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blindmagdalena · 5 days

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Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter four)

18+ 4.2k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, eventual smut. chapter 4/8. gif credit. fic directory. AO3.

Lovesick and giddy, Homelander makes quick work of sharing the news of his freshly established relationship. Meanwhile, you're left alone in his penthouse with one goal in mind: escape.

Homelander’s absence is like a too-heavy coat slipping from your shoulders, allowing you to breathe again.

You shake the tension out of your hands as you walk back down the hall, thinking more clearly than you’ve been able to all morning. It’s 8:30 now, which means you have a little over six hours to figure out something that might help you escape.

There is a balcony, but you shut the door to it as quickly as you opened it once you realized there aren’t any railings. The concrete slab outside the glass door is more like a ledge than it is a balcony, and the roar of the winds outside instantly made you feel like you’d be knocked clean off of it if you stepped outside.

Definitely not an option.

You do find a landline—who keeps a landline anymore?—but when you bring the receiver to your ear and press a few buttons, the line remains silent.

The phone is plugged in, every cord connected, the little green light in the corner lit, but there must be some kind of mandatory input in order to dial. You slam the receiver back down with a frustrated growl.

Prowling through the penthouse with the urgency of a caged animal, you check every drawer you come across. Every cupboard.

You run your fingers under the edges of furniture, and—seeing his absurd collection of annotated law reports and Oxford dictionaries—resort to tugging books from their resting places and flipping through their pages, hoping you might trigger some secret switch or find a hidden compartment.

Instead, a slip of paper comes loose from one of the volumes, fluttering to the floor by your feet.

You dip down to pick it up, brows pinching. It’s a photograph of a little blonde boy, maybe five or six, standing next to an older gentleman with a partial crown of thinning light hair around only the sides of his head. He’s gesturing to a spot on the wall next to the boy, who holds a blanket to his chest.

You squint, tilting the photo, as if it might help you see what the man is pointing at outside of the frame.

There are a handful of crayon drawings scattered on the stark white walls, though the quality and age of the photo make them difficult to interpret, and hidden in the spaces between—and presumably beneath—them are what look like crisp black scorch marks.

Looking back to the boy, you realize there’s a distinct crimson gleam to his eyes.

Homelander…?

He looks frightened. His little face pinched in an anxious expression like he might cry at any moment, but he’s holding it back.

You try to imagine what sort of life experiences would cause a child so young to be so disciplined with their emotions. Flipping the photo over, you see that it’s signed and dated.

Dr. Jonah Vogelbaum “Project Odessa” 1986

Unsettled by the image, you carefully slide the photo back between the pages of the book.

If Homelander had the kind of destructive powers he has now at such a young age, it isn’t a stretch to imagine he would have needed to be carefully cared for and observed. Taken to some sort of facility.

What average parent stood a chance against a tantruming child with laser vision, or the strength to flip cars?

Still, you can’t shake the awful feeling of dread the photo gives you. Just what the hell does “Project Odessa” mean? Why name the doctor, but not the poor boy in the photo?

You’re lonely, he’d said. You don’t have to be.

How personal those words had sounded. You’re not sure now that he was actually talking to you, even if he had been right. You are lonely at times—but doesn’t everyone get lonely? Loneliness has been a recurring theme in your life for as long as you can remember. You’ve never been tempted to kidnap anyone over it, though.

Taking a breath, you haul yourself back to your feet and dust off your knees, frustrated with the wealth of questions and dearth of solutions you’re left with. You’ve already spent over two of your allotted hours combing both floors of the penthouse.

Now what the hell do I do?

There’s a pep in Homelander’s step as he strolls through the halls of Vought Tower.

“Hiya, Danny!” He greets merrily, startling a young PA so badly that the man nearly drops the tray of coffee he’s carrying. “Whoa-ho, hey, watch it, kiddo,” he laughs, giving Danny a swift pat on the back.

“Th-thank you, sir,” he says belatedly, watching Homelander continue on with a look of thorough bewilderment.

Maybe even awe.

He doubts the chump ever thought Homelander even knew his name—which he didn’t before now. He just so happened to catch a glimpse at his name on the lanyard dangling around his neck before he said anything.

