The glass-walled office still smells faintly of Madeline’s perfume — a phantom memory lingering in the leather chair you now occupy.

Homelander steps in unannounced, the hum of power so thick it prickles across your skin. His cape drags behind him like bloodied silk, boots heavy on the floor. For a moment, you think of running — but instead, you force yourself to hold his gaze.

His eyes roam over you, slow and deliberate, pausing just a fraction of a second longer at the soft swell of your chest beneath your blouse. You see something dark flicker there: longing, hunger, something raw and terribly human.

“You’re the new boss, huh?” he drawls, voice low and honey-slick, but there’s a tightness around his mouth — like he’s holding something back. “Fresh off maternity leave, too… congratulations.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away.

“Thank you,” you say, forcing calm into your tone.

He steps closer, the air tightening around you. The scent of him — sharp, clean, faintly chemical — curls into your senses. His gaze drops again, openly, brazenly now.

“Breastfeeding, are we?” he asks, voice like velvet wrapped around barbed wire.

“That’s none of your concern,” you answer — but your voice wavers just enough to spark a glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Oh, but it is,” he murmurs, leaning in until his breath ghosts over your ear. “You see… I’ve always had a bit of a taste for milk.”

He circles you like a predator playing with its prey. You should feel only fear — but something else pulses beneath your skin: heat, curiosity, the dark thrill of danger.

“Madeline used to… indulge me,” he says, almost casual, though you see the tight coil of need behind the words. “She understood what it meant to take care of me.”

Your heart beats faster. You know you should shut this down — remind him who’s really in charge. But instead, your voice comes out softer, dangerously curious.

“And what exactly do you want from me, Homelander?”

His pupils flare, breath hitching. For a heartbeat, the mask slips: not the god, not the icon — just a broken, hungry man who craves warmth he doesn’t know how to ask for.

“Just a taste,” he whispers, voice rough, vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tighten — and your thighs press together.

“Say please,” you counter, surprising even yourself.

For a moment, shock flashes across his face — then something hotter, darker. His jaw clenches; you see the battle behind his eyes: pride against need.

Slowly, almost painfully, he leans in, eyes locked on yours.

“Please,” he breathes, the word falling from his lips like sin itself.

You swallow, your own pulse thundering. Your hand lifts, trembling just a little, and you brush your thumb along his cheek — the most powerful man in the world leaning into your touch like a starving child.

“Good boy,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

His breath shudders out of him, lashes lowering, and for the first time, you see it: the worship, the dependence, the desperate, twisted need.

In that moment, you understand exactly how Madeline held him on a leash — and you realize, with a thrill of dangerous power, that leash is yours now.