

“You’re right.” He breathes. “I will. I’ll kill them. Tell me.” Your arms folded across your body as if that could protect you from the way he’s looking you up and down. Like he was ready to burn the ship down for an answer. “Tell me now.”

You bite your cheek. “It doesn’t matter—”

“It absolutely matters—”

“Son of a…” You grumble to yourself. He is so goddamn stubborn. You knew him too well to assume he’d just let this go. “Fine. Tavik. And two of his pets that follow him around everywhere.” You wave a hand as if it was nothing, a small annoyance in your day.

His nostrils flare. His mouth opens, then closes. He steps back like his feet were ready to head toward the door. You can see it building behind his eyes. The switch from man to monster. The fury crawled up his spine and sat on his shoulders. He turns to you only for a moment, breathing through a locked jaw.

“I’m handling it.” You say quickly, too dismissive for his liking. “I got some good hits in.”

“Not enough.” His gaze lands on you again, eyes dragging over every mark, cataloging the damage. His voice is lower now, barely holding steady. “He did all of this to you.”

“Kylo. I’m fine.” It goes in one ear and out the other.

He steps forward again, this time he reaches you, fingers grazing your jaw like a feather, pausing right before a nasty bruise with angry blood vessels veining on your skin. You feel exposed, especially at how quiet he is. There’s a pulse behind his eyes, a pressure telling you that he doesn’t trust what might come out of his mouth if he says what he’s really thinking.

His fingers twitch at his sides as he slowly reaches a hand to your shirt collar, pulling it back with a hooked finger. The bruise runs lower than expected. A handprint blooming from shoulder to collarbone, branching toward your sternum. He follows the shape with his eyes and you notice how stiff he is. His breath is coming too controlled, panting almost. He gently shifts the fabric again only to see that the mark doesn't end there. The purple gives way to something darker, smeared down your chest like ink. And still, lower.

His voice is hoarse. “Take it off.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“I need to see.”

You know how bad it is under there. Once they had you on the ground, there wasn’t much you could do to fight back. “No.”

He looks at you, sharp and expectantly. “Take it off. I’ve seen you naked.”

“Not the same thing.”

He opens his mouth, but stops himself. Instead, he steps back a pace, turns away. His hand in a tight fist at his side, unclenching and reclenching. He is coiling into himself. Almost to himself, he begins to mutter. “I’ll break his jaw. I’ll rip out his fucking spine. I’ll take him apart until he begs—”

“Stop.” You reach out and grab his wrist before you can even think, and he freezes. “Don’t. Please.”

He turns his head just enough to see you in his periphery, so tense you think it might even hurt. “You’re asking me not to?”

“Yes.”

“You’re asking me not to.” He confirms in disbelief. “Why?”

He waits for your answer. You pause, not wanting to say it and have it be real. But it is real. “They did this because of you. Because of… us. Whatever this is.” He turns the rest of the way, brows knit and confused. “They said I only got my promotion because of you. That I didn’t earn it. They wanted to even out the playing field."

His expression fractures. You can see it in his face, exactly how much he’s thinking and how little he’s managing to control it all.

He steps back toward you. “Take it off.”

You hesitate. “Ky—”

“I just…” His voice breaks, “I just want to see. Please.” He speaks your name like it hurts.

You hold his gaze for a second longer. Then, you lift the hem of his shirt, the fabric pulls stiffly over your bones and stomach. You wince and he doesn’t hesitate to help you, watching your grimace all tense, then pinning his eyes as the skin is revealed, dropping the shirt with a loose grip.

There’s more bruising than you even realized. A boot mark, faint but clear, pressed into the side of your waist. Finger bruises blooming dark blue down your hip. A few cuts you couldn’t quite reach to clean, and they sting when you sleep. Ben stares, face unreadable, but you’re sure his mind is loud. His brows furrow as he steps forward, slowly, eyes dragging down your side. He lifts a hand to graze the skin with two fingers, just beside the worst of it on the edges of your bruises.

