It begins with silence.

Not peace—Homelander doesn’t do peace. It’s the kind of silence that trembles under tension, beneath soft cloud-light and thinning air. You’re above the world, wind whistling over your skin, as Homelander holds you midair with one arm looped around your waist. His grip is bruising, but it doesn’t hurt. Yet.

The city glows far below, glittering like tinsel in the dusk. But up here, there’s no one else. Just the two of you. Just his pulse against your back, too fast for someone who pretends calm.

He doesn’t speak.

He hasn’t said a word since you touched down on the roof earlier, smug with feathers still stuck in your hair and the echo of your last public victory clinging to your voice. The crowd had roared. But he had only watched. Eyes narrowed. Smile frozen. It was the smile that terrified you—the one that said: You forgot who they should be cheering for.

And now you’re here, hanging in air, tethered to the only man alive who can rewrite gravity. Your fingers twitch, but you don’t summon a song. Not yet. Because you know what this is.

Possession, wordless and hungry.

His other hand slides across your abdomen, fingers spreading wide like he’s memorizing how much of you still belongs to him. When his lips press behind your ear, it’s less a kiss than a claim.

The sky seems to pulse around you—clouds blushing deep rose, wind swirling your loose white clothes like petals. Homelander inhales.

"You smell like applause," he murmurs. Then, quieter, into the shell of your ear: "I hate it."

But his mouth trails lower, jaw grazing your neck. His breath is warm, desperate. His silence is gone now—replaced by a deep, vibrating need. You shift slightly in his arms, but that’s enough.

He growls.

Not loud. Not performative. A low, animal sound born from something he can’t name—jealousy, fear, obsession. His arms tighten, and he begins to descend.

You fall.

Not hard. Not terrifying. Like a leaf dropped from trembling hands. His hands never leave your body—just slide along you with eerie precision, feeling every curve like it’s sacred scripture.

You land on a rooftop. Somewhere high. Somewhere yours.

He pushes you back against the satellite dish, lips on your throat now, breath uneven. There's a kind of reverence in his desperation—like he’s kissing an altar he might destroy. His hands move over your hips, palms firm, possessive. Your hat slips sideways, and he catches it—adjusts it gently on your head.

And you realize: he’s calming down.

That this is what love looks like, when it's filtered through a god who’s never been taught how to be human.

You whisper nothing. You sing nothing. You just let him feel.

Because your silence makes him softer than words ever could. It tells him you're still here, that he hasn't lost you yet. And for Homelander, that’s the only lullaby he’ll ever need.

He exhales against your chest.

Then—he lays his cheek there, eyes shut, holding you in that perfect stillness.

Above the world. Above rules. Above mercy.

And finally, above fear.