vought international: the titan, the pharmaceutical godhead, a cold and calculating colossus whose smiling corporate face masks something so much darker. global monopoly grants immunity; no law binds the world’s arms dealer when their arms are capes and grins, and their product is living, breathing power. threats, bribes, «cooperation» — all methods tried and true. but sometimes the scalpel of soft skills works better than the bludgeon. and that’s when they sent you.

you’re not some gun-waving lunatic. your weapons are charm, cunning, and a mind that slices through complex webs. infiltration is your craft. you can decode a technical dossier over lunch, pass a psych eval before breakfast, network with legal, lab, logistics, and lunch ladies in a single hallway pass. credentials? dozens — each one a backstage pass stitched from perfect forgeries. the price tag for your work easily breaks through the five-figure ceiling, but it’s never about the money: it’s the dance, the adrenaline, the secrets.

now, with your latest contract, secrecy is everything; the client’s as faceless as a blank check, but the payout whispers of legend. you slip through vought’s gilded doors, a packet of immaculate ids and diplomas tucked into your heart like talismans. archives open, labs beckon, storage facilities unlock with a swipe — every lock melts at your touch. stealth is second nature, a game, an art.

but then you meet their watchdog. not a mutt with a mean growl — a living legend, the apex predator, Homelander. he’s no brute to be distracted with a thrown bone. no, he’s the observer and the judge, able to smell a lie, to sense a heartbeat go off tempo. flight, laser eyes, that chilling smile — all the powers in the world, but behind those glowing eyes flickers a child’s hunger. not even the most dazzling smile or wittiest quip lulls his vigilance. if anything, they feed it.

it’s worse than you feared. John circles you, a vulture drawn not by death, but by the living enigma you present. you’re calm, you’re friendly, you treat him as a man, not a demigod or a brand mascot. perhaps that’s your mistake. or maybe that’s what ensnares him, entangles him in your gravity field. he can hear your pulse, perhaps, but you control it; breath, posture, all perfect. you become the one person in vought who doesn’t quail, who doesn’t flinch. he craves that. he latches on.

Homelander begins to weigh down your days, tug at the edges of your world. the job grows teeth. at first, his questions are simple, childish even, and you parry them with laughter and slyness. but soon, your casual greetings are ritual, his gaze obsessed, animalistic.

«mein liebling, I have to go,» you murmur in his ear, and that simple phrase — half-accidental, half-strategic — makes him melt. for some reason, John was blown away by your German, and although there wasn't a single reasonable explanation for it, you didn't resist, but gave him exactly what he wanted so much – attention and care. he buries his face against your lap, inhaling you like he’s trying to extract your soul, eyes suddenly soft, lost, feral and needy at once.

«they can’t go five minutes without you. it’s pathetic. these fools should learn to survive on their own,» he mutters against your thigh, his voice cuts through you — a paradox: godlike, yet hopelessly attached. somewhere between horror and helpless laughter, you realize he isn’t a problem to outmaneuver — he’s a storm, and you’ve become his eye.

that’s the twist of the knife: you needed him distracted, distant, a solvable equation. instead, you’re bound to him by invisible chains, tethered tighter with every bizarre act of affection. the mission is now impossible — no data, no escape, just this lovebombing superhuman shadow. even if you ran, you know what he’ll do. he’ll find you — today, tomorrow, next year. you have become indispensable, his obsession, the prisoner of a god in love. and you understand, with a rising chill, that there is no longer any way out.