His voice is clipped. “Did they do this with their hands?” You nodded once. “And that?” He gestures to the boot print.

You nodded again. “Yep.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. He opens them again, they're darker than before.

“I’ll find him.”

“Seriously, come on—”

“I’ll find all three of them. I’ll make them feel what this feels like. I’ll snap every finger—”

“Kylo.” Your voice is firmer now. His chest rises, then falls, then rises again. Faster. Shallower. Like he can’t get a full breath in. His hand is now resting on your waist, fingers slightly curled around the hem of your pants. “You’ll make it worse. If you go after Tavik, it proves them right.”

He stares at you for a long moment. “You earned it. Every bit of it. You’re better than him, you always were.” He steps in front of you, eyes trailing across your marks, finally meeting your tired eyes. His voice is rough now, it sounds like it's being pulled from his throat. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was just… angry. About things that don’t matter. About being seen with you, not being with you.”

Your shirt is off and your ribs are bruised in streaks of yellow and violet and the boot shaped outline is carved into your side like they branded you… and Kylo is looking at you like he’s the one who’s hurt. Like if he looks away, for even a second, he might do something irrevocable. He shouldn’t be looking at you like this. He never has. Not when your voice is so quiet and unsure of itself for once.

You stare at the man who showed up at your door with squared shoulders and a heavy fist and it pains you, because you didn't expect him to melt into this. You knew he was protective—possessive might be a better word for it… But this was something different. Tender maybe. Ragged. Almost like he didn't even know he had it in him. He’s the last person you should've let close. He’s powerful and dangerous. A ticking weapon. Your superior.

And you like him. You really like him.

The thought is too stubborn to bite back, and maybe you always did feel something for him. Maybe somewhere in the sparring and the whispered corrections into your ear, showing you with his own strong arms wrapping around you, something shifted. Maybe you’ve been protecting yourself from him for so long you didn’t notice he was trying to protect you too.

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, a little desperate now. “Nothing? I can’t do nothing.”

You hesitate, words sitting in your throat like they didn't want to come out. “You could just… stay.” His eyes flicker and you wished you could take them back when he looked startled. He wasn't prepared for that. “Stay with me.” You double down. “Just for a bit. If you want to.”

He softens, you see it in his shoulders when they drop. He steps closer and presses his hand to your waist again. Not examine you this time.

“Okay.” He nods and eases you toward the bed.

He squeezes himself between you and the wall, long legs tucked awkwardly, folding in on himself just to hold you. You lean back against his chest, arms wrapped around your stomach, careful not to couch the bruises too much.

“You didn't deserve this.” He murmurs. “I should've known.”

You breath evens out slowly, your hand tightens faintly over his. He listens to you breathe, shallow and strained.

He thinks of Tavik Trenn. Thinks of those little smug glances, the bitterness in every training exercise, the jealousy he would give you in his congratulations after you performed well. Thinks of him stepping on you. Your body curving inward, trying to protect yourself on some cold floor. How you never cried.

His vision’s gone back to red. If only he hadn't been so stupid, so proud. If he had just told you you deserved the praise.

He looked down at you, mouth parted faintly, lashes touching your cheek, the crease in your brow relaxed now. You’re warm. You fell into rest so quickly, breathing against him like you were meant to. Maybe he was wrong about all of it—hiding you, keeping you as a distant secret. Pretending he didn’t think of you constantly, counting down the next sparring session like some kid with a crush.

Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.

You blink and rustle awake, head shifting slightly. “Sorry,” You grumble. “Didn’t mean to trap you here. I know it’s small.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t need to apologize. I'm comfortable.” Your eyes are foggy with sleep. He brushes a strand of hair back, letting his hand just cradle your head.

Your fingers trace his chest. “You know, you don’t have to stay.”

“I know. I want to.” He digs his body into his spot, gently holding you a little closer. His voice is quiet and serious. “I’m in it. I mean it. I don’t want to keep pretending that we’re just messing around or sleeping together. I want to be with you.”