He’s having a good day, which means Danny may as well, too.

Everyone should have a good day today because for once, life is finally headed in exactly the right direction.

He’s still thinking about how you felt in his arms all night, how soundly you slept against him. He’s thinking about the smell of breakfast and how beautiful you looked cooking breakfast in his kitchen.

Every bit of it exactly the way he envisioned. Not to mention the fact you finally showed him a little gratitude. He grins to himself, eager to share the excellent news. So eager, in fact, he can’t stop himself when he catches a flash of red hair disappearing into an elevator.

Well… Maybe not everyone deserves a good day.

He barely manages to shove his hand into the closing doors, allowing him to step inside before it descends. He grins broadly at his target—who he’s now got nice and cornered—and Maeve offers a withering look in response.

He can’t help but laugh, sidling up next to her. She looks tired, black flecks of makeup smudged under her eyes, and he can smell booze on her breath.

Christ, it’s not even 9:00am.

“What?” She asks preemptively, her tone sharp.

“Golly gee, Maeve. Good morning to you, too! Someone shit in your pillowcase?” He asks, knocking his eagle pauldron on her shoulder. His tone is bright, his smile even brighter.

It’s been over a year since things ended between them, and he’s been able to smell every twink and whore she’s rubbed herself up against like a bitch in heat since. Finally, he has something to rub her nose in.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “What’re you so chipper about?”

He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “I met someone,” before he pulls back, his shoulders and brows lifting with barely contained giddiness.

It’s an odd expression that comes to Maeve’s face, some muddled mixture of surprise, disbelief and wariness. “Someone I know?” Her tone is guarded. As if he’d bother with the nobodies she keeps her bed wet with these days.

He waves his hand dismissively, blowing a raspberry. “No, no. Please. The only people you know these days reek of jizz and methamphetamines.”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s just an excuse to break eye contact. To hide from him. “Well. My condolences to them,” she says, crossing her arms. If she were any more sardonic she’d come full circle to genuine.

“Ohhh, Maeve, Maeve, Maeve. Is that a note of jealousy I detect ?” He purrs, bringing his face close to hers.

She leans back, scoffing a laugh that’s more disdain than humor. “Oh, please. Get over yourself,” she says, but there’s something odd about her tone. She actually sounds relieved. Even her shoulders are less tense.

“You’re the one who’s gonna have to get over me,” he says, feigning a sympathetic tone. “She’s perfect. Sweet, affectionate, loves to cook. In fact, she made me breakfast this morning,” he says, lips spreading in a slow Cheshire grin.

Maeve is quiet for a beat, staring at him like he’s more puzzle than man, working out the truth of what he’s saying. He twists side to side, cape swaying lightly, reveling in how bewildered she looks by his joy.

Did she really think he’d never find anyone after her? Fuck, he could sing aloud for how sweet this victory feels.

“Huh,” she says at least, looking away from him. She laughs softly, a more genuine sound than anything he’s heard from her in a long, long time. “Well, thank God for that.”

He blinks, confused by the sudden turn in the conversation. She’s done nothing but desperately try to fill the gaping hole of misery in herself with drugs and liquor and sex ever since they broke up.

The only reason he allowed it is because it felt more like a self-imposed punishment than anything else. The news that he’s found something real should devastate her.

Jaw tight, he turns to properly face her, itching to wrest back control of the conversation. “This means no more moping around the tower soaked in whiskey, hmm? You’re supposed to be a hero, for god's sake.”

“A hero,” she echoes incredulously, the word somehow rotten coming from her. “You know what?”

She meets his challenge, turning to face him head on, her hands on her hips. “I’ll get right on that,” she says, her voice dripping with condescending sarcasm, though he can’t help but see some spark of genuine relief in the wicked slant of her unkind smile. “You really do know just what to say, captain.”

The elevator comes to a stop with a ding, and Maeve takes a step forward as soon as the doors open. Quick as lightning, he snatches her arm, stopping her in her tracks. She whirls on him, fist coiled like she might strike, but she has the good sense not to.

“I’m serious, Maeve,” he says, tone severe, his smile vanishing. “Get your fucking act together before you embarrass us both any further.”

