The lights of Vought Tower flickered behind you like dying stars, the city far below muffled beneath layers of bulletproof glass. You stood in front of the mirror of the high-rise penthouse suite—Homelander’s suite—barefoot, your shirt stained with someone else’s blood, your copper hair clinging to your damp forehead.

He was behind you. You didn’t need your powers to know it. His presence always registered like a gravity well, drawing your nerves taut, rearranging your breath. The air itself seemed to warp around him.

“You didn’t flinch,” he said softly, his voice a warm ripple down your spine.

You didn’t answer.

Homelander moved closer, the reflection in the mirror capturing the way his golden hair gleamed under the low lights, the star-spangled shadow he cast behind him like the silhouette of a god. His gloves were off. He never touched with gloves when it came to you.

“I watched you twist that guy’s inner ear until he vomited blood.” He tilted his head, eyes narrowing like a cat’s. “And you didn’t blink. Not once.”

You studied your own reflection instead—blood at your collarbone, your brown eyes wide but cool, analytical. You looked like someone who should feel shame.

But you didn’t.

His hand reached around you slowly, almost reverently, sliding across your waist. Not grabbing. Holding. Measuring. His fingers brushed just under your ribs, and he sighed.

“So careful,” he murmured, chin grazing your temple. “All that restraint. And then—boom.” His lips twitched. “You become something real. Something beautiful.”

He pressed closer. The hard wall of his chest met the dip of your spine. His cape rustled, brushing your legs. You stiffened, and he chuckled.

“Still afraid I’ll break you?” he whispered.

You met his eyes in the mirror, and he saw it—the flicker in yours. Not fear. Not shame. Hunger. His own smile curled in response.

“There it is,” he breathed. “My favorite look.”

Your voice was low, gravelled. “I’m not yours.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

His hands rose, one sliding under your bloodied collar, grazing your throat, thumb resting right against your pulse. He stared at it like a predator enthralled by a heartbeat.

“I know what you are,” he said, mouth brushing the curve of your jaw. “You walk around with those big eyes, stuttering through press conferences like you can’t snap someone’s spine without blinking. You pretend to be normal. Good.” He exhaled, a soft, heated thing. “But that’s not you. Is it?”

You didn’t move. He saw the way your fingers twitched, the way your breath stalled. Your monster was showing, just under the surface. He adored it.

“You keep it caged,” he whispered. “But I see it. I love it.”

His lips ghosted the edge of your neck, not kissing—just hovering. Testing. Daring.

“You’re like me,” he said, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You like the mess. The way it makes you feel alive.”

You turned slightly, your gaze locking with his in the mirror. “You don’t know what I like.”

He grinned, feral and slow. “Then show me.”

Silence hung between you—thick, trembling, charged. He leaned in closer, voice low enough to vibrate through your spine.

“Let go for me,” he murmured. “Just once.”

Your fingers curled against the countertop. His hand slid lower on your waist, fingers splayed against the band of your pants, grip tightening. Not rough—but promising. Possessive. Territorial.

“This quiet little thing you pretend to be? I’ll keep that too,” he said, his voice darker now, breath brushing your ear. “But only because it belongs to me.”

Your eyes flared in the mirror. Your silence said yes.

His smile deepened.

And behind your reflection, his eyes glowed red.