Your lips part slightly and he watches you smile and hide it immediately in his chest. Just as stubborn as him. So cute. He bit one back himself, putting his mouth against the top of your head.

“Get some sleep, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

He fell asleep just after you did.

The night went quickly and he woke up with less layers than he had on when he got here. He must have tossed his tunic off mid sleep. It’s so damn stuffy in here. The circulation in this wing is weak. The room is dim, there’s no sound of boots outside. You’re curled into his side, face buried just under his collarbone, nose brushing a warm huff against his skin. One arm flung over his stomach, legs tangled in his, thigh tucked across his hips.

Kylo stares at the ceiling. He hasn’t slept this stiff in years. The mattress beneath him might as well not be there at all. He can feel the cold bleeding up through the base of it through the wafer-thin padding and a blanket that’s barely enough to sketch across the both of you. He’s seen crates with more cushioning. Then he looks at you, almost comfortable in your spot.

Gods, you really sleep here every night. He couldn’t believe this is what you come back to and never said one word about it. His bed has room to stretch, sprawl. But even there, you end up wound around him like this. But you could.

You shift slightly against him, sleepy eyes opening to look at him. “Kylo.” You grumble, putting your face back into the heat of his shoulder. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed.” He mutters, but turns his head to face the ceiling once again.

You smile faintly, eyes closed again as you trail a tired kiss to the skin on his chin. Then one to the corner of his mouth. Then, a real one. You lean in and catch him fully. He kisses you back slower and deeper, hand tightening against your waist.

You pull back and try to sit up, but barely make it halfway before you wince hard.

“You have painkillers?” He acts fast, already shifting to support your back.

“Top drawer.” And he reaches over you without a word, grabbing the bottle and helping you sit up more carefully. You groan through your teeth, arm trembling. “It’s better than yesterday.” He doesn’t look convinced and watches as you dry swallow two large pills. “I need to get dressed. I have sparring drills.”

“The hell you do.” He scoffs, rubbing a kink out of his neck.

“I only got cleared for two days. Medical gave me—”

“I’ll handle it.” He stated like it wasn’t even worth a second thought. “You’re not going back to that training room until you can hold your head up by yourself, at least.”

You want to argue. You feel the push back sitting in your throat, but you swallow it down. He’s probably right. There’s no way you could spar, much less make it out of your quarters without holding onto the wall.

Kylo sits at the edge of the bed, fingers fiddling with a hole on the blanket, eyes focused on the threads with a strange concentration. “I want to tell people we’re together.”

You almost choke on your tongue. “Kylo—no.”

“No one can lay a finger on you if they know I’ll kill them.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I want to take care of you, too.”

“Ky,” You need him to think this through. This isn’t a small thing he can decide in just one morning. “They’ll think everything I’ve done is because of you. That I didn’t actually earn any of it and I’m just some officer in your bed.”

He shakes his head, shuffling close to you, supporting himself on his arms and towers above you. “Then I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly how hard you earned it.” He leans down, kisses your lips softly. You run your fingernails down his forearm. You might be blushing, but the palette of colors on your face surely hides it enough. You just smirk. “I’m going to break every bone in their fingers. They’ll have to crawl back to their bunks.”

You groan, half exasperated, half flattered. “Gods, you’re sadistic.”

He brushes his lips over your cheek. “I’m being romantic.”

“Romantic would be… I dunno, writing me a letter, or something.”

“Same thing.” He kisses your jaw and sits up on his knees.

You reach for his hand and hold it, feeling the callouses on your fingertips. “Don’t do anything stupid.” He huffs, and there's a moment you just stare at him, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist. “Don’t kill him.”

“I’m going to make sure no one lays a hand on you ever again.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I do.” He cuts in, standing and picking up his clothes. “Because I’m with you. I’m in it.” You watch as he makes himself presentable, just the way he came in last night. He straightens and moves to the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

Now, mask on and obsidian plates, he stands at the threshold of the training hall, still as a statue, watching through a glass pane as cadets practice their forms. Some sloppy, some impressive. But he wasn’t there to recruit or criticize their talents.