He lets go and she takes two steps out of the elevator, lingering there a moment before she smiles viciously back at him, lips pressed tightly together. She turns around, and the doors close on the image of her walking away from him.

His gloves groan with the tension in his tightly coiled fists. He exhales a shaky breath, anger hot in his chest.

When God closes a door, He opens a window, he reminds himself, looking to the rows of elevator buttons. He presses floor 99.

Next stop: Madelyn Stillwell’s office.

Eventually you opt for taking a shower, figuring it’s best to do it now while Homelander’s out.

Before stripping out of your pajamas, you give the bathroom a sweep, testing the mirror and checking for cameras the way they always warn you to do when you stay somewhere strange.

Glad to have turned up empty handed in this particular endeavor, you twist the shower knob—a golden eagle’s head, unfortunately—and shed your sleepwear, feeling exposed in the large glass box he calls a shower.

Nonetheless, the hot water still helps you feel better than you had before. The fluffy navy towels you wrap around yourself afterwards are soft and oversized, every luxury carefully thought of.

It doesn’t make you feel any less like a captive. Just a pampered one.

The clothes you choose fit just as well as the sleepwear did, the fabric sleek and comfortable. The opulence of them evokes the same wicked spite from you that breakfast did, though a distant part of you does quietly enjoy the feel of them on your freshly cleaned skin.

You wander around the penthouse a while longer inspecting the statues and the paintings, reading any slips of paper you find, checking under the blank trophies you can’t identify, but there’s no grand discovery.

No miraculous code for the door hidden somewhere.

You’re well and truly stuck.

Plopping down on the couch with the weight of defeat heavy on your shoulders, you pick up the television remote from the coffee table and stare at it. Its buttons are riddled with logos: Vought+, Voughtify, Voughtoons, VNN, all of them cluttered looking on the remote.

However, one familiar logo in particular catches your eye: two red overlapping O’s. It’s Vought’s web browser, OperaGX. Your heart jumps into your throat as you quickly flick the television on, pressing the button immediately.

All televisions are Smart these days, connected to the internet in order to provide this myriad of streaming services.

Even the fridge is hooked up to the wi-fi.

If you can access an internet browser through the television, you should be able to log into your email or one of your social medias and get a message out to someone.

The reality of your situation will probably be more believable to your friends and family than the notion that you suddenly decided to go “off the grid” backpacking through Europe, though you’re not entirely sure that you love what that says about your life.

You nearly shout with triumph as the screens on the wall flicker to life, the browsers home page displayed clearly. You ignore the headlines plastered all over the different boxes and dive straight for the address bar, tapping in vmail.com as quickly as the remote allows for.

Christ, is there any aspect of your life not tangled up in Vought? You’d never realized until now.

You smash the enter button, and the little icon in the corner of the tab spins for what feels like a millenia, loading.

RESTRICTED

The smile drops sharply from your face. Dread replaces your fleeting elation, and you fumble with the remote in your haste to type in a new address.

RESTRICTED

You try progressively more obscure social media, forums, anything you can think of that might have a means for posting or messaging.

RESTRICTED

Tears well in your eyes.

Come on, there has to be something not on this stupid list of restricted sites!

You try again and again and again, but every single time you’re met with the same message. Of all things, something as innocuous as a parental block of all things stands between you and potential freedom.

This time you do shout, but it’s in frustration as you hurl the remote at the collection of screens. Part of you hopes that the impact shatters it, but so meager is your outburst that it simply bounces off of it, the message stubbornly persisting, mocking your upset.

You have nothing. You are nothing. Homelander has the powers of a god and all the measures that wealth like his can afford to take at his disposal.

The tears that roll down your anger flushed cheeks burn, and you wipe aggressively at them with the backs of your hands.

As you simmer, you come to the conclusion that it isn’t so much that certain sites are restricted, but that only certain ones are allowed. The connection has been narrowed exclusively to what might entertain you, but not allow you any form of outside communication.

Tucking your legs up onto the couch, you bury your face in your hands and let yourself sob out the horrible feeling of defeat.

“Gooooooood morning,” Homelander practically sings as he strolls into Madelyn’s office without so much as a knock, smiling brightly. He swings the door to her office shut behind him.

