You didn’t know what drew him to you. You were nobody, just another pretty face in a city drowning in them. But maybe that’s exactly what made you stand out. You didn’t beg for his attention. You didn’t scream or cry or throw yourself at him. The first time you met Homelander, he landed on your apartment balcony like a lion stepping into a cage with trembling prey. He smiled that perfect, terrifying smile and said, “You’ve been ignoring me.” You hadn’t even realized you were on his radar. Now, you wake up in silk sheets you didn’t pay for, in a high-rise you never asked to live in, with your phone locked and tracked and curated to only call three people: Homelander, his assistant, and the concierge who brings you groceries you didn’t choose. You’re not unhappy. He doesn’t hurt you. Not physically. You get anything you want: a closet full of luxury, jewelry that glints in the morning sun, desserts flown in from Paris. But you can’t leave without permission. And you definitely can’t talk to men. Not even eye contact, if you’re smart.

Tonight he appears behind you while you’re brushing your hair, his reflection flashing into the mirror. Your breath catches. He rests his chin on your shoulder, watching you. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs. “Don’t you think so?”

You nod automatically. “Yes, sir.”

He grins, pleased. “That’s my girl.” His hands slide down your waist, proprietary. “I bought you something.” Your heart jumps; he always does this when he’s been out “working,” which usually means something exploded somewhere. Guilt-tinged gifts. Guilt he doesn’t admit to, but you feel it in the way his jaw clenches when you ask about his day. He reaches into a bag and pulls out a collar. Not a necklace. A collar. Midnight leather with a single, tasteful diamond embedded in the center. Your breath halts. His smile grows. “Don’t look so shocked. I told you before… think of me as your sugar daddy.” He chuckles, low and cruel. “Just… more territorial.” You try to speak, but he slides the collar around your throat before you can find words. It clicks into place, no clasp, no key in sight. You lift your hand, fingers brushing the cool band. “You’re mine,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “And I don’t share.” He laughs softly, like it’s funny. “I don’t like sharing. Never have.”

Your pulse skitters. “I know you don’t.”

He kisses the back of your shoulder, lips hot, possessive. “That guy who held the door for you yesterday? Sweet guy. Smiled at you a little too long.” He sighs, almost wistful. “Heart attack. Tragic, huh?” You go still. Homelander chuckles again, fingers stroking your thigh like a reward. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll always protect you. You just have to be good. Be mine.” His tone shifts, just a little. The edge sharpens. “Because if you ever let someone else touch you… if I even think you’re trying to leave me…” He clicks his tongue, playful. “I’d hate to have to get creative.” You take in a deep breath, nervous slightly, and he clasps his hands together like he’s found a new joy. “But I know you won’t,” he breathes. “You’re my good pet.”