The doors slide open and he makes harsh steps forward. Silence spreads, boots shuffle, backs straighten, the sounds of fists and boots all fall quiet. He walks with his cape trailing behind him, the soles of his feet striking deliberately against the flooring. Kylo stops in front of the instructor. A tall, wiry lieutenant in combat gear, visibly surprised to see Kylo Ren and trying to snap into some respectful stance that won't betray the nerves that were pouring off of him.

“Commander Ren,” the man says, breath caught. “I wasn’t informed you would be visiting the session.”

“I’ll be observing.” Kylo responds through the modulator.

“Yes. Of course, sir.” The man swallows. Kylo turns toward the gathered officers and cadets, all standing respectfully. “Resume.”

The pairs reform, movements return, gloves tighten. Everyone is fighting much more evenly now, all of them trying to prove themselves better than their partners. Kylo watches but doesn’t move, arms to his side as the training staff gives him a wide berth as they correct stances and call out bad technique.

And then he sees him.

Tavik Trenn.

The dark buzzed hair, broad shoulders, neutral expression. Maybe trying too hard not to look in Kylo’s line of sight. His sparring partner could barely hold her own against him. His form was clean, but aggressive. Striking too hard for a training match.

Then, across the mat, two others. One with a mottled bruise across his jaw, another favoring his left foot. Kylo tilts his head slightly as his gaze lingers on those bruises. He sees the pattern to them. The traces of your fingernails that dug into their skin, leaving a bloodied scar on his neck. You didn’t go down easy. He would have known that even if you didn't tell him. You could have taken any one of them if they hadn’t outnumbered you.

He kept his eyes glued on those three until the lesson ended.

“Dismissed” The instructor called out.

Everyone began to scatter and go about their regular activities for the day. But Kylo was there for a reason. He saw the three of them gather together, heads down, beelining toward the door in hopes they could get away. They might as well have plastered the word guilty on their uniforms. “Tavik Trenn.” Kylo calls out, voice cutting through the room like a knife. “And you. You two. Stay behind.” They freeze, but turn slowly with cautious eyes that hold steady and shared glances. Kylo turns to the instructor. “Leave us.” He stiffens, unsure. “Now.”

The man nods quickly and exits, leaving them alone with the hum of the lights and the breath of three men who knew they were absolutely fucked. Kylo doesn’t speak at first, just watches them, soaks in their fear and masked confidence. How the one on the back left shifts his weight. How the other one doesn’t look up at all.

Tavik lifts his chin a degree too high. “You wanted something, Commander Ren?”

“You ambushed an officer. Three on one. I know exactly what you did.” Kylo took one step forward. Tavik’s mouth opened— “Don’t speak.” The room grew cold. Kylo’s voice felt like a blade. “She’s earned her rank. Every inch of it. She wasn’t handed anything, I have no part in promotions. I don’t sit on that council. You think private lessons give her power here?”

Tavik let out a breath that might've been a laugh. Dry and forced. “Personal involvement doesn’t go hand in hand with personal involvement?”

“You understand nothing about how the Order works.” Kylo stepped forward again, towering over the man by only two inches or so, but his tone alone could've intimidated anyone in the galaxy. “You think you proved something to yourself? You only proved that she was a threat, and you couldn’t handle it. You turned on her like cowards.”

No one breathed, Tavik backed down, but with a tongue in cheek expression that made Kylo wish you never made him promise not to kill his smug faced asshole.

“I’ll be leading your sparring session tomorrow.” He tilted toward each of the men, the two behind were focused on the floor, heads hung. “Hands-on training. Each of you.” He turned back to Tavik. “You had the advantage once. Three against one. Tomorrow, you’ll face me. Alone. One by one. And I will show everyone just how weak you are.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You better pray this is the last time I hear your name from her mouth.”

He stared them all down. Waited and watched them settle in the reality of their punishment. They never stood a chance against him, they knew that.