Arching a shapely brow, Madelyn looks slowly up at him from her work, leaning back.

Her blonde tresses are nicely curled, the ends of them barely brushing her shoulders. She’s wearing a patterned button up blouse tucked into a high waisted skirt. Her lips are painted in crisp red lines, and she takes her glasses off in a fluid motion to look at him.

She always looks like this—perfectly unobtainable.

“You’re in a good mood,” she notes, a detectable edge of suspicion in her voice despite the warmth of it.

“Sure am,” he says evasively, downright giddy to play this little game with her. It’s so rare that he has the upperhand between the two of them. He meanders about her office to admire the photos on her wall. Most of them are of him.

Her ruby lips spread in a patient smile. She rests her elbow on her desk and interlaces her fingers atop it. “Any particular reason?”

“I met someone,” he says too soon, too excited to draw the game out properly. He looks at her, eager to see the change in her expression, whether it be displeasure or—if he’s lucky—clear cut jealousy. He’d accept either. Instead, he finds her expression doesn’t change much.

“Is that so?” She asks in her same gentle way. He meets a lot of people every day. It’s part of his world. But they both know he means something more than a miscellaneous encounter. “Tell me about them.”

“She’s beautiful,” he says, turning his back to Madelyn. He strolls idly about, feigning indifference as best he can while his delight bubbles irrepressibly in his chest. He wants to rub Madelyn’s nose in it. To make her regret keeping him at arm's length.

Fuck, he’ll relish it.

“Clever. Funny, too. She likes to cook.”

“She sounds like a dream,” Madelyn says, sounding distracted. The tell-tale sound of papers shuffling punctuates her response. Turning around, Homelander frowns. She already has her glasses back on, her expression downcast at the documents spread out on her desk.

“She is,” he says, his smugness giving way to defensiveness, and then derision as he continues, “I’m sorry, did I catch you at a bad time? I was under the impression we have an appointment.”

“We do. These are your talking points for the gala on Friday, and these are your notes for your save this afternoon,” she says, lifting a handful of the documents towards him.

His lip gnarls into a sneer. “Are you even listening to me? I said I met someone.”

“And I’m very happy for you,” she responds, her level of patience enduring. She places the papers down on her desk, the corners hanging off the edge, inviting him to take them.

“Is she one of our supes?” She leans back in her seat, observing him in a way that always makes him feel small.

“No,” he says, jaw tight.

She hums, her calm serenity becoming maddening.

“Do you intend to be seen together?” She continues to press, and all at once he understands the angle she’s coming in from.

She doesn’t care a lick about what he’s doing, or who with.

All she cares about are the optics. Like he’s no different from The Deep fucking everything with a wet hole. She thinks you’re just another mess she’ll have to sweep under the rug.

“And if I do?” He presses, seething. Anger is easier than hurt.

��She’ll need to be vetted,” Madelyn replies matter-of-factly. “Likely have her socials expunged of anything that could be damaging to your image. What’s her name?”

He hesitates, the cold sting of regret lancing his gut. Looking Madelyn in the eyes, he suddenly doesn’t want her to know anything about you.

She could tell him to get rid of you.

Worse, she might choose to do it herself. This was a stupid and impulsive move, and he could swiftly pay the price for it. He hates how easily she unsteadies him.

“You’ll learn it when you meet her,” he says, forcing aloofness into both his tone and his body language, crossing his arms.

Madelyn’s look of tolerant reservation softens. She slides her glasses off and stands in a fluid motion, walking around her desk. “You know I’m only being protective of you, don’t you?” She asks, putting a hand on the jut of his elbow.

He purses his lips, gaze flickering away. He stares stubbornly out her window, fighting the urge to melt into her touch. She’s so busy these days. It’s made her even more withholding, and he has to cling tightly to his upset in order to keep himself from folding into her rare displays of warmth.

“You know that I only want for you to be happy,” she continues to coo, voice low. Gentle.

He closes his eyes, inhaling a deep breath. When he looks at her again, there’s a note of defeat in his expression. He doesn’t know how true that really is these days. He doesn’t feel it. He had to go out and find his own happiness—and you have brought him that.