“Dismissed.”

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adamdrivershairfluffer · 21 days ago

Text

Never Gone (Homelander x Reader)

Homelander doesn’t like you, the new telepath on the Seven. You don’t make him feel better.

Warnings for mentions of prior assault, prior torture, smut, and a lot of telepathic fuckery. Darker than my usual stuff, so be forewarned. This is me taking out some frustration on Homelander.

Homelander does nothing to disguise the loathsome stare he’s shooting your way. Your seat at the other end of the Seven’s signature table puts you at the perfect angle to receive his silent wrath. No one present in the room can miss it, and everyone works hard to avoid his glare - except you. You seem blissfully unaware of his seething gaze, instead listening very intently to Ashley. You nod along with her nonsense. That just makes his anger worse. Up until now, Homelander has successfully avoided your introductory period to the Seven. He hasn’t so much as given you a hello; his first week meeting Starlight looks downright friendly in comparison to his treatment of you. There was a damn good reason for it. The only reason you’re here and on his team is because of fucking Stan Edgar. The CEO was silently furious with him for his public digs at Vought’s policies concerning foreign terrorists. The words “cowards” and “corrupt” may have slipped out during a conversation with Cameron Coleman. Edgar’s solution was to bring on a new “hero” to keep Homelander in his lane.

A telepath. Homelander avoided anyone with even the slightest inclination towards telepathy. Who could blame him? They were freaks. Mindstorm was a bunker nut, Mesmer was a washed-up child actor, and the kid at Godolkin is a mess of teenage hormones. It was a clear insult to Homelander that mere hours after his interview, you joined the Seven.

To make matters worse, you were doing well. The public loved your commitment to social justice and mental health reform. You had made quick friends with Starlight, and even Maeve seemed to tolerate you. Homelander was the only one who recognized what you were. You were a snake in the garden, slithering your powers into their minds before anyone realized the sin you brought.

Ashley’s voice vaguely entered his line of thought as she called out to him. “What do you think, sir?”

Homelander didn’t bother looking away from you. “Hm?”

Ashley stutters and looks to Queen Maeve for assistance. All the hero can do is shrug. Homelander’s hatred towards you is strange, but far from the most bizarre thing he’s ever done. Ashley swallows heavily and makes another attempt. “I-I…I was wondering if the premiere lineup for the summer made sense, sir.”

He’s still staring at you. You finally turn and make direct eye contact with him. You blink in surprise, as if you are only just now discovering his glare. Then, in a move that nearly springs him across the table to break your neck, you lift a hand and wave. You wave.

“Looks great, Ashley,” Homelander finally speaks without looking at Ashley, and stands so suddenly that half the room flinches. “I think we’re done here.”

Ashley holds her presentation clicker lamely in her hand. “U-Uh…sir, we still have to discuss-”

“We’re done,” He repeats. Normally, the jolt the woman gives would amuse him - but he’s in too foul a mood. He waves at the door. “All of you, out.”

Homelander does not need to repeat himself. Everyone is jumping out of their chairs, either out of fear or relief to be free from another meeting. You are the last to stand, and he catches you with a finger pointed at you. “Not you. Stay.”

You pause halfway to standing. Several members of the team shoot you glances, but you do not return them. They seem worried about what state your body will be in in the next hour, but you don’t seem to care. Homelander barely bites back a growl and turns to face the city skyline. It’s a calm spring day. The sun reflects off the skyscrapers, turning New York into a masquerade of mirrors. Distorted, but beautiful. It’s a day when he particularly enjoys flight. Maybe he’ll go for a fly after reminding you of your place.

The door shuts, and the two of you are alone. Homelander hears your footsteps as you slowly approach to stand beside him. Your heart is steady, slightly elevated. You don’t fear him. He hates you for it.

“Is everything okay?” You ask him, your voice so reeking of innocence he almost believes in its sincerity. Almost. His hands, folded underneath his cape, clench around one another. He turns to look at you out of the corner of his eye, scanning you up and down. Your blood pressure is slightly higher than it should be, but there is no other sign of stress in your body.

His gaze narrows. “We haven’t spoken much since you joined the team…how’re you enjoying New York?”

You tilt your head, pausing before you reply. “It’s…fine.”

He scoffs a laugh. “Fine?” He reveals a hand from under his cape to gesture to the expansive windows. “The biggest city in the world in the greatest country on Earth, and it’s fine?”

You smile politely. “It’s…more than fine? It isn’t home yet. But it is beautiful. I’m excited to learn all of its secrets.”

Homelander growls under his breath. “Oh, I’m sure you are.”

Your head cocks again, and he’s reminded bitterly of a puzzled puppy. “What do you mean?” You ask.

“Answer me this,” Homelander turns to face you fully. He takes a step closer in the action so you must tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. “How many dicks did you have to suck to get here, huh?”

Your brow furrows. “I-”

“You do not belong here,” He hisses the words as he takes another step closer. “I don’t need a telepath on the Seven. You are weak, and the second you fuck up, you’re gone. This is my team, not Edgar’s. You understand?”

You’re silent for so long that he nearly decides on more insults to fill the silence. Your expression is unreadable, even to him. You’re calm. You’re so damn calm. Finally, you nod. “Understood.”

He nods with a grunt. “Good. Now get the fuck out.”

You hum and fold your hands behind your back. “No, thank you.”

Homelander’s eyes widen, and he arches his neck back in shock. Perhaps he hadn’t been forward enough in his threats; maybe a physical demonstration was in order. “Excuse me?”

“I think there’s still a lot we need to talk about.” You turn to look out the window, and your brow furrows. Your hands fold behind your back, and he just knows you’re mocking his pose. “But maybe this isn’t a comfortable enough spot for that kind of talk…maybe we should move to the bad room?”

Homelander is above human feelings. He doesn’t allow fear to curdle his veins - not anymore. Then, you say “the bad room,” and something in him twitches. He refracts to a smaller version of himself and desperately looks for a reason. To find it, his entire body stills. “What did you say?”

You meet his gaze and then nod to the window. He follows your gaze and chokes. The city skies have turned into the bad room. He would recognize those walls anywhere. The white tiles were as neutral as ever, the number of nameless blocks amounting to the same torturous number. The floor was the same mind-numbing gray. The space is empty - but then, it’s not. You are suddenly standing in the middle, your hands still folded behind your back. “Is this better, John?” You ask, and when you say that name, the room echoes in Barbara’s voice.

Homelander is frozen. The room around him that was once in Vought Tower has faded into the bad room, leaving him trapped with you. He very nearly crumbles. Then, he recognizes the silence. He can’t hear the buzzing of the lights, those damned bulbs like mosquitoes. He isn’t there. He isn’t back. He’s with you. Rage overtakes him. He flies at you at his fastest speed, intent on ripping you in half. He reaches a hand for your neck, but it goes right through you. He has to stop short of slamming into the wall behind where you stand - or stood. He lands on his feet, lets out a strangled gasp, and whips back around. You’re facing him already, somehow.

“Nice try, buddy.” You’re mimicking his voice now, and it makes him gag. “But you can’t kill me in your own mind.”

So these are your tricks. Homelander storms forward, his shadow encompassing you where you stand. You don’t flinch. “Get out of my head,” He demands in a heated whisper. “Now.”

“Or what?”

The chuckle he makes is near insane. He hears it in his voice. “Oh, when I get out of here…I am going to rip you limb from limb. Slowly.”

“Hot,” You wink and turn your back on him. “Is that what all the staring is about, John? Do telepaths really do it for you?”

“Fuck you.”

“Wouldn’t be your weirdest fetish, now would it?” You reach your arm forward, palm up. Suddenly, other bodies flash into the room. It takes Homelander a moment to realize they’re all him. It’s him leaning against the wall in Vought, watching Madelyn breastfeeding through the walls. It’s him with a hired prostitute, sucking at her tits so every last drop of milk can fall into his mouth. It’s him at home, fisting his cock while he jugs down a pint of whole milk.