The feel of your body against his as you slept made him happier than he’s felt in years. He hasn’t been able to stop daydreaming about your silhouette this morning as you cooked for him in his once vacant, soulless kitchen.

You’re the spark of life he’s been desperately missing.

“Then you’ll let me have this,” he says, an underlying stress behind every word that makes something in Madelyn’s gaze shift.

“Okay,” she says with an air of reluctance. “I can see that this is important to you… You’ll have to let me in eventually,” she says, stroking his arm in slow, disarming movements.

“I will,” he says, eagerness slipping into his voice in the wake of her acquiescence. “When I’m ready.”

She smiles, but not in the way that she does when she’s pleased with him. This smile is an hourglass, and her patience is the sand falling through.

Her hand slips away and he feels the loss of it like a physical blow, immediately aching for more comfort. Instead he’s offered the notes she tried to give him earlier.

“So long as you’re where you need to be when you need to be there, what you do in your off time is your own business,” she says, and though her tone is placating, he can’t help but feel that he’s disappointed her.

Hurt her, even.

This isn’t what he wanted at all. He wanted her to care beyond the metrics, beyond the work they do. He wanted her to ask him to be with her instead so that for once, he might be the one in a position to withhold.

He takes the papers while Madelyn watches him, the judgemental weight of her gaze leaving him feeling cold, childish, and terribly small. Reading through the talking points she prepared for him, he frowns.

“Something the matter?”

“I mean… C’mon, this whole Kumbaya schtick?” He lightly slaps the page with the back of his hand. “We should be showing strength, not our bellies. People want leadership, not this–this noncommittal PC garbage. It’s not even saying anything!”

“It’s saying exactly what we need it to.” Her nonchalance sets his teeth on edge.

“We need to commit,” he insists, lowering his tone.

“We need to appear moderate,” she counters. “You aren’t only addressing your audience. Every dove and Democrat in Congress is going to be there, and it’s your job to make us look good to them, too.”

“I’m a fucking superhero, Madelyn!” He snaps, but there is neither strength nor anger in his voice. It’s a petulant desperation that sounds sour even to his own ears.

Her calm rebuttal of his every thought makes him feel powerless in a way someone of his caliber has no right feeling. His fists clench.

“They should be on their knees! Not deciding whether or not I’m worthy of their fucking votes!”

Her hand settles on his cheek. The warmth of it startles him, tampering a measure of that building indignant anger.

“I know. I know it isn’t fair. Someone like you… you’re above these silly games,” she says, taking a step closer to him.

“But that’s why we need you. It’s why Vought needs you. You’re the one who’s going to show them the truth. Show them that you are the future,” she says, her thumb lightly stroking back and forth on his cheek. “Just give them a little time to catch up, okay?”

He deflates under her touch, gaze dropping to her lips, her throat, her chest, where her heart beats steadily in his ears. Every inch of her she does not first offer is off limits to him.

If he is all she says he is, how can she be so content to watch him starve?

“Okay,” he yields flatly, rolling the papers slowly into a tube. He bounces it off of his temple in a half-hearted salute, desperate to save face. Her hand falls away, leaving the spot cold. He swallows those empty feelings back like bile and clears his throat.

Defeated, he heads for the door, his tail tucked firmly between his legs.

“And Homelander,” Madelyn calls just as he reaches for the knob. He turns, looking at her with uncertain eyes. “Let’s keep this between you and I for now, okay? This little… acquaintance of yours. It would be a bloodbath if the press got a hold of her before we could prepare.”

“I told Maeve,” he admits right away, guilt and shame making his voice quiet.

“I’ll take care of it,” she assures him, though it does little to make him feel better. “Be good today.”

“Okay,” he says again, gut churning with a tumultuous mix of emotions. Stepping out of her office, the last thing in the fucking world he wants to do is plaster on a smile and let himself be blinded by a thousand camera flashes.

What he desperately wants now is you.

#i've been trying to stick to 3k chapters but they just keep getting longer and longer lol #reader and homie don't interact at all this chapter SORRY but it's some important character work #homelander x reader #homelander x you #homelander fanfiction #x reader #my writing #yandere boyfriend #yandere x reader #homelander

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