“This is weird, my dude,” You say, weaving your way through the Homelander illusions like a demented corn maze. “I’m not one to kink shame, but…yikes.”

It’s not often Homelander is brought to silence. This, being forced to watch these moments of his own weakness, does the trick. His mouth is agape as you finally stop in your sauntering and land a hand on Madelyn’s shoulder. You drum your fingers along her white blouse and look back at Homelander. “Let’s talk about her, huh?”

He blinks, and the bad room is gone. Instead, he’s backstage at one of his first press conferences with Vought. He’s eighteen, maybe nineteen, and Madelyn is giving him his notes. She is also stroking his cock over his pants. She’s murmuring praise in between each bullet point. He’s a good boy. He’s being such a good boy.

“You loved her, didn’t you?” Your voice is coming from behind him, but when he spins around to find you, you aren’t there. It’s just another wall backstage lined with props. Still, he hears you. “In your own twisted way, I mean. Trying to find a mother’s love and you land on a woman grooming her way to the top.”

“Shut the fuck up…” He barely recognizes his voice. Why is it so squeaky? Is this what he sounded like as a teenager? It doesn’t matter because in the next moment, he’s somewhere else. He’s in his penthouse. He’s with Maeve. She’s on top of him, riding his face like she intends to break it. His hands are holding tightly onto her ass as he moans against her cunt. Homelander remembers this night. It was about a year into their relationship when her smiles were more forced and her hand started slipping out of his. He ate her out for hours, and for a brief window, the smiles were genuine again.

“You loved her, too.” You’re in the room again. You stand beside Maeve and him like you’re admiring a statue at the museum. Maeve is climaxing, her hands tight in his hair and her head thrown back in ecstasy. He hasn’t stopped licking her hole. You hum in acknowledgement before looking back at Homelander. “She might not have loved you, but she did love your tongue.”

Before he can reply, the scene has shifted once more. It’s still his penthouse, but there are more works of art and less auburn hair gathering on the floor. Stormfront is here. Homelander is over her, pounding her cunt so hard the couch beneath them bends. She’s screaming for him, tugging at his hair and biting his lips hard enough to draw blood in someone more human. You stand beside the couch, frowning at the sight and shaking your head. “And then we have the Nazi. How do we still have Nazis?”

Homelander snaps his eyes to you. He doesn’t notice the way his arms tremble. “You’re getting off on this, huh?” He asks with another hysterical laugh. “Is this what you do? Get inside people’s minds and watch them fuck?”

“It makes for good entertainment, but no, that’s not my point here,” You snap your fingers. Stormfront and the past version of Homelander are gone, leaving you two alone in his fake home. The walls, Homelander vaguely realizes, are not correct. The color is too dark, a near mimic of black. He can see himself on the surface. You take a step in front of him and recapture his attention. “You have bounced from person to person - well, women mostly - in a desperate search for love. But it’s never been enough, has it? It’s always wrapped in fear, or ambition, or… fascism.”

“I’m not a child,” Homelander snaps back, though the way his voice quivers and weakens says otherwise. “You know nothing about me.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. He recognizes the look. It’s one he’s had and received countless times. That is a smile of hatred. “You shouldn’t have spent so long staring at me.” You murmur. “I know everything.”

The penthouse is gone. He’s in the middle of a Christmas gala. No, it’s not a Christmas gala. It’s the one where the mistake started. He spots himself descending a staircase, and he’s speaking with Rebecca Butcher. She’s laughing, absolutely dazzled by him. William Butcher, Homelander realizes now, is already suspicious of his motives. Homelander’s mind suddenly spins in flashes and pictures. Rebecca Butcher, doe-eyed and gentle, agreeing to walk with him and discuss her career. Rebecca Butcher, shakily putting back on a shoe as he strokes her hair. Rebecca Butcher, wide-eyed and standing in front of Ryan.

Ryan.

Rebecca is gone, but Ryan remains. He stands as a statue beside you, an emotionless husk of the boy Homelander yearns to know. You are all back in the bad room. Your piercing gaze has hardened.

“What will you tell your son one day about Rebecca Butcher? The mother who raised him?” Your voice echoes off the walls in a cold symphony. There’s a new note to your voice that has Homelander’s spine stiffening. “Was she just another woman who didn’t meet your expectations? How weak are you to have to destroy an innocent person’s life to soothe your ego?”

Homelander’s gaze has not left Ryan’s dead stare. “Get…get my son out of here. Get him out of here now.”

“You keep forgetting that you’re in control here,” You reply. The bad room shimmers in heat. “I can make Ryan do the Macarena in a Ronald McDonald outfit if I wanted to.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Homelander’s voice breaks. “He’s innocent.”

Your frown deepens, but the anger eases. Ryan’s image fades, but doesn’t disappear. He lingers like a ghost as you walk forward. “That’s the most tragic thing about all of this, isn’t it?” You raise a hand and rest it over his chest. He does not intervene. You tap your hand to the rhythm of his heartbeat. “Underneath that cape, under all of the horrific things that you have done…you’re only human.”

You’re gone. Instead of facing you, Homelander is facing the oven in the lab. The lights go on, and he feels the heat rise from the window. Ryan is inside. He looks around, confusion and panic dawning on his face. He turns and locks eyes with Homelander. “Dad? What’s going on?!”

Homelander screams. He slams his fist against the door, he rips at the handle. Nothing. Ryan screams, banging his hands against the window as the heat rises. Nothing.

“Stop this!” Homelander screams at you, at Ryan, at anyone. “Stop!”

The room glows too brightly for him to see. Then, Ryan is gone. Instead, he is staring at himself when he was Ryan’s age. As Homelander’s screams stop, his younger self raises them in pitch. His skin doesn’t char, but Homelander can feel the heat prickling at every nerve in his very human body. He falls to his knees. The space around him goes pure white. There is nothing. There is only you, standing in front of the fallen hero. You say nothing as his chest heaves. The heat is gone. He isn’t sure if it was ever really there.

“Please,” He finally speaks with his head lowered. He isn’t sure when he began to cry, but he feels the tears staining his cheeks. “Please. Stop it.”

You lean forward. Your lips brush Homelander’s ear as you whisper to him. “If you try to kill me when you come back, you better not hesitate. If you do, I will keep you locked in that oven forever. Never threaten me again.”

He looks up at you, blinking away the fuzziness in his eyes. His voice is a weak mockery of the hero he knows - he thinks - he is. “Why did you do this?”

Your silence is so long that it frightens him. He freezes, anticipating another change to his frayed mind. Instead, your hand comes forward. It gently brushes through his hair. His breath hitches, and his eyes fall shut again. Your voice is gentle. “John didn’t deserve any of this. Homelander does.”

“What do you think, sir?”

Homelander is in the conference room. Ashley is presenting her slides on the movie premieres. His team is watching him, their gazes lost between confusion and weariness. You are the only expressionless face. His hands are shaking. He clenches one down on the armchair, and it creaks. He slowly looks at Ashley and blinks several times. She is still there. He swallows heavily. “What?”

Instead of her usual fear, she looks confused - maybe even worried. Perhaps she’s wondering why the leader of the Seven looks at her as if he were in a room of ghosts. She slowly lowers her clicker. “I-I…I was wondering if the premiere lineup for the summer made sense, sir.”

He pretends to look at the screens behind her. He bites his inner cheek to feel pain. “Could you run through it one more time?”

Ashley blinks, but the muscle in her back relaxes. “Y-yes, of course,” She turns and clicks back to the first slide of the presentation. “As you can see, we think premiering with the Deep’s sequel would help introduce the cycle best…”

As she rambles off her demographic research, he turns to look at you. You’re watching him. You give him a curt nod and look away.

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